Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  “You just have a hangover,” he repeated. “Not that you have to kiss me either way. I just thought, yesterday you did like it.”

  Doortje looked at him indignantly. “I didn’t like anything,” she lied. “Maybe I gave in to temptation. Can it be that she hexed me? The she-Kaffir? She forced the champagne on me. She—”

  Kevin did not want to talk about Juliet—whenever her name came up, he feared Doortje would see the deceit in his eyes.

  “You asked for a glass,” he reminded her. “And she did not stir in any poison. I don’t mean to dispute that there’s something witchlike about Juliet, but you can’t hold her responsible for your feeling tipsy.”

  “She looked at you,” Doortje observed pensively.

  Kevin shifted uncomfortably. “That’s what you do when you converse with someone. Forget Juliet for now, even if sooner or later you’ll have to apologize. What you said to her, well, she’s been called heartless often enough in Dunedin, but calling her a she-Kaffir is inexcusable. But for now, I’m going to fetch you some powder from the practice that will help your headache, Doortje. You can sleep a bit more.”

  “That’s—” Doortje shot up and then immediately reached for her smarting temples.

  “You’re sick. You just said so yourself. So, lie down. I’ll take Abe to the office with me. No, don’t worry. He won’t catch any contagious diseases.”

  Doortje stretched out and tried to think, despite her throbbing skull. Of course, her intoxication and the resulting complications were Juliet’s fault. The woman had intended to make her behave badly. And she looked at Kevin as no decent woman should at her husband’s brother—nor even at her own husband, really. Certainly not in public. Doortje thought of Jezebel, of Potiphar’s wife, of Solomon’s warning to his son: “[T]he lips of the foreign woman are sweet as honey, and her throat is smoother than oil, but afterward, she is as bitter as wormwood and sharp as a double-edged sword.”

  That was Juliet exactly: a honeypot, a trap. And Kevin was likely on his way to falling into it. Doortje made a decision. She did not yet know how to go about it, but it was doubtlessly the duty of every good wife to prevent her husband from taking such a false step.

  That very afternoon, Doortje made her way to the Gold Mine Boutique.

  “I’m sorry, but Kate went home.” The beautiful, elegant Claire Dunloe, who still intimidated Doortje, shook her head regretfully. “Reverend Burton’s women’s group is collecting clothing for next Saturday’s bazaar, and they insist on having Kathleen present when they go through the donated items. They all know how to redo stitching and iron blouses, but if Kate does it with them, it adds prestige. Maybe I can help you?”

  Doortje shook her head. No, she did not want to lay out her worries to Claire Dunloe. That would have been just too embarrassing. On the other hand, she did not want to wait until the following Monday.

  “Can I, well, do you think Mrs. Burton would find it untoward if I called on her at home?” Doortje rubbed her temples, which were hurting a bit again.

  “Certainly not, Mrs. Drury! As I said, the women’s group is there. They would be happy to see you. They gab about you not coming to church as it is. If you don’t show your face soon, people will think you worship some Zulu god or another.”

  Doortje resisted growing indignant. She was slowly learning to tell from the tone of someone’s voice whether they were joking—another thing she found strange. Where she was from, people were straightforward and called a spade a spade.

  “Then I’ll be going. Thank you.”

  Claire waved amicably after her.

  Doortje sighed as she pushed the unwieldy perambulator back onto the street. She had not known of this in South Africa either. There, they had simply carried their babies around in a basket or, like the black mothers, tied to their backs with cloth.

  That day, though, it was lucky she did not have to carry Abe. She had been to Caversham only once before, and though she thought she remembered the way, she did not recall how long it had taken. Kevin had harnessed Silver to his chaise, and the two miles had flown by. Now, however, they stretched out before Doortje. Her fine footwear, which had replaced the sturdy leather shoes she had worn in Transvaal, was not meant for miles of marching. At least Abe slept sweetly, and the fresh air drove out the last of Doortje’s malaise. She felt like herself again when she lifted the doorknocker on the pastor’s cottage. However, no one opened. Disappointed and unsure, she turned to the garden gate—and recognized Violet Coltrane approaching with a large bag.

