Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  After her performance, Pit Frazer, the journalist, did not leave her side, which was not hard since Juliet was keeping her distance from Patrick, who had May squirming in his arms. The little one did not fall asleep, observing everything with wide-open, attentive eyes. Apparently, she liked music and charming one guest after another. At the moment, little May was flirting with Roberta Fence.

  Juliet gave the young woman a brief, appraising once-over. The girl had been head over heels for Kevin before. Might she now make a move on Patrick? There did not seem any danger of that, however. Roberta always dressed like a spinster, and she could hardly bring herself to look at the nudes gracing the walls. The baby was, thus, a welcome distraction. Roberta seemed delighted about holding and rocking her. Patrick watched indulgently but also with some anxiety. He did not like to hand May over.

  Juliet turned her attention back to the journalist from Queenstown. She lit up when he spoke knowledgeably about the music of the American South. In his opinion, Australia and New Zealand had so far achieved little more than “Waltzing Matilda.” Juliet and Pit luxuriated in mocking the musical backwaters of New Zealand and Australia—completely ignoring the whole Maori culture, their ingenious instruments, and deep musical tradition.

  “There are hardly any performance opportunities here for real artists, you know,” Juliet lamented to him as he placed his hand, as if by accident, on her arm before letting his fingers wander up to her shoulder. “The occasional traveling ensemble or the one or two theaters that only play the classics and are still looked at askance by the strange Christian sects. With the Church of Scotland, you’re damned if you so much as wear a red dress.”

  Pit leered. “A damnation I would gladly share with you.”

  Heather, who was passing by, gave him a disbelieving look. “You’d like a red dress, Mr. Frazer?” she asked. “I think I have one. It’s reform style, a loose cut. Maybe it’d fit you?”

  Juliet giggled, but Heather wasn’t laughing. “Maybe you’d play us another song?” she asked amicably but with a subtle tone of command.

  Heather had noticed Frazer’s hand on Juliet’s shoulder, and she wanted to prevent a scene.

  “I was thinking more of the place of damnation,” Frazer corrected himself once Heather had moved on. “I’d gladly share hell with you.”

  Juliet purred like a cat. “It’d be too warm there for dresses anyway,” she said breathily, toying with the straps on hers.

  She did, however, sit down at the piano. It wouldn’t do to spoil things with Heather.

  Frazer was waiting with a glass of champagne when she finished. “Your voice is unbelievable. Crystal clear and yet secretive, promising.”

  Juliet bathed in his admiring looks but hardly listened to his flattery—until his next remark.

  “You absolutely must perform. You can’t bury yourself away in a suburb of Dunedin. Listen, we have something very interesting in Queenstown—Daphne’s Hotel. Originally, it was a pub like any other. It’s also a bit, well, very libertine. But recently, the proprietress had a stage built. There’s singing and, uh, dancing. Now, gentlemen bring their ladies with them.”

  “It’s a nightclub?” Juliet asked.

  Frazer thought a moment. Then he nodded. “It’s on its way, anyhow. Queenstown is becoming civilized, you know. It’s not just adventurers and gold miners. Now there are more big-time livestock breeders, and the gold comes from mines whose owners aren’t poor or uneducated. And they’re trying to make the city more attractive for visitors. It really is beautiful—the mountains, the lakes.”

  Juliet was not interested in mountains and lakes. “And the proprietor of this club engages artists?”

  “Yes. But it’s actually a proprietress. Daphne O’Hara. Irish, apparently, although she doesn’t sound it.”

  Juliet pouted. Really, she’d had enough of the Irish. Still . . . “Perhaps we should talk more about it tomorrow.” When she casually interlaced her fingers in his, only Chloe Coltrane noticed and immediately moved in her direction. “I think I have to sing some more. But let’s meet for coffee tomorrow. Did you say you were staying at the Leviathan?”

