by Sarah Lark
Jane shrugged. “I was never terribly fond of my reflection,” she quipped.
Chris stared into her unmoved face. It didn’t seem as if Jane was going to fight them for Rata Station, but she obviously didn’t feel guilty about what she’d done either. Suddenly he felt tired.
“I know you must have plenty of other investments, Jane,” he said, calmer now. “If you’re actually destitute, I will pay your support, so you needn’t threaten to sue me for it. Take a hotel room in Christchurch or somewhere, the farther away the better. Just let me know your new address so I can have the divorce papers sent over. I already spoke with a lawyer, and the divorce proceedings have begun. It will be very difficult and very expensive. It can also take some time. If I’ve understood correctly, it requires an Act of Parliament. But in light of our history, I’m confident any judge will agree. I will send you the documents as soon as the divorce is legal. And then, Jane Beit, I never want to see you again.”
Te Haitara silently approached his friend. The chieftain had already heard about Chris’s return. News spread fast in the Canterbury Plains. Now the entire village had gathered to welcome Chris and Cat to the marae.
“I’m truly happy,” Te Haitara said.
The chieftain of the Ngai Tahu had visibly aged in the past two years. He’d lost weight. The once powerful, stocky warrior was a shadow of his former self. Wrinkles, carved there by worry and hurt, showed under the tattoos on his face.
Chris hesitated for a moment and then leaned his forehead and nose against the chieftain’s. “How could you let it happen?” He had tried to control himself, but the question had burst out of its own accord.
Te Haitara shrugged helplessly. “How could I have stopped her?” he asked sadly. “Of course, the girls could have stayed here.”
“Next door to the woman who stole their farm?” Cat asked sharply. “You should have done something.”
“I shouldn’t have trusted her.” Te Haitara sighed. “She always said that a businessman or woman had to keep all options open. I never really understood what she meant by that. You were an option, I was an option. The divorce ceremony was an option, as was Eru’s birth certificate. I’m sorry. What will you do to her now?”
Chris rubbed his brow. “On paper, she’s still my wife, but by pakeha law, it’s forbidden to chop her head off.”
Te Haitara tried to smile. “That’s also not typical for Maori law. Still, you have more right to recompense than I do.”
“We threw her out,” Cat said. “She’s on her way to Christchurch now. Chris has already started divorce proceedings in the pakeha manner.”
“If you want to marry her again afterward,” Chris added, “it would be best to do so in front of a pakeha justice of the peace. Otherwise, she could just deny it again and demand alimony from me. By the way, I’d appreciate if you would acknowledge your fatherhood of Eru in writing. I’ll have to prove that he isn’t my son.”
Te Haitara lowered his eyes. “I haven’t heard anything from Eru for months. It’s possible that he’s dead.”
The chieftain looked so unhappy that it hurt Cat to look at him. She gently put a hand on his arm.
“Ariki,” she said kindly, “time will tell if you want to take Jane back or not. But Eru is your son. If he were dead, you’d know.”
Chapter 67
“The boys from Kea House are playing blackjack again instead of doing their homework,” Linda complained. “You’re raising them as gamblers and drinkers.”
Franz looked up from his work. He was trying to fix the wheel of his farm wagon. Unfortunately, it had been years since he’d watched a wainwright at work.
“So far, Kahotu hasn’t taught them to distill whiskey,” he countered. “And their math is getting better and better. They’re even making their own play-money. Hoani just lost a million pounds. He’ll never forget again how many zeros that has.”
“Maybe it’s fine as long as they lose,” she said, not sounding terribly convinced. “But what if they win and start to believe they can make a living that way?”
Franz shook his head. “I don’t let them win,” he said calmly. “Did you finish translating the sermon?”
“No, but I made scones instead,” Linda said, opening the basket that she had been carrying on her arm. She took out a coffee pot, a cup, and a plate. “You have to take a break, or you’ll keel over with hunger. So, I saved some of the scones before the children could eat them all. The new oven is wonderful!”
