Kitty (2 page)

‘Thank you, young man,’ Sarah said, staggering slightly and straightening her bonnet. She looked vastly relieved to be on dry land at last. ‘Forgive me, but you are…?’

But before the man could answer, a woman with a flushed face and wisps of ginger hair escaping from her house cap hurried down the beach towards them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Reverend Kelleher, I presume? We weren’t sure exactly when you’d be arriving. My boy Albert just ran up and told me. If we’d known…’

Uncle George raised a calming hand. ‘No harm done I’m sure, even though we did sound the volley. The Lord has regardless seen fit to deliver us safely, Mrs, er…’

‘Purcell, Rebecca Purcell. My husband is one of the missionaries here. Good heavens,’ Rebecca said, catching sight of Kitty, ‘you’ve had a soaking, haven’t you? Come on, come up to the house, I’ve just put the kettle on.’

Kitty looked around for the man in the sea-boots, but he’d gone.

S
lumped against the head of the narrow iron bed, Kitty squeezed her eyes shut against the seeping tears. She had done her best on the voyage out—trying to stay cheerful despite the enormous, unthinkable turn her life had taken, pretending that she was at least resigned to becoming a missionary if not delighted about it, determinedly pushing all thoughts of Hugh’s betrayal to the back of her mind. But the most difficult thing of all had been hiding how much she missed her mother. And her father. She had barely accepted that he’d gone for ever and now she had lost Mama as well. Aunt Sarah had been so ill that Kitty hadn’t wanted to burden her with her own misery, and Uncle George, well, Uncle George just wasn’t the sort of person you confided in, even if he was a minister.

So she was lonely, and homesick, and more than a little apprehensive about her new life, and the incident with the huge Maori man had been the last straw. She was uncomfortably aware that when she’d found herself on her hands and knees in the water, she had come frighteningly close to bursting into tears in front of everyone.

But she’d managed not to cry, and that was the important thing. Her father had always told her that well-reared young ladies never wept in public; she never had and would not start now. Instead, she’d waited until Rebecca Purcell had shown her to her temporary room, and only when the door had closed behind her did she allow herself to collapse on the bed and sob her heart out. Now, she had a grinding headache, and knew she must look an absolute sight.

When a discreet knock came at the door she sat up in alarm, furiously wiping tears from her cheeks and fluffing her ringlets, which had gone all flat from lying on them.

‘Come in,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

The door creaked open and Rebecca Purcell popped her head into the room. ‘Feeling a little more rested, dear?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Purcell.’

There was a short silence while Rebecca lingered in the doorway. In her thirties, she had a solid figure and hands that looked like a man’s. Her face, although not notably pretty, was kind and her eyes gleamed with good humour. Eventually she ventured, ‘May I come in?’

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. Yes, of course.’ Kitty swung her legs off the counterpane and set her feet on the floor.

Rebecca closed the door behind her and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘You’ve been weeping.’

Kitty nodded, embarrassed.

Rebecca patted Kitty’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear, we all did when we first arrived. It’s very daunting, isn’t it, and I expect you’re more than a little homesick? We gave your aunt and uncle the end room. We thought you’d appreciate somewhere to yourself.’

Trying to look as grateful as possible, Kitty said, ‘I do. Thank you very much.’

The room was tiny, barely eight feet by six, just big enough to accommodate the bed, a nightstand and Kitty’s trunk. From the slope of the ceiling Kitty suspected it was part of a skillion, a lean-to attached to the back of the house, even though the door opened directly onto the main room. There was a small window under the lowest part of the roof and the walls were of worn, white-painted timber. A bright rag rug gave a touch of colour.

Rebecca chattered on. ‘We’ve four little rooms like this. Our housegirls and some of the children occupy them when it’s just us. There’s also the main room, which you came through, and the one that Mr Purcell and I share, another for the rest of the children, and the kitchen and the privy outside. The housegirls go home at night to the village at Pukera
when we’re full up. It’s not far, only about two miles.’

‘Sounds like a rabbit warren,’ Kitty said, then bit her lip because it seemed so critical and ungracious.

Rebecca smiled. ‘Oh, it is, and very cramped when we’re full, especially when the rain comes down day after day, as it can do. But we manage. We’re more than happy to put up visitors and new families as they arrive, it’s part of our work. And the children don’t mind.’

‘How many do you have, Mrs Purcell?’

‘Children? Six.’

Kitty glanced involuntarily at the older woman’s noticeably thickened waist.

‘And another one expected soon.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Kitty said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so rude.’

