The Reverend Sass entered the church, followed by the coffin, which was carried by Karira and some of the men from the road crew. Karira made a face at Mette as they passed, raising his eyebrows as if to underline the strangeness of him carrying the coffin of a man who had been killed by his partner. He’d spent time getting Frederic to believe that the whole case was over, and that they could bury his brother now. Mette had asked him if he knew what had happened to Wilson’s body, and he had not seemed interested. She wondered if that was because Wiki had been involved. Or even Will himself. She would probably never know.
Frederic followed the coffin and the procession moved to the front of the church. He did not look at Agnete, who glanced at him and started to cry, sniffing softly into a linen handkerchief.
“Did something happen between Agnete and Frederic?” Mette asked Maren. “I thought they were together…”
Maren shook her head without looking at Mette. “Agnete was sure she had him on the hook, but he had a different opinion. He’s going back to Melbourne as soon as his brother is buried.”
“Poor Agnete,” said Mette. “What will she do?”
“She’s living in a hotel,” said Maren. “We’re going to have to find a place for her. It’s very difficult for a single woman to rent a house, especially if she has children.”
“Is she sad that Frederic is going to Melbourne without her?”
“A little. She was hoping she’d found someone to care for her, with Mads gone - someone who would stay here in Palmerston, and make a life with her.”
Mette shook her head angrily. “It isn’t right,” she said.
Maren looked at her questioningly.
“It isn’t right that we women have to find a man to take care of us…why can’t we take care of ourselves?”
Maren laughed. “The next thing you’ll be saying is we should be allowed to vote in the elections,” she said. “Like that crazy woman in the newspaper the other day. Imagine what Pieter would have to say about that?”
Mette knew exactly what Pieter would have to say about that. But she said nothing. She knew that Maren would always honour and obey Pieter. Would she do the same for Frank? She wasn’t sure any longer.
The funeral over, and everyone having dispersed, Mette sat in the sun outside the church and wondered what she would do with herself if Frank didn’t return from Wellington. What if he decided he’d had enough of her and her family. She’d have a place to live - Hop Li would let her stay in her beautiful new house. And she could probably continue working at the book shop. But a life like that stretched in front of her with no joy.
Pieter came through the gate from the church cemetery with Frederic Karlsen. He’d been helping Frederic lower Gottlieb’s coffin into the ground, undertakers being scarce in Palmerston. Frederic now believed his brother had been killed by Anahera, and no longer wanted to pursue the killer. She thought he was probably afraid of him, with all the stories he must have heard while he was in Palmerston.
“Ah, Miss Jensen,” said Karlsen, leering at Mette, his face more than ever resembling his brother’s. “I wanted to speak with you…”
Assuming Frederic wanted to talk about her translation work, she moved over to make room for him on the bench.
Karlsen sat down and took off his hat, holding it on his lap. “I know that you were a comfort to my brother, before he died so tragically,” he said. Mette and Pieter exchanged horrified glances.
“Agnete told me that you and he were…”
Mette’s throat constricted and she stared at Karlsen, unable to speak. He assumed that she had done for his brother what Agnete had done for him. That she had ‘comforted’ him.
“I didn’t…” she said.
He patted her arm. “I understand,” he said. “Gottlieb was lucky to have someone like you to take care of his needs…the needs every man has.” He stood up. “Now I must leave and return to Melbourne.” He turned to Pieter. “Tell your sister that I enjoyed our time together. I hope she will like living in Palmerston. Myself, I can’t see what anyone would…well, ganz gleich.”
Pieter sat down beside Mette and they stared at each other. Mette finally broke the silence. “I feel sick,” she said. “I think I’m going to vomit…”
Pieter put his hand on her arm. “No one else thinks that about you,” he said. “No one. I promise. Agnete, yes. She has always been a luder, and she lets every man she meets know it. I can’t do anything about that. But you…you are a decent, god-fearing woman. Why else would a man like Sergeant Hardy choose you to be his wife?”
