Kitty

by Challinor, Deborah

  ‘Please don’t take it personally. You really are a lovely woman, if a little aloof. I’m sure most men would be delighted to marry you.’

  ‘Aloof?’

  ‘Perhaps not so much aloof—uninterested might be a better word.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean to be rude, Simon, but you can be very tedious sometimes, especially with respect to your horticultural pursuits.’

  ‘Yes, I hoped that might put you off.’

  ‘Was that on purpose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really? I was bored rigid.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Kitty smiled, then reached out and touched his sleeve. ‘You still haven’t answered my question. Why don’t you want to marry me?’

  ‘I’m just not the sort of man who marries.’

  ‘But why ever not? You’re personable, and eligible, and when you’re not droning on about your pomegranates you’re not bad company.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘I mean it—you’d make an excellent husband.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied, then lapsed into silence, making a show of inspecting his fingernails. Kitty could see he was struggling with something he wasn’t sure he should say or not. Finally, he said, ‘Kitty, do you know the name William Yate?’

  Kitty thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘No. Why, who was he?’

  ‘He was a missionary out at Waimate five or six years ago. He’s back in England now, I believe.’

  Kitty waited, but when it appeared that Simon wasn’t going to add anything she prompted, ‘Why do you mention him?’

  ‘No reason, really. It’s just that he didn’t want a wife either.’

  Kitty decided she really rather liked Simon, now that she wasn’t going to have to marry him. ‘Good. Does this mean we can be proper friends now?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said, getting to his feet and extending his hand to help her up. ‘I’d like that.’

  They walked back to the house, and this time he did take her arm.

  Chapter Nine

  5 February, 1840

  Mr Busby looks nervous,’ Kitty said as she walked arm in arm with Simon.

  It suited them both to go about as though they were indeed more than friends. The arrangement left Kitty free to get on with her life without worrying about potential husbands being foisted upon her, and Simon was also free to remain the bachelor he so obviously wanted to be. Neither ever referred to the debt they owed each other, but both knew that without it their lives would be considerably more complicated. The only problem with the arrangement was Sarah, who very much wanted to write to her sister-in-law in Norfolk with the wonderful news that Kitty had finally been spoken for. She was convinced that a proposal was bound to be forthcoming in the near future, and Kitty found herself having to fend off regular and persistent questions about the progress of the courtship.

  Kitty had guiltily told her aunt that she and Simon were planning a very long engagement as neither felt the need to marry in haste, but Sarah’s urge to interfere was only partially satisfied. Her response was to declare that although it was gratifying on the one hand to see that her niece did not seem at all in thrall to the temptations of the flesh, on the other hand Kitty was not getting any younger and if she wanted a large family she shouldn’t dally too long. Kitty dreaded her aunt’s colossal disappointment when it finally became obvious that there wasn’t going to be a marriage.

  Simon glanced over at James Busby, hovering on the verandah of his little house nestled among a stand of pohutukawa trees, waiting to greet the two splendidly uniformed men striding across the lawn towards him. Leading the way was the newly arrived British consul, and proposed lieutenant-governor, William Hobson. His companion was Captain Joseph Nias, of HMS Herald, which had brought Hobson from Sydney.

  ‘I expect Busby will be nervous, given what’s supposed to be happening over the next few days,’ Simon said, ostentatiously doffing his hat to the eldest Tait girl, who ran off giggling.

  They were in the gracious grounds of Mr Busby’s residence at Waitangi, having rowed across the mouth of the Waitangi River from Paihia very early that morning to join what surely must have been every Maori and European within travelling distance. It was rumoured that even the grog-shops and brothels at Kororareka had closed for the day. Everyone, it seemed, was eager to be present at the greatest spectacle the Bay of Islands—if not all of New Zealand—had ever seen. It was a wonderful excuse for getting out, for dressing up, for seeing and being seen, and for taking a welcome break from the routine of daily life.

  ‘Really, though, Mr Hobson is the one who should be nervous,’ Kitty said. ‘I’d like to know how he can call himself lieutenant-governor of a British colony that hasn’t been declared a colony yet.’

