by Lark, Sarah
Their relationship had not improved since her daughter-in-law’s return to Elizabeth Station, and Patrick’s attempts to mediate only increased the tension. He was torn between his work and Juliet’s constant need for attention, and his attempts at finding some sort of occupation for his wife were doomed. Juliet did not want to plant a rose garden or breed lapdogs. She could ride but was not enthusiastic about it. The elegant Thoroughbred Patrick had purchased for her only caused further aggravation: Lizzie was scandalized by the price, and Michael, who would have liked to ride the mare himself, disliked her almost equally expensive sidesaddle. Ultimately, Juliet asked to lodge the horse in Dunedin. Patrick seized the opportunity to at least get it out of his parents’ sight and found an expensive boarding stable. In truth, Juliet used the horse for little but her rendezvous with Kevin.
In turn, her piano had finally been moved to Otago. Patrick thought Juliet could keep it in the gold miner’s cabin, but she moaned that it was too far, and playing without an audience was no fun for her. The suggestion that she teach piano to a few of Haikina’s students unleashed a fit of rage.
As time went on, Patrick could not deny that Juliet lived only for their weekends in Dunedin. These excursions were a rather long journey and an additional financial burden: when the Drurys spent time in Dunedin, they slept at the Leviathan Hotel.
“She’ll be here any minute, I’m sure,” Patrick declared for the umpteenth time.
Michael ordered wine for the wait. That would relax Lizzie, at least—though not too much, he hoped. In the meantime, Lizzie offered Nandi a seat. She had just come down to order some milk from the Leviathan’s kitchen for May. Lizzie’s and Patrick’s eyes lit up at the sight of her.
“Mrs. Juliet Drury will complain,” Nandi refused anxiously. “And Mrs. Doortje Drury—”
Lizzie poured the young woman a glass of wine. “I see neither hide nor hair of them at the moment. Come, dear, sit and tell us what nice things you and May did today. I’m going to guess that Juliet didn’t pay any attention to the girl?”
Nandi looked down, reluctant to speak against her mistress, but unwilling to lie. Worse than Juliet’s lack of maternal care were her trysts with Kevin. Why else would she need such an eternity of beautifying before visiting her brother-in-law? And a bath drawn right afterward? Nandi fervently hoped no one ever asked her about it.
“Oh, May saw many ships today. Mr. Patrick Drury drove us to the harbor and bought us fish-and-chips. We could eat them with our fingers.”
Nandi beamed as if Patrick had treated her to a prix fixe meal at a four-star luxury hotel. Patrick returned the smile, proud that her English was now almost perfect. She had devoured all the children’s books and novels in the Drury household, then the Bible, and more recently, even books about viniculture. Nandi seemed to find the subject fascinating and gladly helped in the vineyard when Juliet allowed her to do so. Now, very seriously and with a great deal of interest, she tasted the white wine Lizzie had poured.
“Nandi!” came a shrill voice from the entryway.
She leaped to her feet.
“I must go help Mrs. Juliet Drury freshen up.”
Juliet waved to the table and gestured that she would be right back. Lizzie wondered why she did not join them at once. This was not a formal dinner, after all, and Juliet’s afternoon dresses were more daring than most of the evening gowns worn in Dunedin.
“What’s taking her so long?” Lizzie asked as she drank her second glass of wine. “And where are the others? Was Matariki’s train delayed?”
For the time being, nothing remained for Lizzie and Michael but forced conversation with Patrick. When she did finally join them, Juliet was in top form. She entertained the group for the next quarter hour with harmless gossip about people she had ostensibly met in town and talked breezily about the latest concerts and soirees.
And then, Michael, Doortje, and their guests from Parihaka arrived at last. When Matariki hugged her parents, it seemed she never wanted to let go.
“Maori don’t do that, by the way,” she told Doortje, who listened with great interest. “We exchange hongi.” She briefly demonstrated how Maori first touched foreheads and then gently pressed their noses together. “That goes back to the god Tane, who first breathed life into mankind. When we exchange hongi during a greeting ceremony, we’re taking the visitor into our family.”