  “Mrs. Drury, how nice. Are you coming to the women’s group too? I’m sure you can sew.” Violet paused when Doortje did not answer. “Or no, of course not, how silly I am, forgive me. You probably only wanted to pay Kathleen a visit. But I’m afraid she’s with the other ladies in the community room. I’d be happy to bring you along, even if you’re not an Anglican. It’s always good to help the poor, and we are all Christians.” Violet chattered on amiably as she led Doortje around the cottage to the church. The community room, where Peter led Bible circles and held Sunday school, was located next door. “I’ve picked out a few really nice things,” Violet declared, pointing to her bag. “We’ll make the people so happy—God, how happy I was when I received a dress from Heather as a girl. But you know the feeling. Weren’t you in one of those horrible camps? It’s a crime what the British did there.”

  Doortje would never have thought that a rich lawyer’s wife like Violet Coltrane had ever depended on hand-me-down clothing—let alone that she’d admit it. Even in the camp, her people had been ashamed to accept the donations. And then Violet had criticized the British without a second thought. Doortje would have liked to have more time to think about this. But Violet was opening the door to the community room, in which some fifteen women sorted clothing, laughing and chatting. Violet helped Doortje push the perambulator inside.

  “We could put on a fashion show like you do in the Gold Mine Boutique,” one of the women suggested, holding up a dress. “That would be fun. Is it true, Mrs. Burton, that you’re going to have a real, live black woman show off your clothes?”

  Doortje froze while Kathleen answered with a laugh. “We’ve asked Nandi, the Drurys’ serving girl, to do it. But she’s shy, despite being so beautiful—she hardly even needs a corset.”

  Doortje could hardly comprehend how these women found Nandi beautiful—and “asked” before giving her a job to do. But now Kathleen had seen her.

  “Someone else on whom our clothes look marvelous.” She smiled. “Come in, Doortje. Help us sort. Oh, and you’ve brought little Abe along!” Kathleen turned with shining eyes to the baby, who had just woken up. “May I pick him up?”

  Doortje nodded uncertainly. She was used to women thinking Abe adorable. But he seemed to be the apple of Kathleen Burton’s eye. And Abe liked her just as much. He began to make cheerful humming sounds as Kathleen rocked him.

  “You two look good together.” One of the parish women laughed. “You know what? He looks a little bit like you.”

  Doortje registered that this startled Kathleen. She almost dropped the baby.

  “Oh, nonsense, of course not, how, how could he, now?” She quickly laid Abe back in his perambulator. “What, um, what would you like to do, Doortje? Do you prefer ironing or mending?” She pointed to two long tables where the women were working. “Violet, you must sew. Ladies, Mrs. Coltrane is almost as good as I am at it. She worked in our store as a girl. But quick as you can, Violet; we most certainly did notice your tardiness. And don’t tell me about some petition for the Tailoresses’ Union. Grab a needle and thread, and learn why they’re petitioning.”

  The other women laughed, but Violet did not seem to take offense. She laughed along with them, reached for a little girl’s dress, and got to work. A moment later, Doortje found herself next to her, mending a blouse. The work was nothing for her—finally, something she could do just as well as the other women in Dunedin. The women pulled her straight into conversation, tal
king about their children and grandchildren and personal experiences with hand-me-downs. Many of them had come to New Zealand with their husbands in the wake of the gold rush and gotten to know Reverend Burton’s soup kitchen as recipients. They did not seem particularly interested in what country Doortje came from; here, she was an immigrant like everyone else.

  Only one of the women mentioned offhandedly that there was supposed to be gold in Doortje’s country. “My Herbert took notice as soon as the news broke. Dear Lord, if he was twenty years younger, I probably couldn’t’ve held him back!”

  “Was it as higgledy-piggledy over there as it was here?” a longtime Dunedin citizen asked Doortje. “I tell you, we woke up one morning, and the hills were white with tents. Half of England and Ireland turned up!”

  Doortje looked up reluctantly from her work. “Our people did not work in the mines,” she said stiffly. “We considered wealth without work immoral.”