  Simon nodded, watching as Hobson stepped up onto the verandah and shook hands with Mr Busby. ‘They do say he’s jumped the gun somewhat.’

  ‘They also say he’s very ill.’

  ‘I heard that too. I wonder what the matter is.’

  Kitty shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’s strained himself, carrying around the weight of all that gold lace on his uniform.’

  ‘You’ve a very sharp tongue, Kitty Carlisle,’ Simon said, grinning. ‘It’s going to get you into trouble one of these days.’

  ‘Probably,’ Kitty said.

  As soon as Hobson had arrived a week ago, letters had been dispatched inviting chiefs in the area to Waitangi on 5 February, and local Pakeha had been asked to attend the Kororareka church to hear the proposal for the extension of the British colony of New South Wales to New Zealand, and Hobson’s imminent appointment as lieutenant-governor. Reverend Williams was away, but George had attended. He wouldn’t allow Kitty to go, but Sarah reported that Hobson—looking fragile and noticeably unwell—hadn’t been all that impressive. Nor, apparently, had the revelation that the Queen would not be recognising titles to land already purchased by British settlers in the area. When Reverend Williams had arrived home the following day, however, he’d pledged the Church Missionary Society’s full support of Hobson’s endeavours.

  Hobson and Busby—no longer British Resident, which could hardly have come as a shock—had then closeted themselves away to draft a treaty document they hoped to persuade the chiefs to sign in a few days’ time. When Hobson had become even more unwell, James Busby had had to finish the job. While that was going on, sailors from the Herald had come ashore at Waitangi and, to everyone’s intense interest and excitement, set about erecting tents and an enormous marquee on Mr Busby’s lawn. Word then came that Hobson was recovered enough to approve and finalise the wording of the treaty. Now Reverend Williams only needed to translate the English into Maori, which surely wouldn’t take long because by all accounts it was a very short document.

  He’d done it yesterday evening, and now here they all were today—hundreds and hundreds of people lucky enough to be within walking, riding or paddling distance of Waitangi—enjoying the spectacle and the lovely sunny weather after yesterday’s rather depressing showers. And today, Wednesday, was supposed to be only the discussion day; the real excitement would be on Friday, the day that the treaty was to be signed.

  Kitty watched as Busby, Hobson and Nias entered Busby’s house, nodding at the two military guards flanking the front door. Reverend Williams was already inside, awaiting Hobson’s arrival to go over the translation of the treaty document one last time.

  ‘Is that Captain Farrell over there?’ Simon asked. ‘I haven’t seen him for a while, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Kitty replied, narrowing her eyes and trying to pick the captain out of the crowd, ‘not since just before Christmas. I can’t see him now, either—you must have better eyesight than me.’

  Simon pointed. ‘Over there, talking to your friend Haunui.’

  Standing on tiptoe, Kitty managed to glimpse the fair head bent in deep conversation next to the dark one.

  ‘I’m surprised to see him here, I must say,’ Simon said. �
�I’d have thought he would keep well away, given his views.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s here to protest,’ Kitty said, raising her eyebrows mischievously.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like him. He’d be much more covert than that, surely? Shall we go and say hello?’

  But Kitty had spotted Rebecca Purcell crossing the grassy expanse in front of Mr Busby’s house, her children trailing behind her like a line of ducklings, except for baby Harriet, who was balanced on her mother’s hip and wearing a sun bonnet that was too big for her. She was grizzling and wriggling, and Rebecca looked very much at the end of her tether. At the back of the line was Frances, Rebecca and Win’s eldest daughter, dragging Edward along by the arm. The little boy was bawling his head off.

  ‘Would you like a hand, Rebecca?’ Kitty asked, noting Rebecca’s harassed expression. ‘Shall I take a couple of them for a walk?’

  ‘Oh, Kitty, would you? Just for a few minutes? Edward, do be quiet, will you!’

  Edward cried harder.

  ‘Come on,’ Kitty said, herding Edward, Grace and the middle daughter, Alice, away from others as though they were sheep.

  As Rebecca made her escape, Kitty bent down and peered into Edward’s blotchy little face. He was six now, but today he looked about three. A dribble of snot was making its relentless way down his top lip; she got out her handkerchief and wiped his face.

