Song of the Spirits (61 page)

Kura made her way slowly through town on her horse and quickly located the Lucky Horse. She noted its freshly painted colorful facade, well-swept porch, clean windows, and the sign over the entrance: Inn. The girl in Westport had been right. Though it was without question a pub with a whorehouse attached, it was decidedly among the best of its kind.

Kura felt a pang of regret. The Lucky Horse looked a great deal more attractive than the Wild Rover. Could she never do anything right? She wearily guided her horse to the stables and arranged proper lodging for her horse at least. As in most towns, the stable owner was able to help her find lodging for herself. Kura thanked him, took her suitcase and sought out Greymouth’s two private renters. She felt good about her prospects, having had a good deal of experience wrapping ladies like that around her little finger by then. She decided to see the widow Miller first, while holding Mrs. Tanner’s rooms in reserve. Mrs. Tanner was the barber’s wife after all, and married women were loath to take Kura into their homes.

Mrs. Miller melted as the young woman described her triumphs as a singer. Mrs. Miller had once heard an opera in England when she was young and could still talk about it at length. The local priest, too, she assured Kura, was a great lover of music. No doubt he would he let her use the church for a concert. Of course, Mrs. Miller would rent this beautiful, well-bred girl a room. Kura didn’t mention the Wild Rover for the time being.

It wasn’t long before the people of Greymouth were talking about her; her first evening in the pub created a furor. Kura was astounded. Sure, men ate from the palm of her hand; that had always been the case. She was all but drowning in song requests and double entendres. But more than anything, the men seemed to be making comparisons. Kura was so much prettier than Miss Keefer, some of them commented, and what was more, she could sing. Others seemed to be taking bets on whether the Rover would be filled with regulars of the Horse the following Saturday.

“Even Tim Lambert will probably wander over,” one coal miner remarked, and the others could hardly contain their laughter. “This one sings. She by necessity opens her mouth twice as often as Miss Keefer.”

Only one slender blond man seemed more interested in Kura’s music than how she compared with “Madame Clarisse’s timid little mouse,” as Paddy liked to put it. Kura had noticed him as soon as he entered. He was considerably better dressed than the other customers, and the miners, instead of greeting him amiably, eyed him with suspicion. The owner, on the other hand, welcomed him in a manner bordering on reverence.

“Would you like to place any bets, Mr. Biller?” Paddy inquired. That, too, was strange. He had called all his other regulars by their first names. “We’re having a dogfight on Saturday. And there’s a race in Wellington on Sunday. I have the starting list right here. All of it is very reliable, as you know, sir. We’ll have the results by Monday evening. I still haven’t been able to convince Jimmy Farrier to tap out the telegrams on Sunday.”

“Monday’s fine,” the young man said in a distracted tone. “Just leave the program here, and bring me a whiskey, single malt.”

A few of the men sitting nearby rolled their eyes. Single malt—that stuff cost a fortune.

The young man spent the next few hours slowly drinking three glasses of whiskey, watching Kura all the while. That did not surprise
her, as she was used to that sort of admiration. What took her aback was the look in the man’s eyes. Though he observed her face, hair, clothes, and her fingers dancing over the piano keys with interest, he did not have a lascivious look in his eyes. Instead, he appeared to be appraising her objectively. Sometimes she got the impression he wanted to get up and come talk to her, but then he would change his mind. Was he shy? He didn’t seem like he was. He neither flushed at every provocation, nor drank to bolster his courage, nor grinned idiotically when Kura looked over at him.

Finally, Kura decided to draw him out of his seat. The man looked like an indubitably well-bred concertgoer interested in the technical aspects of her performance. Perhaps he knew how to appreciate talent. Indeed, he was all but gaping when she sang the “Habanera.” He finally approached her.

“Bravo!” he said enthusiastically. “That was
Carmen
, wasn’t it? Wonderful, simply wonderful. You sang it last year when you visited with the Greenwood ensemble. At first, I wasn’t sure it was you. But now, that voice…”

The man looked almost ecstatic, but Kura felt a little insulted. Could she have changed so much that a concertgoer from a year ago could not recognize her? What was more, a
man
? Normally she made an unforgettable impression on men.

In the end, Kura decided to blame it on her makeup. Every entertainer had made themselves up heavily before going onstage, and, as Carmen, she had worn her hair up whereas she was now wearing it down. Perhaps that was what had confused the man. In any event, she gave him a gracious smile.

“How flattering that you remember me.”

The young man nodded energetically. “Oh of course, and I remember your name too. Kura Marsten, was it not?”

“Martyn,” she said, correcting him, but nevertheless impressed. A peculiar man. He remembered her voice, her name—but not her face?

“I thought you a great talent even back then. But I thought the troupe had returned to England awhile ago. My name is Caleb Biller, by the way. Forgive me for not immediately…”

The man bowed as though neglecting to introduce himself before exchanging a few words with her had been a major faux pas.

Kura took a closer look at him. He was tall, slim, and quite handsome; his face was perhaps a little pale and expressionless, almost childishly innocent. His lips were thin but well shaped, and he had high cheekbones and blue eyes. Everything about Caleb Biller looked a little colorless. He had, however, been well brought up.

Kura smiled again.

“Is there any song in particular you’d like me to sing for you, Mr. Biller?” she asked. Perhaps he would order her a single malt too. For twenty percent of a drink in that price range, she could get used to drinking cold tea.

“Miss Martyn, every song that comes from your lips thrills me,” Caleb said politely. “But, tell me, what is that?”

He was pointing at the
putorino
Kura had laid on the piano.

“Is that one of those Maori flutes? I’ve never held anything like it before. May I?”

Kura nodded, at which Caleb carefully picked up the instrument and cast an expert eye over it.

“Would you play something on it?” he asked. “I would love to hear it, especially the spirit voice.”

