The Silk Thief (25 page)

Ivy finally arrived, a bucket in each hand, to empty the bath. Friday looked at the little carriage clock on her nightstand — ten minutes to ten!

‘Where have you been?’

‘Organising the food, like you said.’

Panicking, Friday grabbed a bucket from her, filled it with cooling bath water and emptied it out the window.

‘Jack’ll be cross, water all over his yard,’ Ivy said, but she was giggling all the same.

‘Too bad. Come on, hurry up and help me. She’ll be here in a minute.’

‘Who?’

‘My visitor!’ God, Friday thought, Ivy was sweet but sometimes she could be very slow off the mark. Easily amused, though.

At last the bath was empty and Ivy dragged it, with the buckets rattling around inside it, down the corridor.

Friday looked at the clock again. Five past ten. She checked her hair in the mirror, wondered whether she should put it up, decided to leave it down, put her best gold earrings through the holes in her ears, took another large swallow of gin, and crunched some breath pastilles.

Ten fifteen. She sat on the bed, telling herself that if she stayed perfectly still for the next ten minutes, Aria would come.

Ten twenty-five. Friday’s neck ached, the disappointment in her belly burnt like bile and her eyes prickled with unshed tears. She wasn’t coming.

Someone knocked on the door. Friday flew across the room and opened it.

‘I am so sorry I am late,’ Aria said. ‘It was very difficult for me to get away, and then the man downstairs, Jack? He talked to me for such a long time.’

Friday grinned hugely, thinking she’d give Jack a good kick up the arse the next time she saw him. Randy bugger. ‘It’s lovely to see you. I’m so pleased you came.’

Aria grinned back. ‘So am I.’

Friday ushered her in and closed the door, said, ‘Come in, sit anywhere you like,’ then winced to herself because there was only one chair, in front of the dressing table. Aria sat on it.

Friday returned to her spot on the bed, then had to get up again immediately because someone else was at the door — Jenny from the kitchen with the food. Friday thanked her, took the tray and set it on the dressing table, inviting Aria to help herself.

‘Did you arrange that just for me?’ Aria asked.

Already abuzz with nerves, now Friday felt embarrassed. Had she done something wrong? ‘Er, well sort of.’

‘Because of the other day, at Mr Dundas’s?’

Yes or no — which was the right answer? ‘Yes.’

Aria burst into her earthy laugh. ‘My mother can be an absolute bloody bitch sometimes. She did not have to make such a to-do.’

Friday knew she must have looked surprised because Aria laughed even harder and said, ‘Your face.’

‘It’s just that your English is so proper,’ Friday said. ‘Far nicer than mine. It sounds funny to hear you swear.’

‘The missionaries teach us formal English, everyone else teaches us the swear words. I find they are very satisfying to say.’

‘I think so myself. And you don’t mind the missionaries?’

Aria shrugged. ‘They have been with us since just after I was born. Reverend Marsden’s people. We have learnt new ways to farm and how to write our language, but now that Henry Williams is curing our souls we are expected to free our slaves and forsake our old gods. Ha! But Christmas is a good festival. I like the story of baby Jesus in the manger.’

‘I like Christmas, too. We give presents. Do you?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Would you like tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

Friday poured, wondering whether she could sneak a few slugs of gin into hers without Aria noticing. She doubted it, and if she did it openly, Aria would think she was a drunk. ‘Your mother doesn’t like me, does she?’

‘No,’ Aria replied bluntly. ‘My tribe is Nga Puhi. Since the age of seven I have been betrothed to a rangatira — a chief —’

‘Seven! Christ almighty!’

Aria shrugged again. ‘It is a union of political advantage. It is just the way of things. His name is Te Paenga and he is from the neighbouring tribe of Ngati Wai.’ She smiled. ‘As I believe you have noticed, I prefer to seek my physical pleasure with women, and I have, but now that the date of my marriage draws closer, my mother believes I should desist.’

Friday nearly dropped her cup. ‘She
knows
?’

‘Everyone does. It is not such an unusual thing.’

‘And you’re not …? No one cares?’ Friday couldn’t believe it.

‘Not particularly. Except for the missionaries. The missionaries think it is evil and depraved. But I do not care what
they
think.’

‘And your mother’s annoyed because you fancy me?’ Friday asked, then nearly died from embarrassment, because what if she’d misread the signs and Aria
didn’t
fancy her? What if she only wanted a bit of company?