Mette was unable to stop herself. “Maren told me about the boat…about how…”
Pieter blushed. She’d never seen him do that before, and it made her like him more - a little more.
“We were very young,” he said. “Both of us. I’m sorry I allowed myself to…my only excuse is that I didn’t know any better…”
“And everything has turned out very well,” said Mette. “Maren is lucky to have you, and now you have a dairy farm, and a new house, and three babies with another one on the way.” It all sounded excellent as she said it.
“You will also have such a life,” said Pieter. “With Sergeant Hardy…Frank.”
“I hope so,” said Mette. “But you know, of course, about his son…the terrible young man who came to find him at your farm.” She assumed Maren had told Pieter all the details, and of course she had.
“Frank was also a young man,” said Pieter. “And caught up in a terrible war. He would not have left the woman with his son if he’d known. Sergeant Hardy is an honourable man…”
He was right, of course, and Mette finally felt her heart opening to Frank again. Then Pieter spoiled it, because he couldn’t help himself. “You’re lucky to find such a man as Sergeant Hardy,” he said. “Considering you’re not as pretty as your sister - you’re too tall and thin, and as well you think and talk far too much, and do not keep your opinions to yourself.”
23
The Diminutive Beast
The Hon. Colonel Whitmore was the tallest short man Frank had ever seen. Whitmore, like Frank, had served in the Crimean campaign; he’d also fought in the Kaffir Wars in South Africa; and he’d served as aide-de-camp to General William Eyre who commanded the forces in Canada. In 1861, he’d been appointed military secretary to Lieutenant General Duncan Cameron, who was on his way to take over command of forces in New Zealand. Whitmore had led several military campaigns in New Zealand, and was now Colonial Secretary in Sir George Grey’s government. But although he barely came up to Frank’s shoulder, he still managed to make Frank feel small, even when they were sitting.
Frank and Captain Porter had stopped at the regimental headquarters to find a uniform. Miraculously, one had been available in his size, and they had carried on in a hack to the Masonic Hall to meet the colonel, who was a member of the Pacific Lodge of the Grand Order of Freemasons and was dining at the hall that night. They joined him after dinner in the drawing room.
“Fought in India, I hear?” said Whitmore to Frank, managing to look down on him from below. “And in the Crimean campaign?” They were sitting in a pool of light in one corner of the room, on comfortable royal blue velvet wing chairs.
The room was otherwise empty, except for one chair immediately behind the colonel. Frank could see the top of a grey head - a bewigged head by the look of it - and hoped the occupant of the chair wasn’t someone who would be interested in their discussion, as he’d certainly be able to overhear what was said. “And in Taranaki, under your own command,” he said. “And later, on the pursuit of Titokowaru…although I was with the Armed Constabulary by then…”
“So Captain Porter tells me,” said Whitmore. “And now you’ve been in a spot of bother.”
“I was taken up the Wanganui River, to the Armed Constabulary prison” said Frank. He’d been wondering if Whitmore knew about the secret prison. But Whitmore nodded, indicating that he did and that Frank should continue.
“I managed to escape - there was an earthquake and a fire. I had no idea why I was there. I discovered later that I was there because of something that happened in India twenty years ago.”
“And what was that?” asked Whitmore. He took out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Parliament has a sitting tonight, and I…”
“I fathered a child,” said Frank, cutting to the chase. “And that child has grown up believing he was the son of Colonel Mountjoy. I believe the colonel had me sent up the Wanganui River because he saw me as an embarrassment.”
“Ah,” said Whitmore. “Well, these things happen. What do you want me to do about it?”
“I’d like an assurance I won’t be sent to prison again without a reason,” said Frank.
“I can ensure that won’t happen,” said Whitfield. He stood and clicked his fingers. A servant came running forward with his coat. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He glanced at the chair behind which the grey head was still evident. “However, someone would like to speak with you. Alone. Captain Porter?”
