by Lark, Sarah
William yearned for a proper steak, a couple of glasses of whiskey in the company of drunk Englishmen, and a decent bed in a private hotel room. The following day, he would organize a demonstration in a pub or church hall. The town of Greymouth seemed big enough to offer him both. There was probably even a hotel worthy of the term that didn’t rent its beds by the hour.
Though it was raining when he reached Greymouth, the small city revealed itself to be more than a midsized settlement and even seemed to boast high-class neighborhoods. A passerby William asked about a hotel at least had to give it some thought, suggesting that there must be a range of options.
“Are you looking for something nicer, with a porter and everything? Or just an inn?”
“Clean, but affordable.” William shrugged.
The man likewise shrugged. “Then Madame Clarisse’s Inn might suit you,” he mused. “But are you looking for lodging for the whole night?”
Just as soon as he set out in the direction the man had indicated, he came upon the lighted inn sign, but the brightly painted facade and the adjoining pub, the Lucky Horse, made no promises of a quiet night. However, he might be able to get a steak.
William could not make up his mind. But then the music coming from inside the pub urged him on. The people in there crooning “Auld Lang Syne” to middling piano playing were assuredly more than a little drunk. Of course, it was Saturday—not a bad time to arrive, all things considered. William could attend church first thing the next morning and speak with the pastor about the church’s gathering space.
First though, he spurred his horse on. Maybe there were other, quieter pubs.
A few streets farther down, there was indeed another bar, the Wild Rover. Music issued into the street from this place as well. But something was unusual about it… William halted his carriage and secured his horse. As he tossed a rain blanket over the animal, he listened more closely to the curious sounds coming from the barroom. A piano, played by a virtuoso, and a flute. A Maori instrument.
The music was different from the relatively primitive haka that William had heard so many of in recent weeks. Granted, there were parallels, but someone had tinkered with the melody and expression. The dialogue between the instruments had a rousing quality at times, a touching one at others. William recognized a putorino as the flutist brought out its feminine voice. It was high and demanding, almost angry, and yet wooing and unquestionably erotic. The piano answered duskily, representing the masculine voice in this conversation. The instruments seemed to be flirting and teasing each other before uniting in a common end note. Then the flute abruptly ceased, as though holding its tongue, while the pianist performed masterful runs into higher registers. Then the putorino answered again. A new dialogue, a quarrel this time. Lengthy explanations, interspersed with short, brusque responses, coming together and apart—and, in the end, a break. A lamenting, dying piano, the flute pausing, only suddenly to begin again.
William listened, fascinated. The spirit voice. He had heard about it many times, but had yet to come across a tribe whose musicians knew how to wring that third voice from their instruments. And now here were these notes drifting out of a dingy pub in Greymouth. Curious, William approached. The spirit voice seemed to be conjured from the building’s own depths. It sounded cavernous, ethereal. He thought he was hearing the voice of the aboriginal spirit world, the whispering of ancestors, the lapping of the waves on the ancient beach of Hawaiki.
As William entered the pub, he let his gaze wander over the smoky room. The customers had just begun applauding, and some were giving the musicians a standing ovation. The strange song had moved even these stolid men. Then William saw the pallid blond pianist, whose stiff nod took the place of a bow, and a girl, who stood motionless, as if she were still listening to the flute’s voice.
“Kura!”
Kura looked up. Her eyes became saucers at the sight of William. As best he could tell in the dim light of the pub, she appeared to turn pale.
“William… it’s not possible…” She stepped closer, looking at him with an expression that suggested she was still held too tightly in the grasp of her music’s magical realm to comprehend reality. “When we arranged this song,” she said finally, “I was thinking about us. Of what brought us together… and tore us apart. And then I sought to have the spirits call you back. But it can’t really be! It’s just a song…” She stood as though frozen, the flute still in her hand.
William smiled.
“You should never underestimate the spirits,” he said, placing a friendly kiss on her cheek. But then her skin and her scent took him prisoner once again, and he could not resist. He put his lips to hers.
The men all around clapped and cheered.
“Encore!”
William was not averse to letting her play again, but the pianist had stood up in the meantime. He was tall and thin with a long, blank face. Her lover?
“Kura?” Caleb asked, confused. “Would you… care to introduce us?”
A gentleman. William could only just keep from laughing.
Kura seemed abstracted. She had returned William’s kiss, but the situation was so unreal.
“Do pardon us, Caleb,” she said. “This is William Martyn. My husband.”
The pianist stared at William, stunned; then he collected himself and reached out his hand.
“Caleb Biller.”
“Miss Martyn’s fiancé,” Paddy Holloway noted.
“It’s not what you think,” Kura whispered into the awkward silence.
William decided to maintain his composure. Whatever was going on, it needed not be aired in front of everyone. And it could no doubt wait until later.
“That can wait, my sweet,” he whispered back, reinforcing the embrace in which he still held Kura, as though ready to kiss her again. “We still need to discharge our divine duty first…”
Smiling, he released her and turned to Caleb.
