The Silk Thief (22 page)

Tumanawapohatu and his entourage arrived at Leo’s at nine-thirty on Wednesday morning, long before Leo had arranged anything in the way of food or drink. They swept into the shop to find Friday lying naked from the waist up on her stomach on the bench, smoking her pipe, as Harrie bent over her working on the phoenix’s feathers. Leo almost gave himself a heart attack leaping out of his chair, shoving down his shirtsleeves and whipping his hair back in a cue. There was nothing he could do, however, about his bare feet.

The group of New Zealanders was ten strong and they filled the room, shuffling around by the door to fit themselves in. All were tall — even the women were well above the average height of an Englishwoman — and some wore European dress while others favoured the long woven cloaks you often saw New Zealanders wearing on the streets of Sydney. The cove named Hoata, Friday noted, first through the door, was giving them that high and mighty look again. Obviously he wasn’t happy. Well, hard luck. Who did they think they were? Putting aside her pipe, she turned her back, sat up and slipped her arms into the straps of her shift.

‘Good morning, Mr Dundas,’ Hoata said. ‘Pray allow me to introduce Tumanawapohatu.’

The group parted and a man stepped forwards. He was immensely tall, easily over six feet, Friday guessed, well built and heavily muscled. His skin was quite dark, his hair was cut short, and a bone pendant swung from one ear. His face was heavily tattooed, the deep greenish-blue lines and swirls extending from his hairline all the way down into his mid-length beard. It all looked a bit odd against his beautifully cut coat and trousers, high collar and black silk cravat.

Leo said, ‘Welcome, Tumanawapohatu. Thank you for coming.’

Tumanawapohatu bowed his head and said in a rumbling voice, ‘Thank you for inviting me, Mr Dundas.’

‘This is my assistant, Miss Harrie Clarke,’ Leo said.

Harrie looked as though she didn’t know whether to offer her hand, curtsy or run away. ‘Good morning, Mr Tuna … Mr Tum … er.’

‘Good morning, Miss Clarke. You may call me Tu.’

‘Thank you.’ Harrie’s face flamed.

‘And this is my wife, Mahuika.’

A woman with a startling silver streak in her magnificent long black hair — dressed with a tall comb of bone or ivory — moved to stand beside Tu. The top of her head reached his shoulder, which meant, Friday calculated, that she must be at least five feet seven or eight inches tall. That was huge for a woman! Friday was abnormally tall herself and she was five feet six.

Mahuika’s severely styled dress was such a deep burgundy colour it was almost black and appeared to be made of silk, which must have cost a fortune. The neckline was high, the waist neat and the sleeves fitted from shoulder to wrist — none of this silly puffed business that was fashionable at the moment. Friday quite liked it, which surprised her — normally she preferred brightly coloured, low-cut gowns. Mahuika also wore long jade pendants in her ears, and another on a gold chain against her breast.

Her skin wasn’t as dark as her husband’s, but she looked equally fierce. More so, perhaps. She was very beautiful. Her chin was tattooed with a tracery of delicate whorls and her lips were completely darkened. Friday winced as she imagined how much that must have hurt, especially if it was done with chisels, as Leo has suggested. Stunning, though, and somehow … erotic.

‘Mr Dundas.’ Mahuika offered her hand rather imperiously and Leo shook it. She studied Harrie for a moment, frowned, but said nothing.

‘And our daughter, Aria,’ Tu said.

There was more shuffling and a girl emerged from the group to stand beside him — and Friday’s breath was almost torn from her throat. Her heart pounding, she slid off the bench and stood beside it, feeling a fool in her shift and skirt and wishing she were properly dressed.

The girl was absolutely mesmerising. Almost as tall as her mother, her wavy hair fell all the way to her bum and was lusciously thick and gleaming, like black treacle. On each side of her face a lock had been caught and was held at the back of her head with a comb decorated with delicate carved patterns and inset with shiny blue shell. She, too, wore a tattoo on her chin and lips, but her markings were darker than those of her parents, and more precise. Her cheekbones were high and her coffee-bean brown eyes wide and slightly slanted. The dress she wore was the colour of new copper, similar in style to that of her mother’s, and hugged high breasts, a very small waist and strong, shapely arms. Jade pendants hung from her ears, too.

Friday could not stop staring. She had never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

‘Pleased to meet you, lass,’ Leo said.

‘And you, Mr Dundas,’ Aria replied in a clear, low-pitched voice, and favoured him with a wide and radiant smile.