  Pit Frazer surprised Juliet with the good news as soon as she entered the hotel: he’d telegraphed Queenstown already, and Daphne O’Hara was quite interested in a singer from New Orleans. Juliet was not pushing May around with her that day. Mrs. O’Grady had come to clean, and Juliet had managed to foist the child on her. The resolute Irish woman was still head over heels for the little girl. She would feed, rock, and then sing her to sleep with her execrable voice. May loved Mrs. O’Grady and did not seem at all bothered by the false notes. In truth, she only screamed when she was in Rosie’s or Juliet’s care. Neither paid her the attention she needed.

  “How marvelous,” Juliet cooed. Her hand brushed Frazer’s as she reached for the telegram on the table. “It seems I’ve finally had some luck.”

  Frazer smiled and opened a bottle of champagne. “It so happens I’m a good-luck charm.”

  Juliet wore a demure outfit when she visited Claire Dunloe two days later. Not much was going on in the shop, and Claire could not find a plausible excuse not to invite her visitor to tea. Kathleen could have joined them but feigned urgent alteration work. Juliet bored Kathleen—and her flirting with the journalist had irked her. Even after so many years, Kathleen felt loyal to Michael’s family. There was not just her old love for Michael, but also the brief affair between Matariki and Kathleen’s son Colin, out of which Atamarie was born. Kathleen and Lizzie would never be true friends, but when it came to Juliet LaBree-Drury, they were of the same opinion. A long time before, Kathleen, too, had married a man she did not love to give her baby a name. She knew it must be hard for Juliet, but she had done well with Patrick. The man practically did not let her feet touch the ground, whereas Kathleen had been bound to a husband who exploited and abused her. She thought Juliet an ungrateful brat. In any case, she wasn’t willing just then to make conversation. If there was any news, Claire would fill her in later.

  Claire’s housemaid, Paika, took little May at once and, giggling, disappeared into the kitchen with her. Claire hoped she’d still remember to make the tea. Otherwise, this visit would drag on for hours. But, to her surprise, Juliet also seemed to be in a hurry that day. When tea was served, she quickly downed the contents of her cup.

  “Mrs. Dunloe, I, um, I wanted to ask if I couldn’t leave my daughter with you a short while,” she said. “I still have a few errands to run, and your girl—”

  “Paika would be happy to watch May, I’m sure.”

  Claire answered kindly, but her gaze narrowed a bit. On what sort of errands might the baby not be welcome? There was also the matter of her unusual outfit. Elegant, closed-necked—a traveling outfit? Claire’s curiosity became suspicion.

  “What do you have to do?” she asked casually. “Do you need to go to the gallery? Another performance? We all very much liked your singing, Mrs. Drury. You have a gorgeous voice and a style all your own. I think Heather and Chloe were very pleased.”

  Claire recognized a flash in Juliet’s eyes at the word “performance.”

  “It made me really happy,” Juliet replied.

  When Juliet provided no answer to Claire’s question, suspicion became certainty.

  “Mrs. Drury,” she said quietly, “please, don’t do this to him.”

  Juliet could not hide her alarm. She wanted to react angrily but then changed her mind. Claire had seen through her, and it was too late to find someone else who could watch May. The coach to Queenstown would leave in a half hour. Nervously, she raised her hands to her hair, which was perfectly put up under a delicate little hat.

  “I can’t sacrifice my career for Patrick’s happiness,” she declared histrionically. “I’m sorry, but that’s asking too much.”

  Claire looked at her mockingly. The banker’s wife was one of the few women not intimidated by Juliet’s beauty and arrogance.

  “What exactly is your care
er, Mrs. Drury?” she inquired. “A dingy nightclub? A new man?” She paused. “But that’s not my business. And I truly don’t want to meddle. It’s just that Patrick—”

  “You want me to stay with him? Change the baby’s diapers? Maybe have another one?” Juliet’s shrill voice edged toward hysteria. “Just so Saint Patrick gets what he paid for? With a signature?”

  “With a name,” Claire said. “It might not mean much to you, but being named Drury and not LaBree will open doors for your child. But your marriage doesn’t interest me, Juliet. Do what you want. But don’t ruin Patrick’s life.”

  Juliet laughed nervously and cast a glance at the grandfather clock. “He won’t die of a little heartache.”