Rebecca waved her hand dismissively. ‘You’ll find we go in for big families here. Reverend and Mrs Williams have eleven of their own, the youngest just over eighteen months. You’ll be the same when you find yourself a young man, which is bound to happen, a girl as pretty as you.’

Except I don’t want a young man, Kitty thought miserably. I don’t want any man.

Rebecca glanced at the saltwater marks on the front of Kitty’s dress. ‘We really should sponge that,’ she said, ‘or you may never get the stains out.’

Kitty brushed ineffectually at the marks. ‘Who was that person who, er, assisted me out of the whaleboat?’

‘That, my dear, was Haunui. His brother Tupehu is chief of this particular area.’

‘I was terrified. I had no idea what his intentions were.’

‘Yes, he is rather alarming, isn’t he? He was just trying to be helpful, though. He really is the most pleasant fellow, in spite of the way he looks. Unlike his brother, I might add, who can be cantankerous, arrogant and rude all at the same time and considers Reverend Williams to be his pet missionary. You have another dress you can wear?’

‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, puzzled by the question.

Rebecca rolled her eyes in mock frustration. ‘There I go again. I keep forgetting that you’ve probably brought lots of lovely dresses out with you, haven’t you?’

‘Well, not lots, but I do have two or three quite nice ones. But I’m in mourning at the moment, as you can see.’

‘Yes, your aunt did mention it. I’m very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ Kitty said. She cleared her throat quickly, willing away the sharp stab of loss at the reminder of her beloved Papa. ‘I do have another black, though.’ She didn’t feel she needed to mention that her mourning dresses were the only ones she owned that hadn’t come from the second-hand clothier in Norwich.

She thought back to the list of requirements her mother had produced for ‘a lady travelling abroad’, given to her by someone who was accompanying her husband to India for a year. The list had recommended, among many other items, four morning dresses, eight muslin dresses, four dinner dresses, and three evening dresses—two silk and one satin. Not to mention forty-eight chemises, thirty-six nightdresses, twenty-four pairs of cotton stockings and fourteen pairs of silk, and at least four dozen pairs of gloves. That had been the first real laugh she and her mother had shared since the dreadful thing had happened.

‘I had some pretty dresses when we first arrived,’ Rebecca went on, looking regretfully down at her own faded skirts, ‘but they all fell apart from the salt air. I was as careful as I could be, sponging them regularly and taking care not to wear them while working, but they didn’t last. I salvaged what I could and made clothes for the children, and they fell apart as well. We all seemed to go around in rags for the first few years. My sister sends the odd box of clothes from time to time, and we’re very grateful for those. The Society at home and in Australia orders what they consider we need here, but pretty dresses are obviously not a priority. Sometimes we get bolts of cloth, but it’s usually practical rather than fashionable—flannel and drill and muslin and the like. But I don’t suppose the Lord cares what we wear while we’re about our work, as long as we’re decent.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘A nice length of silk or even chambray would be lovely, though. I hear the mission store has some patterned indigo denim
at the moment, which would be just the thing for work dresses and frocks for the girls, but it really is such a journey to get there.’

Kitty said, ‘I saw some of the Maori people wearing European clothes. Where did they come from?’

‘We make things up for them, or else they barter for bits and pieces with the traders and occasionally the sailors.’

‘You sew for the natives?’ Kitty was surprised.

‘Yes, it’s part of our work. They set a high value on the garments, so they make good rewards. We teach the women and girls to sew as well, which they enjoy.’ Rebecca leant closer, as though someone might overhear her. ‘Although I have to say that they do
not
enjoy wearing the undergarments that civilised women wear, especially stays. But still, a dress is better than nothing at all, which is fairly close to the state in which they used to go about, and sometimes still do, I’m afraid to say.’

‘And the children on the beach in the little dresses and trousers?’

‘Handiwork from the girls we train in our homes. We also provide uniforms for the children at the mission school and, when we hear that a Maori woman is expecting, we either knit or sew her a set of baby clothes.’

‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Well, no, not entirely. We began doing it years ago because it encouraged them to bring their babies in to be baptised. If they agree to that, they receive the baby clothes, which they adore.’

‘But they still wear the native costume as well? Some of the men in the canoes that came out to meet us were wearing a little skirt thing.’

‘It’s called a piupiu,’ Rebecca explained. ‘But they wear more or less whatever takes their fancy. Sometimes it’s everything at once, and other times it’s nothing at all,’ she added, then shrugged as if to say that the situation was regrettable, but there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Kitty sighed. ‘There seems so much to learn.’

