A Crooked Rib (23 page)

‘I thought they were … that they should have been … somewhere more private.’

‘But why? In the wharenui, everyone may see them. Every child grows up beside them, so no one is obliged to do as I am doing now, to put into words what must be done between the bodies of a man and a woman.’

I felt a sudden panic. ‘I don’t think I—’

He held me tighter. ‘You are a grown woman. This should be natural for you. It is not something to be feared. Let me take off your shift.’

Trembling, I raised my arms.

‘There,’ he said. Tossing it to one side, he looked directly at my naked body. ‘Ah, Fanny, you are most lovely.’ He laid his forehead against mine and I felt the warmth of his breath on my face.

‘Tihe mauri ora,’ he said.

I looked at him, puzzled.

‘The breath of life.’

He drew me towards him again, and gently placed his hands on my breasts. I flinched. ‘Lie down,’ he said, ‘and I will show you what pleasant and most delightful feelings there can be between us.’

Gently, he began to stroke my breasts, then, suddenly, he leaned forward and placed his mouth to them, kissing and sucking me softly. I felt a throbbing, a strange rush of heat throughout my body.

‘That is better,’ said Te Toa. ‘And now, you must do the same to me.’

‘I …?’

‘Of course.’

He lay back and I began, shyly, to trace the whorls and spirals of the tattoos on his upper arms and chest. ‘Did it hurt?’

‘My moko? Naturally.’

‘Did you cry out?’

He shook his head. ‘If I had cried out, my father and my ancestors would have been shamed, and I would not have been worthy to become a chief.’ He took my hand and laid it against his chest. ‘Do you see this? And here, on the other side, another matching it exactly?’ He moved my hand upwards. And here, on my cheeks and above my eyebrows? Each of these tells a story. On me is written the whole story of our ancestors.’ He drew me closer. ‘And now, it is time for us to stop all this talking,’ he said, and covered my lips with his own.

Returning from a ride on the shore, Lucy and I found the Selwyns sitting on the veranda with the Governor.

‘We’ve had such a bracing gallop,’ cried Lucy. ‘I only wish you’d been with us.’

‘We’re here with news of a fresh arrival in the colony,’ said the Bishop. ‘I’ve just received a letter from my old friend, Sir Frederick Colville. His sister, Maud, will land here very soon.’

‘Is she travelling with her husband or …?’

‘No, Eliza,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘She’s unmarried.’

‘Ah, then perhaps she’s in hope of finding a husband in Auckland.’

‘I doubt it,’ said the Bishop. ‘Maud is even older than I am and, as I understand, is entirely set against marriage.’

‘I’ve met her only once,’ said Mrs Selwyn. ‘Long ago, at the home of my husband’s parents. And I confess I found her a most daunting and very formidable lady.’

‘Maud is rather … unusual,’ said the Bishop. ‘Very individual in her opinions. She holds strong views on the education of women — she’s even written pamphlets on the subject. And she scandalised her family by working for some time in the slums of London with … er … fallen women.’

‘As does dear Mr Gladstone,’ said Mrs Selwyn.

Bishop Selwyn looked awkward. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if, as a great favour, you might consider allowing Maud to lodge here with you until she’s settled. As you know, we’re overrun at the Mission House in Kohimarama; we have scholars tucked into every corner.’

‘Willingly,’ said Lucy. ‘When should we expect her?’

The Bishop looked even more uncomfortable. ‘If it’s not too great an inconvenience, perhaps I might escort her here the day after tomorrow?’

‘Why, yes. It is a little short notice but I’m sure I can have Johnson make up her room. And would you and Sarah care to come here that night to dine? As Miss Colville knows you, it might ease things a little.’

‘I feel it only right to warn you,’ said the Bishop, ‘that, in her conversation, Maud is inclined to be a little … forthright. One might almost say she thinks like a man. A gentleman, of course.’

‘I’m quite looking forward to meeting Miss Colville,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ve never before met a blue-stocking, though George’s Aunt Julia spoke of them in London. She seemed rather to admire them.’

I, too, was eager to meet the new arrival. I pictured her as a Romantic figure, lean and graceful, with a wistful expression and an air of unworldliness.

But, when the Bishop drew up in General Wynyard’s borrowed carriage two days later, he handed out a short brisk lady who strode purposefully towards Lucy and me.

‘Great Heavens,’ whispered Lucy, ‘she’s wearing a turban and bloomers.’

The Bishop performed the introductions.

‘How exceedingly kind of you to take me in,’ said Miss Colville. ‘I hope Gas didn’t lean upon you too hard.’

Lucy looked puzzled. ‘Gas?’

