by Sarah Lark
Michael might be able to accept that a pastor was smarter than he, but he was sensitive about his son’s attitude. The boy had let it be known early on that he wanted nothing to do with his biological father, though his demeanor had mellowed somewhat since Kathleen had married the reverend and Michael had married Lizzie.
“And Sean is in court,” Michael said. Sean had studied law at the University of Otago and had just taken his first position as a lawyer in training. “If we want to see him, we’ll have to stay in the city. Should we find a hotel?”
Dunedin was about forty miles from Elizabeth Station, and Lizzie’s heart became heavy at the thought that she would soon live so far from her daughter. She was of two minds about spending the night in town. Though she loved the luxury of the finer hotels and would gladly have enjoyed a celebratory dinner and a glass of wine with Michael, Haikina would worry if they did not return that evening as planned. Haikina had fretted over Matariki’s entrance exam just as much as Lizzie had. Besides, the younger children took advantage of Haikina. It would not be fair to leave her alone with them without having agreed to the arrangement in advance.
“No, let’s go home,” Lizzie finally said. “Sean might already have other plans. We shouldn’t surprise him. It would be better to see him when we bring Matariki to school.”
Michael shrugged and steered the horses toward the mountains. The road was wide and well paved, though not heavily trafficked. Things had changed a great deal in the years since Lizzie and Michael had arrived in Otago. Back during the gold rush, Lawrence had been called Tuapeka, and hundreds of people had poured into Gabriel’s Gully. The area still looked like a wasteland. The gold diggers had dug it up so many times that the vegetation had been completely destroyed, leaving a muddy bog that would take years to recover.
Now the gold deposits around Lawrence were largely exhausted—in any case, those to which the miners had access. Lizzie thought with a smile about the reserves on Elizabeth Station. Only she and the local Maori tribe knew how much gold the river on her property carried, and everyone had an interest in keeping it quiet. That gold had financed the Drurys’ farm, made the Maori tribe wealthy by the standards of the Ngai Tahu, and would now pay for Matariki’s education.
The gold miners had moved on to Queenstown, and the once large and lively settlements they had founded shrank to sleepy villages populated by a few farmers and traders. Naturally, some scoundrels and adventurers remained—too old, too tired, or simply too lazy to try their luck once again elsewhere. They still panned in the forest’s rivers around Lawrence—another reason Michael and Lizzie were loath to leave Haikina and the children alone on Elizabeth Station. If they planned on spending the night elsewhere, Lizzie would ask the tribe for protection, and the chieftain would send a few warriors to camp along the river.
This time, however, the Drurys need not have worried. When they emerged from the mountain forest and onto the path to Elizabeth Station, they could already see movement along the river. Hemi, Haikina’s husband, was panning for gold above the waterfall, and Haikina was fishing. In the pond below, Kevin and Pat, Michael and Lizzie’s sons, were splashing around.
Hemi waved to them and continued sifting his pan. Haikina dropped her fish trap on the bank and ran to the carriage. She was a tall, slender young woman with hip-length, straight hair. Probably to do justice to her position as a teacher, she wore a dress like those of white people, the pakeha, as the Maori called them, but she had tied up the skirt casually, drawing the eye to her long brown legs.
“How did it go, Matariki?” Haikina asked excitedly.
Matariki sat up straight. “The right education makes the heart as strong as oak,” she said, proudly repeating the motto of Otago Girls’ High School.
Lizzie looked at her daughter, astounded. Where did she learn that? She must have read it somewhere and remembered it.
“I just don’t know how strong oak really is,” Matariki remarked. “Maybe oak isn’t even as hard as kauri or totara wood.”
Michael had to laugh. “Good Lord, we really are at the edge of the world. The children are growing up without ever having seen an oak. It’s very good wood, Riki, absolutely suited to a strong heart.”
Haikina smiled. “So, they’ll accept you?” she asked hopefully.
Matariki nodded. “Yes. But only as a chieftain’s daughter. And they’re going to call me Martha because the principal can’t pronounce Matariki.”
Haikina embraced the girl suddenly. “They called me Angela in the mission school,” she said.
