‘That is generally the case. And, in truth, I have not been entirely frank with you, either. When I spoke to you of my own ill-starred marriage, I omitted to tell you that, for many years after my husband’s timely death, I carried on a liaison with an already married man, the father of a family, and a figure well known in British public life. Indeed, he is a confidant of two of my brothers.’
‘They condoned such a thing!’
‘They had no knowledge of it. But had they been aware of it, no, they would have been horrified. He was, he is, the passionate love of my life.’
I looked at Maud, still in her workman’s garb and felt hat, and struggled to see in her any marks of the ardent lover. ‘And … his wife?’
‘Is an invalid. She has suffered for most of their married life from a series of crises des nerfs that no medical man has ever been able to cure. Like your sister, she married when she was only sixteen and believed she was in love.’
‘And he?’
‘Fell in love with her youth and beauty, quite overlooking her lack of serious education or interest in the world outside the domestic sphere.’
‘But, if you love him, why did you leave him?’
‘Because I knew that, sooner or later, gossip about our situation would leak out and ruin his career. My own reputation is of no consequence to me and I am, to a considerable degree, protected by the wealth and power of my family, but he … he would be utterly disgraced. So I decided to end our liaison and remove myself entirely from the temptation for either of us to see each other again. I have come here to New Zealand and begun a new life.’
Even in the midst of my own concerns, I was moved by her words.
‘So you see, Fanny, as I know for myself, one cannot make a dispassionate decision about the person with whom one falls in love. But I tell you, I would rather have known my own dearest love — and been forced to relinquish him — than to have settled for one of those arid unions, formed for security, money or family alliance.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Now to the situation you have laid before me. Let me tell you that I see no benefit in charity if it is not practised first at home.’
‘You mean you will … help us?’
‘My dear, of course. How could you doubt me? But we must make very careful plans to allay suspicion from any quarter. And in that I include the Governor, the servant Johnson — and the native girl, Makareta.’
It was now many days since I had last seen Te Toa. Despite the muggy heat, I had managed to excuse myself for a short time almost every day to ride to the Domain in hopes of finding the familiar black stallion in its appointed place. But there was no trace of it there, nor at any other spot it might possibly have been tethered, and though I continued to expect him every day, Te Toa did not come.
I found myself watching out for him as I toiled up Queen Street, feeling faint in the continuing summer heat. Once, I caught sight of him in conversation with two Englishmen outside the dry goods store. I lingered further down the street, gazing into the haberdasher’s window, until I they exchanged farewells and I saw Te Toa enter the shop. As casually as I could, I slipped into the dark cool interior only to find, as he turned about, that it was not Te Toa at all but another, unknown, chief.
Te Toa has forgotten me, I told myself sadly. He no longer wishes for my society.
‘Miss Colville!’ said the Governor. ‘Such a pleasant surprise.’
‘I was obliged to come into Auckland town for supplies, so I have taken the liberty of calling on you uninvited.’ She laid down several bundles. ‘Now, Governor, I have here some anthropological journals I feel may be of interest to you.’
He took them up. ‘Why yes, they are. How very kind of you.’
‘And for your ladies’ — she smiled at Lucy who was sitting with me on the veranda seat — ‘a selection of apparel ideally suited to this apparently interminable heat wave.’ And she drew from another bundle several loose-fitting, layered silken garments. ‘So much cooler and healthier, I consider.’
Sir George looked without enthusiasm at this offering. ‘Er, perhaps …’
‘I realise, of course, that to the inexperienced eye such clothing may be considered a little outlandish, but to an informed anthropological historian such as yourself, Governor, its adoption in extremes of weather can, I am sure, be recommended, rather in the manner of the wearing of fur in inclemently cold temperatures.’
‘Ah, yes. I am sure you are right.’
‘And if you will permit me, and your ladies are in accord, we might repair now to some private room where I shall instruct them in the correct manner in which such clothing should be worn.’
