Song of the Spirits (38 page)

Indeed, William’s relationship with Kura had not improved as he had hoped it would after Gloria’s birth. Ever the gentleman, he had allowed his wife the traditional four weeks of recovery after the birth before attempting to join her in bed again. He had expected to be warmly welcomed there. After all, Kura had accused him for weeks of no longer wanting her on account of her big belly. She certainly appeared to enjoy his kisses and caresses and aroused him almost to the point of climax. But when he wanted to enter into her, she pushed him away.

“You don’t really think I’ll let that happen a second time,” she said coolly as soon as he had regained enough control over himself to complain. “I don’t want any more children. We’re done with that. We can, of course, do anything else that won’t make me pregnant.”

At first, William had not taken her seriously, but when he tried again, Kura remained firm. Once again, she applied her ample skill to arouse him to the height of ecstasy, but then retreated at the last moment. She did not seem to think anything of his frustration. In fact, it rather seemed to please her that William lusted after her almost to the point of madness.

One night, however, he lost control and took her against her will, overpowering her resistance and laughing as she struck and scratched at him. Though her resistance soon abated, it was an unforgivable act. William apologized immediately that night and then three times over the course of the following day and appeared to be genuinely contrite. Although Kura said she accepted his apology, that night, he found her door locked.

“I’m sorry,” Kura said, “but it’s too risky. We would end up going through this over and over, and I don’t want another child.”

Instead, she resumed her singing and piano playing, practicing for hours, as she had at the beginning of her marriage.

“You should be careful what you wish for,” sighed Gwyneira, rocking little Gloria. Apparently, her prayer that the child be wholly unmusical had been heard: Gloria erupted in violent screaming as soon as the piano sounded.

“I’ll take her with me to the stables,” Jack said cheerfully, likewise taking flight from Beethoven and Schubert. “It’s perfectly quiet there with the dogs; she even laughs when Monday licks her. What do you think—when can we teach her to ride?”

It drove William mad to see Kura every day, to observe her figure once again assuming its old captivating form, her movements once again becoming graceful like a dancer’s. Everything about her aroused
him, from her voice to the dance of her long fingers on the piano keys. Sometimes just the thought of her was enough to arouse him. As he sat alone drinking his whiskey, he replayed their nights together in his mind’s eye. He recalled every position, thought yearningly of every kiss. Sometimes he thought he would explode with desire. He imagined it was the same for Kura—he had noticed her prurient looks—but she kept an iron grip on herself.

Kura did not yet know what turn her life would take, but the idea of remaining on Kiward Station—having one baby after another, becoming fat and unattractive, and waddling around like a duck each time she got pregnant—was too unspeakable to fathom. The few months of passion in between did not make up for the disadvantages. And Rongo Rongo had given her no illusions on the subject: “You could have three children before you’re twenty—and who knows how many in all.”

Chills ran down Kura’s spine at the mere thought of three screaming brats. She did think Gloria was adorable, but she had no idea what to do with her, any more than with all the puppies, kittens, and lambs that Gwyneira and Elaine found so enthralling. She certainly did not want any more of them.

Nevertheless, denying William’s love made her more and more irritable. She needed something, whether it was music and applause or satisfaction and love. Music was the less dangerous option, so she began to practice the piano again, she sang, and she waited. Something had to happen.

R
oderick Barrister was not exactly a virtuoso singer. True, he had graduated from the musical program of a somewhat renowned institute, and he had slogged through the most important tenor parts in the operatic repertoire. Moreover, he was rather handsome, with thick, straight black hair that he wore long, adding flair to the operatic heroes he played. His delicate face, so much softer than classical chiseled features, touched female hearts, and his eyes flashed black and fiery. His outward appearance alone consistently landed him engagements in smaller ensembles and at recitals. However, that was not enough for a career on the grand stages. Roderick no longer fooled himself on that point.

Though he loved the audience and yearned for stardom, he was not stupid. For that reason, he seized the opportunity to become a big fish in a small pond when a New Zealand businessman who was putting together an ensemble to tour through Australia and New Zealand approached him. In doing so, George Greenwood, a wealthy man who was no longer young, was evidently pursuing altruistic goals rather than simply filthy lucre. Though he would make a little money in the deal, it was, more importantly, a kind gesture for his wife, Elizabeth. The couple had spent a few months in England years before, and his then-still-young bride had succumbed to the charms of the opera. On New Zealand’s South Island, there was still no opera house, so admirers of virtuosic singing had to content themselves with gramophones and records. George wanted to help remedy that and was using another stay in London to put together a company of singers and dancers.

Roderick was among the first to apply, and he quickly realized that he could put his organizational skills to work for profit. George Greenwood knew nothing about music and had only a slight interest in it. He found it tiresome to have to judge singers and dancers in addition to his other work, and had difficulty selecting the best ones. He therefore readily accepted Roderick’s offer to help with the selection process, and Roderick suddenly found himself in the role of an impresario.

