Frank vaulted onto Copenhagen, and turned to say goodbye to Wiki. She gestured to him to wait and ran back inside the whare, coming out after a moment holding a long, feathered cloak. “You’ll need this to keep you warm at night,” she said. “It belonged to my father.”
“Thank you, Wiki,” he said. “I hope your father won’t mind me using it.”
“He’s dead,” she said. “He died in the fight between the pakeha and Titokowaru. Up near Patea, at Turuturumokai.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure my people appreciated that he gave his life for us.”
She shrugged. “Maybe,” she said. “Except that he was fighting for Titokowaru and for my people.”
He couldn’t think of an appropriate reply, and followed Karira to the north side of the pa to a track he had not known existed.
“We won’t take the usual route into town,” explained Karira. “I don’t want to run into the Armed Constabulary on the way to your hiding place. I used to play in the bush around here when I was growing up, so I can find my way there easily enough.”
“Where are we heading?” asked Frank.
“Remember when we were searching for Anahera up behind the sawmill and we found his camp? And the place he made for himself on the branch of a totara tree? We’ll go there. Even if they search in that area they won’t think to look up in a tree.”
“I might be able to pull myself onto the branch,” said Frank, remembering how Karira had stood on his horse to boost himself up when they were searching for Anahera. “But how will I get down?”
“You’ll jump if you have to,” said Karira. “But the plan is that you’ll stay up there for the next day or so. I’ll come and get you when I think it’s safe. I’ll bring Copenhagen so you don’t break an ankle jumping down.”
“I don’t suppose you brought my shirt with you,” asked Frank.
Karira shook his head. “Where did you lose it?”
Frank shrugged. “In the bush, up near Bunnythorpe. Well, I’ve been in a hole and now I’ll be in a tree, but at least I’ll have time to think, and perhaps get us all out of trouble. And I’ll be warm enough with this cloak.”
“Mette and I think we might know part of what’s going on,” said Karira. “She says you met Colonel Mountjoy…”
“I met him in Wellington, at my hotel,” said Frank. “And his son as well, or a man whom I believe is his son, at Wanganui Collegiate. Then he came looking for me – the son I mean – in Bunnythorpe. Why, I don’t know.”
“What did you think of the son?” asked Karira.
“An unpleasant fellow,” said Frank. “Why?”
“Did he remind you of anyone?”
“He looked very much like Will, my brother Will,” said Frank. “And for a minute I almost thought—or hoped—that it might be Will. It wasn’t, of course. He was too young. If Will were alive he would be in his thirties by now.”
“Where were you twenty years ago?” asked Karira.
“In India,” said Frank. He stopped Copenhagen and turned in his saddle to look at Karira. “What are you saying, Karira?”
“He may look like your brother,” said Karira. “I have no way of knowing if he does. But he looks very much like you. Very much.”
Frank stared at him for a moment, puzzled, then his face cleared. “Are you saying that he’s my…son?” he asked.
Karira nodded. “Is that possible?”
Frank scratched his chin through his beard. “I suppose so. There were women…”
“But you can’t remember a particular instance…? I mean, someone who might have been married to Colonel Mountjoy, or married him soon after you…”
Karira was starting to look embarrassed, so Frank said, “I’ll think about it while I’m marooned up the tree and let you know. But off hand…”
They rode in silence for a few minutes, then Frank said, “Does Mette know about this?”
“She saw him,” said Karira, “and noticed how much he looked like you. She doesn’t seem upset about it, but I can’t always tell with women. She knows it would have happened many years ago…”
“She’ll understand,” said Frank. “I know her. What I’m curious about is why Colonel Mountjoy would think locking me away was an answer,” said Frank. “You’d think he might call me out for a duel…I heard he’s hoping to be given the governorship…perhaps that has something to do with it, although I can’t think why…”
“I’ll see what I can find out. Captain Porter might know something.”
“Talking of Porter,” said Frank. “I learned something from Wiki. She says all the young people at the pa knew about Anahera and his connection to Moana.”
