Song of the Spirits (53 page)

Kura did like to hear how irresistible she was, and there were already plenty of admirers in the troupe’s provisional dressing area to reassure her. Roderick, however, was not among them this evening. He had not even granted her a curtain call of her own, but had stepped forward with her every time to accept the applause. Only a few weeks before, he had been giving her roses. Kura could hardly wait to give him a piece of her mind. But her mother and grandmother were waiting, and she planned to savor her triumph. When she asked the two of them into her dressing room, Brigitte, with whom she shared the room, tactfully withdrew.

“Well, did you enjoy it?” Kura asked almost regally.

Marama embraced her. “It was wonderful, dear,” she said tenderly in their language. “I always knew you could do it.”

“You weren’t quite so sure,” Kura said to Gwyneira.

Gwyneira once more suppressed a sigh. Kura might sing better than before, but dealing with her had not gotten any easier.

“I don’t know anything about music, Kura. But what I heard tonight really impressed me. I can only congratulate you. You’re bound to enjoy great success in England too. The money for the passage and the conservatory should not be a problem.” Gwyneira likewise wrapped the girl in her arms, but Kura remained cool.

“How gracious of you,” she remarked mockingly. “Now that I’ve done it without help, naturally you’re ready to oblige me in every respect.”

“Kura, that’s not fair,” Gwyneira protested. “Before your wedding, I offered—”

“But only if I gave up William. If I had only gone with him to England then…” Kura glared at her. She was evidently determined to hold her grandmother responsible for the failure of her marriage.

“Do you really think you would have made it then?” Marama asked softly. She hated the endless discussions that the whites seemed to love having about guilt and innocence, cause and effect. Her daughter was a master at the art of dragging these bitter, useless conversations out for hours—for which Marama blamed Gwyneira. She had not learned it from the Maori, that was certain.

“You sing beautifully,” Marama said, “but do you believe that they’re waiting for you and you alone in London?”

Kura’s face took on an expression of extreme indignation.

“I can’t believe it! Are you trying to tell me I’m not good enough?”

Marama remained calm. She had played the lightning rod for Paul Warden often enough as well. “I’m a
tohunga
, Kura-maro-tini. And I’ve listened to your records. You could become as good as the greatest singers, to be sure. But you still have to learn.”

“I have learned. I’ve practiced like crazy these last few months. I was on the North Island and in Australia, Mother, but I saw nothing of the scenery. Only my piano and my music.”

“You’ve improved, but you could learn even more. You should not go with this man. He’s no good for you,” Marama observed, gazing calmly at her daughter.

“You’re one to talk! A Maori who wants to forbid her own daughter from choosing her own companion.”

“I’m not forbidding you from doing anything. I—”

“I’m tired of all of you,” Kura upbraided them. “I’ll do what I want, and thank God, I don’t need to ask anyone permission anymore. Roderick will take me with him. We’ll look for engagements in London, or we’ll put together another troupe like this one and go on tour. I’m not sure yet. But I don’t need your money, Grandmum, or your advice, Mother! Go herd your sheep on your beloved Kiward Station. I’ll write you from time to time from England!”

“I’ll miss you,” Marama said lovingly. In spite of everything, she wanted to take Kura in her arms and kiss her good-bye, or rub her nose against Kura’s, as was customary among their people, but Kura stiffened this time as Marama approached.

“
Haere ra
,” Marama whispered. “And may the gods bless and guide you in your new country.”

Kura did not answer.

“She didn’t even ask about Gloria,” Gwyneira said as the two women left the dressing room, shaken.

“She’s sorrowful,” Marama remarked. “She’s tense. Something is not going as she had hoped. Perhaps we shouldn’t leave her, Gwyneira.”

Gwyneira rolled her eyes. “You can stay here and play her doormat, for all I care, Marama. But I’ve had enough of her arrogance, her heartlessness, and her men. She should go to London if she wants. I only hope she really does earn enough there to make a living or looks
for a man who can support her for a change. She’s the last person we need on Kiward Station!”

Kura looked beautiful when she was angry and Roderick’s determination almost faltered when she came into the ballroom with eyes flashing, cheeks flushed with excitement and nearly bursting with pent-up emotion. He was dancing with Sabina just then and would have liked to break away from her to greet the girl, touch her, perhaps coddle her a bit, to make things go more smoothly later. He thought that would be a mistake, though, so with mild regret, he turned to Brigitte after his dance with Sabina. But he had not counted on what Kura would do. Infuriated by his indifference, she wedged herself between him and the dancer.

“What are you trying to do, Roderick? Avoid me? First you don’t let anyone see you all day, then you strike half my performances, and now you act as though you don’t know even me. If this continues, I’ll have to think hard about whether I’m going to share a cabin with you on the trip.”

Kura’s hair was down that night but she was wearing it held back with a headband decorated with flowers. She had chosen a red dress with a neckline that emphasized a necklace of azure-blue gems. Her large matching blue earrings made her eyes shine even brighter.

