The Trespass (52 page)

‘She took a knife,’ said Lucy quietly. ‘I seen her take a knife.’

Several more small schooners and even rowing boats appeared out of the setting sun, so that a little flotilla was already accompanying the
Seagull
into the harbour, white-topped waves everywhere, dusk in the dark velvety hills.

‘I do not believe you,’ said Lord Ralph Kingdom, his face like stone as he answered the servant at last.
I cannot tell you,
Harriet had said to him.

‘I think Miss Mary knew.’ Lucy went on as if he hadn’t spoken as the
Seagull
was escorted into the port. ‘God rest her dear, crippled soul, she was waiting – it was like a fluttering hen – for Miss Harriet to return from Kent and I saw, she never stopped watching her, always. Like she was to keep her safe. And so when Miss Mary died Miss Harriet had no one to guard her.’

The Captain called, the sailors pulled at the remaining sails, made the anchor ready.

And the few survivors of the wreck of the
Cloudlight,
those who had chosen to complete their voyage after all, stood on the deck as lights twinkled from the shore and the shadowy Wellington hills pulled them inwards. Some of them wept.

Benjamin suddenly appeared on deck holding a blinking, wary George by the hand.

‘There is the land, George,’ said Benjamin.

‘Look at the lights, George,’ said Lucy.

Lord Ralph Kingdom said nothing: his face was a cold mask of granite as he stared, not at the new land, but at the destruction of all his hopes and dreams.

THIRTY-ONE

In the Government House silver gleamed as the lamps were lit. White tablecloths stood on a table that groaned with good food and wine; exquisite china and crystal had been laid for the honoured guests of the Lieutenant-Governor and his wife. The company listened, enraptured, to the opinions of the Right Honourable Sir Charles Cooper, MP. He was in fine, ebullient form and, sitting around the long oak table brought from England, the ladies and gentlemen of the new colony deferred to his different knowledge and his closeness to the Colonial Office and the Prime Minister.

‘Earl Grey in the Colonial Office has been quite clear. From the moment that British dominion was proclaimed in New Zealand, all lands not actually occupied by the natives ought to be considered as property of the Crown in its capacity as Trustee for the whole community.’

The Lieutenant-Governor looked uneasy. ‘I do not believe the natives see it that way.’

‘Is that relevant?’ said Sir Charles Cooper.

They toasted Her Majesty. The footmen refilled the glasses. It was as if they were in England.

And all the time his daughter’s thoughts whirled and hurtled, as the lights glittered, and the polite conversation murmured on: she saw their faces admiring her father and almost cried out in despair: of course he did not seem mad, of course they would never believe her.
Where can I escape to in this small, gossiping town? – I will kill myself rather than live through this – the small boats drawn up along the shore – could I take one in the darkness? – there are islands in the harbour – do natives live there? – I have never rowed, but I have watched the men doing it often enough, I could do it too – Eddie bought a horse – could I get a horse?

Outside the wind blew and branches fell across the muddy, rutted roads: inside the chandeliers moved slightly, the footmen bowed, the
décolletage
of the ladies gleamed whitely and their diamonds shone.

I refuse to live through this.

As the ladies were rising in a rustle of silk to take tea in the drawing room the Lieutenant-Governor said, ‘I believe you play the piano, Miss Cooper.’

‘It is some time, sir, since I have done that.’ A tiny button was missing from her dress.

‘But your fame has travelled before you. Captain Stark told me of your accomplishment aboard the
Amaryllis.
You will play for us tonight, I hope, in the drawing room.’

‘Of course she will play,’ said Sir Charles and his eyes glittered like fire. ‘She will sing “Yes! I Have Dared to Love Thee”.’

The ladies went into the drawing room, port was poured for the gentlemen. The rooms were connected by doors that folded back: Sir Charles sat so that, always, Harriet was in his view in the next room. As he answered the questions that officials put to him about matters in London he observed every movement his beautiful daughter made. There was a mark on the side of her face: nobody was so impolite as to mention it: to Sir Charles it only made her more precious and his legs moved suddenly in his chair and his colour heightened and his eyes shone as he contemplated the beautiful, beautiful girl and the long, long night in front of him. Sometimes he could not make any semblance of keeping still, he rose and strode about the dining room with his port in his hand for some moments and then returned to his seat, never losing sight of his daughter.