Karira raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
“She told me his name as well,” said Frank. “She said his name is Tane Mahuta.”
Karira’s lip started to twitch, and within minutes he was crying with laughter. “She told you…she told you that?” he asked. “Frank, your leg has been stretched to twice its length.”
“She seemed like an honest…”
“Tane…” said Karira, and started to laugh again. “Tane Mahuta means God of the Forest. It’s the name given to a giant kauri tree, up in the far north. Hundreds of years old…”
“Oh,” said Frank, chastened.
“I think I’m starting to like Wiki,” said Karira. “Tane Mahuta indeed.”
He was still chuckling when they reached the totara tree behind the saw mill. He handed Frank a bag of food and a flask of water, holding Copenhagen in place while Frank stood on her back and slowly dragged himself onto the broad branch. “If I’m not back in two days, jump down and run for the mill,” he said, grinning up at Frank. “Or hobble to the mill. But don’t worry. No one will think to look for you here. You’ll be safe until I return. Tomorrow, probably, or the next day at the most.”
“Make sure you come back,” said Frank. “I don’t want to have the choice of dying up here or jumping and breaking both my legs.” He settled back on the branch. “I suppose if Charles II could hide in an oak tree, I can manage a totara.”
“Watch out for the Roundheads,” said Karira. “And for giant walking trees. At least you’ll be safe from crazed eels and killer kiwis.”
Frank watched as Karira disappeared along the track. He felt as if he was back in his pit, with the trees as the bars. Once night closed in he would not be able to see anything. It would be worse than the pit, as he’d have to be careful not to fall in the intense darkness.
12
The English Periodicals
“Lady Debra Mountjoy,” said Mette to Mr. Robinson. “Colonel Mountjoy’s wife is named Lady Debra Mountjoy. She’s the eldest daughter of a baronet. She married the colonel in July 1856 in India, and the son was born…” She stopped. Milo’s date of birth was given as February 12. 1857, seven months after his parents married. “He was born in 1857,” she said. She was reading from an old copy of Burke’s Peerage, which Mr. Robinson had discovered on a shelf deep in the back of his shop. “And their only issue—does that mean son? —is the Hon. Milo Horatio Mountjoy. He was at Harrow when this was published…Frank said he… it sounds like the same family. What does Order of the Bath mean?”
“Who has that? And what level does he have?” asked Mr. Robinson.
“Lady Mountjoy’s father…”
“Lady Debra,” corrected Mr. Robinson, “If her father is a baronet…”
“Lady Debra,” said Mette. “Yes, that’s what it says. Her father is a Knight Commander of the Bath…that sounds very English. Does that mean he has to bathe the king?”
“He was probably a military officer then,” said Mr. Robinson. “Or naval. High ranking. You think she — Lady Debra — may have something to do with Colonel Mountjoy and his son’s vendetta against Frank?” He too had seen the young man, and Mette could tell he felt sorry for her, which did not do much to improve her mood.
“I’m not sure why,” she said. “Could we find out where she is? Now, I
mean? Or where she was nineteen or twenty years ago?” Mr. Robinson busied himself with a stack of books, and she realized she had given away her thoughts to him, or at least confirmed his suspicions.
“I have a large collection of magazines and newspapers I brought with me from London,” he said. “Some Illustrated London News, Cornhill Magazine before it ceased publication, and the Sunday Magazine. They’re old – but perhaps we can find her mentioned.” He led Mette to magazines heaped up in an even darker corner of the shop. “Browse through them. You may find something.”
Mette knelt and started through the pile. It should have been an arduous task, but she found herself entranced by what she read in the magazines. A most wonderful short story by a writer named Mr. Anthony Trollope—she’d have to see if he’d written anything else. And another by a man named George Eliot that looked interesting and well written. She had a lot to learn about English literature, she knew. After a while her knees ached and she stood and walked over to the window, stretching her arms. Mr. Robinson had made a pot of tea and he brought her some in a delicate china cup. Tea. It was the answer to everything for English people, and she had no idea why when coffee was so much more satisfying. Mr. Robinson liked his tea weak and scented, compared to most New Zealanders, who liked their tea boiled to a dark, tarry consistency. She’d read in the newspaper recently that tea might be the reason heart attacks were more prevalent in New Zealand, and was happy she was a coffee drinker.