  She was hurt when the women laughed again.

  “Dear heart, you sure as Sunday have never seen a goldfield,” declared the wife of the fanatical Herbert. “Believe you me, there’s no wealth without work there. Lord in heaven, how we broke our backs. Morning to night like animals. And sometimes we didn’t even get enough for dinner. There were a few lucky ducks, of course. But that gold just ran through their fingers. No, no, the carpentry business is ten times easier. What’s more, we’ve the reverend to thank for finding Herbert work.” She gave Peter Burton an adoring look. “What’s that saying: ‘A trade in hand finds gold in every land.’”

  Doortje’s head was spinning when she left two hours later. She had mended a large pile of clothing for the bazaar while everyone had taken turns with Abe. A few of the younger girls draped the better articles excitedly on the mannequins Kathleen had brought along from the Gold Mine.

  “I think I’ll buy one,” said the same woman who had proposed a fashion show. “One of Kathleen Burton’s—I could never afford one otherwise.”

  Kathleen smiled. “Do, Mary. Everything’s going to the soup-kitchen fund.”

  “So, you’re selling the clothes?” Doortje asked as she finally followed Kathleen and Reverend Burton to their house, little Abe in the doting reverend’s arms.

  Kathleen had invited her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She seemed to sense that Doortje had something weighing on her heart and had not come only to sew.

  The pastor nodded. “Yes, though most at very low prices. The children’s clothes only cost a few pence. But people simply feel better when they pay for things. No one is eager to accept charity, and happily, there are always a few pieces from my wife’s collection, for which people pay a fair heap of money. So, the truly needy women find themselves lined up with parishioners who want to treat themselves to a little luxury. That way, no one feels humiliated. Not to mention, Kathleen and Claire are both on hand to advise the women on their selections—even the poor. You wouldn’t believe how much good it does them when the owners of the Gold Mine Boutique pick out a dress just for them.”

  Doortje could not think what to say. For her, all these considerations were so foreign that she sometimes thought the pastor and the others were speaking a different language. No one at home would have cared how a pauper felt.

  “So, what brought you here, Doortje?” asked Kathleen as she brewed tea. “Surely you didn’t just want to darn a few socks?”

  Doortje hemmed and hawed a bit, but then it burst out of her like a torrent.

  “That nasty Juliet is looking lewdly as my husband,” she explained. “And she treats me like a stupid child who doesn’t know anything. And what’s worse is she’s right. For her, everything here’s a game. She knows how it all works.”

  Kathleen nodded seriously. “True, she is constantly leering at men, not just at your husband. And yes, she seems to have had an excellent social education. If you don’t want her to outshine you, Doortje, you’ll have to catch up. But, some good news: it’s really not that hard. Here, look.”

  She took a book from the cupboard: How to Behave.

  Amazed, Doortje thumbed through the already rather worn book of manners.

  “All of that’s in here?” she marveled. “Eating and talking and dancing and all that?”

  “The basics, at least. Dunedin society’s really not so highbred, anyway. Most of the wealthy are more or less the nouveaux riches. The book might not be enough for an introduction to the queen, but you’d make up for that with your personal charm.”

  “Oh,” Reverend Burton added, “and you should subscribe to at least one of the fashion journals. You’ll learn sentences like”—here, he put on a high-pitched, honeyed voice—“‘This straight-cut skirt looks rather flattering on you, love, but don’t people prefer bell shapes this season?’”

  Abe giggled from his place on the man’s knee.

  “That was teasing?” Doortje asked cautiously.

  Reverend Burton nodded cheerfully. “Yes, my dear. You’re learning.”

  Chapter 10

  When Kevin said good-bye to his last patient, Juliet Drury was sitting in the waiting room.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked reluctantly.

  He wanted to close up and get home to Doortje.

  Juliet pursed her lips. “Well, what else?” she asked in a silky voice. “I’m a patient. You can hardly deny me an examination.”

  “You don’t look sick.”

  “As opposed to your little Boer, I wager. She was quite full of champagne last night. Did it at least make her cuddlier, Kevin? Or was she still feeling feisty? ‘She-Kaffir!’ Well, when she does open her mouth, your Dorothy’s got a sharp tongue.”

