The Trespass: A Novel

by Barbara Ewing

  Suddenly the door opened again. Harriet turned quickly.

  ‘Your father has sent for you,’ said Peters. ‘There are soldiers here again. You also are to be escorted to Government House, your father has decided you should dine there, with him, before he addresses the meeting.’

  Harriet’s heart skipped a beat.

  But she could do nothing before dark. And she would meet other people. Perhaps somebody would see that her father was mad, and she would be saved.

  THIRTY

  The new, fast sailing ship the Seagull, with its cargo of spices and special passengers, finally crossed the straits in the late afternoon, the Wellington winds waiting. Lucy, having sung the boy George to sleep: having sung I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls with vassals and serfs by my side as the ship heaved and rolled (for some reason the song that soothed him most); having waited, holding his hand, until sleep came at last, now stood on deck with Quintus. They had buffeted past the dark coastline for several hours, what they were searching for was a sight of their final destination and Lucy discussed with Quintus the coming reunion with Miss Harriet. Benjamin, who had been standing alone at one end of the ship, joined them as they approached the heads where the pilot boat was already waiting. Quintus stood with his ears up and his nose forward.

  ‘He understands, you know,’ said Lucy to Sir Benjamin Kingdom, ‘he knows he’s going to see Miss Harriet soon.’

  ‘I believe he does,’ said Benjamin, watching Quintus. Why should he believe his own instinctive feelings and not those of Quintus? He stared ahead, watching the pilot boat and several small schooners fussing around the new sleek ship that had come into their care. Benjamin was perplexed beyond reason. Here they were, arrived safely at last after all that had happened to them – and here it was again, that odd, unexplained uneasiness, beating its wings against his heart. He ran his hands through his unruly curls that were lifted and tangled by the wind, decided he had done far too much thinking at sea: he would leave everything to Ralph, which was as it should be, and would set off as soon as possible on his search for the moa.

  He smiled at Lucy. ‘Quintus probably knows more than the rest of us put together,’ he said, only partly joking, and he craned down to see what the pilot did, did not see that Lucy stared at him, something on her mind.

  * * *

  Lucy had become indispensable to the Kingdom brothers.

  On Tristan da Cunha the survivors of the wreck of the Cloudlight, although so kindly looked after by the islanders, had huddled together, reliving their nightmare: waiting for rescue. Most of them just wanted to go home. George’s mother and father had been drowned like most of the steerage passengers, George had miraculously lived and the Kingdom brothers had taken him under their wing. The boy had survived, but spoke very little. He still saluted Ralph, his friend forever, but in a stoical way, as if not wishing to disappoint. He held Lucy’s hand a great deal and sat a great deal with Quintus the dog, not speaking. The brothers would have given much to hear the chirpy voice say ‘hello, hello?’ again.

  When Lord Ralph understood at last that the dog Quintus was Harriet’s dog, that the young girl he thought he had seen before had been Harriet’s maid (had been there on the very evening at the Highgate Cemetery that had changed all their lives), he almost considered it a sign from heaven (although he considered Lucy’s determination to bring Harriet’s dog across the world somewhat foolish). He had offered her more money than she had ever been paid in her life to come onwards to New Zealand with them and look after George and then return to England with them all when they had found Harriet. But she had curtseyed and said that although she would be very glad, with them, to find Miss Harriet, she didn’t want to go back to England. Lucy had many bad memories of her life in Spitalfields, but the terrible, unforgettable vision of her friend Annie trying to jump from the wild rocks of Tristan da Cunha would be part of her forever. And she had decided, as the terror came back to her over and over, that the dream she and Annie had dreamed to themselves – a new and different life in a new and different place – must somehow be realised, for Annie’s sake also. She could not articulate this to the Kingdom brothers of course, who would not anyway have delved into the mind of a servant, but Ralph had seen the girl jump into the raging waters and had respect for her courage, and on the journey from Africa with few passengers and mostly cargo Benjamin had enjoyed her company and her view of the world. She looked after the boy and the brothers, was forever grateful that the bottom of the Seagull carried cargo not passengers, and was paid most generously. She carefully put away every penny for her new life.