Linda had recently set up a kitchen in one of the outbuildings and was teaching the Maori girls how to cook and bake the pakeha way. Franz’s fosterlings would eventually need to support themselves, and domestic servants were much sought after in Wellington. Even the pastor in Otaki hadn’t been able to deny the logic of that argument. The merchants from town had donated the oven and the kitchen cupboards.
Franz wiped his hands on his trousers and sat down on a stone next to where Linda had laid out the treats. “Delicious!” he said, biting into one of the scones.
Linda smiled. Amy pawed at Franz’s leg, whining for her share.
“Seriously, Franz, you’re taking it too lightly with the gambling,” Linda said. “I was married to a gambler. You said you don’t let the children win, but it’s impossible to have an influence on the cards. They’re random. It’s dangerous to believe anything else.”
Franz ate another scone. “Of course I can influence that,” he told her. “To be honest, I always wondered what blackjack had to do with luck. You just have to concentrate a little . . . Oh, did Omaka tell you that there’s a letter for you? It’s from your mother. I left it in front of your house.”
For the moment, Linda forgot about the dangers of gambling and leaped to her feet. “Who is it from, Mamida or Mamaca? Perhaps she’s written about when she’ll finally be coming.”
Since Linda had been in touch with Ida and Cat again, nothing was as important to her as their regular letters. Above all, she longed for Cat’s letters, which always surprised Franz. Linda seemed to be closer to Catherine Rata than to her mother, Ida. In fact, Linda had almost departed abruptly for Rata Station when she’d heard about Cat and Chris Fenroy’s rescue. Only the news that they’d be coming to the North Island as soon as possible to help with the search for Carol and Mara had stopped her.
When Ida had first written to Franz about the kidnapping, he’d lain awake nights, reliving his own horrifying brush with the Hauhau at Opotiki and praying for the sisters’ souls. Then Linda had arrived, and he’d realized that he’d have to be the one to break the news. It had been a devastating blow. Linda had gone two days without speaking, rocking Aroha in a dim room under Omaka’s watchful eye while Franz’s heart broke. Soon, though, the old priestess coaxed her outside, and Linda threw herself into working with the children. They and the baby were a kind of salvation, and now she seemed almost normal. Franz knew that Carol and Mara were the central topic in Linda’s letters to her family, but he always hesitated to talk with her about them, fearful of the pain it might call forth.
Linda left her basket where it was and quickly made her way to the center of the pa, followed by Amy. Her house, which had also previously been an outbuilding, was now at the center of activity. Like Franz, it was important to her to keep an eye on the children, while Kahotu preferred to live in the old chieftain’s house, and Omaka, too, chose a dwelling in a less busy spot. Still, the old priestess had a constant stream of visitors. Since Linda had arrived, the children had learned to read and write and knew their Bible stories, and the first of them had been baptized. But when they needed spiritual counsel, they went to Omaka.
Franz watched Linda go, and as he had a thousand times before, he thanked God that she kept postponing her departure. At the same time, he wasn’t at all sure if Linda and Omaka had been sent to him by God. They had been a blessing for the orphanage in so many ways, but Omaka reminded the children of their heathen beliefs, and Linda was a temptation for Franz. Whenever he was with her, he co
uld only think about how wonderful it would be to hold her in his arms. He fought constantly against his body’s response to her occasional touch, her smile, her scent. At night he dreamed of her, and awoke in damp sheets, red with shame. At first, he hoped that it would pass. He must maintain his role as a friendly uncle, and never come across as a hopeful suitor. Franz attempted to avoid her touch whenever possible, and after their first confidential conversation over the whiskey bottle, he had tried to avoid discussing overly personal matters.
They had more than enough work to talk about, anyway. The concerns of the orphanage required constant communication. Linda had gotten involved with great enthusiasm from the very beginning. She had always enjoyed working with children, and had plenty of experience. After Miss Foggerty had gotten married, she’d often taken on the role of substitute teacher at Rata Station. Now she came up with new ideas and suggestions every day. Franz had to force himself not to praise them too euphorically, and struggled not to tell her openly how much he admired and loved her, and how amazingly his life had changed since she had arrived.