  ‘And what’s brought this on?’ she said. ‘Today of all days when there’s so much to look at!’

  Edward hiccupped but didn’t reply.

  Alice parked her hands on her hips, rolled her eyes exaggeratedly and said, ‘Mama’s made him his first grown-up suit as a surprise for Friday and he doesn’t want to wear it. He hasn’t even seen it!’

  ‘Why don’t you want to wear it?’ Kitty asked Edward. ‘It sounds to me like just the thing for a handsome young man like you!’

  His face creasing again in anticipation of a fresh onslaught of tears, Edward blurted, ‘Alice says it’s got a waistcoat an’ it’s paisley!’

  Grace giggled.

  Mystified, Kitty glanced at Alice. ‘Why doesn’t he like paisley?’

  ‘He doesn’t even know what paisley is!’ Alice replied scornfully.

  ‘I do so!’ Edward said, stamping his boot.

  ‘You do not!’

  ‘I do!’

  ‘What is it then?’ Alice prompted, winking at Grace.

  ‘It’s what goes on carrots and it’s all green and gets stuck in your teeth!’ Edward wailed. ‘An’ I’m not wearing it!’

  Alice and Grace laughed themselves silly.

  Kitty bit her lip. Behind her she could hear Simon covering his snort of laughter with a manufactured cough.

  ‘Oh, Edward, sweetheart, that’s parsley, not paisley,’ she explained gently. ‘Paisley’s a sort of fabric with a lovely pattern on it. Very smart, in fact.’

  ‘Still not wearing it,’ Edward muttered, staring daggers at his sisters.

  Simon squatted in front of him. ‘Look, I’ll tell you what, let’s do a deal, shall we? If I wear my suit on Friday—and I can assure you I hate it as much as you hate your parsley waistcoat—will you wear yours? Then we can go around being uncomfortable and bad-tempered together. How does that sound?’

  Edward thought about it for a moment. ‘All right then. Can we go and see the waka now?’ He turned to Kitty. ‘Can we? Mama won’t mind —she says we’re running her ragged.’

  ‘Goodness me, did she really?’ Kitty said. ‘I can’t imagine that.’

  ‘She did. We heard her saying it to Papa last night,’ Alice said.

  ‘I like the waka,’ Grace hinted.

  Kitty glanced over at Rian, still talking to Haunui at the edge of the milling crowd. ‘Come on then, we’ll go down to the beach. Just for ten minutes, though. I don’t want Mama to think you’ve been stolen and sold as slaves to a tribe from the very bottom of the South Island.’

  ‘Might be quite pleased, actually,’ Simon whispered in her ear.

  They crossed the lawn and walked down the slope to the beach, where dozens of waka were pulled up on the sand and more were gliding in from every direction, packed with as many people as could be squeezed into them. The waka ranged in size from small dugouts to the more robust vessels used for ocean fishing, to the massive ones designed for travelling long distances and for war. Today, all these bigger waka were decorated as befitted a ceremonial occasion.

  Edward trotted across the sand and reached up to touch the intricately carved prow of one, then raced excitedly down to the stern. ‘There’s pigeon feathers on the end!’ he said. ‘It’s a waka taua. Does that mean we’re having a war?’

  ‘I certainly hope not,’ Kitty said.

  At the sound of chanting she turned towards the harbour, dotted today with more than the usual number of ships rocking on the gentle swell, sails furled but national flags flying. Raising her gloved hand to shield her eyes, she squinted into the morning sun hovering above the hills of Kororareka; gliding towards the beach was an enormous waka a good fifty feet long, its prow decorated with bunches of feathers attached to a long, delicate framework of rods. There looked to be at least a hundred people aboard, two-thirds of them paddling and the rest settled in the centre of the long hull. They were all keeping the cadence, led by three men standing at intervals among the paddlers, and were making the most rousing and exhilarating sound that Kitty had ever heard.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked, holding tightly to Edward’s sleeve so he wouldn’t do anything rash in his excitement.

  Simon raised his own hand against the glare. ‘Tamati Waka Nene, perhaps? Hone Heke? I can’t really see. Someone important.’