‘I am aware,’ whispered Maud, ‘that your situation cannot be easily concealed for much longer. You must both insist on adopting these clothes for the next few days to combat the heat, and I will speak now to the Governor and beg him to allow you to pay me an extended visit.’
‘You think he will agree?’
‘I have reason to believe he will.’
AOTEAROA
Mata Kawana went away with her sister. Every day, in his study, I assisted Te Kawana with his great work. He was writing a book, an important book of Maori lore and language, and, since he could not ask the chiefs to speak of such secret matters, he wished me to tell him all that I learned from my mother, Kahe. I was his ‘native secretary’. ‘Secretary’, ‘secrets’ — a very proper choice of name.
I had spent all my life thus far in Waikanae and Otaki where Mr Hadfield and my own people spoke the Maori language but, because I had a Pakeha stepfather, I could also speak almost perfect English. I knew only the legends of my own people, Ngati Toa, and those spells my mother had taught me: how to turn away the wrath of the gods, protection against illness and cruel weather, the charms for a safe journey, the magical incantations to launch and guard a new canoe, how to ensure a long life for a newly born infant. But all of these Te Kawana took down from my words and wrote in his large bound notebooks.
And still nothing of what lay so palpably between us had been made manifest.
AUCKLAND, 1852
Leaving Lucy resting in Maud’s cottage, I went alone down to the coastline and saw, beached there, a Maori canoe and, walking along the sands, a familiar figure. Though I had yearned for so long to see him, I turned away as he approached.
‘Why, Fanny, what is it?’
‘I don’t understand why you left me for so long. I heard no word from you. Your horse was not—’
‘Fanny, my dearest, dearest Fanny, I am more sorry than I can express.’
I looked at him. ‘Is it that … you have no wish to see me again?’
‘How can you say such a thing? All this time, I have been longing for you.’
‘Then why didn’t you come?’
‘Because I could not leave my pa. Some women of the tribe trespassed where they should not go and, to appease the gods, my tohunga placed me under tapu.’
‘But, surely—?’
He shook his head. ‘Even for you, Fanny, I cannot break sacred law. But I came here as soon as the tapu was lifted.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘When I saw that you were not at Moleskin Hall, I thought most carefully where you would be most likely to go. And why you and Mata Kawana might have gone so quickly and quietly from Auckland.’
I leaned against him. ‘I fear if we’re absent too long from Auckland the Governor will suspect something.’
‘Te Kawana will guess nothing. On the contrary, he will be very happy at your absence. Tell Mata nothing of it but, as both Mata Colville and I know well, Te Kawana is, at this moment, most preoccupied by the girl from Mr Hadfield’s Mission. Very soon, he will leave to go south and you may be sure he will take her with him.’
AOTEAROA
I know what some thought, but I learnt to ignore their icy looks, their glances of disapproval. Why should I care? I had the prize for which I had so patiently waited, which the gods had always intended for me …
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Te Kawana came home from a visit to Mata Colville where he had gone to see Mata Kerei and her sister. But when he arrived he found Mata Kerei in her sickbed, not well enough, said Mata Colville, to accompany him on the long trip he must make to Nelson in the South Island, Te-Waka-a-Maui.
‘So, Makareta,’ he said, placing his arm about me, ‘it seems you must accompany me instead. We shall travel together on the government brig, and you will entertain me with your songs and legends for the long weeks we must be away.’
AUCKLAND, 1852
And, finally, came the day of birth. The pains rolled in waves, like the sea and, amid the mounting screams, Maud set calmly and competently about what needed to be done.
‘This is women’s work,’ she said. ‘And why, whatever men may say, we are certainly not the weaker sex.’
While Maud set about delivering the child, I clutched Lucy’s hand in mine and prayed for strength. For what seemed an eternity, she and I breathed together in deep, panting gasps. As the screams filled the room and soared around my head, I understood how powerless I was to intervene, to stop the agony. And then, another shriek and, beneath it, a thin wailing cry, and the child was born. A fine, beautiful boy.
