Kitty (11 page)

And muskets, Kitty thought.

‘And now pestilence!’ George went on, spitting with the force of his words. ‘Yes, pestilence! We must stop this trade in human flesh and human morals, we must stop it
now
!’

Very quietly, but with a distinct undertone of menace, Rian said, ‘How can you be so sure that the girl was prostituting herself? You too, Doctor, for that matter.’

‘Because she has brought back the plague!’ George exclaimed.

‘Measles, actually,’ Doctor Ford said.

‘She could have contracted it from any visitor to the area, surely,’ Rian said. ‘It isn’t a disease spread solely by sexual congress, is it, Doctor?’

Sarah and George both flinched.

‘Not to my knowledge. I have never seen it specified in the medical journals as such.’

‘So it could have come from anyone in passing? A trader, perhaps? One of Busby’s visitors keen to see how the natives live in their quaint little village?’ Rian paused. ‘A travelling missionary?’

George’s thin face blanched even paler than it normally was. ‘What are you implying, Captain?’

‘I’m not implying anything, Reverend, I’m saying it. These European maladies are unknown to the Maoris, but our presence here is introducing them. What chance do they have against diseases that not even physicians in England have a cure for? Some people might call it wholesale murder.’

In an instant George’s expression changed from outrage to one of imperious righteousness. ‘Ah, I understand now! You are one of those
who would wish that the natives be left alone entirely. I’ve heard of that particular school of thought. Just so long as there is still provision for you to trade with them, though, I assume?’

‘I supply them with what they need,’ Rian said smoothly, although his hands had clenched into fists.

‘So do I—the opportunity for eternal salvation and a place in God’s house.’

‘Do you really think that’s a fair trade?’ Rian replied. ‘A copy of the New Testament in exchange for an early death? Christ almighty!’ he exploded.

‘Do not
dare
to blaspheme in this house!’ George roared.

Sarah had her hands over her face now, appalled at what was happening. ‘Stop it, both of you, please!’ she begged. ‘There is a sick girl under our roof.’

Taking a deep breath, Rebecca said calmly, ‘Mrs Kelleher is right, Amy needs our help. Others will, too, by the sound of it. This is not the time for acrimony.’

‘Quite right,’ Doctor Ford said. ‘Plenty of fluids for the girl, Mrs Kelleher, and light sustenance if possible. Other than that, there is little else to be done for her.’ He picked up his bag. ‘I’m off to inform Tupehu, before it’s too late.’

Doctor Ford was too late. Measles infected both the Paihia mission station and Pukera village. Rian sent his crew to talk to the captains of each of the nine vessels anchored in the harbour, but five of the ships crept away under cover of the cloudy, moonless night. He and his crew stayed on board the
Katipo,
but as soon as the quarantine was lifted they set sail themselves.

Roughly two-thirds of the Maoris and half of the missionaries caught the disease. Twenty-two Maoris died, mostly the young and the very old, as well as two children from the missionary families: Jannah and Frederick Tait’s youngest child, and poor, sweet little Harry Purcell. Rebecca was utterly distraught and barely consoled by the new life she
was carrying. When her baby was born a few weeks later, she and Win called the little girl Harriet.

Amy recovered, and so did Sarah and Kitty. The schools were closed, and Kitty, Sarah, Jannah Tait and Mrs Williams spent a lot of time at the village helping to tend the sick. They walked out to Pukera every morning after they’d completed their chores and prepared food for those too ill to cook for themselves. They administered tincture of arnica and calendula for the rash, and draughts of kareao and occasionally laudanum for the fever, washed soiled clothing in the communal copper, swept out the little houses, and kept the healthy children amused and away from sick ones, and didn’t get home again until dark. There were meals to prepare for their own families, some of whom were ill themselves and being tended by Rebecca, her face grey with exhaustion and grief, and the older children who weren’t afflicted. Kitty had never been so fatigued in her life. She still felt weak and dizzy from her own bout of measles, and collapsed every night on her bed, sleeping sometimes without even undressing.

Wai never became ill and nor did George, who was convinced that his extreme piety had given him divine immunity. While the disease made its home in the two communities, the little mission church was filled to bursting point every Sunday with the Maoris asking the Pakeha God for protection from the illness, until a whisper started circulating in the village to the effect that the epidemic was retribution from the ancient gods for abandoning the old ways, and the number of Maori worshippers dropped again.