“It was a pleasure making your acquaintance. I would have enjoyed speaking with you at greater length. But the spirits, you understand. At best, they shall remain here but one or two hours.” William fished two one-dollar bills out of his pocket and laid them on the piano. “You are welcome to a whiskey on my tab. But, alas, I must steal my wife away from you for a moment. As I said, the spirits… one should not resist their call for too long.”
William seized the hand of the confused Kura and left a completely flabbergasted Caleb behind. On the way to the door, he put a bill in Paddy’s hand as well. “Here, friend, best bring the boy the whole bottle right away. He looks a tad pale. We’ll be seeing you.”
Kura couldn’t help giggling as he led her from the pub.
“William, you’re terrible.”
He laughed. “I’m no worse than you. Might I remind you how you yourself behaved in the old days? I just have to think about that kiss on the middle of the dance floor at Kiward Station. I thought you were going to rip my clothes off then and there.”
“I wasn’t far from doing just that.” Kura rubbed her body against his, thinking feverishly as she did so. She could not possibly take him to Mrs. Miller’s. Gentleman callers had been expressly forbidden; it probably would have made no difference even if she could have produced her marriage certificate. The stables? No, then they might as well do it in the middle of the road. In the end, Kura pulled her husband in the direction of the Lucky Horse. Madame Clarisse’s stables! As far as Kura knew, Elaine’s pony was the only horse there. And Elaine would be at the piano for at least another two hours.
Kura and William tittered like children as Kura ran through the rain to the stables. She jiggled the door, and on the second attempt, the lock released and the two of them slipped inside. William kissed a raindrop from Kura’s nose. He was dry himself, having yet to remove his waxed jacket.
In the stalls there were actually other horses in addition to Elaine’s gray one. They likely belonged to pub customers; the Lucky Horse’s clientele consisted of not only miners but also
craftsmen and small businessmen who might own horses. Kura briefly considered whether she should take her chances, but William was already kissing her shoulders and moving to pull off her dress.
Kura made it to a haymow in a partitioned-off stall before succumbing to his advances. William threw his jacket off and opened her bodice. And then Kura forgot everything around her, and gave herself over completely to feeling and burning and loving.
Roly O’Brien, hearing moaning and laughing, stared astonished at the couple in the hay. Matt Gawain had sent the boy to the stables to grab a few papers from his saddlebags. And then he’d come upon this… Roly retreated quietly, but not so far back that the couple was hidden from view.
Naturally, as a coal miner’s son who had grown up in a shack he shared with his parents and five other children, he was not completely surprised by what he was seeing. But the imaginative play of these two had little in common with the fast, embarrassed lovemaking of his parents that he had often overheard.
Roly tried to make out who the two lovers were. Long, dark-black hair—no, that wasn’t any of Madame Clarisse’s girls taking her pleasure here. And though he could see that the man was blond, Roly could discern little else about him. Finally, he saw the girl’s face. Miss Martyn! The pianist at the Wild Rover.
Roly did not know how long he hid out, enthralled by the two of them, but he eventually recalled that Timothy Lambert and Matt Gawain had rather urgently wanted the papers in the saddlebags. If he did not return presently, they would send somebody after him. With regret, Roly pulled himself away and felt his way as quietly as possible over to the horses. Matt’s chestnut mare was easy to recognize even without a stable lantern. In order not to make any noise, Roly did not rifle through the saddlebags but instead hastily untied the leather straps and took the bags with him. He was able to slink back out without being seen. He grinned like a Cheshire cat as he stepped into the barroom.
“What took so long?” Matt asked grumpily as Roly laid the bags in front of him on the table. “Couldn’t you find the plans?”
Roly lowered his eyes abashedly, though a smile played at his lips. “No, Mr. Gawain… er… I mean, Matt.” It was still hard for him to call the foreman by his first name. “It’s just that… I wasn’t alone in the stables.”
Timothy rolled his eyes. “And who else was there exactly? Did you need to have a long chat with Fellow? Or Banshee perhaps?”
Roly giggled. “No, Mr. Lambert, but I didn’t want to bother them. That is… the piano player from the Rover is doing it with a blond man. And they’re doing it right!”
The men at the table looked at each other—and then burst out laughing.
“Let’s just say it,” commented Ernie Gast. “We have all completely underestimated Caleb Biller.”
Although Elaine was troubled when she saw William again, she felt far less hurt than she had feared she would. Perhaps it helped that she was high on her horse while he was walking on foot down Main Street. And it was unquestionably helpful that Timothy was riding at her side. Besides, she was not shocked by the sight of him, as the story of Kura Martyn’s husband’s sudden appearance had spread like wildfire. Matt had heard it in the morning from Jay Hankins, who had been dropping off a delivery of iron parts to the mine. When Timothy had heard the story from Matt around noon, he had dropped everything and asked Roly to saddle Fellow. He had wanted to find Elaine before she ran into William. He’d ended up rousing her from her bed, the previous night at the pub having been a long one. Elaine had been happy for the visit, but she’d paled when Timothy relayed the news.