Porter jumped to his feet and looked at Frank apologetically. “I’ll see you at the hotel,” he said. “The Old Identities on Lambton Quay…”
The two men left and Frank rose to his feet and looked at the grey head. A hand was raised, with one finger moving slightly, beckoning him. He walked around to the other seating area, unsure about what or who he would see there. The gloom deepened, but a faint light showed him the occupant of the chair.
An elderly man in a faded green cutaway frock coat of the sort popular in the early years of Victoria’s reign watched as Frank sat cautiously on the chair opposite him. “The resemblance is striking,” he said. “I see now why my son-in-law felt the need…”
Even seated, the man sat erect, his shoulders back, his posture assisted by a black ebony cane with the head of a silver bulldog serving as a hand grip. His hand was thin, the knuckles enlarged, but it held the dog’s head firmly. His little finger was weighed down by a large ruby ring, the cost of which would cover the purchase of hundreds of small farms.
“Sir George…?” asked Frank. Lady Debra’s father, in the flesh and in New Zealand. The baronet inclined his head slightly towards Frank.
“You heard what was said…you understand…”
“I do,” said the baronet. “You and my daughter, in India…”
Frank drew in his breath. Sir George may have heard, but he had not understood.
“I accept that my daughter had a momentary transgression,” said the baronet. “I see why…you’re a fine-looking man, and Mountjoy is, well…”
Frank wondered if he should tell the truth about Milo Mountjoy’s mother, but the baronet was looking at him, his dark eyes glittering with knowledge. He knew. He just preferred not to acknowledge it, even to himself. “What will you do?” he asked.
“Send you away,” said the baronet. “Australia, perhaps? South Africa would be even better.”
“I have no intention of going to either Australia or South Africa,” said Frank, standing up. “I can’t see how you think you can force me to leave.”
Behind him, the baronet murmured something.
Frank turned. “What was that you said?”
“Ten thousand pounds,” said the baronet. “If you leave New Zealand and promise never to return.”
Frank looked down at the baronet, a slow-burning rage building inside him. “I won’t be bought off,” he said. “I don’t intend to leave New Zealand for any reason…”
The baronet tapped his cane on the floor, a nervous habit, contemplating his options. Eventually he said, “He – your son – stands to gain a large property, you know. I’m in New Zealand to expedite the purchase…no point in waiting until I’m dead. Seven thousand acres in the Seventy Mile Bush, another thirty thousand near Queenstown in Otago…good sheep farming land, the best… ”
“And you think Milo will be able to handle that responsibility?” asked Frank.
“He has my blood,” said the baronet. “And blood will out…”
“You should hope it does,” said Frank shortly, thinking of his own father - Milo’s real grandfather - who had fought with Sir William Beresford at Albuera, and afterwards had carried his mother by coach all the way to Calais, to save her from the marauding Portuguese troops.
“Perhaps Auckland then,” said the baronet. “Far enough away that you won’t be seen by anyone who matters. My son-in-law will have to give up his aspirations for the governorship, I suppose, but…”
“And how much should I expect to be paid for going to Auckland?”
“Two thousand pounds,” suggested the baronet, then, seeing Frank’s face, he added, “You don’t want the money, do you?” he asked.
“No,” said Frank. “I don’t. As far as I’m concerned you can take your…your grandson and set him up in Otago. I doubt I’ll ever go there. In fact, I’m willing to give you my word that I’ll never set foot on the South Island, as long as he and his family never set foot in the North Island. That will solve your problem.”
The baronet sighed. “I suppose that’s one solution.” he looked at Frank for several minutes before saying anything. “I have a feeling that Milo has the right father at least,” he said. “Perhaps that will prove to be an advantage for him, in the end.”
“I’d worry about your daughter, if I were you,” said Frank. “Don’t leave her alone with those two.”
The baronet nodded slowly. “I hear she isn’t well,” he said. “If that’s the case, I’ll take her back to England with me. I’ll find a good doctor and we’ll get her back in good form. A good Swiss or German doctor. You were close, you two?”
