Song of the Spirits (100 page)

Florence Biller stepped into her new office. It was a little smaller than her husband’s—just to keep up appearances. And a good deal smaller than Caleb’s father’s, but he had already announced his intention to gradually withdraw from the business. After all, his son was now working there diligently.

Just that day, Caleb had sat at his desk for almost two hours. Florence had not even noticed when he had left the house. As she passed by, she glanced almost tenderly at his blond head, bent low over his books and papers—none of which had even the slightest thing to do with mining or coal. Caleb was working on a treatise on the geological link between Maori greenstone—or
pounamu
—and Chinese and South American jade, as well as its mythological significance for the Maori and Aztec cultures. The subject positively enthralled him. The previous evening, he had given Florence a lengthy presentation on the relationship between the various occurrences of jadeite and nephrite. As a good wife, she had listened to him respectfully, but during business hours, he did not bother her with it. Florence quietly closed the door between their rooms.

Her office! It was not only brightly lit and inviting, but, most importantly, it offered a view of the mine’s buildings. The Biller Mine offices were on the second floor of a warehouse, and from Florence’s window, she could see the headframe tower, the entrances to the mine, and the tracks that ensured the rapid transport of the extracted coal to the rail depot. It was the most modern facility in the region. Florence could not get enough of the view, but then she was interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.

Bill Holland, she remembered. Still a rather young man but one who had been employed by the Billers for a considerable time.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, madam?” he inquired in a servile manner.

Florence took a look at the furnishings in her office. Bookshelves, a desk, a small sitting area in a corner—and a tea set. She frowned.

“It’s very nice, Mr. Holland. But could you please store the teakettle and the china in your office? It will disturb my concentration to have you tinkering with those in here. You can see to that during your lunch break—or no, rather do it now.”

The man had to be put in his place. Florence thought of Caleb, who had no doubt forgotten to have breakfast that morning. She smiled. “Following that, take a cup of tea in to my husband along with a few sandwiches. And please bring me the balances for the last two months, along with the catalogs for our most important construction-material suppliers.”

Holland withdrew with an indignant expression. Florence watched him go. Time would tell whether she could work with him. It would be a shame to have to let him go. He did not seem to be stupid, and he was exceptionally handsome. If he also proved discreet, he might go straight to the short list. After all, she would eventually have to decide which of their loyal employees was worthy of siring Caleb Biller’s heir.

Florence smoothed her sharply cut dark skirt and rearranged the neckline of her flouncy white blouse. She would need a mirror! Though there would certainly be people who would wonder at the management of the Biller Mine over the next few years, she had no
reason to be ashamed of her femininity. Florence had time. She would run this office and this mine according to what she thought best.

Emere strode through the rooms of Lionel Station. The old Maori woman walked slowly, holding her
putorino
flute clenched in her hand, as though she needed it for support. Lionel Station. Her home and that of her children. The house to which John had brought her so long ago, when she had still been a princess, a chieftain’s daughter and ward of a sorceress. She had loved John Sideblossom then—enough to leave her tribe after he had lain with her in her family’s sleeping lodge. Emere had thought that she was his wife until he came home with that girl, that blonde
pakeha
. When Emere had asserted her claims, he had laughed at her. Their connection did not count. Nor did the child she was carrying below her heart. John Sideblossom wanted white heirs.

Emere let her fingers wander over the new furniture decorated with intarsia that Zoé had brought with her as a new bride. The second blonde girl. More than twenty years after the first had died. Not entirely through no fault of Emere’s—she was a skilled midwife and could have saved John’s first wife. But back then, she had still hoped that everything could be like it was before.

And now Zoé was the heiress—or would manage to become it. Emere felt a certain esteem for Zoé. She seemed so fragile and delicate, and yet she had survived everything—what John called “making love” and even the births with which Emere had “assisted” her.

The old Maori had long since made her peace with Zoé. Let her keep the farm’s profits. Arama would see to that, down to the last penny. Emere did not want any money. But she wanted the house and the land, and Zoé was not interested in that.

Emere entered the next room and tore open the curtains. No one was to shut the sun out of here any longer. She took a deep breath after she had opened the window. Her children were free. No more John Sideblossom, who had first sent them away and then enslaved them.
Emere waited impatiently for Pai to return with the last child. She had sent the girl to Dunedin to retrieve her youngest son from the orphanage. The child she had borne a few months after the flame-haired girl had gone away. The girl through whom the curse she had placed on John Sideblossom’s heir so long ago had finally fulfilled itself.

Only once had she ever demanded something for one of their children: a little land signed over to their firstborn. But once again, John had only laughed—that was when Emere had learned to hate his laugh. Emere should be happy, John had said, that he let their bastards live. They would never inherit anything from him.

That night was the first time he had forced Emere into his bed—and he seemed to enjoy it. Ever since then, she had hated everything about him, and to this day, she did not know why she had stayed. She had cursed herself a thousand times for it, for this fascination that he had exercised on her until the last, for her worthless existence lived between longing and hate. More than anything she cursed herself for having let his son by that white woman live. But back then, Emere had still had scruples about killing a defenseless baby. By the time Zoé’s children were born, no more.