Neither Kitty nor Wai told anyone else about Amy’s visit to the German whaling ship, and no specific person was ever publicly blamed for the catastrophe. George, still convinced that Amy was the culprit, refused however to dismiss her, as he believed she could still be saved if only she would accept the hand of the Lord. Or so he said; Kitty thought it more likely that he couldn’t bear the idea of people knowing that a girl under his tutelage had still chosen to prostitute herself.

Amy never spoke about it, but Kitty often wondered how it must feel to carry the responsibility for the deaths of nearly two dozen people, many of them your own family, to your grave.

July, 1839

K
itty was busy, busier than she’d even been at home in Norfolk. The weather had grown cooler and she, Sarah and the girls had been furiously bottling fruit and vegetables for the leaner months ahead, and making heavy quilts for the beds.

Her teaching duties at the mission kept her occupied in the mornings. Between them, she, Jannah Tait and Mrs Williams taught the younger Maori children, as well as the daughters of Paihia’s missionaries at the English Girls’ School Mrs Williams had started thirteen years before. Frederick Tait taught at the English Boys’ School. Although lessons included reading, writing and arithmetic, and sewing for the girls, Reverend Williams’s primary goal was to teach the children the doctrine of Christianity, not the finer points of English, so the lessons were all taught in Maori. Kitty had floundered hopelessly when she’d first started in the mission classroom, but after five or six weeks of listening to Jannah and the children, her grasp of the native language had improved markedly. Now she was able to take a whole morning of classes by herself and understand and converse reasonably fluently in Maori. The irony, however, was that many of the adult Maoris she spoke with regularly, like Wai and Amy and Haunui, wanted to speak in English so they could get in some practice of their own.

It was hard work, teaching, and more rewarding than Kitty had
expected, although some days she had the disconcerting feeling that she’d been press-ganged into someone else’s existence, someone far more suited to a life of faith and piety than she would ever be. She still missed her mother very much, although her earlier resentment at being sent away had mellowed into the realisation that Mama had only done what she thought best. She was missing the Norfolk summer too. It was very odd having cold weather in the middle of the year, and she wondered what it was going to be like eating a big Christmas dinner in the muggy heat of a Paihia December.

But she liked her students, which was a consolation, and enjoyed watching them learn. Most fascinating for her, though, was seeing how differently the Maori children viewed the world. Their ideas about ownership (if they wanted it, they took it and therefore subsequently owned it) and philanthropy (non-existent outside the family) were initially rather shocking, but they were fun-loving and bright, and far more independent and capable than middle-class English children of a similar age would be. The sons and daughters of the missionaries seemed to fall somewhere in the middle.

Something else, too, was taking up a fair amount of her time—her unexpected but growing friendship with Haunui. First there had been that business with her sunhat, and then his singing to her to calm her nerves when Wai was having her moko done, and it had gone on from there. He was a friendly and open man, and much more amiable than his countenance might suggest. He was also very amusing and had a wry sense of humour, and seemed very intelligent. When he wasn’t away travelling with Tupehu he would come to the Kelleher house to talk to Kitty and Wai and tell them everything he had seen on his travels and ask Kitty what the rest of the world was like across the blue, blue sea. He told her stories about the marvellous exploits and adventures of his ancestors, and of the gods who had lived in the skies, rivers and mountains of Aotearoa before them, and of what life had been like when the musket wars were raging, and what happened when the missionaries came while he was still a very small boy. Kitty loved these stories, although she realised that Haunui wasn’t necessarily visiting solely for the pleasure of
her company—he was also, she suspected, keeping an eye on Wai on behalf of his brother.

Sarah had decided that Haunui was relatively harmless, even if he was a ‘bachelor’ as she termed him, and George seldom seemed to notice who was in the house and who wasn’t. Haunui didn’t attend church very regularly, which prompted a lecture from Sarah every time she saw him, but other than that she seemed content to allow Kitty to spend time with him, even unchaperoned. Perhaps, Kitty thought, in her aunt’s eyes he was so gauche and ugly that it never crossed her mind that he might pose a threat to Kitty’s virtue, and he never did.

