Captive Wife, The

by Kidman, Fiona

  ‘This is disgraceful,’ Maude says, after a pause that seems never-ending. In one of the rapidly growing poplar trees at the edge of the garden, a kookaburra shouts with laughter. A young man with a manacle round his leg limps past with another bucket of water from the river to pour on the garden. Maude puts her hands to her ears. ‘We shall be ruined. I have a party of ladies coming to visit this afternoon.’

  ‘It will give them something to talk about,’ Percy says daringly. Her look confirms that he has gone too far. ‘I cannot send her away. If it is disgrace you are considering, then you will only make it worse if she is at large on the streets of Sydney with nowhere to go.’

  ‘What do you suggest that we do?’ she asks, her expression signifying a momentary defeat.

  ‘Make a room ready for her. I’ll explain to her that you have guests and that it would be better for all of us to discuss her difficulty after their visit. Let’s make her as comfortable as we can, and perhaps she will listen to reason.’

  ‘I have a better idea,’ says Maude. ‘Let’s clear the nanny’s quarters, and give her the cottage to herself. I’m sure she would rather be alone at a time like this.’

  ‘And what will you do with nanny?’

  ‘Why, I’ve been thinking for some time that it would be better for her to sleep closer to the children. Herbert is really too active for me to manage on my own in the evenings, I’m sure you’ve noticed. It will work out well,’ she says smoothly, patting her softly greying hair. Now she rises purposefully, unable to resist the urge to organise all that needs to be done. Adeline (Maude refuses to call her Adie) will be here within the hour, and Maude will have everything in order before her arrival. This way, she can be whisked immediately to the cottage down the lane.

  But it as not as easy as that. She should have known better, Maude tells herself bitterly, in days to come. Adeline arrives, drawn round the mouth, her eyes red from weeping behind the swathed veil of her hat. There is more to this than meets the eye, Maude thinks, but she cannot put her finger on what it is.

  Percy goes to the cottage and remains closeted with his sister. When he returns to the house he tells Maude he has nothing more to tell her than what she already knows. Adie has befriended Mrs Guard, an old school pupil of hers who has thrown herself upon her mercy. But, he insists, there is nothing more to be known of the Harriet affair than there is already. The Governor may yet be embarrassed by his actions in dispatching the military convoy to New Zealand, but if that is the case, his sister is none the wiser as to the reasons than when she first met Mrs Guard in the markets. She is, he says, quite distraught at the loss of her employer’s favour.

  ‘Ah,’ says Maude. ‘So that’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘What is what all about?’

  Maude has observed that Percy’s light blue eyes have faded this last year or so. His face is tanned like a razor strop and as shiny, his mouth appears sharp and hard beneath his moustache, but his eyes give him away. He is, thinks his wife, like an old man already, though he is barely fifty. ‘Why,’ she says, ‘she’s in love with Lieutenant Roddick.’

  ‘That’s preposterous,’ he splutters.

  ‘Pre-pos-terous, is it?’ She laughs, a guffaw far removed from refinement.

  Days stretch into weeks. Percy lurks around the lane when he thinks Maude is not looking, hovering anxiously between his wife and sister. They do not discuss the visitor at the end of the garden. Maude arranges the meals with the cook and has them sent down the path three times a day.

  Eventually, a letter is delivered to the post office, addressed to Adie. The seal is that of Lieutenant Roddick.

  ‘Ha,’ says Maude, holding it up to the light. ‘Is it money?’

  ‘My dear wife, I beg of you,’ says Percy.

  ‘Money to pay off her wages, do you think? Or perhaps he’s feeling guilty about something. Now there’s a thought, Percy, your sister may not be as virtuous as you make her out.’

  ‘It may simply be a letter between friends.’

  ‘I think I’ll deliver it to your sister myself,’ says Maude.

  ‘That would be very unkind,’ Percy says stiffly.

  ‘Well, are you likely to tell me its contents?’ says his wife, using the silver butter dish to hold the letter firmly on the tablecloth. Not until she has extracted a promise from him, is she willing to release the missive. He wonders at the steeliness of such milky fingers, the backs of her hands threaded with a blue lace of veins, the way they hold a horse in check, and how he once saw her crack the neck of a chicken, not long after they came to the farm.