  “Her name is Doortje. And she’s just not used to champagne. Besides, I seem to recall nights where you overdid it yourself. Anyway, let’s keep this brief. What complaints do you have?”

  He held the door open for Juliet. Whatever she wanted, it was better to discuss in his office. The waiting room was not soundproofed to the corridor.

  Juliet took off her light jacket and began to undo her dress without any further preamble.

  “Maybe you could feel my breasts. They’re a little tight. Could I be pregnant? And my heart, it’s been racing lately.”

  Juliet’s dress displayed a row of buttons in the front—chosen with refinement for moments like this. While Kevin desperately tried to concentrate on his stethoscope and her heartbeat, she unbuttoned even farther and loosened the ties to her corset.

  “But really it only races whenever I see you,” she warbled sweetly.

  Kevin raised his stethoscope. “I can’t detect anything that would arouse concern,” he said stiffly. “And as for a pregnancy, when was your last period?”

  Juliet stretched out on his examination recliner. “Just a week ago, Kevin. So, there’s no danger. Even if you don’t have one of these little guys handy.” She produced a condom out of nowhere.

  Kevin clenched his jaw. He could not deny that her body aroused him.

  “A pregnancy cannot be established at this stage,” he informed her. “So—”

  “Kevin.” Juliet bared her breasts and licked her lips. “Fine, maybe you’re not finding anything now, but believe me, I’m melancholic. I’m pining away for you. And I have to watch a stupid little thing yank you around and not even look particularly happy about it. What’s this about with the Boer girl, Kevin? Why did you marry her?”

  “Perhaps for the same reason you married my brother. I love her. And he loves you. If he doesn’t make you happy, I’m sorry. But I—”

  “You left me in the lurch,” Juliet yelled, “with your bastard in my belly. What was I supposed to do, Kevin Drury? Wait for you? I could have put you in some hot water.” A cruel smile flashed over her face. “And your little Doortje too. After all, what would she have said if a little daughter had been waiting for you here? And a bride left at the altar?”

  “You were never my bride, Juliet.”

  Juliet let her dress fall to the ground a
nd undid her stockings.

  “But I could be. Come now, dearest, everything can be reversed. And you don’t even have to get your hands dirty. I’ll just tell your little Boer about May and Patrick.”

  Kevin struggled not to look at Juliet’s heaving bosom.

  “Maybe she wouldn’t be as shocked by it as you think,” he said brusquely.

  “Oh? Might there be other revelations awaiting us? Is the little one not such a touch-me-not after all? Now that I think about it, little Abe doesn’t look like you at all.”

  “Abraham takes after Doortje,” he explained stiffly.

  “Well,” she cooed, “May takes after you.” She slowly undid her garters.

  Kevin told himself that he was only playing along with Juliet in order to keep her quiet. But he was lost the moment he touched her. Juliet began her game with him on the examination recliner, but at some point, they were again on the carpet under Kevin’s desk. Laughing, she tied him up with bandages, found the brandy he kept ready for patients who threatened to pass out, poured drops of it onto his chest and his nether regions, and licked them off.

  “We could play nurse,” Juliet said breathily. “Isn’t there a little bonnet around here somewhere? Maybe that’s what turns you on about her, that absurd bonnet. Nandi told me that every woman at the van Stouts’ table had to wear one. If one of them didn’t have one, their father put a handkerchief on her head. Should I put a handkerchief on my head, Kevin?”

  Juliet undid her hair and caressed Kevin with the strands, and finally he agreed to play doctor with her. He listened to her heartbeat as he pressed into her, and he claimed to be testing her reflexes when her back arched under him.

  “We shouldn’t do things like that,” he said as they lay beside each other to catch their breath. “Patrick—it would break Patrick’s heart.”

  Juliet laughed. “Oh, nonsense. You’re a doctor, Kevin. Have you ever seen a broken heart? And even if. We’re made for each other, Kevin. I’ve never had this much fun with anyone. And you haven’t either, I know it. So, couldn’t we say that this here is God’s will?”