  As the Seagull had sailed with its small ragbag of unexpected passengers through the Indian Ocean in record time; as the few survivors spoke less of the Cloudlight, or the drunken Captain, or of Tristan da Cunha, or of the terrible day, Benjamin had patiently taught George to read and to tell the time and George’s eyes had widened in amazement at these new things that he had somehow learned and he became engrossed in any books he could get his hands on. He also became fascinated by the brothers’ pocket watches, would plead to be allowed to hold them against his ear and listen to the ticking. But he would seldom come up on deck, could not bear to stand on deck and look at the sea. (Perhaps standing on the deck brought back to his small mind another time, the time he had stood on deck with his mother and the Reverend Boothby and warned him of monsters. As it was decided best never to speak to George of the shipwreck or his lost parents, George’s exact frame of mind was not known.) Lord Ralph would have forced him on deck daily, wanted to make a man of him. But Benjamin and Lucy prevailed upon Ralph to let the boy get safely to New Zealand first before he considered manhood. Ralph reluctantly complied but spoke severely to George most days now.

  ‘You must take your fate like a man, George, if you are to be a man!’ And George saluted stoically but did not speak.

  Only Lucy knew the depths of George’s terror, sleeping in the same small cabin, waking over and over again in the night to comfort the unspeakable horrors of his dreams. Night after night he would cling to her and she would sing to him. Slowly her high, clear voice would calm his small heart and his wild eyes would close again. But she would see expressions of terror cross his face over and over, even as he slept. And perhaps it was George’s nightmares that at last penetrated Lucy’s own dreams: Harriet had once clung to her too in desperation. Lucy had begun to dream, as they approached New Zealand, not of Annie jumping from the wild rocks, but, night after night, of Harriet. Sometimes she saw the white figure, shadowy on the stairs of the dark London house, carrying a knife.

  * * *

  Now as they approached Wellington and the culmination of all his hopes and plans and desires Lord Ralph Kingdom, his body wild with excitement and anticipation, sat in the saloon calming himself with a large Scottish whisky. His thoughts were full of Harriet and their impending meeting: he must marry her now, marry her here, in Wellington, I cannot wait another day! He nevertheless was trying to write a letter to his mother to be sent off, he hoped, as soon as they landed, to catch the first ship. She would have had no news of them since they left: she had to be told about the wreck of the Cloudlight, the safety of her sons and the death of her cousin, the Reverend Boothby. Ralph sat, dipping his pen into the ink, but he kept thinking of Harriet Cooper.

  Benjamin entered the saloon.

  ‘Go up, Ralphie,’ he said, ‘I will add to the letter and finish it. Wellington is at last in sight and who knows but you may see Miss Cooper, waiting at the quay even now!’

  Ralph bounded up the iron steps to the deck, the wind at once catching his hair and his clothes; he was strong and young and his life stood before him: he never remembered feeling so happy. The days in London with ballet dancers and gaming clubs and duels now seemed like a dream. His travels had changed him, strengthened him: his love had made him strong. He would marry Harriet and they would have a large family and live in Kent with his mother who would learn to love Harriet and he would attend the H
ouse of Lords as was his duty. Ralph knew that the world belonged to him: knew that after so terrible a journey everything would fall into place when he found again the woman he loved.

  ‘There, Lucy,’ he said as he leaned beside her on the deck and the dark hills drew nearer and the choppy sea sent spray to cover their faces and their clothes. ‘Quintus knows, look how he stares. After all that has happened, there is our destination.’

  Lucy, who had been deep in thought, suddenly looked up. ‘Lord Ralph, excuse me,’ she said. ‘Please keep looking at them hills. I’ve got to tell you something.’

  ‘What is it, Lucy?’ he said, smiling indulgently at her. (Soon now, perhaps even tonight, he would see Harriet again. He would take her in his arms and never let her go.) Lucy did not answer at once. He glanced down at her: her little fourteen-year-old face was serious and pale.