“
Wairua
?” Kura smiled. “I can’t make any promises here, as the spirits do not generally pass through pubs. It’s beneath their dignity.”

Telling a few mysterious stories about the spirit voice always went over well. Yet in secret Kura wondered how he knew about the spirit voice. Only a few
pakeha
knew about the instrument’s peculiarities. This young man here must be interested in Maori culture.

Kura stood up and played a simple song, first in the high-pitched female voice of the instrument. A few customers booed. Without question, the majority wanted to hear more drinking songs, not Maori music.

“Without accompaniment, it sounds a little thin,” Kura said apologetically.

Caleb nodded fervently. “Yes, I see. May I?”

He gestured to the piano bench, and a confused Kura made room for him. Right away, he began playing a lively accompaniment. Kura followed him with the flute, switching from the female to the male range, to which Caleb responded with lower notes. When they finished, the miners applauded.

“You don’t play the tin whistle by chance?” a drunken Irishman asked.

Kura rolled her eyes.

“But perhaps you could play something else in the style of the Maori?” Caleb inquired. “Their music fascinates me. And the dancing, the
haka
. Wasn’t it originally a war dance?”

Kura explained a few peculiarities of Maori music to him and sang an illustrative song. Caleb seemed excited. Paddy Holloway less so, however.

“Now stop that racket,” he yelled, decidedly upset after three songs. “The men want to hear something lighthearted. They get enough whining from their wives.”

Kura exchanged a look of commiseration with Caleb Biller and returned to the drinking songs. The young man did not stay long after that.

“I must take my leave,” he said politely, bowing again formally to Kura. “It was exceptionally stimulating to be permitted to listen to you, and I would very much like to do it again when an opportunity presents itself. How long will you be staying in Greymouth?”

Kura explained to him that she planned to stay in town for at least a few weeks. Caleb expressed his delight.

“Then we’ll most certainly find an opportunity to make music together,” he remarked. “But now I must be on my way. I have to be up early in the morning. The mine.”

Caleb left unsaid to what degree the mine was dependent on him but bowed once again and disappeared.

Kura decided to ask Paddy about him. The opportunity soon presented itself when he placed another “whiskey” on the piano for her.

“That fellow a miner?”

Paddy roared with laughter. “No, dear, he’s on the other side. The Biller Mine belongs to his dad, one of the two biggest private mines in town and one of the oldest in the district to boot. Very rich family. If you land that one, you’re set. Doesn’t seem to be easy though. They say he don’t like girls.”

A few months before, this explanation would have confused Kura, but after the tour with Roderick’s ensemble, she had learned about life’s diversity.

“He seems to be interested in music,” she said.

Paddy grinned. “A nail in the coffin of his old man. The boy’s interested in just about anything except coal mining. He would have liked to study medicine, but in the end, they settled on geology. Devil knows what that is, but it’s supposed to have something to do with coal. The foremen say the younger Biller knows nothing about mining and is a good-for-nothing as a businessman too. And if he bets on a horse, you can be sure it’ll come in last. That boy’ll be costing his old man money until hell freezes over.”

“But does he come to the pub often?” Kura asked. In her experience, regular visits to the pub did not fit with a man who avoided the society of women. Men seemed to recognize such proclivities in other men immediately and singled the bearer of those proclivities out for universal ridicule. Sometimes, there were even serious hostilities. A dancer in Roderick’s group had once been beaten in a pub.

Paddy shrugged. “Every now and then, he’ll walk in and place a few bets. I don’t know if that’s what he really feels like doing or if his daddy chases him out of the house. Occasionally, they stop in together, and then the old man buys a few rounds for everyone and acts chummy. But that seems to be more awkward for the boy than anything. When he comes alone, he drinks his malt whiskey—I always keep a bottle ready for him—and doesn’t talk to anyone. Strange guy.
Makes you almost feel sorry for the elder Biller. But like I said, keep at it! The post of Mrs. Biller is still up for grabs.”

Kura rolled her eyes. Trading her sheep farm in the Canterbury Plains for a mine in Greymouth did not appeal to her in the slightest. Whatever problems Caleb Biller had—Kura-maro-tini was not interested.

T
he relationship between Elaine and Timothy had, according to a gossipy Matt Gawain, markedly improved since the Saint Barbara’s Day race. Their recent evening exchange of greetings no longer consisted entirely of “Good evening, Miss Keefer” and “Good evening, Mr. Lambert.” Instead, Timothy braved a “Good evening, Lainie,” which was answered with a more or less indifferent “Good evening, Timothy.”

“If things keep up like this,” Ernie Gast chimed in with a grin, “it won’t be five years before you’re allowed to sit next to her in church.”

Timothy Lambert let his friends tease him. He himself felt—and had provoked—many subtle alterations in their interactions. For example, after Saint Barbara’s Day, he had ceased to request “Silver Dagger” every night. Instead, he asked for a different ballad—“John Riley”—which was about a young sailor who, after seven years at sea, finally woos his beloved.

At first, Elaine had thought it was just a passing mood. But after three days, she asked him.

“‘John Riley’ again? What happened to ‘Silver Dagger,’ Timothy?” Elaine looked a little braver and more approachable that day. It was the Saturday after the race, and Timothy had ordered a round for everyone in the Lucky Horse to celebrate his win and hers.

“To our beautiful Lainie, the real winner of the Lambert Derby!”

Naturally, Elaine had been expected to drink with them, and was now tipsy. She had even eyed Timothy a bit mischievously over the piano when he placed his musical request.

Timothy laughed and winked at her conspiratorially.

“The ‘Silver Dagger’? Oh, I’d rather you learned to do without it, Lainie. It would make me nervous to have my wife always carrying a dagger around.”

Elaine frowned. “Your wife?”