Juliet laughed. “Such an archaic ritual. It could practically come from your backward country, don’t you think, Dorothy? Although it does make it easy to get close to someone.” She winked at Michael.
Matariki frowned. She had heard Juliet’s story in broad strokes. Where Atamarie, Kathleen, and Violet had noted the strange jump from older brother to younger, Lizzie’s letters had instead provided vivid depictions of domestic misery. Now, Matariki saw her fears confirmed: little May unquestionably bore Kevin’s likeness—and Juliet only had eyes for her former lover.
Apparently, both of her brothers were raising other men’s children. Juliet, however, seemed not to have made peace with her situation. The woman relentlessly humiliated Doortje and flirted with Kevin—and she was undeniably beautiful. No wonder Doortje had reacted with downright panic when she and Matariki had hardly had any time left to beautify themselves. Their heart-to-heart had been interrupted when, an hour after he’d gone, Kevin began pounding furiously on the apartment door. He’d refused to so much as look at Doortje, instead shutting himself in the bathroom. Now, Matariki wondered how her brother had spent the missing hour.
“Oh, the hongi also serves a very practical purpose,” she now told Juliet. “We exchange them equally with our enemies—that way, we get to know their figure, their form, their scent, their way of thinking. The closer people are, the better they can fight one another. Would you like to try, Juliet? I’d love to get to know you. It is Juliet, isn’t it?” Matariki smiled sarcastically.
Once again, Patrick looked mortified. But now, at least, they could order their food, which would give them something to do. He handed May, who had been sitting on his lap playing with teaspoons, to Nandi. The woman stood like a shadow behind Juliet. If anything here was archaic, Matariki thought, it was that.
Juliet jokingly declined the hongi and assured Matariki that she was dying to get to know her husband’s sister.
“Not everyone has such exotic relatives,” she said, letting her gaze wander suggestively to Lizzie.
Matariki cheerfully noted that Lizzie did not blush. Doortje did, though. Would seeing racism in her rival help her confront her own? Matariki was beginning to enjoy this dinner. It had been a long time since she had crossed swords with another woman, but one never unlearned the verbal fighting lessons of Otago Girls’ High School.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Juliet,” she replied warmly. “You’re our exotic relative. I count myself among the natives. But now, let me have a look at my niece.” She smiled at Nandi and turned to three-year-old May, who immediately stretched her little arms out toward her. “Since, so far, my nephew’s been kept from me.”
She turned to Doortje and Kevin with a playfully punitive look—and registered that the latter was glaring at Juliet. Interesting. Kevin seemed to feel responsible for Juliet’s behavior, whereas Patrick was merely embarrassed.
“That’s true.” Lizzie took the opportunity to change the subject. “Kevin, Doortje, where are you hiding my Abe?”
Doortje looked at the massive grandfather clock against the dining room wall.
“Paika must be bringing him back to our house,” she said, looking guilty. “We left so late. Really, we should already almost be back.”
Kevin grimaced. “I hadn’t even thought of that. How could you be so careless, Doortje?”
She recoiled from the rebuke as if he had struck her.
“Paika?” repeated Atamarie. “Don’t tell me you have a Maori nanny.”
Doortje met the young woman’s eyes nervously. “Paika is the Dunloes’ maid. She watches Abe sometimes. Today is a
ctually her ‘day off,’” Doortje overenunciated the foreign term, “and she wanted to go to a picnic on the beach. Kevin thought Abe could go with her.”
“Of course, how nice,” Matariki reassured her. “She’ll look after him like her own. That’s the custom among the tribes. And I don’t think the delay’s such a serious matter. The Dunloes live right around the corner. If Paika needs to, she’ll bring him here.”
Doortje looked relieved, and Lizzie ecstatic to cuddle both babies at once, but Kevin seemed to tense up anew. Matariki wondered at it. Why did he not wish for Paika to bring little Abe to the hotel?
Soon, their food arrived, and it was exceptional. Lizzie saw how easily Doortje now practiced her table manners and that she even drank two glasses of wine. Kevin was astounded too. He regretted having left Doortje alone with his sister. Something had happened between the two women.