In the drawing room the ladies regarded the new arrival with interest and curiosity. She alone was not wearing the low-cut gown so necessary for such dinner engagements: she was in mourning and was excused. Polite inconsequences and local gossip were exchanged at first; Harriet nodded dumbly, politely.

‘You came to New Zealand on your own, Miss Cooper?’ asked one finally. (Such was the odd story that was doing the rounds in the town about this new and rather mysterious arrival.)

Harriet looked at them: smiling, curious, rustling ladies. What would happen if she told them the truth of the room in the Barratt’s Hotel, of the mark on her face; threw herself on their mercy? How would their faces react?
What words can I use?
Yet surely they were kind, had hearts like her own? She took a deep breath.

‘I came,’ she said, ‘because—’ She looked again at the smooth faces. One of the ladies leaned forward very slightly in anticipation. And Harriet was at once struck by the absolute impossibility of saying aloud what she wanted to say.
She had not even been able to talk about it openly to her own sister.
What words would she use to describe what was happening to her in a locked room not a mile away? She had seen their faces smiling forwards as they listened to her father and they would not believe her.

‘I came because I felt my cousin should know about my sister’s death from me. He was very fond of her. It was – it was such a terrible sadness.’ Her voice shook just a little.

‘And your dear father came all the way to accompany you home again!’

And from the rustle of the dresses and the nodding of their ringlets she saw that they admired this picture tremendously:
what a wonderful father,
they said,
what a wonderful man.
The lights gleamed on their white bosoms and they spoke at last of the difficulties of getting servants in the new colony, how they were paid outrageous wages. They observed the lights from the
Seagull,
which was anchoring below them in the harbour, the sails were furled, small boats worried around the bigger ship like children, lanterns flickered as night fell. The Lieutenant-Governor’s wife informed them that messages had already advised Government House that the
Seagull
was carrying not only spices, but shipwrecked passengers from the South Atlantic Ocean. And the well-bred ladies shivered slightly, and pulled their evening mantles about them, for all had made the long journey.

The men entered the drawing room with much energy and intent, speaking of the settlers’ meeting that was now to be addressed by both the Lieutenant-Governor and Sir Charles.

‘And then I must meet the
Seagull,
’ said the Lieutenant-Governor. ‘We are not sure who is aboard after the terrible disaster of the
Cloudlight
of which we have had news. I expect they will not come ashore until first light but my men will row me out, it is my duty as Her Majesty’s representative here to hear their story most urgently. But first, Miss Cooper, to send us on our way, just one song.’

Harriet dutifully rose and walked to the grand piano in the corner of the room. For a moment, as her hands lay still in her lap, the room was silent; they could hear the wind blowing through the trees outside and voices called somewhere from the muddy roads that were not London. Somewhere in the house a door banged.
But I will not sing.

Harriet played ‘Song Without Words’. The notes filled the big wooden room and drifted out into the night. Perhaps they were heard in the hills behind them, perhaps in the darkness soft-footed, sure-footed natives stopped, just for a moment, as they moved through the bush in total silence.

As the last notes echoed into stillness the Lieutenant-Governor wiped a surreptitious tear from his eye. The music of Mendelssohn reminded him of how much he yearned for civilisation, and for Home, and of how he loved his wife.

He cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, my dear Miss Cooper. Captain Stark was not exaggerating your daughter’s gift, Sir Charles. You are indeed a fortunate man.’ His guest gave a slight bow.

‘I am indeed fortunate,’ answered Sir Charles Cooper. And he smiled.

‘And now,’ and the Lieutenant-Governor rose, ‘it is time for the gentlemen to attend to business. People have come from miles away. We shall address the settlers from a platform on the quay.’

Harriet was to go back to the hotel, Sir Charles decreed. They were to be escorted down to the harbour by soldiers of Her Majesty’s 65th Regiment, and as they were leaving several of the ladies told Harriet about the Wednesday afternoon concerts that the regiment’s band performed, and how they hoped to see her there.