Kevin and Pat caught sight of their parents and ran to them without drying off. Pat, the youngest, boarded the carriage and hugged Michael. At age eight, Kevin felt he was already old enough to go to school in Dunedin and envied Matariki her privilege.
“If you get a new name at school, then I want a name like the greatest chieftain,” Kevin shouted.
“The greatest chieftain is Te Maiharanui,” Matariki shouted even more loudly. “And it’s Hone Heke. You can’t have a Maori chieftain’s name at school. Just a pakeha’s. Maybe Captain Cook? Or Prince Albert?”
Lizzie laughed, but Michael wore a stern expression. “Kevin, you have a good, old Irish name. You’re named for your grandfather, and he made the best whiskey in west Ireland, not to mention how he played the fiddle and—”
“You’re named for Saint Kevin,” Lizzie corrected her husband, glaring at him. “He was a great, holy man. He founded the monastery in Glendalough. And he probably didn’t make any whiskey. Though I’m not sure. Don’t worry, no one’s going to rename you.”
“Only girls get new names,” Matariki announced, taunting Kevin as she stepped down from the carriage. “And I’m getting new clothes too.”
Michael arched his brows. “It’s going to cost a fortune,” he said to Hemi, who walked up and handed him a bottle of whiskey. Michael took a drink and grimaced at the Maori. “You need money again, do you?” He pointed to the gold pan.
Hemi sighed. “There’s news from the north,” he replied, “and ‘requests,’ if you want to put it that way.”
Principally, it was Lizzie—and later Matariki—who established the connections with the Maori. Lizzie spoke the language of the Ngai Tahu and had lived among them. Michael didn’t have Lizzie’s standing with the Maori. He suspected the warriors thought him a coward. However, Michael counted Hemi among his few true friends from the Maori village. Hemi had attended the mission school like Haikina, where he learned good English, and had then worked on a large sheep farm. He had only just returned to the tribe—and, especially, to Haikina.
“Requests?” asked Michael. “Don’t tell me your kingi has the idea of collecting taxes.”
Hemi laughed grimly. Until just a few decades before, there had been no central rule of the Maori in New Zealand. But then someone had the idea that the tribes would have a stronger negotiating position with the whites if they were represented by a single “king.” Tawhiao, originally the chieftain of the Waikato tribes, was now the second of these kings.
“That would likely be the end of his kingship,” Hemi observed. “But there are already levies and voluntary tributes, mostly from the chieftains rebelling against the pakeha. And we Ngai Tahu are happy to buy our way out of that. Let them fight on the North Island. We’d rather live in peace with the pakeha.”
The tribes on the South Island did mostly resolve conflicts through negotiations.
“Rebellious chieftains—sounds like Kahu Heke,” Michael remarked. “Is he still up to his nonsense with the Hauhau?”
Hauhau was a Maori name for a branch of the Pai Marire religious movement that championed Maori traditions and the winning back of the Maori lands on which the pakeha had settled. Kahu Heke had always promoted this view—although before the emergence of the Hauhau, he had hardly believed it possible. In place of a pakeha-free New Zealand, he had adopted the dream of a Maori nation under a strong, assertive kingi, and for a time he had envisioned himself as such a ruler. He had p
lanned to offer a generous olive branch to the whites: Lizzie Owens, the pakeha wahine, was to have been his queen.
Ultimately, Lizzie had chosen Michael, and Kahu Heke had recognized the Hauhau as his springboard to power. Yet things went wrong from the start. Kahu Heke’s troops had killed the Anglican clergyman Carl Völkner, and Kahu had subsequently gone into hiding.
“Unfortunately, Kahu Heke knows a bit too much about our gold,” Hemi sighed. “We think he’s behind these repeated requests to financially support the glorious fight for our land. But what are we supposed to do? They might send Hauhau missionaries and give our people a taste for human flesh.” He grinned and clapped with the gold pan.
“As long as Kahu Heke stays where he is . . . ,” Michael said. He took another gulp of whiskey just as he saw Matariki strip off her clothes and leap naked with her brothers into the pond. She would have to learn not to do that at Otago Girls’ High School.