  Shivers scampered up and down Kitty’s spine at the mention of such powerful chiefs. She drew Edward and the girls back off the sand as the waka landed. Several dozen people jumped out and began to drag the huge vessel up the beach, helped by a growing crowd streaming down from Busby’s lawn.

  ‘Hone Heke,’ Simon murmured as a very imperial-looking man disembarked. ‘He lives inland, you know. He’s probably come up the Kawakawa River.’

  With long bone and greenstone pendants dangling from his ears, a full facial moko and the distinctive black and white huia feathers in his hair, the influential Nga Puhi chief swept his luxurious cloak around his shoulders and led his large retinue, including his distinguished wife, who wore an entire bird’s wing in her ear, across the beach and up the hill towards Busby’s house.

  Kitty stared as he went past, and nearly fainted when he gave her a curt nod. She’d heard stories about Hone Heke’s prowess as a warrior, despite his conversion to Christianity, and the enormous influence he had over his people. If he was here with the intention of signing Hobson’s treaty, then many more chiefs would surely follow his lead—unless some of the dissenting Maori, Tupehu included, got to him first and convinced him not to.

  Simon dug his watch out of his pocket. ‘Shall we go back up? We wouldn’t want to miss anything.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ Grace said.

  ‘Did you not have breakfast this morning?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What a gannet-guts you must be,’ Simon said. ‘Well, I suppose there’s time to get you something to eat.’

  Grace clapped her hands and raced off up the slope, followed closely by Edward. Alice walked after them, almost but not quite running, doing her best not to be carried away by the excitement of it all.

  Kitty and Simon caught up with the children near the food stalls set up by enterprising traders and locals. There were cold pies, bread and roast meats, and several hawkers selling rum, ale, stout and brandy brought over from Sydney specially, much to the disapproval of the missionaries in the crowd.

  ‘I’ll have a pie and a mug of ale, please,’ Edward said.

  ‘You will not,’ Kitty replied. ‘You can have a pie.’ She rummaged in her reticule and handed him some coins. ‘Here, you can share this with your sisters. And don’t get lost, do you hear me?’ />
  ‘I won’t!’ Edward called over his shoulder as he headed for the pie stall.

  Kitty saw that the Maoris, who outnumbered the Europeans by at least ten to one, had also been catered for. Several dozen dead pigs and a vast heap of potatoes, kumara and greens waited beside a row of pits, flames already beginning to flicker up from their depths as she watched. Later in the afternoon a feast would be hauled from the embers and shared out among everyone who cared to partake. She quite liked hangi food herself, although Sarah wouldn’t normally let her eat it, saying that meat cooked in a fire wrapped in nothing but tatty old leaves couldn’t possibly be hygienic.

  Mr Busby’s lawn was positively packed now. The half-dozen policemen who had accompanied Hobson from Sydney paraded importantly about, their mounts scattering people in all directions and their splendid scarlet uniforms eclipsed only by the gowns of the prostitutes from Kororareka, the garish greens, yellows and blues making the women as conspicuous as parrots in a flock of sparrows. Simon doffed his hat good-naturedly as one winked at him.

  The children came back clutching pies. Grace bit enthusiastically into hers, then looked up at Kitty in dismay as gravy squirted down the front of her white pinafore.

  Oh dear, there goes half an hour of someone’s precious time bent over the washboard, Kitty thought. ‘Never mind,’ she said aloud.

  ‘Kitty?’ Alice said as she wiped her face on the back of one hand and balanced her pie in the other.

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Are you going to marry Mr Bullock?’

  ‘Er, well—’

  ‘Oh, look,’ Simon said quickly, ‘here comes your mother. Shall we go and say hello?’

  ‘You could say hello to me,’ a voice behind Kitty said.

  The hairs on her arms prickling, Kitty turned around slowly. ‘Good morning, Captain Farrell.’

  He grinned at her in that irritating manner he had. ‘Good morning, Miss Carlisle. You’re looking as winsome as ever. Good morning, Mr Bullock.’

  Simon nodded genially. ‘Captain.’

  ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ Rian said.