  Adie sits in the cottage like one dispossessed. She had arrived with a large portmanteau of clothes, though she said some of her belongings were still at Roddick’s house. Whatever she has brought with her, it is clearly not enough, for every bit of the room where she sits is festooned with her private garments, her stays and petticoats (Percy cannot help but notice that they are fine white lawn) drying out of sight of the passing servants.

  ‘I hope it is good news,’ Percy says, awkwardly handing her the letter.

  Adie turns it over, studying the seal. ‘Maude’s been playing with it, to see if she can open it, hasn’t she? Are you going to let me read it in peace?’

  When he doesn’t move, she says, ‘You’re afraid of her, aren’t you?’

  ‘No,’ he says, ‘but I am not as strong as either of you. I never imagined myself between two women with equal will.’

  Adie sighs then. ‘You’re mistaken,’ she says, drawing the letter from its envelope. ‘I have less resolve than I gave myself credit for.’ She gestures around the cottage. It is furnished with an iron bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, a small table, a wash bowl and jug and the two raw cane chairs they sit in. She returns her reluctant gaze to the letter. Then a flash of delight illuminates her face, such as Percy has not seen on her face for years. Not since she first saw Michelangelo’s David in Florence on their first Mediterranean tour. It must have been twenty years ago. Long before all this. Before Australia.

  ‘Lieutenant Roddick wants me to return,’ she says. ‘The children are missing me. I knew they would, of course. Mathilde will manage, but Austen, well that’s another matter. He is the kind of child who pines.’

  ‘You’ll go then,’ says Percy, more a statement than a question, hoping to hide the eagerness in his voice.

  But she hears it. She has always read him too well. That is at the heart of his problems these days, the inability to have a secret inner life. He didn’t know he needed one, until it was too late, for it had never troubled him that Adie knew him through and through.

  ‘Not just yet,’ she says. The lively expression has vanished, leaving her face a mask.

  ‘But why?’ he says.

  ‘It’s not enough. That he should use the children as an excuse.’

  ‘So really, you are hoping that he will ask you to go back?’

  Immediately, he wishes he had put this another way, as he sees her rising colour. It is one thing to expose his own thoughts to his sister; he does not want to know more about her than he would wish. He cannot bear to think of what she wants, and must surely be unattainable.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ says Adie, ‘it’s simply beneath my dignity to be summoned like a servant. I was his wife’s friend, you know. Her very best friend in the world, who closed the lids of her lovely eyes that one last time.’ She gulps, trying to hide sudden tears that slide down her cheeks. ‘It is the bright light here,’ she says, ‘it is affecting me, the same as it does you. My eyes cannot bear so much light.’

  Chapter 22

  The February heat is intense, and March is slow to turn to autumn, ushered in with heavy skies but no rain. In the second week of the month, after a night that is suddenly and mercifully cool, a second visitor arrives at Malcolm Downs without announcement.

  Betty Guard is hatless when she knocks at the Malcolms’ front door, her hair loose and wild about her shoulders, as if she has departed i
n a hurry. Her dress is a soft cinnamon colour, the bodice laced with ribbon between her breasts, giving the impression of nakedness and darkness, for she has come without a shawl. Later, Maude will recall that the woman looked native, as if she had no shame.

  There is not a servant in sight, and the rapping is so insistent, that Maude opens the door herself. ‘The servants are not allowed to use this entrance,’ she says on seeing this apparition.

  ‘I’ve come to see Miss Malcolm — Miss Adie Malcolm,’ Betty says.

  ‘And who may you be?’ Maude’s heart is lifting at the prospect of someone coming to take Adie away. For days there has been an intolerable atmosphere in the house, and she knows that sooner or later she must relent and allow her sister-in-law to take up residence with them. Percy has killed a snake along the path that leads to the cottage. Things cannot go on like this. Maude knows that the servants will soon become aware of the true situation in their household, and begin to behave insolently towards her. She feels her strength deserting her.