Friday’s heart jolted so violently she felt faintly sick. Aria’s teeth were perfect, straight and even, and the canines sharp and dazzlingly white against the velvet darkness of her lips.

Aria turned to Harrie. ‘Good morning, Miss Clarke.’

‘Good morning, Miss Aria.’ Harrie went red again, and blurted, ‘This is my friend, Friday.’

Friday’s hand gripped the edge of the bench as Aria’s gaze shifted to her.

‘That’s an unusual name,’ Aria said, her arched brows raised. ‘As in the day of the week?’

‘No, it’s after St Frideswide, patron saint of Oxford. In England,’ Friday added, in case Aria didn’t know where Oxford was. ‘She was famous for being a virgin and a nun.’

Leo made a snorting noise that turned into a cough, and got out his handkerchief.

Friday shot him a barbed look. ‘Not that we have much in common, me and St Frideswide.’

Aria laughed. ‘Do you not?’

She had the dirtiest-sounding laugh. Startled, Friday stared at her as ripples of excitement chased up and down her spine. Aria stared back. And Friday knew.

Mahuika stepped in front of her daughter. ‘Mr Dundas, we have been travelling for many hours. We came from Parramatta this morning.’

‘My apologies,’ Leo said. ‘I thought you’d be arriving later.’

‘He aha te tikanga o to kupu?’ Mahuika demanded. ‘Haere ki te whakatika kai ma tatou!’

‘Do not be so rude,’ Tu snapped at his wife.

Mahuika scowled at him.

Hoata moved forwards. ‘The refreshments. When I visited previously I requested that refreshments be made available.’

Leo scratched the back of his neck. ‘Aye, well, as you can see I’ve been working. I do apologise. I haven’t had time this morning to make arrangements. Also, I don’t like to have food in the room when I’m tattooing. I thought we could wait until afterwards, and have a nice cup of tea and something to eat then.’ He hadn’t planned any such thing at all, but it seemed prudent to suggest he had.

‘Is there
nothing
?’ demanded Mahuika. ‘This is not what I call hospitality befitting of a rangatira’s status.’

‘Do not complain, wife,’ Tu growled. ‘The man is simply adhering to the appropriate protocol, and rightly so.’

Leo turned to Harrie. ‘Take some money from the caddy and —’

‘No, your assistant should stay,’ Tu interrupted. ‘At any rate, today I planned only to talk. I will demonstrate tomorrow perhaps, and so shall you. For today I will send someone out for refreshments … to my favourite bakery.’ He clicked his fingers, said something in Maori, and two men left the room.

Friday, still trying to get a good look at Aria around her mother, was surprised — and quite shocked — to see the Maori girl staring boldly back at her. Her eyes held an invitation that was very close to a challenge, which Friday found both highly erotic and … intimidating. Usually she had the upper hand in these situations, but evidently not this time. Aria’s dark brows lifted in a question before she followed the men outside. Her heart pounding with anticipation, Friday sidled around the bench, grabbed her reticule and bodice, and, stuffing her arms into the sleeves, crept out after her.

The alleyway outside Leo’s shop was empty and Friday’s heart plunged into her boots. She ran down the side of the Sailors’ Grave Hotel and around the corner onto George Street, and straight into Aria.

On the verge of either shrieking or giggling and wondering why she was being so bloody silly, she blurted, ‘Shit! Sorry!’

‘It is all right,’ Aria said. She gestured disparagingly at the two men walking ahead. ‘Come on, I am not allowed to be out of their sight.’

‘Well, that’s stupid. Why not?’

‘Yes, it is stupid. I love your moko.’ Aria touched Friday’s arm, and just the fleeting weight of her fingers through the fabric of her bodice sleeve made Friday’s skin prickle.

‘My tattoos? They’re nice, aren’t they? Leo did them.’

‘Mr Dundas?’

Friday nodded. ‘I’ve got one on my leg as well, a bat, and the one I’m getting on my back’ll be huge. Harrie’s helping with that.’

‘It is to be a bird? I saw the wings.’

‘A phoenix.’

‘I have never heard of a phoenix,’ Aria said.

Up ahead the men had stopped. One beckoned impatiently for Aria to catch up.

‘Oh, go away,’ she muttered.

‘It’s not real, the phoenix,’ Friday said. ‘It’s mythical.’ She frowned. ‘At least I don’t think it’s real. I love your tattoo. Did they use chisels? Did it hurt?’

‘Yes, the tohunga used chisels, and yes, it did hurt.’

‘Bugger that.’

Aria laughed her dirty laugh again.