I saw the Bishop flinch.

‘George Augustus Selwyn,’ said Miss Colville. ‘Hence, always known as Gas to my brothers and me.’ She paused. ‘As you see,’ she went on, appearing entirely at ease in her new surroundings, ‘I favour the bloomer costume. Most freeing to women, particularly in such a climate as this.’ She gazed about her. ‘I do hope you’ll allow me to inspect your garden this afternoon, Lady Grey. And I’m most desirous of meeting Sir George tonight. I’ve read his accounts of his expeditions in Australia, and I understand he’s compiling a study of Maori legends. I, too, am very interested in the study of indigenous races, in particular, the role of their women.’

Miss Colville appeared at dinner clad in a long red silk robe over an orange tunic. This bizarre ensemble was completed by a pair of embroidered slippers and a bandeau of matching silk wound about
her hair, which had been scraped into some kind of topknot. I saw Mrs Selwyn start, then recover herself. The Bishop appeared not to find anything at all extraordinary in Miss Colville’s attire, and was asking for news of her brothers when Sir George joined us.

‘Ah, Sir George,’ said Miss Colville, advancing upon him, ‘this is such a great pleasure. I intend to quiz you later on land reform and colonisation. My brother, Frederick, is in the Colonial Office and he has spoken often of you.’

‘Well, I trust.’

‘Not always. But he has a high regard for your abilities, if not always your veracity.’

I saw the tip of Sir George’s nose redden slightly, but he gave his arm to Miss Colville without further comment and led her into dinner.

There followed an awkward silence in which, to allay any further indiscreet remarks from Miss Colville, Lucy, Mrs Selwyn and I all began to speak together.

‘You were saying, Sarah?’ said Lucy.

‘I was merely observing that it seems particularly humid today.’

‘I imagine,’ said Miss Colville, attacking her mutton with relish, ‘that, in a climate like this, maggots are a continual problem.’

There was another silence, broken this time by the Bishop. ‘You must tell us, Maud, what has brought you to New Zealand.’

‘Well, you are aware, Gas’ — the Bishop winced — ‘how very much engaged I am in the betterment of the lot of women, and I determined upon coming here to see for myself the part played by females in the shaping and establishing of a new colony.’ She looked expansively at us. ‘The true scholar must see for herself. Would you not agree, Sir George?’

‘Er, naturally …’

‘And my principal interest is the enfranchisement of women.’

‘That’s quite ridiculous, Maud,’ said the Bishop. ‘You are not seriously suggesting that women should have the vote?’

Miss Colville turned to her host. ‘I understand that in your dispatches, Governor, you argue that the natives here should be enfranchised? Is that not so?’

‘Yes, but how—?’

‘You will find me very well informed on these matters. Now, if
a Maori should be allowed to cast his vote — and, here, I am in complete agreement with you, Governor — why should a woman not do so?’

‘Woman, Maud, is the weaker sex. She must rely on the judgement of her husband or father.’

‘The weaker sex? In what way is woman weaker?’

‘Why, in every way. Even the Holy Book tells us that it was woman who succumbed to—’

Miss Colville gave the table a sharp rap. ‘You’re a Puseyite, Gas. I’m ashamed for you. What ridiculous notion is this, that woman in 1850 should be held accountable for the purported sin of Eve, set out in some Hebrew or Greek translation that—’

‘I must stop you, Maud. Remember you’re speaking of God’s Holy Word.’

‘My dear Gas, I can’t believe that Frederick and William haven’t told you I’ve long been a Freethinker.’

‘It may have been mentioned …’

‘Now, how is it logically possible that a woman should be speaking with a snake? It defies reason.’

Sir George leaned forward. ‘We are talking here not of reason but of belief.’

‘Ah, there we come to a topic on which I’m most desirous of interrogating you, Governor. From your study of Maori lore and legends, have you, yourself, taken on any of the native beliefs?’

‘Of course not. They are, in the main, mere superstitions.’

‘And no more logical, then, than the story of Adam and Eve?’

‘They are
native
beliefs, not Christian.’

‘And therefore inferior? I have lived among the Mussulmen in Turkey and I assure you they are quite as adamant as any Christian that their creed is the true one. But any opinion founded on lack of evidence is merely a form of superstition or a belief in magic.’

I thought guiltily of the spells and potions of my childhood. ‘But, surely,’ I ventured, ‘if belief provides comfort or a sense of security, it should be encouraged?’

Miss Colville smiled warmly at me. ‘Bravo, Miss Thompson, for entering our argument. I agree with you that there is a place for belief in human life, but it shouldn’t be confused with religion. It’s
not belief I’m against but the dominance of the practitioners of religion over the credulous. Now, Lady Grey, do you support the enfranchisement of women?’