She stood by the window sipping the weak tea slowly – it may as well have been water – staring out at the Square. A couple passed her shop, she plump, wearing a red dress and an odd hat, he tall with a floppy hat, neither seeming the type of people she usually saw through the shop window. Their arms were linked and they leaned together so closely that their heads touched. She put down her tea cup. Oh no. Did this mean that Gottlieb’s brother and Pieter’s sister were going to become one? Would that make her related to Gottlieb in some strange way? It felt very wrong. She couldn’t imagine…but at least it would remove the responsibility for Agnete from Pieter. Of course it would also give Frederic Karlsen control over Agnete’s inheritance. He seemed like a nice enough man … perhaps with some strange ideas…but Agnete might settle down under the steadying guidance of a husband, even one who had strange ideas and was willing to believe the oddest stories.
She returned to her task, and almost instantly found something interesting. An article entitled “A Lady’s View of the British Raj.” It was about India, and the anonymous author had apparently spent more time at dances, teas and musical afternoons than she had spent learning about the country itself and how it was governed. Mette ran her finger down the page, searching for a mention of a Lady Debra Mountjoy. She had passed it and was on the next page when she realized she’d seen something. Not Lady Debra Mountjoy, but Lady Debra Paget the daughter of a baronet who had just arrived in India.
She went back and read the paragraph. A young, recently arrived English woman who, the article implied, had come with her father in hopes of finding a husband in an India full of upper class military men and speculators looking to make their fortunes, but short of eligible women. Many women came on the same mission, but this one had succeeded. She had met and married an unnamed colonel soon after the Siege of Lucknow, where she had been trapped, briefly. The writer made some unkind comments about love’s early blossoming, implying that Lady Debra had wasted no time in finding herself a spouse. He was a “fine upstanding man with a great future before him,” the writer had said, implying that she had not chosen someone for his looks or money. The comment reminded Mette of something her mother used to say: if the baby is ugly say nice things about its clothing. Lady Debra was described as an English rose, with pale curls and deep blue eyes, like a tiny Meissen porcelain figurine.
Mette sat back, rubbing her aching back, and wondered what Colonel Mountjoy looked like. If he too was fair-haired and blue-eyed he must have wondered right from the moment of his birth why his son was tall with dark brown eyes and olive skin. Especially since – she looked at the dates again – especially since Lady Debra had given birth to her only son just eight months after arriving in India and seven months after marrying the colonel.
She showed the magazine to Mr. Robinson. “Do you mind if I keep this one?”
“You found something?” he asked.
She nodded. “I think I may have….” But she felt sad. She would have thought Frank was better than this, not someone who would impregnate a woman and leave her to find another father for the child.
13
Treed
After Karira left, Frank opened the bag of supplies Karira had given him, expecting more potatoes or bread, and was pleasantly surprised to find slabs of Hop Li’s grainy-textured bread, some thick slices of baked ham, a jar of Morton’s pickles, some Fry’s chocolate, and best of all, two quart bottles of Blood’s Stout. He ate half the feast and left the rest for later, although he was tempted by the second bottle of stout. Best if he stayed sober, he decided. He hadn’t wanted to jump out of the tree, but falling from it in a drunken stupor was not something he wanted to do either.
He spent a somewhat comfortable night wrapped in Wiki’s father’s cloak, trying not to move. The broad branch had a natural indentation in the centre, making it easier to stay in place – Anahera had chosen this spot for a reason. Eventually he dozed off to the sounds of the forest at night: an owl hooting nearby, the panicked screech of a kiwi, and the who-are-you call of the huia. He awoke to a foggy, damp morning. A river mist had crept up and awaited the sun to disperse it. He could not see the ground from his perch in the tree. He was cold and his shoulders ached from trying to stay in place against the trunk. He hoped Karira would be along soon to rescue him from his self-imposed prison.