Frank struggled with himself for a few minutes. Should he tell the baronet the full truth about Milo’s parentage? That he had none of the baronet’s blood at all, but the blood of a servant and a sergeant in Her Majesty’s Imperial Army? In the end, he said nothing. If Lady Debra was safe, he no longer cared about any of the rest of them, unholy trinity that they were.
He left the Masonic Hall, thrust his hands into his coat pocket, and walked quickly down Boulcott Street to Lambton Quay, along Cable Street to Oriental Parade. He did not know where he was headed, but needed to work off his anger.
Colonel Mountjoy and Betty had connived to bring up her son as the grandson of the wealthy baronet, whether or not they believed Colonel Mountjoy was the father. Perhaps initially they had not intended to profit from the situation, thinking they could live together as man and wife while offering minimal care to poor Lady Debra. Milo Mountjoy was another matter. It was hard to deny his own responsibility. Perhaps one day…
It was a full moon, and as he walked around Oriental Bay he could see the reflection of it in the harbour. Two ships were anchored out by the heads, and another half dozen at the docks. The dark shadow of Somes Island, where diseased immigrants were quarantined or left to die, crouched inside the darkness in the distance. Wellington was a thriving town, and the beauty of the town in the moonlight was enchanting. But it did nothing for him. It may as well have been a blood moon.
By taking the position as British Consul in Samoa, Mountjoy had ensured they were far enough away from Lady Debra’s father to avoid suspicion. But after he ran into trouble, they had come to New Zealand to start fresh. And then the baronet had let them know he was on his way at the very time that the Colonel had seen a man whom he wondered might be his son’s real father. Betty, concealed in the coach, did not need to wonder - she knew. The question was, did the Colonel know about Milo’s parentage, or did he believe until then that he was the father of Betty’s child?
He reached the foot of Mount Victoria, where he’d seen the twenty-six pounder being dragged to the top when he was in Wellington looking for Agnete. He climbed the long slope and found the gun placed on a parapet looking out over the harbour. It was dark, but lights glimmered along Oriental Bay and the water looked deceptively calm.
A soldier huddled in a small hut near the cannon came out
and hailed him. “Who goes there?” But his heart wasn’t in it, and when he saw Frank in his uniform he gave a half-salute and retreated to his hut. He’d been left there to signal the hour, not to defend the city.
Near the cannon, he found a seat built into the stone parapet, facing the harbour. He sat and looked out at the moonlit water. Thirty thousand acres in Otago, on prime sheep farming land. That’s what bothered him more than anything. And there were the Scandies, up in the Seventy Mile Bush, burning trees, pulling out stumps, building roads, working themselves to death, for what? To earn enough to pay for a forty-acre lot. It was obscene.
Eventually he fell asleep, awaking to the voice of the soldier in charge of the timing gun. “Mind, sir. I’m setting off the cannon.”
The sun was just starting to appear over the hills on the other side the harbour. The retort echoed around the ranges and came back to the top of Mount Victoria three times. He stood and stretched, and watched as the full sun burst into view, breaking the harbour into light and shadow, his mind made up.
He knew now what he wanted to – had to – do.
24
Scandinavian Glee
The entertainment given in aid of the Palmerston Sunday School came off on last Wednesday night, and proved to be both pecuniarily and otherwise a most unqualified success. The bill of fare presented was a most enticing one, embracing instrumental and vocal solos, duets, part songs and glees, with a dash of the comic element thrown in by way of savor…. In the song “Tenting,” Mr. Snelson, though evidently nervous, acquitted himself very creditably, and the manner in which the choir joined in the magnificent chorus was beyond all praise and made the item the choicest on the programme. And no small feature in the entertainment was the introduction of a Scandinavian Glee, which on conclusion was heartily applauded, and an encore demanded. The Manawatu Times, May 18, 1878
Recalled to Life Page 19