  ‘You’ve got to look at the hills, sir,’ she said in a tight, determined voice, ‘so’s I can tell you.’

  Again he indulged her: nothing could dent his happiness and his anticipation. It was just beginning to get dark and the setting sun etched the line of the hills in the distance. The wind blew, but still the harbour was beautiful.

  ‘It’s about Miss Harriet.’

  He looked at her sharply.

  ‘Look away!’ she commanded, almost angrily, and he did so, bemused.

  Lucy frowned at the immensity of her task. But she knew she had to speak, for Harriet’s sake. ‘Lately,’ she said at last, ‘I been dreaming about Miss Harriet and I started being scared for her again, like I was at Bryanston Square.’ Lucy, too, stared at the sunset. ‘There’s some things,’ and then she paused, wondering what words to use. Then she started again. ‘Don’t look at me when I’m talking or I won’t be able to tell you all this. I seen some things in Bryanston Square that – that I think I should tell you but I dunno how to use the words.’ She saw that he still looked at the hills but that he was frowning now, that he did not like her talking of his beloved. She took a deep breath. ‘Sir Charles didn’t think I saw, but I did. He – he done things.’ She cast a nervous little glance sideways; he had not turned but he was very still. ‘There was plenty of men like that at Spitalfields,’ she said in disdain, ‘it was nothing new to me. But I thought the gentry was different.’ She screwed up her courage.

  ‘He came into her room, in the night.’ Her voice was very low: the wind took her words and delivered them to the man standing next to her. I cannot tell you, Harriet had said to him.

  ‘She used to vomit, when he was gone. She run away from him.’

  He turned to her at last, looking at her with a mixture of horror, anger, disbelief and deep distaste that anyone in the world, let alone a servant, should say to Lord Ralph Kingdom such unspeakable, unsayable things.

  ‘I seen these things in Bryanston Square,’ she said doggedly, as canoes appeared with natives on board, calling excitedly to the Seagull. Quintus ran up and down the deck, wagging his tail and barking. ‘Why else would she run away so desperate? And when I went back to try and get a reference, after Miss Harriet had disappeared, the servants said Sir Charles was planning to come and fetch her back. And the reason I thought I needed to tell you all this is I’ve been thinking what my dreams might mean. Suppose he’s already here? She might need us to rescue her! We wasn’t delayed as much as we might have been on the island with the Seagull seeing the smoke and coming to get us. But who’s to say who passed us? Or maybe he’s already taken her back again to her horrible life!’

  A Maori canoe came near, the Captain shouted to them to get out of the way, but they only laughed and sped past, brown men using the paddles with strength and grace, shouts of their language echoing upwards, the wind seeming to bother them not at all.

  ‘She took a knife,’ said Lucy quietly. ‘I seen her take a knife.’

  Several more small schooners and even rowing boats appeared out of the setting sun, so that a little flotilla was already accompanying the Seagull into the harbour, white-topped waves everywhere, dusk in the dark velvety hills.

  ‘I do not believe you,’ said Lord Ralph Kingdom, his face like stone as he answered the servant at last. I cannot tell you, Harriet had said to him.

  ‘I think Miss Mary knew.’ Lucy went on as if he hadn’t spoken as the Seagull was escorted into the port. ‘God rest her dear, crippled soul, she was waiting – it was like a fluttering hen – for Miss Harriet to return from Kent and I saw, she never stopped watching her, always. Like she was to keep her safe. And so when Miss Mary died Miss Harriet had no one to guard her.’

  The Captain called, the sailors pulled at the remaining sails, made the anchor ready.

  And the few survivors of the wreck of the Cloudlight, those who had chosen to complete their voyage after all, stood on the deck as lights twinkled from the shore and the shadowy Wellington hills pulled them inwards. Some of them wept.

  Benjamin suddenly appeared on deck holding a blinking, wary George by the hand.

  ‘There is the land, George,’ said Benjamin.

  ‘Look at the lights, George,’ said Lucy.

  Lord Ralph Kingdom said nothing: his face was a cold mask of granite as he stared, not at the new land, but at the destruction of all his hopes and dreams.