‘There is, but we all felt that way when we first came here. I’m sure you’ll hear more about everything at supper, which will be at six o’clock. Reverend and Mrs Williams will be joining us to welcome you, and so will the Taits, the other missionary family here.’

Kitty thought for a moment. ‘Mrs Purcell?’

‘Please call me Rebecca, dear. We don’t stand on ceremony here, not among the women anyway. Except that we do address Marianne Williams as Mrs Williams. The natives called her Mata Wiremu, which is the native for Mother Williams.’

‘Thank you. May I ask how long you’ve been here, in New Zealand?’

Rebecca frowned. ‘Let’s see, my children were all born here and Albert is twelve now—he’s my eldest—so thirteen years, more or less.’

Kitty’s heart plummeted. Thirteen years! She had no intention whatsoever of staying here for anything like thirteen years.

Rebecca noticed her expression. ‘Oh, Kitty, it’s not that dreadful, I promise. We’re very happy here, and the work is rewarding. What were you expecting, when you decided to come out here?’

‘I didn’t de—’ Kitty stopped, aware that her aunt and uncle would most certainly have said nothing about why she had accompanied them. ‘I didn’t know what to expect, really. But I expect I’ll find out.’

‘That you will, love,’ Rebecca said, patting Kitty’s arm again. She stood up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to supper. One of the housegirls is supposed to be keeping an eye on it, but, well, her mind does tend to wander.’

Kitty rose too. ‘Just one more question, Mrs…Rebecca. Who was the fair-haired gentleman on the beach? Unfortunately I didn’t catch his name.’

‘The Irishman? That was Captain Farrell.’

‘Captain?’

‘Yes, Rian Farrell, a trader. He owns a rather handsome schooner and comes and goes between here and Sydney town, and various other ports of call, if what I hear is correct. But he’s not really the sort of person you should associate with, dear. He’s, well, he’s a seaman, and there have been one or two stories concerning him that suggest he isn’t suitable company for a young lady. Or any lady, if it comes to that. We don’t have much to do with him, unless trade or supplies are concerned.’

‘Oh,’ Kitty said. ‘I thought he was very rude, laughing like that.’

‘Yes, I understand he’s not always the gentleman. In fact, they say he’s quite a law unto himself.’

Supper was a sociable event, with the Purcells, Reverend Williams and his wife, the Kellehers and Kitty, and Frederick and Jannah Tait seated around the long dining table in the main room. The Purcell children ate outside on the wide verandah—even the baby, who at fourteen months was apparently quite accustomed to being spoon-fed by his older sisters while his mother was busy. Fortunately, the Williams and the Tait children had been left at home, or the house would have burst at the seams.

The meal consisted of soup, then baked fish with vegetables from the mission garden followed by a fruit tart with custard, and was greatly appreciated by those who had spent the last five months eating shipboard food.

Between the fish and the pudding, George dabbed at his lips with a napkin and pushed back his chair, the legs scraping unpleasantly on the wooden floorboards.

‘What an excellent repast,’ he said. ‘The Lord is truly a generous provider.’

Kitty, who had been about to thank Rebecca Purcell for being the generous provider of such an excellent repast, kept quiet.

‘Do you all normally dine this well?’ George asked Mr Tait, seated on his right.

Frederick Tait, the mission carpenter and a solid, benign-looking man in his mid-thirties, thought for a moment. ‘We do when we sup here,’ he said. ‘Mrs Purcell is a very talented cook.’ He smiled at the recipient of his compliment. ‘Of course, Mrs Tait is a wonderful cook, too,’ he added hastily, glancing at his wife across the table, ‘but we tend to eat a little more simply at home.’

Jannah Tait gave her husband a sharp look. A very thin woman with a pinched nose and shadows beneath her dark eyes, she looked some years older than he did.

‘One is so very busy all day,’ she said defensively, ‘one hardly has time to think about what to feed the family, let alone actually prepare it.’

Kitty was sure that Mrs Tait’s gentrified accent wasn’t the one she had been born with. She glanced to her left and observed Rebecca staring intently down at her plate, trying to suppress a smile. Or were the flickering lights from the oil lamps set about the room lending her lips that slight curve?

Looking suitably chastened, Frederick shut his mouth. The subsequent, slightly uncomfortable, gap in the conversation was hurriedly filled by Rebecca’s husband, Win, who was as ginger-haired as his wife. Kitty had expected the Purcell children to all be carrot-topped like their parents, but only two were—the rest had hair ranging in colour from very fair to brown.