Linda and Omaka had immediately recognized the problems at Franz’s orphanage and had applied solutions energetically. Omaka had taken over the supervision of the kitchens and laundry. She assigned girls and boys to help her, and taught them how to do the work. Now no one needed to skip lessons because of domestic duties, and the children didn’t want to, anyway. Since Linda had taken over teaching the older students, they understood the reason they had to learn, and they all participated enthusiastically. This freed up Franz to focus on the little ones who could learn English quickly. They all made fast progress. Kahotu was hardly needed in the school at all anymore, so he had more time for setting traps and fishing. He no longer needed help from the older boys. They attended school in the mornings, and during the afternoons, Franz encouraged them to learn practical skills. With their help, he renovated the buildings of the pa.
“It’s really not necessary,” he said when the older children let him know through Linda’s translation that they wanted to decorate the houses with beautiful carvings.
One of the boys was the son of a woodcarving tohunga. His father had been teaching his son the art for years. Now the thirteen-year-old wanted to pass on his knowledge to the others.
“In fact,” Franz continued, “decoration is somewhat heathen. Lutheran churches are always unembellished. The homes of the faithful should be practical, not beautiful. Wood carving is a vain pursuit.”
Linda made a face, as she usually did when Franz fell back into the mind-set of his old community. She’d anticipated different objections to the boy’s request. The carvings didn’t merely have a decorative function but a spiritual significance. Franz would surely not see that as pleasing to God. But perhaps, she thought, she could use tradition as an argument for the boy’s wishes.
“The children see the carvings as a connection to their tribes,” she said patiently. “Every iwi has a special motif that tells stories of the tribe’s origins. The memories of their ancestors’ spirits are passed on that way. Let them do it, Franz! If you forbid it, they’ll do it secretly. In that case, they wouldn’t just carve motifs and traditional designs on the houses, but hei tiki. That really would be heathen.”
Omaka had been encouraging the children to make the little god figures out of jade and carry them as good-luck charms and mementos of their tribes. Linda knew about it, but she didn’t tell Franz.
“Fine,” Franz said, giving in. “But they shouldn’t just learn to carve Maori symbols. If I teach them pakeha woodworking as well, perhaps it would help with employment later.”
The preparation of the children for work in the pakeha world was a very important issue for the Church Missionary Society. Franz’s initial instincts had been to turn the young Maori into perfect pakeha and have them forget their customs and traditions. He was becoming more broad-minded the longer he worked with the children, but Linda still challenged his assumptions regularly. It was clear to both of them that these children would never be able to return to their old lives. The fosterlings would remain wanderers between two worlds. Linda and Franz saw it as their duty to prepare them as well as they could—much better, for example, than Kahotu had been prepared.
Soon, the boys were learning carving from the tohunga’s son and woodworking from Franz.
“Where did you learn all that?” Linda asked in amazement as he did a complicated equation again and cut the wood to fit perfectly.
“Nowhere,” Franz replied. “I mean, I learned the math; I was always good at numbers. But the rest I just learned by watching. Sometimes you have to watch craftsmen at their work.”
Linda’s brow creased. “I’ve often watched craftsmen too. But I never studied their every movement.”
Franz laughed. “I don’t need to watch that carefully. I just have to remember what I once observed, and then I see it in front of me again. I used to think it was the same for everyone, but apparently I have an unusually good memory.”
Linda thought his memory was phenomenal. She could hardly believe how fast he was learning Maori now that she was giving him regular lessons too. He hadn’t been able to teach himself the complicated grammar without a textbook, but vocabulary came easily. He remembered most words after reading them once, and astounded Linda when it came to the Maori Bible. Franz could quote entire chapters of Genesis in Maori, even though he didn’t comprehend the meanings of all the words.