Aria looked amused. ‘Do not worry. I do desire you. A lot. And yes, that is why she is annoyed, and because you are a Pakeha whore. My mother thinks you are the lowest of the low.’

Friday sniffed. ‘Well, I’m not that keen on her, either. What
does
Pakeha mean? Is it an insult?’

‘It can be. It comes from kehakeha, which means fair, but keha also means stink. And sometimes while people do stink.’

‘Oh.’ Friday couldn’t really argue with that. ‘When are you supposed to be getting married?’

‘In August of next year,’ Aria said gloomily.

‘Don’t you like him?’

‘No. He is forty years old, he is arrogant and cruel, he has ugly feet, and he is far too free with his patero.’

Friday raised a questioning eyebrow.

Aria leant to one side and made a farting noise. Friday burst into giggles, noticed that Aria didn’t seem amused, and made a mental note not to let any go in front of her.

‘And he is a
man
, Friday. I do not want to have sex with a man for the rest of my life.’

‘Neither do I,’ Friday agreed wholeheartedly. She eyed Aria, in her fine dress with her glorious hair falling free and her lovely brown skin and full lips, and wanted desperately to jump on her right now, but that would just be crass. A little decorum was probably in order. ‘What have you been doing for the last few days?’

‘We did not find the graves we were looking for at Parramatta. My father thought they could be located within St John’s cemetery, but they were not. Neither were they at Rangihou. It is very upsetting, to not know where the remains of one’s relatives are lying, especially in foreign soil. I hope they are found one day.’

Friday asked, ‘Honestly, how can you lose thirteen graves?’ In London, perhaps, where the dead were buried stacked on top of one another in ancient and overcrowded churchyards, but not in New South Wales, where there was plenty of room to bury folk.

‘Not thirteen. Only four died here. The rest passed after they returned, ill, to Aotearoa.’

‘Not a good advertisement for the seminary, is it?’

Aria shook her head. ‘It is closed now.’

‘I’m sorry. That doesn’t sound like it would have been much fun for you, poking around out at St John’s.’ Friday wondered if they’d encountered Rachel’s grave. She was buried out there.

‘It was not. But my father successfully concluded his business concerning the export of our tribe’s flax and potatoes, and he thinks he has found a new buyer for our flour as well.’

‘And the other things? You said there was some private business as well.’

Aria hesitated, then set her cup and saucer on the dressing table. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

Not really. ‘Yes.’

‘We are also looking for information regarding my mother’s brother, Whiro. Or, I should say, his remains. He was a fierce warrior of much renown and a fine man, and when he died ten years ago his head was preserved, a custom known as pakipaki mahunga. Normally, this is done so that a family may honour an ancestor’s memory and be comforted by his presence.’

Friday knew her mouth must be hanging open, and that Aria was probably mistaking her expression for one of disgust. It wasn’t, though; it was one of ominously dawning comprehension. This all sounded very familiar.

Aria explained, ‘The preserved heads are known as upoko tuhi. To us, these are objects of great elegance, beauty and value.’

Friday nodded. ‘I know what upoko tuhi are.’

‘Last year the upoko tuhi of Whiro was stolen. It was taken by a Pakeha visiting the Bay of Islands. He was offering fistfuls of money, asking where he might purchase upoko tuhi, but we, Nga Puhi, do not trade in that currency any longer. We have not, since Pomare died in 1826, then Hongi Hika two years after.
They
were the ones bringing shame on all Nga Puhi, raiding the entire countryside and taking many lives, slaves and heads,’ Aria said bitterly. She hesitated, then added, her voice heavy with sarcasm, ‘At least, my father
says
the trade has ended. I do not know if I believe him. Sometimes I think he is as contemptible as they were.’

‘How do you know it was this cove who took your uncle’s head?’

‘My foolish mother boasted of its supreme quality, but would not show it to him. The Pakeha paid her slave to take it from its resting place, and that was the last we saw of both him and the upoko tuhi of Whiro.’

Friday winced. ‘I bet the servant got in trouble.’

‘Slave. She is dead,’ Aria said flatly.

‘Did he have a name, this cove?’

‘He called himself Te Kapura. Cheeky swine.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means “the fire”.’

Fire. Furnace? Furniss? Friday’s heart lurched. ‘Was he middle-aged, and really nasty with horrible broken brown teeth?’