Kitty was alone this afternoon, though, sitting on a bench in the front garden making the most of the winter sun, concentrating on unpicking a dress she had been teaching Amy how to make. Amy had approached the job with her usual cavalier attitude, and the result was a garment with sixteen buttons down the bodice and only thirteen buttonholes, sleeves that were different lengths, and a skirt that puffed messily out at the waist because Amy couldn’t be bothered tacking down the pleats before she stitched them in. The waist and the buttonholes were fixable, but Kitty had grave doubts about the sleeves. Perhaps she could add some sort of braid to the forearms to even them up.

‘One of your efforts?’ a voice asked.

Kitty started; Rian Farrell stood several feet away on the garden path, looking as windswept and self-assured as ever.

‘Good afternoon, Captain,’ she said, her heart fluttering annoyingly at the sight of him. ‘No, it’s one of Amy’s.’

‘Very nice,’ Rian said dubiously.

She hadn’t seen him for several months—no one had, not since the measles epidemic—and although he annoyed her mightily every time she did see him, she wished she’d taken more care with her hair this morning and worn the smarter of her mourning dresses.

‘You’re back,’ she said, then frowned because it was such a vacuous thing to say.

‘I am.’

‘I trust you had a successful journey?’

‘Oh, we did. Spent a fair bit of it in the Pacific Islands this time.’

‘Really? How exciting. Aunt Sarah’s visiting and Uncle George is upstairs in his study. He says he’s not to be disturbed.’

‘I didn’t come to see your uncle—I came to see you,’ Rian said, sitting down on the other end of the bench. ‘I heard at Pukera that you spent a lot of time helping out there during the measles epidemic.’

Kitty wondered if there might be a hint of respect or even admiration in his voice, then decided she’d probably misheard.

‘We all did,’ Kitty said. ‘That’s what missionaries do: God’s work.’ She had to admit, however, if only to herself, that since the epidemic she’d wondered more than once what sort of God took the lives of little children for no reason at all.

Rian said, ‘But you’re not a proper missionary, are you?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Kitty regarded him warily. His face was hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, but she suspected he might be smiling.

‘You’re not a proper missionary. And if that’s the case, what are you doing at a mission station thousands of miles from home?’

‘You’re rather sadly mistaken, Captain,’ Kitty replied, suddenly very uncomfortable. She had the most horrible feeling that he was seeing straight through her. ‘I read the Bible daily, I spread God’s word and I teach at the mission school.’

‘Ah, but is your heart truly in it?’ Rian asked.

‘Of course it is!’

‘That’s not what your pupils say.’

‘What?’ Kitty felt a stab of guilt as she recalled the many times she’d suggested to her children that they go for a walk along the beach or through the bush instead of endlessly reading over their catechisms. They’d certainly seemed to enjoy it when she’d told them the English names for all the things they saw, and they in turn had taught her the Maori names. And then there was the time she’d shown them how to make pikelets on a griddle over an open fire, and they’d tickled eels out of the stream to bake in the embers—she’d thought that had gone down very well. ‘Has someone complained?’

‘No, far from it,’ Rian said. ‘They think you’re wonderful.’

Kitty looked at him suspiciously. ‘How do you know?’

‘I asked them.’

‘You asked my students whether or not I’m a good teacher?’

‘A few, at the village.’ At the look on her face, he said, ‘Well, why not? The elders think so, too. Well, the ones who believe that the school puts too much emphasis on the Bible, at least.’

‘It does, too,’ Kitty said before she could stop herself.

Rian pounced. ‘See? If you were a proper missionary you wouldn’t say that.’

‘But it
is
a mission school.’ Kitty knew he was making fun of her and she didn’t like it.

‘And I’ve seen you in church fidgeting and yawning and trying not to doze off,’ he went on. ‘Except during your uncle’s sermons, of course. Nobody could doze off during those. Very hellfire, they are.’

Kitty snorted. ‘You don’t go to church. I’ve never seen you.’

‘I’ve been once or twice, but you sit at the front. I’ve always said there’s no harm in putting a bob each way—you never know when you might be called to meet your maker unexpectedly. I’d hate to have the Pearly Gates slammed in my face when I do finally get there.’

Kitty glanced nervously up at the house. ‘Don’t let Uncle George hear you saying that.’

Rian shrugged. ‘So, will you admit it? That you’re not a proper missionary?’

‘No, I won’t, because you’re wrong,’ Kitty retorted, well aware that he knew she was lying.