‘We will be leaving the day after tomorrow,’ said Sir Charles, ‘on the
White Princess
for Sydney. I must return to London as soon as possible,’ and the ladies professed sadness at such a short acquaintance.

Harriet looked back once from the uneven road where her father held her tightly by the arm, held up her black glove for a moment, as a last goodbye to the smiling, waving ladies.

*   *   *

The Lieutenant-Governor may have thought that the passengers aboard the
Seagull
would wait until morning to disembark but he was wrong. As the ship had dropped anchor, as the sails had been furled and the ladies from Government House had looked down, Ralph and Benjamin were huddled together on a far corner of the deck. The Wellington wind whipped their words away almost as soon as they had been spoken, as if to lose them before they did further damage. In shock and anger and horror Ralph imparted to Benjamin what Lucy had told him. Such was their faith in Lucy that neither of them at any point queried the truth of what she had said.

‘This changes everything, Ben,
everything.
’ And Benjamin saw his brother’s closed and desolate face.

For a moment the younger man said nothing at all. So this, this terrible story, was the message, beating at his heart. This was what he had seen on her face when he had so lightly informed her that perhaps a God did not exist to protect her. He stared across the choppy water at the little town of which they had had such high hopes, where small lights glittered and blew. He had not understood that the beautiful adventure would turn out this way. Then he turned to his brother, his face grave.

‘Ralph. You cannot – you must not – desert her now. Her flight is at last explained and her need of you may be very great. We must find her and make sure she is safe.’

‘But—’ and Ralph’s voice was low and desperate, all his joy gone, all the vicissitudes of the journey suffered for nothing, ‘but I could not, of course, marry her now –
O God I cannot bear to think of it.
’ Ralph buried his head into his arms as he leant on the dark deck rail and his muffled voice continued. ‘Think of it, Ben, think of it,
Sir Charles Cooper to
—’ and a groan of pain seemed to escape from the deck rail, ‘—I am heir to the Kingdom fortune, my wife must of course be – that is to say –
pure,
pure as driven snow, my children’s mother … I could not, Ben. Not a woman who has been—’ he searched and searched for the word he could not say, ‘who has been – no, it is out of the question. I
could not.
’ And then he repeated,
I cannot bear to think of it.

Again Benjamin was silent. He heard the sailors whistling out to the small boats that had already brought traders aboard to meet with the Captain and discuss his cargo. He looked at his brother, partly in pity, partly there was something fiercer in his eyes.

At last, in a dark corner of the deck of the anchored
Seagull,
there in the night harbour so far from home, Benjamin took a deep breath and, because he knew he must, gave Miss Harriet Cooper back to his brother.

‘Ralph, listen to me. The world is changing as at no other time in history – you and I have often discussed this, how lucky we are to be alive in such a time of discovery and invention and discourse. We are lucky enough also to be well-educated, well-connected men and I believe we should be in the forefront of those changes and I cannot help but think that our – our attitude towards, our whole way of thinking about, women – is to be one of those changes.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I am talking about Miss Cooper and the misfortune that has come upon her that is surely not her fault.’ Benjamin heard the wind blowing through the rigging above them. ‘What a terrible – what an
unspeakable
thing to happen to a young girl. No wonder she could not tell you why she was leaving.’

‘She is ruined.’

‘How many women have you—’ Benjamin chose his words carefully, ‘—known? It has not, I believe, ruined you. It has not, has it, defiled you and made you impure?’

Ralph, who had been staring down at the dark choppy water, looked at his brother first in amazement and then in anger. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! That is entirely different!’

‘It is only different, Ralph, because we
think of women so differently from ourselves.
’

‘Of course.’ Ralph’s voice was even angrier. ‘Women
are
different, quite different beings! They are to comfort and to cleanse us, to give us peace and to bring out the best in us. That is what I believed Miss Cooper would do for me. But women of course can only do that if they—’ again he could not find the right words, ‘if they are
pure.
That is the most important quality that they must have.’