  Claire sighed. “You’re not understanding me. It’s not about whether you leave Patrick. In fact, nothing better could happen to him. But don’t just run out like this. Talk to him. Arrange the divorce.”

  Juliet frowned. “What would that change?”

  Claire rubbed her forehead wearily, but then she became angry. “Apparently, nothing for you. You’ll transform instantly back into the beautiful, free-spirited Miss LaBree. No one will know you; no one will know about your marriage or your child. But Patrick, he’ll stay here. Everyone knows him.”

  Juliet made a face. “Gossip fades, Mrs. Dunloe. Of course, people will talk, and maybe they’ll even make fun of him. But it’ll pass.”

  “People won’t make fun,” Claire corrected her. “They’ll pity him. But it will never be over if you don’t end things properly. Heavens, Juliet, don’t you realize that Patrick will never be able to marry again. Or only after a complicated process. Believe me, I had to go through it myself. My husband disappeared from one moment to the next. To China, supposedly. Before that, he sold our house out from under me. That was far worse than gossip and lovesickness. But the worst was that I wasn’t free. I was neither a wife nor a widow—and in the circles of my current husband, people can’t just live together like that.” Claire’s gaze softened as she looked around her grand living room. “We finally effected a divorce, thanks in part to Jimmy’s connections, but it was difficult—and expensive. We printed advertisements in all the country’s newspapers, looking for my former husband. After a long time, a judge finally released me. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, Juliet.” Claire’s voice turned pleading. “So please, put your cards on the table. Give Patrick back his name.”

  Juliet looked at the august lady in her dignified cashmere skirt and her carefully ironed white blouse. Boring. Just as boring as her request.

  “My coach leaves in twenty minutes,” Juliet announced, trying to put some regret in her voice. “It’s too late now. As for Patrick, what you propose would only cause him pain. But it’s good we talked, Mrs. Dunloe. I’ll keep your words in mind. Maybe I’ll write.”

  Juliet stood up. She took her leave politely before she went. But she went.

  Claire was too agitated to go back to the shop. She was afraid she’d blurt everything out, and that would not be right if there were customers there. So, she took another sip of tea, went into the kitchen, and took the baby from Paika.

  “I’m so sorry, darling,” she murmured. “But forget about that. You’re better off without her.” She kissed the baby, then turned to the young maid. “I need to go out, Paika. Please tell Mr. Dunloe that I went to Reverend Burton and then to Mr. Patrick Drury—I won’t be home till late.”

  For the Sake of Love

  Transvaal, Karenstad,

  Africa

  Dunedin, Christchurch, Temuka,

  New Zealand

  1900–1902

  Chapter 1

  The siege of Wepener was to be Kevin Drury’s only major combat experience in the Boer War. After New Zealand’s Rough Riders left the van Stout farm, their war took the shape of a prolonged camping excursion through Transvaal, punctuated by skirmishes with small Boer commando units. The Riders moved mostly via the train lines, which were quiet for now, as the Boers would have been dismantling their own supply and escape routes by striking the tracks. For that reason, the Rough Riders would leave the tracks to patrol the veld—and Kevin sometimes felt himself in a dreamworld more than a war.

  The landscape around Waterval Boven was different from anything he knew in New Zealand. Vincent reveled in observing elephants and zebras, whereas Kevin was less delighted when he nearly got too close to a crocodile. And although their native guide, Mzuli, assured them that the creature’s meat was especially tasty, the soldiers opted to withdraw carefully. In general, the wild animals frightened Kevin more than the Boers. Nevertheless, he asked himself whether the Rough Riders were more hunters or hunted. On the rare occasions when the Afrikaners took refuge on an isolated farm and were careless enough to put their ponies to pasture in a visible yard, the New Zealanders would take ten or fifteen prisoners. More often, though, Boer commandos attacked the Rough Riders. The first time, Kevin’s unit lost one man, but thereafter, the New Zealanders were cautious, sleeping lightly and setting watches.