She had then taken her firstborn son to her tribe. Tamati, the only one of her children who did not look like John. He had now fulfilled his destiny by protecting the flame-haired girl.

Emere raised her
putorino
flute and paid homage to the spirits. She had time. Zoé Sideblossom was young. As long as she lived and Lionel Station generated money, Emere was secure. No one would lay a hand on the house or the land. And later? Rewi, her thirdborn, was smart. John had recently brought him back to the farm, but Emere was thinking of sending him back to Dunedin. He could continue his schooling, perhaps attain the profession of that man who had recently spoken with Zoé. Attorney. Emere let the word roll around on her tongue. Someone who helped others attain their rights. Perhaps Rewi would someday want to fight for his heir. Emere smiled. The spirits would see to it.

T
imothy Lambert danced at his wedding. Though it was only a short waltz and he leaned heavily on his bride, the guests applauded wildly. The mine workers tossed their caps in the air and cheered for him just as they had at the race, and Berta Leroy had tears in her eyes.

Timothy and Elaine married on Saint Barbara’s Day, exactly two years after the legendary Lambert Derby. There was once again a happy celebration on the mining compound. George Greenwood presented himself as the new controlling partner and introduced himself and his business manager, Timothy Lambert, by supplying all their employees and half of Greymouth with free beer, barbecue, games, and dancing. The only thing missing this time around was a horse race.

“We didn’t want to take the chance of my bride riding off,” Timothy said to loud acclaim in his toast before he kissed Elaine in front of the entire workforce. Everyone roared again. Only Elaine blushed. After all, her mother and grandmother Helen were among the spectators. Fleurette and Helen waved to her supportively, though. Both of them liked Timothy. Even Fleurette’s famous intuition had raised no objections.

The reverend did not need to wage a battle with his conscience over his flock’s passion for gambling this time. He was faced instead with the quandary of a divorced bride. However, Elaine did not present herself in white but wore a pale-blue dress trimmed with dark lace—from Mrs. O’Brien’s workshop, of course. She had even foregone a veil, opting to wear a crown of fresh flowers instead.

“It has to have seven different flowers,” she insisted, causing her friends to scratch their heads. “Then I can lay it under my pillow on the wedding night.”

“But beware you don’t dream of someone else,” Timothy teased her, recalling her story about that long-past Saint John’s eve.

In the end, the reverend sidestepped altogether the question of how to address the unconventional marriage and Saint Barbara—whom he, as a Methodist, had never venerated—by performing the service out in the open and supplying the town and those gathered with an all-encompassing blessing afterward. He had reserved Timothy and Elaine places in the first row, and Elaine’s brother Stephen played “Amazing Grace.”

Kura-maro-tini would certainly have enriched the festivities with more complex rhythms, but she was not present. Timothy and Elaine would see her on their honeymoon, however. Elaine not only wanted to see Queenstown again but Kiward Station too, and Helen was keenly interested in Kura’s music program. Thus, everyone with the exception of Ruben—who had to return to tend his business—planned to travel to Christchurch after the wedding to attend Kura and Marisa’s highly anticipated farewell concert. The artists, with William by their side, would leave for England afterward. Concert dates in London and several other English cities had already been set. William had initiated contact with a well-known concert agency that was planning their tour.

“So in the end, Kura’s getting exactly what she always wanted,” Fleurette said disapprovingly. She had not seen Kura again in Greymouth and was still upset. Granted, she would have cared much less for William as a son-in-law than Timothy, for whom she had quickly developed a heartfelt affection. But Kura and William had hurt her daughter, and as a mother, she was slow to forgive that.

“What are they doing about their little girl?” Fleurette asked, remembering Gloria. “Is she going with them to Europe?”

“Not as far as I know,” answered Helen. The ill will caused by Kura’s marriage to William had not lasted long. The women’s friendship was too strong to let anything come between them. They had resumed their correspondence soon after Kura’s wedding and shared their concern over Elaine’s disappearance during the last few years. “The little girl will stay on Kiward Station, for the time being
anyway. No one knows what Kura will want to do next. But thus far, neither father nor mother has shown the least interest in Gloria. Why should that change now? And dragging a three-year-old across half of Europe would be nonsense.”

“And so Mother’s getting exactly what she wanted too!” Fleurette smiled. “A second chance to raise the heiress of Kiward Station, in a way that aligns with her values. Tonga must already be sharpening his knives.”

Helen laughed. “It won’t be all that bad. With Kura, he tried using love after all. How could he have guessed that there would be someone else who was even better at
whaikorero
?”

The rail line between the West Coast and the Canterbury Plains was now running, and Elaine had been looking forward to her first train ride with great anticipation. Timothy had just been hoping for a less arduous trip than the ride to Blenheim. They were not disappointed. Their honeymoon trip was a truly luxurious affair, given that George Greenwood had a private parlor car at his disposal. He generously made it available to the married couple, and so Timothy and Elaine made love on its rattling bed and poured champagne, laughing as they did so.