As we gazed at him, I saw his tiny chest rise and fall.
Tihe mauri ora.
The breath of life.
‘You must return to Moleskin Hall as soon as possible,’ said Maud. ‘I had a message yesterday from Gas, asking if he might call on me the day after tomorrow. To stay here now would be far too dangerous for you.’
‘But the boy …?’
‘We need an ally in this,’ she said. ‘We can no longer manage things alone. So, yesterday, after I received the Bishop’s communiqué, I took the liberty of speaking in closest confidence to Te Toa.’
‘Te Toa!’
‘I could see no other option. He’s agreed to take the boy tonight to his pa and to find him a wet nurse. He promises to tell no one and I believe him to be entirely trustworthy.’
‘But …?’
‘Despite the fact that the Governor is still in the south, Te Toa tells me he returns very soon. You must understand the absolute necessity of returning home immediately, of being at Moleskin Hall when he arrives in Auckland. Te Toa has assured me he will guard the baby. And he suggests the boy be named Hori Kerei.’
‘Surely not! In Maori, that is … George Grey.’
‘What will flatter the Governor more than a child named for him?’
‘Lucy we must go. We have no option. If anyone discovers our secret we will both be utterly ruined.’
‘The situation is not nearly as desperate as you believe,’ said Maud. ‘When I spoke to Te Toa, he agreed to ask the Governor to adopt the boy.’
‘Adopt him? The Governor? That would be quite wonderful. But how will Te Toa persuade my husband to accept him?’
‘He’ll say that the infant is the fruit of a liaison between his kinswoman and a Pakeha soldier.’
‘But the baby’s so fair …’
‘Look at the offspring of such relationships between Maori and Pakeha. Some are dark, looking entirely like natives. Some are fair. Some have the components of both races. There’s nothing to fear on that score.’
‘When will Te Toa take him?’
‘Tonight.’
‘No! So soon? How can we bear it?’
‘You must both be strong. For the child’s sake, it’s better so.’
‘We must try to appear delighted by the Governor’s return,’ I said.
Lucy shrugged. ‘I will do what I can, but you know it will be only play-acting and a sham.’
‘But think of what is at stake, I beg you. We should in no way antagonise him at this juncture.’
‘Fanny, the most wonderful, wonderful news. Maud has sent a note. Te Toa has seen Sir George who’s agreed to take the boy.’
‘I thank God! May I see the note?’
‘I burnt it immediately after I read it. But she wrote that she was present and that Te Toa was very distant, almost as if he didn’t want the Governor to adopt him but felt it would be only to the infant’s advantage. A very clever ploy, I think, because my husband was at once interested in him.’
‘I’m overjoyed. But we must remain calm. Even a little indifferent. We can’t afford to have anyone guess his identity.’
‘I’ll prepare his nursery and you must help me. You must be his godmother, of course, and what do you think of asking the Bishop and the Martins to be his other godparents?’
‘I think it’s all one could desire for him.’
‘Oh, Fanny, you can’t believe what this means to me. At last … after all these years … to have another child.’
AOTEAROA
Te Kawana chose me. In return, I gave away to him our songs, our spells, our secrets. Perhaps it is for that I am condemned now and not because of her. He wished me to tell him the ancient stories, to sing, to dance (‘but cover your breasts, Makareta, cover your breasts’). When he was troubled, he loved to brush my ‘blackbird’ hair. That is what he called me, his ‘blackbird’. I never saw a blackbird, though he promised to show me one. Like a tui, he said, but with no missionary’s white collar at its throat … And yes, I thought, I am a bird, but without wings.
AUCKLAND, 1853
‘My dearest, beloved Fanny, you see that I am weeping. I can scarcely bear to bring you and Mata this dreadful intelligence. Te Kawana has changed his mind. He refuses now to take the boy.’
‘But why, Te Toa? Only three days ago he spoke of it as if it were about to happen.’