Aria gave her a sharp look. ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I might. If it’s who I think it is, his name’s Amos Furniss. Well, it was.’

‘We have traced him back here to Sydney. We have been told he is in the employ of a very powerful woman. Do you know of her?’

Friday’s mouth suddenly went dry. Fucking hell. Could this be a way to finally rid themselves of Bella? ‘I do, but we’re hardly on good terms. She’s a really vicious piece of work. Did you know Amos Furniss is dead?’

‘Is he?’ Aria’s voice was as cold and as uncaring as a steel blade. ‘What happened?’

‘He was stabbed to death a couple of months ago. And I know that his boss, Bella Shand,
was
arranging to have upoko tuhi stolen from New Zealand,’ Friday said, putting the boot in for all she was worth. ‘For collectors, I think. And I knew someone who stole four of them from
her
. Jared Gellar. She had him killed. I think Furniss did the deed.’

‘Do you have evidence implicating the Shand woman?’ Aria’s brow furrowed. ‘And how do you know such people?’

‘It’s a long story. It sort of overlapped with something else. I’ll tell you one day, I promise. Bella’s a convict. She came out on the same ship as we did. But, no, we —’ Friday hesitated, realising it might not be a good idea to drag Sarah and Harrie into this. ‘I can’t prove she was involved. I heard something close to a confession, but that was from Jared Gellar and he’s dead and buried. What would your father do if he found out it was definitely Bella behind the theft?’

‘It is not what my father would do; it is my mother. And
she
would kill Bella. Or perhaps I would do it myself.’

‘Really?’ Christ.

‘My uncle was a great man. The theft is a gross insult to our family.’

‘Would it be enough to tell them what I’ve told you?’

Aria sighed. ‘I think it is too much hearsay.’

‘Will nothing I’ve said help?’ Bugger. Friday’s vision of nailing Bella was slipping away.

‘Perhaps. We will wait. The evidence we need will appear. My family will keep looking. At least now, thanks to you, we have a direction in which to look.’

Friday couldn’t stand it — she was gasping. She opened the drawer in the nightstand by her bed and took out a hip flask of gin. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

‘No, thank you. I do not drink alcohol.’

‘Not at all?’

‘No.’

‘Oh. Do you mind if I do?’

Aria gave a ‘go ahead’ gesture. Friday half filled her cup with gin and took an uncharacteristically decorous sip. ‘What else have you been doing, apart from shopping with your ma?’

‘I have also been shopping with Father.’

‘What for?’

‘Guns.’

‘For hunting and the like?’

‘No, for war. Yesterday Father bought sixty new muskets and ordered another one hundred and ten.’

A sip of Friday’s gin went down the wrong way and she coughed violently, spraying spit and alcohol across her skirts. Aria moved to sit beside her and firmly patted her back.

‘Sorry,’ Friday squeaked, blinking furiously and wiping her mouth. She coughed again and cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t know you were at war. Who with?’

‘Other tribes.’

‘But … why? Aren’t you all the same folk?’ It seemed bizarre to get so upset about the theft of some old dried head of a relative, but then happily go around blasting the shite out of your neighbours.

Aria gave her a faintly amused look, then glanced at the clock. ‘I have enjoyed talking with you, Friday, but I cannot stay long. I would like to have sex now. Would you?’

Christ
, yes!

Aria leant in and kissed her. Her blue-black lips were velvet-soft. Friday’s belly did a slow flip.

Her nerves jangling, she blurted rudely, ‘They’re so smooth!’

‘What else did you expect?’ Aria asked. ‘Among my people, dark lips like mine are considered beautiful. And while yours will pale and become thin and indistinct as you grow old, mine will remain defined, a reminder of the lush beauty of my youth.’

‘They are beautiful,’ Friday murmured, returning the kiss. ‘You’re beautiful.’

She slipped her hands behind Aria’s neck, beneath her hair, to reach the buttons of her dress, and realised there were dozens of the bloody things. Aria turned to allow her better access. Forcing herself to open them one by one and not just tear at them, Friday finally slid the dress off Aria’s wide, well-muscled shoulders, revealing, not a shift as expected, but perfect, flawless brown skin.

Aria turned to face her again, and shrugged the dress down to her waist. Her breasts were lovely, full and high and tipped with large nipples the colour of chocolate. Friday sank to the floor, unbuttoned her boots, and slipped them off her feet. She wore no stockings, either, though the lacy hem of a pair of drawers sat just below her knees.