  THIRTY-ONE

  In the Government House silver gleamed as the lamps were lit. White tablecloths stood on a table that groaned with good food and wine; exquisite china and crystal had been laid for the honoured guests of the Lieutenant-Governor and his wife. The company listened, enraptured, to the opinions of the Right Honourable Sir Charles Cooper, MP. He was in fine, ebullient form and, sitting around the long oak table brought from England, the ladies and gentlemen of the new colony deferred to his different knowledge and his closeness to the Colonial Office and the Prime Minister.

  ‘Earl Grey in the Colonial Office has been quite clear. From the moment that British dominion was proclaimed in New Zealand, all lands not actually occupied by the natives ought to be considered as property of the Crown in its capacity as Trustee for the whole community.’

  The Lieutenant-Governor looked uneasy. ‘I do not believe the natives see it that way.’

  ‘Is that relevant?’ said Sir Charles Cooper.

  They toasted Her Majesty. The footmen refilled the glasses. It was as if they were in England.

  And all the time his daughter’s thoughts whirled and hurtled, as the lights glittered, and the polite conversation murmured on: she saw their faces admiring her father and almost cried out in despair: of course he did not seem mad, of course they would never believe her. Where can I escape to in this small, gossiping town? – I will kill myself rather than live through this – the small boats drawn up along the shore – could I take one in the darkness? – there are islands in the harbour – do natives live there? – I have never rowed, but I have watched the men doing it often enough, I could do it too – Eddie bought a horse – could I get a horse?

  Outside the wind blew and branches fell across the muddy, rutted roads: inside the chandeliers moved slightly, the footmen bowed, the décolletage of the ladies gleamed whitely and their diamonds shone.

  I refuse to live through this.

  As the ladies were rising in a rustle of silk to take tea in the drawing room the Lieutenant-Governor said, ‘I believe you play the piano, Miss Cooper.’

  ‘It is some time, sir, since I have done that.’ A tiny button was missing from her dress.

  ‘But your fame has travelled before you. Captain Stark told me of your accomplishment aboard the Amaryllis. You will play for us tonight, I hope, in the drawing room.’

  ‘Of course she will play,’ said Sir Charles and his eyes glittered like fire. ‘She will sing “Yes! I Have Dared to Love Thee”.’

  The ladies went into the drawing room, port was poured for the gentlemen. The rooms were connected by doors that folded back: Sir Charles sat so that, always, Harriet was in his view in the next room. As he answered the questions that officials put to him about m
atters in London he observed every movement his beautiful daughter made. There was a mark on the side of her face: nobody was so impolite as to mention it: to Sir Charles it only made her more precious and his legs moved suddenly in his chair and his colour heightened and his eyes shone as he contemplated the beautiful, beautiful girl and the long, long night in front of him. Sometimes he could not make any semblance of keeping still, he rose and strode about the dining room with his port in his hand for some moments and then returned to his seat, never losing sight of his daughter.

  In the drawing room the ladies regarded the new arrival with interest and curiosity. She alone was not wearing the low-cut gown so necessary for such dinner engagements: she was in mourning and was excused. Polite inconsequences and local gossip were exchanged at first; Harriet nodded dumbly, politely.

  ‘You came to New Zealand on your own, Miss Cooper?’ asked one finally. (Such was the odd story that was doing the rounds in the town about this new and rather mysterious arrival.)

  Harriet looked at them: smiling, curious, rustling ladies. What would happen if she told them the truth of the room in the Barratt’s Hotel, of the mark on her face; threw herself on their mercy? How would their faces react? What words can I use? Yet surely they were kind, had hearts like her own? She took a deep breath.

  ‘I came,’ she said, ‘because—’ She looked again at the smooth faces. One of the ladies leaned forward very slightly in anticipation. And Harriet was at once struck by the absolute impossibility of saying aloud what she wanted to say. She had not even been able to talk about it openly to her own sister. What words would she use to describe what was happening to her in a locked room not a mile away? She had seen their faces smiling forwards as they listened to her father and they would not believe her.