  ‘I’m Mrs Guard,’ says the young visitor, and extends her hand, as if she had not heard the other woman’s rebuff and they are equals. ‘Betty Guard. My grandfather used to farm these parts. You’ve got things looking very nice.’

  For a moment, Maude thinks she is going to faint. She clutches the hat stand behind her, nearly pulling it over. Of course, she should have realised at once.

  ‘You are not welcome here.’

  ‘Is Miss Malcolm here?’ says her visitor, in an insistent way.

  ‘No.’ Maude recovers herself, considering how best she might be rid of this new intruder.

  ‘I’ve heard from some soldiers in town that she’s here.’

  ‘She is not in the house.’

  This is the moment Percy chooses to emerge between the trees. He is wearing breeches tied close above his boots and carries a spade.

  ‘Oh, down there, along the path,’ Maude cries, exasperated. ‘Am I to have my whole house taken over by madwomen?’

  At first, I tell Adie, I thought of Te Awaiti as paradise, even though there were times when I was scared. But it was exciting to have a place that was mine and to own things.

  The house Jacky built for us was plain and square, with four rooms, but it was solid and kept the rain out. The kitchen had a fireplace with an iron pot and a copper for the washing. There was a room where we laid out food — the dining room I suppose you’d call it — we called it the outer room; it was not at all luxurious, still it was separate from the cooking smoke. Then there were the inner rooms, the room where we kept our bed, and another room that Jacky said would be for our babies when they came. We walked on dirt at first, though later, in the winter, Jacky laid a timber floor, and I could put down a pretty rug. Each house we had was built like this. I say each one, since it was not long before it was burnt to the ground when we were gone to Sydney.

  This happened not once, but several times. Somewhere in the dark bush that pressed close against our house were people who did not like us being there. The trees of New Zealand are different from the ones here in Australia. The foliage is dark and swirling green, with not so many flowers, but it is peaceful and mysterious. At the beginning, I was not afraid. It was pleasing to know that there were no snakes.

  But when I understood that the bush provided shelter for our enemies I did get scared. What have we done to deserve this, I asked Jacky. The first time the house was burnt I cried, for we had furnished it like a real house, with a mirror and chairs in the dining room. Oh, it was very nice. All of this was gone when we returned.

  Around this time, I had met my husband’s friend Te Rauparaha, who came and went as if he owned the place. He was all swagger, a small man with the reputation of a giant killer. He has a hooked nose and a forehead that slopes back, deep-set eyes. I think he fancies himself as handsome, but I did not take to him, though Jacky said I should be polite. I didn’t trust him. Jacky thought he had his measure, but I thought he was fooling himself. As it happens, I wasn’t wrong.

  Before John was born, I crossed the Tasman and back three times, and each time we went back to New Zealand, the house was gone. We got used to taking our belongings with us, so every time we set sail, we would load our furniture, our spoons and china and the mirror that I could not do without, not to mention our bed and blankets, onto the ship. Jacky didn’t like this much because it took up room that could be filled by flax and timber and baleen, but there was nothing for it.

  We never stayed long in Sydney. Our visits were simply for trade. I stayed with Charlotte sometimes, and other times with my mother and John Deaves, but I did not care for it. I was treated differently, as if I was simply a visitor who did not do enough work, no matter how much I tried to help. My brother David had grown tall, but he was still too pale and very thin, like he would snap and break. I wished I could take him with me and fatten him up a bit, but whenever I thought about this, I couldn’t imagine what he’d do with himself in New Zealand. I knew he couldn’t hold his own with the men, and Jacky wouldn’t want a big lad like him doing nothing round the place. He had already made work for his own brother, and that had led to trouble of all sorts.