‘Can I touch it?’ Friday asked. Aria’s tattoo was beautiful and Friday wanted to trace the intricate lines of the pattern, but more than that, she yearned to touch Aria’s smooth brown skin.

Aria threw a quick glance at the men, who had walked on, and nodded.

Hoping her hand didn’t stink of pipe tobacco, Friday very gently ran her fingers across Aria’s chin, feeling the raised scars left by the chisel. Her own skin thrilled where it touched Aria’s, and she wondered if Aria felt the same. She moved her fingers to Aria’s full bottom lip — the flesh there felt like a new rose petal.

‘No.’ Aria took hold of her wrist. ‘They will see. We must catch up.’

And so they did, Friday swallowing her disappointment as she hurried beside Aria. It was idiotic of her to hope for anything more, though, in broad daylight in the middle of George Street.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked. ‘To the market?’

‘To the bakery in Charlotte Place. The baker there makes very good meat pies and cakes. My father loves them and will think up any excuse to eat them. We always buy food from there when we come to Sydney.’

Friday’s heart gave a little leap. ‘How often is that?’

‘I have visited twice now, but my mother and father come much more often, on business.’

‘What sort of business?’

Aria stepped deftly around a pile of horseshit. ‘This and that. Markets for our flax and potatoes, usually. This time we are also here to find the graves of several of our children who died some years ago, while studying at Reverend Marsden’s Rangihou seminary for Nga Puhi boys at Parramatta. Altogether, thirteen were lost. It was a great tragedy. My mother and father also have some other private business.’

Friday thought it a bit odd that thirteen kids should die while supposedly in the care of Reverend Marsden. The notion of the proud and ferocious Tumanawapohatu being partial to bakery pies, though, was quite funny.

They caught up with Aria’s minders on the corner of George Street and Charlotte Place. Aria introduced them as Kahu and Paikea. Both men afforded Friday terse nods of acknowledgment. As they all traipsed along Charlotte Place, she realised she knew the bakery they were heading for, and it did sell excellent pies.

Paikea fell in beside her. ‘Are you a married woman, Miss Friday?’

‘It’s Miss Woolfe, actually. And no, I’m not.’

‘Aria is betrothed,’ he said pointedly. ‘To a renowned chief with much wealth and influence, and considerable prowess on the battlefield and in other areas of note.’

Again, Friday felt disappointment, only this tasted far more bitter. Surely she hadn’t misread the signs? She glanced at Aria, who rolled her eyes and gave a very slight shake of her head, making sure only Friday could see. Her spirits took flight again.

Paikea hitched his cloak over his well-muscled shoulder and went on conversationally, ‘I note that your moko are very colourful. I have seen the like on white women before, here and in Aotearoa. Of course, those women were whores.’ He looked at her, clearly waiting for a response.

Though her fists had clenched, Friday managed to stop herself from driving one into his smirking, brown face. What an arsehole! She had to make a living somehow. What did it have to do with him, anyway? No doubt it was because she fancied Aria, and not him or his mate. Men hated that.

‘Paikea!’ Aria fired a short, sharp sentence at him in Maori.

He responded, also in Maori. Aria spoke again, then flapped her hand angrily at both men, indicating that they should walk on ahead. To Friday’s surprise, they did.

‘I am very sorry,’ Aria said. ‘That was very rude.’

Friday hesitated. Should she tell her? Would it ruin everything? Was there anything to ruin? ‘Actually, I am a whore.’

‘Yes, I thought you might be,’ Aria said. ‘You are very beautiful. I expect men pay a lot of money to lie with you.’

Friday suddenly felt so buoyant her feet almost left the ground. She marched up to Paikea, jabbed him in the back and said loudly, ‘Did you hear what I just said, Mr Smartarse? I am a whore! So stick that in your pipe and smoke it!’

Paikea didn’t break stride, simply exchanged a supercilious glance with Kahu.

The bakery was packed with folk waiting at the counter, but the crowd parted to allow fearsome-looking Paikea and Kahu to be served first. They ordered a ridiculous number of meat pies, pasties, buns and fruit tarts, which had to be packed in layers into a small wooden crate for transportation. In a jubilant yet reckless and slightly dangerous mood now, and not to be outdone by the two men, Friday ordered two and a half-dozen almond cakes — all the bakery had on display.

Irritated by the snail-like pace of the overweight girl behind the counter as she transferred each almond cake to the crate, Friday snapped, ‘For Christ’s sake, hurry up, we haven’t got all day.’