Matariki Drury was a happy child. She had never experienced unfriendliness or rejection. Without exception, everyone loved the adorable, lively girl. Of course, the question of her parentage had occasionally been the subject of talk in Lawrence, but no one let the girl hear it. In the former gold-mining town of Tuapeka, plenty of citizens had unsavory pasts.
Lizzie and Michael now were counted among the richest and most esteemed citizens of the region; they were among the rare gold seekers who made a fortune and kept it. Now, Matariki Drury had even been accepted into the renowned Otago Girls’ High School, and when she went into Lawrence, she was held in admiration.
Lawrence, however, was nearly twenty miles from Elizabeth Station, so Matariki could more often be found in the houses of the Maori settlement. There she had friends and “relatives” who loved her too. Among the Maori, children were always welcome. Matariki weaved flax with the Maori girls and made dresses from hardened flax leaves. She played the nguru flute with her mouth and nose, and she listened to the stories about Maori gods and heroes. At home, Michael told tales of Irish saints and heroes, and Lizzie explained viniculture.
Lizzie had worked as a young woman on the North Island in the house of governor James Busby, who was one of the first to bring wine grapes to New Zealand. Though Busby had not been particularly successful, Lizzie had tremendous ambition as a vintner. Matariki helped her mother with the grape harvest and from her learned not to give up and to be optimistic.
On her first day at Otago Girls’ High School, Matariki was in great spirits, whereas her mother was rather nervous as they stepped through the heavy doors of the dignified building. It was the first day after vacation, and the arriving girls bustled about. Most students did not live in Dunedin but on sheep farms, some far away. Matariki, too, would board in the dormitory.
Lizzie told Matariki to wait in the entrance hall while she followed another mother to the secretary’s office. She had a stack of forms to fill out, but she was unsure about several things. Michael had not been able to accompany them because of an important livestock auction on the same day, and Lizzie longed for his easygoing self-assurance.
Matariki eyed the paintings on the walls, but they did not hold her attention long. It was considerably more interesting to watch the lively schoolgirls as they greeted one another. She noticed two Maori girls in light-blue dresses, bonnets, and lace aprons carrying the students’ suitcases and bags. They did not seem happy, and none of the schoolgirls exchanged a word with them. Matariki was about to say something to them when a tall blonde girl called to her.
“Are you new? Why are you standing around? Take these to the housemother. They need to be ironed. They got rather wrinkled in my suitcase.”
The blonde girl pressed a pile of blouses and skirts into Matariki’s arms and then gestured as if shooing a chicken away. Matariki made her way obediently in the indicated direction, though she had no idea what a housemother was or how to find one.
Matariki asked a dark-haired girl who rolled her eyes theatrically. “Didn’t they show you when you started here? You must come straight from the jungle.”
While her friends laughed, she pointed the way. Matariki found a room in which a plump woman was distributing bedding and towels to the schoolgirls. Matariki waited politely in the line until the woman noticed her.
“Are you bringing me something instead of fetching something?” she asked amicably.
Matariki curtsied as Haikina had taught her.
“These need to be ironed.”
The woman furrowed her brow. “Is that so? Tell me, are you the new maid? I thought she wasn’t to come until next week. No one could learn the ropes in this confusion. And she’d have to be older.” She eyed Matariki confusedly.
“I’m Mata—uh, Martha Drury,” Matariki introduced herself. “And I don’t know how to iron yet. But I’d love to learn. And history and geography and literature.” She began to list the school subjects she could recall.
The housemother boomed with laughter, relieving Matariki straightaway of the bundle of clothing. “Welcome, my dear. I’m Miss Maynard, the housemother. And you’re the girl from near Lawrence whose name our esteemed principal can’t pronounce. What was it again? Matariki, right? Well, I don’t find it so hard. I’m from Australia, dearie, and the aborigines there have truly remarkable names. Can you imagine someone named Allambee? Or Loorea?”
Matariki smiled. Miss Maynard was nice. At once she no longer felt so out of place.
“Well, and now just show me who foisted her ironing on you. We’ll give her something to think about, Matariki. The little sheep baronesses always tend to forget during the holidays that no one picks up after them here.”