He smiled again, and the silence between them seemed to open up and fill with something very close to anticipation. She tried hard to think of something to say that would break the growing tension.

‘Anyway,’ he said, ferreting in a pocket and handing her a small parcel. ‘This is for you.’

Kitty felt her face flush as she regarded the gift, wrapped in a piece of pale green silk and tied with a length of string.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Open it and find out.’

To her mortification her hands shook and her heart raced alarmingly as she undid the string and folded open the fabric. Inside was a bangle about half an inch wide, milky blue in colour and carved with stylised flowers. It was polished and felt very light, and it was beautiful.

‘What is it made of?’ Kitty asked, to cover her embarrassment.

‘Blue coral.’

‘But why?’ she said, barely able to meet his eyes. ‘Why have I got a present?’

Rian stood up. ‘Because it’s about time you had something nice,’ he said abruptly, and walked away down the garden path.

‘Thank you!’ she called out, but he didn’t seem to hear and kept walking.

She sat staring at the bangle, rubbing her thumb over the delicate carving. It really was beautiful. But Rian Farrell had no business giving her gifts, and she had no business accepting them: he might one day expect something in return, and she knew she could never reciprocate.

She slipped the bangle under her collection of embroidery threads at the bottom of her work basket. As she shut the lid, rather harder than necessary, she heard footsteps behind her and George appeared on the verandah. He had grown even thinner over the past months, and his black coat hung off him.

‘Who was that?’ he snapped.

‘Captain Farrell.’

George exclaimed, ‘Damned heathen, may he
rot in hell
!’ so vehemently that Kitty jumped. Looking out across the garden, he hissed, ‘And here’s another one!’ before going back inside, slamming the front door behind him. Kitty could hear his boots as he hurried up the stairs to shut himself in his study again. Stunned, she stared after him for a moment, then turned to see Haunui waving at her from the gate. He stood beside the mission’s only horse, an elderly specimen optimistically named Flash, who was yoked to a cart containing something bulky covered with a blanket. Behind Haunui were two Maori youths from Frederick Tait’s workshop.

His smile slipping slightly, Haunui came down the garden path.

‘Reverend Kereha not feeling good?’ he asked.

Kitty set her sewing aside and stood up. ‘It doesn’t seem to be one of his better days, no.’

Haunui pointed his finger at the side of his head and made a twirling motion.

‘Well, yes, unfortunately,’ Kitty said, feeling marginally disloyal. ‘Is it that obvious?’

Haunui nodded.

‘To everyone?’

Haunui nodded again. ‘It is said the demons he preaches about are living in him.’

Kitty frowned. Uncle George’s behaviour had become a little odd lately, and his sermons did focus rather persistently on redemption and salvation—or rather, what would happen to people who were
not
redeemed or saved—but she hadn’t realised that other people were beginning to comment.

No, she corrected herself, her uncle’s behaviour had become
very
odd. She’d never been frightened of him, not even as a child, but these days she found herself loath to be alone with him, or even share food at the same table. He had become…
fraught
somehow, moody, secretive and very short-tempered, and some days she believed she could feel him almost
vibrating
with whatever was consuming him. Fortunately for her, he spent all his spare time in his study poring over his religious books, so she really saw him only at meals, but even that was too often.

She had asked her aunt several weeks ago whether her uncle was feeling well, but Sarah had replied that he was simply doing his best to fulfil his duties, especially when Reverend Williams was away from Paihia and George had to step in for him.

‘But don’t you think some of his behaviour is a little, well, strange?’ Kitty had asked.

She was alluding to George’s recently developed habit of saying grace not just before every meal, but also before every cup of tea or scone or pikelet. And it wasn’t just grace, either; it included substantial tracts
from the Bible, which he insisted must be listened to by everyone in the house, whatever they were doing. By the time he’d finished, the repast had invariably gone cold.

There were other things, too, and now a new eccentricity: he had to have the cutlery laid exactly so many inches apart and away from the edge of the dining table; otherwise he wouldn’t sit down to eat. When he was served his food, the plate had to be placed with the meat on the side furthest away from him; if it wasn’t, he would refuse it. Furthermore, if his potatoes happened to touch his cabbage while he was eating them, or gravy from the meat dribbled across and contaminated his peas, the whole lot had to be removed and a new helping served on a clean plate. And another grace said.