“Did you really think you’d be able to learn the language by memorizing the Bible?” she asked in amazement. “That must have taken forever.”
Franz shrugged. “It didn’t really help that much,” he admitted. “But it went quickly. I read it a few times, and then I could say it.”
Linda decided to stop marveling and just accept it. She had rarely had so much fun as when she was teaching Franz—even if his behavior with her was often mysterious. Sometimes he seemed to enjoy working with her, and other times to be avoiding her. Their first evening together had done her good, and she had felt a connection with Franz that had almost bordered on intimacy. Before they had finally said good night, he had gently put a hand over hers, and she hadn’t been surprised. That evening, Linda had believed that perhaps something was beginning—something much more profound than her connection to Fitz. But the next day, Franz had been distant again. He shied from any kind of touch, and he thanked her formally for small favors. It ran contrary to the way his eyes lit up when he saw her, and Linda often sensed his gaze following her surreptitiously.
The young woman was baffled. Franz seemed to be in love with her but didn’t make the slightest attempt to court her. She had already considered that perhaps he’d taken a vow of celibacy. But as far as she knew, such vows didn’t apply to Anglicans or Lutherans. To the contrary, Linda had never heard of an unmarried missionary.
Franz’s contradictory behavior made Linda unsure of herself. She would often think of Fitz, who had also withdrawn unpredictably. Did it have something to do with her? Did she simply not understand men? Was she misreading the signs?
Linda racked her brain as her affection for Franz grew every day. She’d always been fond of Ida’s brother. Even back at Rata Station, something about him had attracted her, even though he’d been so tormented and disapproving. Then, she had interpreted her feelings more as pity than as love. But now that he’d matured, laid aside his religious fanaticism, and showed such obvious devotion to the children, he had won Linda’s respect. Her heart sang when she saw how lovingly he helped little Pai put on a coat, or witnessed the endless patience with which he taught the most slow-witted children mathematics. She often caught herself wishing that he’d touch her. She watched him as he pounded iron or worked wood with his strong hands, and the gentleness with which he guided the children’s small fingers as they learned their first letters. She watched him pat the little ones on the head, and wished he would put a comforting hand on her own shoulder.
Franz was also quite good with Aroha.
He seemed delighted to rock the child to sleep for hours, but he quickly gave her back to Linda if Kahotu happened by. Linda couldn’t understand. Kahotu kept joking that Aroha would soon be calling him “Daddy,” and Franz reacted as though it were an insult. It was worse when Linda accidentally came too close to him. Then he leaped back as though burned, only to devour her with hungry eyes. Finally, she turned to Omaka.
“Sometimes I think he’s like Fitz,” she said to the old priestess. “I never understood what he was thinking either. Sometimes he was gentle and kind and wonderful, and then he’d be arrogant and distant again. Are all men that way?”
Omaka poked the fire with a stick. “Are you blind, mokopuna?” she asked gently. “I can’t think of two men who are more different. Your husband had no access to his feelings, whereas this man has a whirlwind of pain inside of him, such a stew of bitter roots, made of both fear and love. As long as his mouth is full of it, he won’t be able to tell you how much he desires you.”
“Why not?” Linda asked, feeling depressed. “Can’t he ever get past the pain, or just forget it all?”
Omaka shrugged. “Perhaps someday. Perhaps with your help. And perhaps the reason will disappear someday. I don’t know, mokopuna. But don’t scorn him; he’s suffering. He’s suffering because of you.”
Linda sighed. “And why doesn’t it matter that I’m suffering? I wish I could meet a man someday who wasn’t so preoccupied with himself!”
Chapter 68
“There’s a man at the door, asking if he can sleep here,” a young girl named Emere told Linda as she entered the kitchen.
It often happened that strangers came to the orphanage asking for a place to stay. After all, Otaki had been a missionary station for a long time. Many travelers didn’t know it had closed, and the townspeople didn’t bother to set them straight. If someone asked, they were sent to Franz Lange.