Except for the Maori maids. The thought shot through Matariki’s head, but now she recognized the curious looks of the other girls following her and the housemother. The Maori maids watched, too, just as amazed as the pakeha. They, however, lowered their chins sheepishly. Were they afraid of the housemother?
“They’re so awfully meek,” sighed Miss Maynard when she noticed Matariki’s empathetic gaze. “We get them from the mission school, you know. It seems they curtsy and pray there more than they study.”
Matariki now realized that none of the schoolgirls curtsied as Miss Maynard hurried past, though they greeted her enthusiastically—the housemother seemed beloved of everyone.
Finally, she gave the blonde girl, whom she addressed as Alison Beasley, an earful. Alison got her laundry back with the order to iron it herself—and while she was at it, to show the new students the ropes.
“The first-years will be expecting you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock in the laundry room, Alison—I’ll be there too. And for the next few days, you’ll be responsible for seeing that the little ones come to class looking proper.”
Alison frowned, annoyed. She was already a third-year, came from a large sheep farm, and at home was surely not used to helping around the house or being responsible for anything.
“Oh yes, and to avoid further misunderstandings,” Miss Maynard said, raising her voice so that all the girls in the hall and in the rooms with open doors heard her, “this is our new student, Matariki Drury. She has nothing against being called Martha, but she certainly will not be ironing your clothes.”
Alison glared mockingly at Matariki. “So, where does she come from?” she asked. “Not likely from one of the big sheep farms.”
Miss Maynard raised her voice again. “Alison, you won’t believe it, but there are very smart and valuable people who do not come from sheep baronies.”
Matariki returned the older girl’s gaze with her own composure. “It’s true,” she said amiably, interrupting the housemother’s sermon. “I’m an actual princess.”
Lizzie was horribly concerned and relieved almost to tears when Miss Maynard brought Matariki back to her.
“Matariki got a little lost,” Miss Maynard explained. “But it gave us a chance to get to know each other. Your daughter is quite an extraordinary girl.”
Lizzie frowned, glancing suspiciously at
both Matariki and Miss Maynard. Did the housemother mean that in friendship or mockery?
“The other girls thought I was a maid,” Matariki said.
Miss Maynard bit her lip. “The incident is embarrassing for us, Mrs. Drury. We—”
Lizzie glared at her, enraged. “Those girls have already started trying to tear her down?” She seemed ready to deal with Matariki’s future schoolmates directly. Lizzie might tend toward shyness around authority figures, but she would fight for her daughter like a lioness.
“I’m very sorry. It was just . . .” Miss Maynard searched for an excuse.
“It was funny,” Matariki said cheerfully. “I have always wanted to be a housemaid. Like you were, Mommy. You did say you liked it.” At that, she curtsied primly, giving her mother and Miss Maynard an irresistible smile.
Lizzie smiled back. Maybe these girls had meant to hurt her daughter, but Matariki was strong. She did not need anyone to fight for her.
Miss Maynard was smiling again now too—mostly with relief. “As I just said, a very extraordinary girl. We’re very proud to have Princess Matariki Drury with us.”
Matariki’s school year turned out much like her first day. No matter what Alison or the other girls attempted in order to tease or annoy the half Maori, it proved all but impossible to hurt Matariki. The girl was not naive, and she understood her classmates’ mockery and innuendo. However, she refused to take it seriously, and so she ignored the cruel remarks about “beggar princesses” and Alison’s attempts to call her “Cinderella.”
Miss Maynard tried to place Matariki in a room with the most tolerant and understanding girls. She quickly realized, however, that Matariki did not much care with whom she shared the room. She was friendly to everyone but did not try to get close to anyone. As soon as school was over on Friday at noon, she rode home as fast as she could go, reaching Elizabeth Station before dark. Her father had rented a stall in the stables near the school for a small but strong horse that created a sensation among the young sheep baronesses. Grainie came from the Wardens’ stables on Kiward Station in Canterbury; she was a Welsh cob mare of the best pedigree. With Grainie there, Matariki was not dependent on her parents to pick her up—a circumstance that somewhat unsettled Miss Partridge.