‘I’ve never yet considered it.’

‘Were my wife to have the vote,’ said the Governor, ‘she would, of course, cast it as I instructed her.’

‘As would my dear Sarah,’ said the Bishop.

Miss Colville spent much of the next week in conversation with Sir George. Leaving them together in the drawing room one morning, Lucy and I escaped into the far reaches of the garden.

‘What do you think of her?’ she asked.

‘Well, I began by finding her quite horribly overbearing, but the more I see of her, the more I find myself warming to her.’

‘And I. She’s very strange, but I believe she has a good heart.’

‘And she’s as committed to her own ideas as the Governor or the Bishop. Has she told you that she’s taken up land about ten miles south of here and that she plans to farm it herself?’

‘She’ll have to have some help.’

‘She intends to employ a few men but still to do much of the work on her own. She says that after her experiences in the East End clinic, delivering lambs will present no problems for her at all.’

‘Well, I commend her for it, though I hope she didn’t say it to my husband or the Bishop. Godfrey, of course, finds her most original and entertaining.’

‘She most certainly is. But, sometimes, she makes me feel rather uneasy.’ I hesitated. ‘Do you recall her speaking about magic?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well … Te Toa once told me that his tohunga could make the gods speak.’

Lucy glanced around to make sure we were not overheard. ‘You must
on no account
tell my husband I’ve told you this, Fanny, but I know that to be true.’

‘You
know it? How so?’

‘If I tell you, you must swear that you’ll never speak of it to a living soul.’

‘Of course not. But I thought you’d deem it merely the conviction of savages.’

‘No, never. I have seen it for myself.’

‘
What
? When?’

‘Do you remember that when we were first at New Plymouth, Sir George became unwell?’

‘Yes, you wrote that you were seriously alarmed at his condition.’

‘The doctor feared for his life. Well, during that time, a tohunga from the local tribe came to me, saying that Sir George was at the point of death and claiming that he could call on the gods to help him. For all that he holds the natives in esteem for their intelligence and statesmanship, my husband, as you heard, professes that in their beliefs they are but as children and derides their reliance on spirits. I knew he would never consent, but the doctor could do nothing and, as Sir George was too ill to be consulted, I thanked the tohunga and asked him to do whatever he could to restore my husband.

‘The tohunga then asked for a green chair for the god to sit upon. As the only chairs to be had were black, I offered a black one, but he was adamant it must be green. “The god tells me,” he said, “that in this house there is a green chair and it is only on that chair he must sit.”

‘I’m sure the servants thought me quite mad. I set them to searching the place and, finally, in the attic, a dilapidated green chair was discovered and brought to me. The tohunga took it and entered the room, indicating that I might sit at the threshold and observe him.

‘I must tell you, Fanny, I was assailed by the strangest feeling — somewhere between doubt and fear. He muttered and murmured for some time, then cried out in English, “I see the gods ascending!” And then, from every corner of the room, came strange whistling sounds, like winds howling, which swirled about us and rose in pitch until the noise was almost unbearable.

‘Eventually, they died away and the tohunga rose and asked me to take him to my husband. I demurred, but he insisted. He laid his hand upon Sir George’s left side, made some sort of incantation over him in his own tongue, then said that within three days he would be well again and at that time he must ride on horseback to the tohunga’s pa.

‘And, Fanny, on the third day, my husband was, indeed, almost completely restored — to the amazement of his doctor. And, very unwillingly, since he purported to disbelieve such nonsense and wizardry, he rode to the pa, where he found the tribe gathered for his arrival because the tohunga had told them he would be with them on that day.’

‘But that is quite astounding …’

‘If I had not witnessed it, I should have said it was the stuff of fairy tales.’

The longer Miss Colville remained with us at Moleskin Hall, the more I began to realise that it was only in Te Toa’s company — and hers — that I felt myself truly free to think, to speak, to act as I believed, untrammelled by the strictures of polite society. I longed for Te Toa with a physical, corporeal intensity which frightened me. When we two were alone, it seemed as though we constituted the whole world but, hedged about by the need for secrecy and caution, these interludes were stolen and infrequent. I dreamed of some nameless place where we might openly meet, and was seized by a burning need to share the intensity of my passion, to make it somehow solid and real, a fact not an illusion. But I dared not yield to it.

I found myself slipping Te Toa’s name into my conversations with Lucy and Lady Martin, even with Miss Colville, but guardedly, so that it seemed no more than a casual remarking. And the pleasure it afforded me to hear others speak warmly of him or praise him was a secret joy that I clutched greedily to myself.