He ate the rest of the bread, cheese and pickles Karira had left, enjoying it despite the hardness of the bread and the warmth of the cheese. When he finished, he forced himself to think about the possibility that Milo Mountjoy could be his son. He couldn’t imagine that Colonel Mountjoy had married someone who he – Frank – might have known in India. The English class system was at its worst there. There was very little chance of him even having a cup of tea with any woman who would then go on to marry Colonel Mountjoy. He’d had flings with camp followers, and women who’d come to visit his fellow non-commissioned officers – sisters and such – and the occasional lady’s maid. At eighteen, but appearing older, he was a mere corporal, the son of a coachman. His brown eyes and olive skin tended to make him a bad catch, even for the sisters of non-commissioned officers. He’d heard one describing him as having “a touch of the tar brush,” a legacy from his mother, who his father had rescued during the Battle of Salamanca and later married and taken to England. She’d died giving birth to his younger brother Will, and Frank could barely remember her. But his father was still affected by the loss and kept a painting of her over the mantelpiece in his cottage. She’d been a striking woman, with a long neck, thick dark hair and an impressive Roman nose that neither of the boys had inherited.
He hugged the feathered cloak Wiki had given him around his shoulders, and thought of another option. His father. What if Milo was his brother and not his son? But surely not. His father lived on the estate of a wealthy man, where he’d been first a groom and then a coachman. The aristocracy of England spent weekends at his father’s employer’s estate; the men spent the time hunting, leaving their bored wives in the house. His father was a distinguished ex-soldier who might interest some aristocratic woman wanting a fling. But he’d been faithful to the memory of his wife for so long…
He sat on the broad branch of the totara tree, staring into the sun-speckled darkness of the forest, hoping for inspiration. He heard a slight noise below him and he pressed himself back into the trunk and pulled up his legs so he blended more into the huge tree.
“Mach nicht so viel Lärm,” said someone in a harsh, threatening voice. He was speaking German, which Frank understood somewh
at. He understood that the man was asking someone not to be noisy. German. Could it be Gottlieb Karlsen’s brother Frederic? He peered down carefully, and saw the man was leaning against someone, a woman, his hand over her mouth.
“I promise, I won’t, I promise, I promise, please…” said the woman in a muffled, panicked voice. Damn it, he thought. It’s that woman. Agnete Madsen, Pieter’s sister. He held on to a small branch and strained forward to see the tops of their heads. They were against the tree in which he now sat. As if there weren’t enough trees in this forest, they had to pick the one where he was hiding. Karlsen was leaning against her heavily, his face just inches from hers, his hand pressed against her lips.
He was going to have to jump from this tree to save Agnete Madsen. He’d break both his legs and at best scare Karlsen off for a few minutes, but it had to be done. He edged out further, mentally preparing himself for a leap and an uncomfortable landing, remembering how it felt when Anahera had dropped on him from a tree not far from here. That had taken some determination, he realized now, especially for a large man.
Karlsen was fiddling with his trousers looking very much like his brother Gottlieb when Frank had surprised him by the river. A rape as well then. Yes, he would most definitely need to jump out of the tree onto Karlsen to save the honour of this despicable woman. But before he could, Agnete said, or rather moaned, something that stopped him from jumping.
“Meine liebchen.”
She began scrabbling at her red dress with one hand and hoisted it awkwardly above her waist. Her other arm snaked around Karlsen’s neck, and Karlsen pressed against her, pinning her to the tree with his body while he used his hands to push his trousers down below his knees. She stood awkwardly on one leg, the other wrapped around Karlsen, as he began thrusting himself into her. Frank recoiled, repulsed, unable to escape the sounds as the two rutted and grunted below him. Eventually Agnete broke her promise and began to cry loudly with each thrust. When they finished—which seem to take forever—Karlsen said to her angrily, “You said you would not make a noise. How can we ever be in a house or a hotel if you cannot be quiet? We cannot always be in the woods to do this.”
Recalled to Life Page 12