Juliet likewise noticed that Doortje seemed different. It was as if a weight had been lifted from her. And although there was certainly tension between her and Kevin, if Juliet was not careful, this new Doortje could stand in her way.
Finally, coffee and cognac were served—and the waiter addressed Kevin and Doortje. “Dr. and Mrs. Drury, your nanny is waiting at reception with your son.”
Doortje leaped up at once. Atamarie did the same.
“I’ll come along. I want to see my little cousin.”
Atamarie had been bored for hours. In principle, she liked spending time with her grandparents and uncles, but Juliet and Doortje were something else entirely. The conversation had remained formal, and in any case, Atamarie would have preferred to spend the evening with Roberta. She was going to meet her for lunch the next day to finally exchange news.
Matariki saw to her amazement that Kevin wanted to hold Atamarie back, while Doortje did not raise any objections. The two women rushed to the reception desk and returned a few minutes later. Atamarie held little Abe, who resembled her so strongly that they were like two peas in a pod.
Matariki nearly dropped her fork. Doortje had told her about the rape, as well as the death of her tormentor. But she had not mentioned his name.
“Kevin?” Matariki tried to get ahold of herself. “Kevin, can you come with me for a second? There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
Juliet watched as Kevin left the table with his older sister. He looks like a whipped dog, she thought.
Matariki hurriedly asked the front desk for the use of a room. “Even if you don’t normally rent by the hour.”
The receptionist smiled maliciously. “Of course not, but you don’t mean to—?”
Matariki snorted. “Just give me Waimarama Te Kanawi’s key. The Maori artist, you know who I mean. I’m sure she’s still out. Tribal business, you understand?” She grabbed the key and pushed Kevin ahead of her.
“Now, let’s hear the truth, Kevin Drury. Don’t deny it. Abe is the son of Colin Coltrane. Does Doortje know?”
Matariki spotted an open bottle of wine—Waimarama and her friends must have toasted their safe arrival. She emptied the rest into a glass and tossed it back.
“Well, uh, she knows his name was Coltrane, but she doesn’t know—”
“That the bastard was also Atamarie’s father? And Kathleen’s son? Does Kathleen know, at least?”
Kevin narrowed his eyes defiantly. “The family resemblance can hardly be missed. At least for anyone who knew Atamarie—and surely Colin too—as a baby. Somehow, Mother hasn’t noticed anything.”
“That’s just a matter of time. People aren’t so critical of their own grandchildren. Dunedin society, though—Kevin, that metallic shimmer in his hair? And once his facial features are more defined? Tongues will be wagging soon. You’re throwing Doortje to the wolves.”
“People will just think it runs in our family. Atamarie is Abe’s cousin, after all.”
Matariki huffed scornfully. “Some people may think that. But Doortje’s not stupid. Maybe she hasn’t quite figured out who here is related to whom. But in five or six years? You have to talk to her, Kevin. When the poor thing finds out that she’s friends with her rapist’s mother and his sister is painting her portrait and her sister-in-law has a child by him too—and when, by the way, were you planning on informing Kathleen, Heather, and Atamarie about the demise of their son, brother, and birth father?”
Kevin cowered under the verbal fire. “Heavens, Riki, they haven’t heard anything from him in years.”
Matariki groaned. “So? Don’t you think Kathleen, at least, would like to have some certainty? Whatever became of him, she was his mother. She has a right to grieve.”
Kevin held his tongue and stared at the floor. Matariki gave the empty wine bottle a regretful look, then turned to the little washbasin in one corner of the room and cleaned the glass. Then she heaved a sad sigh and resumed her attack.
“And what exactly is between you and that Juliet, Kevin? She looks at you as if she were the hunter and you the prey in her sights, while Patrick’s a deer already bleeding out. Are you sleeping with her?”
Kevin did not answer, just buried his face in his hands.
“I’m so disappointed in you, Kevin. It’s time to decide. Do you want Juliet or Doortje?”
Kevin raised his head.
“I don’t want to hurt Doortje,” he whispered. “I don’t know how much of her I really have. But I don’t want to lose any of what I do.”
Juliet noticed that Matariki and Kevin’s sudden disappearance registered with confusion. Lizzie and Michael tried to distract from the embarrassment by playing with Abe. Patrick excused himself to help Nandi put May to bed.