  I wished sometimes we could have the wedding Jacky had promised, but we were always busy when we went to Sydney and there were still no missionaries in our part of New Zealand. Besides, we were thought of as man and wife. And Jacky let me shop to my heart’s content when we were in Australia, and sometimes he bought me things himself. He gave me a charm string button that I lost when I was taken captive. It was so elegant, a brown glass ball set in a gold claw. I wore it on a thread of leather round my neck, along with my necklaces of gold and moonstone. He said I looked like his gypsy woman. I did wonder if I reminded him of Granny Pugh, but I didn’t ask. But I could tell he liked the way I walked down George Street, turning heads. There is something to be said for being tall. You know I’m just a fraction taller than Jacky, though you wouldn’t tell it at a glance, the way he stands. He bought me combs, too, although I preferred the one that had belonged to Granny. He has always liked my hair and often draws his fingers through it. Or so he did, in the days when I could do no wrong in his eyes.

  And here I think I must tell the governess a little of the misunderstanding over Charley.

  Betty and Adie have eaten lunch together, freshly made bread and some sliced apples washed down with tea. Adie eats a little stew as well, but Betty rejects the plate offered by the serving girl. ‘It’s kangaroo,’ she says after the fork has touched her lips. ‘I don’t fancy wild game.’

  ‘Why, it’s a delicacy,’ Adie says. ‘The flavour is so piquant, and it’s very fresh. I understand my brother shot it yesterday.’

  Betty wrinkles her nose. ‘We left shooting rabbits and the like to poor people and poachers in England. We prefer to eat beef and lamb now we can buy it.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ says Adie, ‘you make it sound superior.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not inclined to eat much at all right now,’ says Betty, breaking open the skin of a banana and peeling it.

  After the first rush of astonishment, Adie has welcomed Betty. For a moment, she had thought to demur, for Betty is the cause of all her troubles, and yet she has become enamoured of the young woman’s presence. Besides, her solitude is turning her in on herself. Some afternoons, in the heat of the past month, she has thought of walking outside and sitting there until the sun burnt her up. She knew it could happen, that if you did not seek shade you would die, and this time in the cottage has become a purgatory of loneliness. When she closes her eyes she sees violent orange colour behind her lids, as if the sun’s rays have reached inside her already. On other days, she has woken full of determination to find a way out of her troubles, but by the end of the morning it has ebbed away. The sensible thing would be to demand that her brother give her her fare on a ship returning to England, and to leave without delay. But none of this is as simple as it seems. Percy holds the key to her own modest fortune, which she
understands Maude now sees as her own. Returning to England penniless is not a prospect that appeals to her. Besides, there is the question of Lieutenant Roddick and her own reckless ageing heart that has tricked itself into an affection she is sure will never be returned, but cannot be denied.

  I became more afraid. It’s true Adie, I’m unschooled, except for what you taught me (which means you know exactly how much I do and do not know), but I’m not silly. I began to see that the Maoris had much to complain about. We killed many whales. But whales are rangatira, chiefs of the sea. They stand for riches and plenty in the Maori world, but only when they are cast up on the shores of the ocean. True, some Maoris had begun to work with us at killing whales; they wanted our trinkets and treasures. The first Maori my husband ever met was on board a whaling ship. But what they got was nothing but the stench of dead animals and smoking fires like glimpses of like hell on earth.

  Then there were the women, leaving their tribes to live with the whalers. We had a bad spell for some months, when few ships came to Port Nicholson, and the same mountainous seas that prevented them from coming in stopped us from going out. We ran short of food, and ate roast kiore — and if I tell you that these are rats, you may understand why I don’t fancy game — and wild turnips. Some of the women tried to go back to their tribes but they were not wanted, unclean from the white men. You could see they were broken-hearted and repented of their mistake.

  It was round then my husband began the whaling operation over at Cloudy Bay. We were back on our feet again. Jacky took me to see the new station. When I saw it, I knew it was where I wanted to live. Not yet, Jacky said, it’s too soon.

  Our son was nearly two, and another baby was on the way, and I was impatient.

  But, because of the baby, I agreed to stay near Hine and her mother at Te Awaiti until it came. I think I would have died when John was born, if they had not been there. And Hine made me laugh, and taught me how to weave patterns with string threaded through my fingers. Her little boy Manu was a year older than John, beautiful in a way my children can’t be, the colour of China tea.