Roderick squared himself. It was truly a crying shame.

“What trip?” he asked amiably. “To be honest, lovely, I have in fact been avoiding you today. I can’t bear the pain of parting.” He smiled regretfully.

Kura glared at him. “Do you mean to say you don’t plan to take me to England? But that’s settled.”

“Oh, Kura, my sweet, we might have talked about it—or dreamed about it, to be more precise. But you weren’t really counting on it, were you? Look, Kura, I don’t even have any engagements lined up for myself over there.”

Roderick noticed to his dismay that others were gathering all around them. His confrontation with Kura was attracting attention. He had not pictured it playing out this way.

“But
I
will find an engagement,” Kura said self-assuredly. “It can’t be that difficult. You yourself said I have more than a little talent.”

Roderick rolled his eyes. “My God, Kura, I’ve said a great many things the last few months. You do have talent, of course, and look, here in New Zealand, you have a truly great gift. Over there, however… The conservatories in England alone produce dozens of singers every year.”

“Are you suggesting that I’m no better than dozens of others? But all these months…” Kura was unsettled.

“You have a sweet voice. In this troupe of rather… washed-up singers…” At this, a storm broke out among the bystanders, but Roderick paid it no mind. “In this troupe, you almost stand out a bit. But in Europe? Really, dear, you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.”

Kura felt alone, as though on an island surrounded by her inept, petulant colleagues. If she had been paying attention, she might have heard that Sabina and a few others were taking her side and praising her voice. But she felt struck down by Roderick’s words. Could she have so completely misunderstood him? Could he have lied so shamelessly just to get her in bed? Were the audience’s countless standing ovations worth nothing at all? Had she been just another third-class singer raping the art of song in front of dilettantes?

Kura became taut with anger. No, it couldn’t be! She would not allow it to be!

“Look, Kura child, you’re still very young,” Roderick added in a patronizing tone. “Your voice is still developing. If while you’re here—”

“Where?” Kura asked brazenly. “There’s no conservatory here.”

“Oh, girl, a conservatory—who ever mentioned such a thing? But within the limited scope of your potential, you can bring a lot of joy to people.”

“Within the limited scope of my potential?” Kura spat out the words. “What about the limited scope of
your
potential? Do you
think I can’t hear? Do you think I didn’t notice that you can’t hold a note any higher than an A when singing piano? Or that you modify practically every aria so that it will be easier for the great Roderick Barrister to sing?”

The people around them laughed; a few even applauded.

“In those respects, I am considerably less ‘limited’ than you are,” Kura crowed.

Roderick shrugged. “If you say so. I can’t stop you from trying your luck in Europe. The money you’ve earned should certainly suffice for the passage.”

He just hoped she wouldn’t actually take him up on it. Spending six weeks at sea with Kura breathing fire would be hell on earth.

Kura considered. The money she had earned would most certainly not be enough. Perhaps for the crossing, but after that she would not have a penny left to support herself while she looked for an engagement in England.

She could ask Gwyneira for money, of course. If she were willing to admit that Roderick did not want her. If she conceded that Marama had been right in her appraisal of Kura’s level of education. If she groveled.

“In any event, I’ll be standing onstage when the only use anyone will have for you is to carry set pieces,” she spat. “In England, and everywhere else in the world, for that matter.” With that, she turned and walked quickly from the room.

“Well done. You showed him,” Brigitte whispered to her.

“Don’t be fooled,” Sabina said. She was about to add a few other bits of advice, but Kura did not want to listen. She did not want to listen to anything or anyone anymore. She wanted to be alone. She could no longer bring herself to look at Roderick. Or more precisely, she never wanted to see him again. The ship to England had not even arrived in Lyttelton yet, so the troupe might be lodged in the hotel in Christchurch for another few days.

Kura ran through the corridors to her room, blinded by tears. She had to pack up and leave. As quickly as possible.

At the crack of dawn the next morning, she was in the stables asking for a horse. Gwyneira’s chaise was still there; her grandmother and Marama had also spent the night at the White Hart. Yet Kura would not condescend to discuss her situation with them. She had decided the night before that she wanted to continue the tour alone, or rather, to repeat it. The audience had loved her, after all. Of course people would be happy to hear her again. And she had enough money to pay for a small carriage, a horse, and the printing of a few placards. That would have to be sufficient for a start. She would undoubtedly start earning much more than before, since she would be able to keep all of the profits.

The owner of the stables was more than happy to sell her a horse and a two-wheeled gig. Though it had little space for her luggage, the carriage had a canopy top, which was important to Kura. She only just managed to fit her bag with her stage costumes in it. As for the horse, the dealer assured her it was a docile animal. Kura was relieved, and indeed, she got off to quite a good start with it. However, she did not advance very quickly; the little bay did not compare with Gwyneira’s cobs. Although Kura found that reassuring at first—given her fear of having to drive herself—it soon got on her nerves. She tried to goad the horse on, but to no avail.