Juliet sipped her cognac. How delicious it all was. That Matariki, who had been so in control, had slipped into panic when she saw her nephew instead of being charmed by his resemblance to her daughter. Whereas Doortje had looked only browbeaten. She seemed baffled over what she had done wrong this time in this world of pitfalls where she found herself stranded.
Juliet took another drink. She had long suspected that there were secrets surrounding Kevin’s marriage to Doortje. No doubt it would serve her purposes to uncover them.
Chapter 5
The only person the army had informed of Colin Coltrane’s presumed death was Joe Fence. When the war was finally over, missing soldiers’ effects had been sorted, and Joe’s address had been found on some unsent letters.
After Eric Fence’s death, Colin had wanted to keep young Joe as his stableboy, but Violet had sought an apprenticeship for Joe with a reputable trainer. Joe planned to use his position to spy for Colin, but Coltrane’s own stable was soon liquidated, and Colin disappeared to escape the bookies. Later, during the restless years before he rejoined the army, he would secretly pop up in Invercargill, and Joe would place bets for him, helping him through some dire financial straits. Now, Joe honestly mourned his loss. Colin Coltrane had been something like a second father to him.
The young man had grown up in the shadow of the racetrack, had observed how horses were bought and sold, how they were trained, and, most importantly, how winners were made. It had not bothered his father, Eric, or Colin when Joe sat in on their carousals and absorbed every word that came out of their mouths. He heard vilifications of his mother, as well as of Chloe Coltrane, who at the time was desperately trying to keep her husband’s stud farm solvent. Cheating and dirty business had to be organized behind Chloe’s back. A promising plan often fell flat because she caught on and protested. Colin and Eric would then curse all the women in the world—Joe quickly learned to despise the opposite sex.
And then, Chloe cheated on Colin and left him, while Rosie, whom everyone thought feebleminded, caused Eric’s death. So, Joe kept his distance from women; the occasional visit to a prostitute was enough. Really, he preferred other pleasures. Gambling, for example. Joe was a crafty poker player and shone at blackjack. But above all, he loved betting on horses—especially when the race was fixed. The thrill came not when the bell sounded and the race began, but from
the intricate machinations ahead of time. You had to know whom to confide in, who was open to taking bribes, which horse was suited to which sort of cheating, and which races came into question.
All of that gave Joe a feeling of unlimited power. He was free; he was a master of circumstance; he determined the future. The apprentices in his stable worshipped him like a god—and no wonder, for he could either advance their careers or end them. They hung on his every word when he gave them tips at the beginning of a race, and they feted him lavishly when they’d managed to improve their meager salary by means of a well-placed bet. To a certain degree, that went for the horses’ owners, too, who heavily supplemented the trainer’s income. They knew their horses were in good hands with Joe. Nearly every one of them won now and again—and if one did not, he’d find a sucker who’d overpay for it.
Business had been booming—until he’d foisted a chronically unreliable jade on that novice, Tom Tibbs. Spirit’s Dream was fast, no question, but his tendency to slip into galloping made him an unreliable candidate even for fixed races. Then Tibbs had given him to Rosie to train, and suddenly the stallion trotted—right past Fence’s horses. Tibbs was raking in victories, and the previous owner was complaining. Recently, that man, too, had turned to Rosie, and there was nothing Joe could do about it. He had already made repeated complaints to the Jockey Club about her sex, but with no success. Lord Barrington took “Ross Paisley” under his wing, and there was no bylaw that explicitly banned women. It was just that no one had dreamed some hussy could make her way in the traditionally male domain. Furthermore, Rosie was proving so successful that the club thought it less embarrassing to let her continue as—on paper, at least—a man.
The news of Coltrane’s likely demise strengthened Joe’s determination to go after Rosie with everything he had. It was bad enough she had gone unpunished after sending his father to his death. But to show Joe up on the racetrack? If he wanted to maintain his leading position as a trainer, he needed to win the upcoming New Zealand Trotting Cup. So, he rented new stable facilities right next to the racetrack. Presentation was everything. Colin Coltrane had taught him that.