  They also learned quickly to differentiate the noises of wild animals from the hoofbeats of Boer ponies. As soon as the watchman sounded the alarm, the defense quickly began, but in general, the adversaries only shot into the air. Night in the veld was pitch black, and there was ample cover. It was pure chance when someone was hit. Kevin, Preston, and Tracy thus had little to do, and Vincent nothing. The endless, peaceful rides suited the horses, as did the dry grass they stuffed themselves on at night. When the men came upon a farm, they requisitioned oats and restocked their own provisions. These encounters with belligerent farmers were the most dangerous moments of the mission.

  The doctors spent the long nights at the campfire, telling each other their life stories and drinking whiskey. And then, suddenly, the war was over—or supposed to be. Bloemfontein and Pretoria had fallen. The Boer president, Ohm Krüger, had fled to Europe. On September 1, Transvaal was officially annexed as a British colony. Queen Victoria made Lord Roberts an earl, while Lord Kitchener stayed behind to organize the withdrawal of the British troops. But Kevin and Tracy’s regiment didn’t get the news until a few days later. They were two days’ ride from Pretoria.

  “We’re at peace?” Kevin asked. “So, what was that yesterday, then?”

  He’d been in the middle of changing a wounded man’s bandage when a messenger arrived to proclaim the official end of hostilities. The evening before, a Boer unit had attacked their camp at twilight. The New Zealanders had killed two men and taken four prisoners. Vincent was treating one horse grazed by a bullet.

  “I suppose the Boers didn’t know about the peace agreement either,” Preston replied. “Probably we still need to watch out until we reach Pretoria—the commandos aren’t just going to drop their weapons and ride home.”

  That evening, the whiskey flowed in streams, and during their last rounds through their improvised hospital, Kevin and Preston brought a bottle to the wounded Boer prisoners.

  “There’s peace, men,” Kevin announced, already tipsy and quite content. “We’re friends again.” He held out the bottle, but they glared at him uncomprehendingly. Kevin sighed. “Now you can learn English instead of shooting,” he declared.

  In the end, he entrusted himself to the uniting power of whiskey, pouring some for each of them—and stepped back in shock when the first of the prisoners threw the booze back in his face.

  “Preston?” Kevin called. “We need an interpreter here.”

  Preston, ever the gentleman, had moderated his drinking, and thus was alert enough to dodge the tin cup one of the prisoners threw at him while spitting hateful words.

  Kevin looked irritated. “Does he not get it? The war’s over.”

  “Not for him,” Preston translated. “Or at least not for his people. Personally, he doesn’t have much hope for himself because he’s a prisoner.”

  “But he’ll be released soon.” Kevin still felt the Boers should share his elation. “Man alive, boys, they’ll hold you for a few
weeks, but then they’ll let you return to your farms. You’ll be a little nicer to your workers and—”

  The prisoners unleashed a torrent of curses on the doctor.

  Preston pulled him back. “Come along, Kevin. Your excitement is wasted on them. Not to mention the whiskey. These blokes knew quite well that the war was over. Hence the foolhardy attack last night. They thought we wouldn’t shoot back and half of us would be dead before we realized they hadn’t come to celebrate with us.”

  “They knew?” Kevin seemed sobered.

  Preston nodded. “They admitted it. They don’t see themselves as bound by any peace treaty. Ohm Krüger might have surrendered, they say, but not General de Wet, not by a mile. For the commandos, the war is just starting.” Tracy took a long swig from the whiskey bottle. “We should still set guards,” he said. “The wounded prisoners are fit enough to get up to trouble. All the watch posts need to be manned tonight and tomorrow. All the way to Pretoria. I’m excited to see what the situation there is.”

  But their contingent never even got to set out for the capital of Transvaal. Instead, another unit of New Zealanders arrived the next morning, battle-hardened men who had come to South Africa on the first ships. A major by the name of Colin Coltrane led the unit of forty as if they were approaching a proper cavalry regiment instead of a mishmash of swashbuckling riders in uniform.

  “And as of now, I’m taking over command here,” Coltrane declared to Kevin’s startled captain. “What sort of a slipshod unit is this? You’re the commanding officer? Why doesn’t anyone salute you?”