‘I do not know. But I know the mind of Te Kawana. If I persist now, he will become obdurate and he will never agree.’
‘That’s true. And it may even rouse his suspicions. I dare not tell Lucy this terrible news. Oh, Te Toa, what can we do?’
‘The boy is safe in my pa. He is under my protection and he is healthy.’
‘But we must see him. It’s been so long, and we haven’t seen him since he was eight days old.’
‘I know this and I am truly sorry for the pain it causes. But to gain Te Kawana’s consent, it is a necessary thing.’
‘I don’t understand why he’s changed his mind.’
‘Nor I, but be sure, I shall try again.’
‘In the meantime, I implore you to let us see him.’
He put his arm around me. ‘That is impossible. I beg you, listen to me, Fanny. I am more sorry for this than I can say, especially as he is the most fine lusty boy and all he lacks is his mother, but we must remain steadfast. I am a warrior. It is the first rule of battle that, to succeed, you do not rush at your enemy but wait patiently for your opportunity.’
‘Te Toa has tried again to persuade the Governor. He’s even suggested that, as the child has been named for him, he should bring the boy here to Moleskin Hall for him to see …’
‘Oh, Fanny, he continues to refuse?’
‘He won’t countenance it. And it’s very strange. In general, the Governor wishes to please the Northern chiefs and he has a high regard for Te Toa.’
‘Then what shall we do?’
‘What can we do? Wait and pray.’
‘Things are not working out as we hoped. Te Toa still hasn’t managed to sway the Governor and I dare not, for my life, mention it.’
‘Don’t think of saying a word to your husband. It would be disastrous.’
Lucy flung her arms around me. ‘And I have even more distressing news. We have very little time to lose if we want Sir George to change his mind. He heard this morning that he’s been recalled Home by the Colonial Office. We sail for England very soon.’
‘No!’
‘And, Fanny, he says he’s taking Makareta with us.’
‘Makareta! What is he thinking of? She’ll never be accepted in polite society at Home.’
‘You don’t know all of it. He intends to adopt her.’
‘Adopt Makareta? He can’t possibly.’
‘It’s his intention to do ex
actly that. He says she’ll help him with his Polynesian researches into lore and language.’
‘I suppose—’
‘Fanny, she’s been brought up at Mr Hadfield’s Mission. Her stepfather was an Englishman. Look at Sir George in her presence. I believe he’s in love with her.’
‘Can’t you speak to the Bishop?’
‘The Selwyns wouldn’t — couldn’t — believe such a thing as that he might have an … unfortunate … interest in her.’
‘Well then, Lady Martin?’
‘Even she would think it a figment of my fevered imagination. It’s only Maud who says she believes what I say.’ She looked at me beseechingly. ‘Fanny, I have never felt so alone — so bereft. I beg you, come Home with us.’
AOTEAROA
I have cried to Tangaroa, god of the sea, to carry me back to my own lands. Only he, who controls the waters, can give me safe passage, can calm the ocean and command it to be still. Mr Hadfield told us that it is Te Ariki who directs the waves but I know in my heart it is Tangaroa. It was he to whom my mother prayed to save our lives, he who heard her entreaties and spared us. But now I have committed evil, I have embraced what is forbidden, I have broken the scared law of tapu, he is angry, and I fear his vengeance against me for the wrong I have done.
In the waters between my birthplace, Kapiti Island, and Otaki, the mainland pa of Te Rau-paraha, lived the mighty she-taniwha, Awarua. At the bidding of Tangaroa, she rose from his deeps to capsize the canoes of those who offended her master. Her wrath was terrible; the heaving and lashing of her great body caused the waves to swell and churn and crash upon the shore. To appease her, said my mother, Kahe, the fishermen offered the first of their catch to Tangaroa and the second to Awarua. Only the most revered of the tohunga could lull her into quietness, and even this was only a respite. ‘She is ever vigilant,’ said my mother. ‘You must on no account anger her or, for utu, she will destroy you.’
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