“Something like this was bound to happen eventually. I’ve been telling you that for weeks.” Timothy had stretched out next to her. He had managed to keep Fellow going at a gallop for almost half the distance and then to dismount and get to Elaine’s room without assistance. He liked to tie his crutches securely behind the saddle now. However, this business with William had so preoccupied him that he felt no particular pain or pride with respect to his accomplishment. “Now we have one more person in town who knows the truth, and who knows if the fellow can keep quiet.”
“He was with the Fenians, the Irish terrorists. Of course he can keep quiet.”
Elaine had been preoccupied by quite different questions. How would she react when she saw William again? Would she choke on her words because of the beating of her heart? Would she blush and turn pale? She hated herself for her inability to suppress her feelings. And how would William react? He must know that she had killed Thomas Sideblossom. Would he condemn her for it? Perhaps push her to turn herself in?
“Well, then I hope he’s got enough mud on his own boots,” Timothy had said. “But this is the beginning of the end. If the two of them settle down here, they’ll reestablish contact with your family. Especially if these performances continue.”
Kura and Caleb had now successfully performed their musical program, “Putorino Meets Piano,” in Greymouth, Punakaiki, and Westport. Since their performances were always part of charity events, the papers had not yet written about them. Though there were not any big papers on the West Coast, the two of them were first-class musicians, and their program was something very different and new. Kura had indicated to Elaine that their future plans included a tour through New Zealand, Australia, and England. So far, further performances had failed to work out, however, due to a lack of contacts and, perhaps, Caleb’s stage fright. He was sick with fear before almost every performance.
“If things continue this way, he’ll have stomach ulcers before we even make it to Auckland,” Kura complained. She did not take Caleb particularly seriously. However, Mrs. Biller and the Weber women—on whom Kura and Caleb were dependent for their charitable society contacts—were aware of his discomfort and refused to organize any further concerts for the time being.
“If Caleb and Kura go on tour, they’ll be gone, you know,” Elaine had noted, caressing Timothy. “You worry too much. Look, I’ve been here for more than two years, and nothing has happened.”
“Which surprises me,” Timothy had grumbled, letting the subject drop, though, and kissing Elaine. He would do his best to erase all her memories of William Martyn.
Elaine was accompanying Timothy home when they ran into William. The young man was in high spirits. He had just rented a room at Mrs. Miller’s, meeting her best friend in the process, and had sold her friend’s husband, the tailor, a sewing machine first thing. He knew it would take an eternity for Mr. Mortimer to make any use of it, as he seemed rather old-fashioned, but William had explained to him that one had to keep up with the times, even in his profession. After all, he did not want to fall behind the competition. Mr. Mortimer forgot that he did not have any competition in the vicinity of Greymouth, though William planned to change that in time.
William felt properly happy when he came upon Elaine O’Keefe—or rather, “Lainie Keefer,” William reminded himself. Everyone had his, or her, secrets.
“Lainie!” He beamed at the girl, trusting the time-tested power of his smile to pardon him for all past slights. Though they had not exactly parted as friends, Elaine could not still be holding anything against him.
“Kura told me that you were here, but I could hardly believe it. You look wonderful.” William spontaneously stretched his hand out to her. If she had not been sitting on her horse, he probably would have kissed her on the cheek in greeting.
Elaine noted with confusion that his kiss would have left her just as cold as his smile. Although she still thought him a good-looking man, his appearance no longer excited her. On the contrary, she now recognized the flash of flippancy in his eyes, his superficiality, and his egotism. Once she had taken all that for adventurousness, and at the time it had been wonderfully exciting and a bit dangerous. But playing with fire no longer held any attraction for her. In fact, it had never truly satisfied her. Elaine wanted to feel loved and secure—and safe.
Elaine returned William’s handshake, but her smile was for Timothy.
“Allow me to introduce you to Timothy Lambert, my fiancé.”
Was she the only one to see it, or was that admiration—or even a hint of displeasure—that flared up in William’s eyes? Did it not suit him that little Elaine had an exceedingly presentable fiancé? No ragged gold miner but the heir apparent of a coal mine? Elaine’s claws sprang out immediately.
William started to extend a hand to Timothy, but Timothy only nodded politely. It may have appeared a little arrogant, but Timothy could still not manage to bend down to pedestrians from his horse. William withdrew his hand.
“Then congratulations are in order,” he stiffly.
“They are indeed!” Elaine remarked, sweet as honey. “We’re celebrating our engagement on the sixteenth of August. At Lambert Manor. You and Kura are both invited, naturally. Please let her know, since we didn’t send her a formal invitation. After all, we thought she’d be coming with Caleb.”
With that, she gave him a radiant smile and gave Banshee a gentle kick. “I’ll be seeing you, William.”
Timothy laughed once they were out of sight. “You’re turning into a real little minx, Lainie. I’ll have to watch out when I’m married to you. Where is that pistol anyway?”
3
Kura listened with astonishment to the story of William’s career as a sewing-machine salesman and watched his demonstration in the church’s common room. The whole presentation suffered a bit due to the fact that the two of them could still hardly keep their hands off each other. William struggled considerably more than usual to tease his female audience believably. Nevertheless, he sold two machines to housewives and landed a rather large coup by convincing the pastor to found a sewing workshop for the widows of the mining accident.