He fulfilled his role conscientiously, though he did hire the most beautiful and compliant ballerinas while choosing male dancers who were drawn to their own sex. He did not have to take competition with him overseas, after all. When it came to the singers, he was careful not to hire anyone who would make his voice or appearance look worse by comparison. Though a kind person, his frequent partner, the first soprano, was consequently average in both looks and singing talent. Sabina Conetti knew as well as Roderick that great art was beyond her. She was thankful for the well-paid engagement, always ready to take care of Roderick when the ballerinas were not in the mood, and generally willing to pull anyone to her ample bosom who confided their woes to her, all of which helped Roderick a great deal. He was able to ignore all of his ensemble’s personal problems, the kind that so often meant sleepless nights for other impresarios. Peace and harmony reigned in his little company, and, as it turned out, the public was not demanding. On board the ship, a steamer that made the journey in a few weeks, the troupe gave a few concerts, and the passengers heaped praise on the artists and the immensely satisfied George Greenwood.

Buoyed by their admiration, Roderick looked ahead calmly to their first performance in the Canterbury Plains. Sabina Conetti in person was presumably still a good deal better than a recording of Jenny Lind, he thought.

Christchurch was a pleasant surprise. The singers and dancers had expected a hick town at the ends of the earth, but the city was evidently striving to be an English metropolis. The main attraction in that regard was the brightly painted trolley, in operation since 1880, which jingled through the city’s dapper streets. Christ’s College attracted
students from throughout New Zealand, adding a youthful flair to the city. And the city hardly looked as miserly as they’d expected. Sheep breeding and, more recently, meat export had brought great wealth to Christchurch, and the city fathers poured tax money enthusiastically into impressive public buildings.

There still was no opera house, however. As a result, the performance was to take place in a hotel. Once again, Roderick thanked heaven for Sabina. While she wrestled with the singers’ complaints about the poor acoustics in the White Hart’s ballroom and the dancers’ concerns about the small size of the stage, he had a look around the town. Then, shortly before the performance was to begin, he peeked out curiously into the audience—a crowd of finely dressed people, looking full of anticipation, who would soon be celebrating Roderick Barrister as though he were Paul Kalisch himself. It would be a dream come true! And then he saw the girl.

It was Heather Witherspoon who had drawn William and Kura Martyn’s attention to the opera ensemble’s guest performance. Although George Greenwood had informed Gwyneira, she had completely forgotten about it—helped by the fact that neither James nor Jack wanted to attend.

“Opera is quite beautiful,” Gwyneira said, trying halfheartedly to change her son’s mind. She wanted to give him a comprehensive education, which was not always easy in New Zealand, and James generally tried to help her in this regard. The McKenzies had been thrilled to attend a performance of the Royal Shakespeare Company that had toured New Zealand the year before, though Jack had found the sword fights more exciting than Romeo and Juliet’s love poetry. It looked as though opera may have been definitively spoiled for Gwyneira’s family, however.

“What are we supposed to do with Gloria?” Jack asked. “She cries a good deal when we’re away for long, and she’ll be miserable if we take her with us. She doesn’t like all that noise.”

The boy had begun to make a habit of carrying his “great–half niece” around with him like a puppy. Instead of a stuffed bear, he had a hoof pick dangling over the baby basket that he’d placed in the stables, and when Gloria reached out into the air, he put a few stalks of hay or a horse brush in her hand to play with. The little girl seemed to like that. As long as her mother was not singing, she was a peaceful child—and since Jack had learned how to warm milk as well as any nanny, she now slept through the night.

Gwyneira had not informed Kura or William about the upcoming opera performance at least in part because the family on Kiward Station had taken to living more and more separate lives. Kura’s evening concerts on the grand piano in the salon drove James and Jack into their rooms early, and even when she finally retired for the evening, no one cared to keep William company while he drank his whiskey. Except Heather Witherspoon, of course.

“Is there something between the two of them?” James asked mistrustfully at one point. “They can’t be spending every evening chatting about her boarding school education, can they?”

Gwyneira laughed. “Jack claims that Kura and William ‘aren’t doing it anymore.’ That’s exactly how he phrased it. Could it be that you’re having a bad influence on him? Helen would be horrified. In any case, he claims that he hears them arguing every night. He didn’t tell me that, though. I heard it from his friend Hone and only caught that bit by accident. The two of them have recently developed an interest in girls. Although Hone is considerably more precocious than Jack in that regard. Our boy’s been scared off women by Kura, and will probably end up a monk.”

James grinned. “I think that’s unlikely. He’s a good shepherd, but I think it would upset him if he couldn’t shear his two-legged flock and herd them around as he liked. Besides, no father confessor I ever met would employ a border collie as a guardian of public virtue.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Gwyneira giggled. “Do you still remember how Cleo used to bark whenever you touched me?”

James cast a probing look at Monday, who lay in her basket next to their bed.

“The current guardian’s asleep. Let’s not pass up the opportunity at hand.”