“I’ll speak to them,” she said abruptly.
“I don’t know—well, if you think it best, Miss Hull.”
“I do.” Joby opened the door and helped her out as Simpson stepped aside.
“There’s something else.” He hesitated a moment. “Andrew Coffin is with them.”
“Andrew Coffin? Here?” Another unexpected development. She wondered at its import. She’d had no trouble with Coffin Ltd. since its founder and namesake had perished years ago at Tarawera. Neither had she been able to absorb the great company into her own. Wily old Elias Goldman kept his eagle eye on the daily operations while teaching the son the intricacies of the business.
One of these days Goldman would retire, or collapse atop his beloved ledgers. Then she could move in—if she still wanted to. Empire building was losing its spice. She had nothing left to prove, not to herself or any of her competitors. More and more she preferred to leave operations to her managers, retiring to her house to enjoy the company of close friends, or participating in the expanding social and political life of the country.
Robert Coffin had once vowed to take over Hull House. Now that it was her turn she found she no longer cared to try.
“Do you have any idea why he’s here?”
“Apparently he is related to these natives. He is half Maori himself, you know. His mother.”
“I’ve heard the story,” she replied crisply as she started up the steps. A tall shadow, Joby the footman walked silently alongside, holding an umbrella over her. “Let’s see if we can’t work this out.”
Simpson appeared relieved she had arrived to take charge. Let’s see these natives try to bluster their way past Rose Hull! he mused expectantly. He stayed close to her as she ascended, not out of any particular concern for her safety but because that was the place of power. It was useful for any politician to be seen in her company.
He’s hoping for a confrontation, she thought. It’s written all over his face. They want someone to put these Maoris in their place. Her expression twisted. How easily some of her colleagues forgot that the Maoris were also citizens.
They reached the top and entered the shelter of the overhang. The Maoris had packed themselves against the main doors, refusing to be moved or to let anyone ahead of them. Most wore European clothing. Automatically she looked for tattoos, but there were few visible. Except for one man about her own age and a tiny, elderly woman clad in ceremonial dress, the group consisted of young people.
Andrew Coffin she recognized immediately, not only because he was taller than his companions but because he so resembled his father. Darker skin, of course, and gentler of countenance. She saw none of the bitterness and frustration in him that had scarred Robert Coffin. He was holding hands with his handsome Maori wife. What was her name? Oh yes, Valerie.
She walked straight toward him, her hand extended in greeting. The Maoris eyed her approach warily.
“Good morning to you, Mr. Coffin.”
He smiled courteously as they shook hands. “Miss Hull.” He nodded to his left. “My wife.”
“Valerie, of course! How do you do, my dear?” The woman smiled reflexively. A real beauty, Rose thought. Almost noble, yet childlike. She shifted her attention to the old couple standing nearby. “What seems to be the problem here?”
The man stepped forward. He used a cane and his eyes were blinded with cataracts, but his voice was strong. “I am Opotiki. Son of Te Ohine.” He gestured briefly. “Valerie Coffin is my daughter.”
“I see. This is primarily a family affair, then?”
“If you consider that all Maori are family,” Andrew Coffin told her with a smile.
“And who is this?” Rose’s gaze dropped to the matriarch who still stood close by the doors.
“My name is Ane,” the woman said softly. While embarrassed at having so much attention focused on her, neither did she seem inclined to step aside.
“My mother,” Opotiki explained proudly. “Wife to the great Te Ohine. Today she will be eighty-five years old.”
“My congratulations.” Not for the first time Rose regretted her ignorance of the Maori tongue. She knew a few words, but not how to say happy birthday.
Opotiki drew himself up importantly. “Today is the first day women will be allowed to vote anywhere in the pakeha world.”
Rose nodded. “That’s right. That is why we’re all here.”
“The Maori have always acknowledged the role and importance of women. We think it would be the right thing for a Maori woman to be the first to cast a vote today.” He glanced behind him. “A woman of wisdom and importance like my honored mother.”
“I see.” Rose looked past him, at the lady who had survived so much for so long. “And what do you think about this, Miss Ane?”
The old woman’s English was awkward but intelligible. “I think would be a good thing.”
Simpson’s line had broken and reporters and photographers had crowded close, ready to record the historic moment. The politico positioned himself next to her. Now he whispered intently.
“You can’t let that old native vote first, Miss Hull! It will make a mockery of all the work and legislation.”
“Why will it make a mockery of that, Mr. Simpson?”
“Because,” he hesitated as he hunted for the right words, “it’s not expected. It will look like a concession to the Maori. Don’t you see that?”
“It’s only a gesture.”
“You know how important gestures are in politics, Miss Hull.”
She sighed. “Yes, you’re right.” Simpson knew his business. She looked back at Ane.
“You know, I never knew my own grandmother. I imagine she must have been rather like yourself. I hope so, anyway.” Ane’s smile banished the damp chill of morning. “I didn’t even know my mother. She died when I was born.”
“A bad thing. I am sorry for that.”
“Thank you. I have an idea, if it’s acceptable to you. These people here,” and she indicated the reporters even as flashbars began to pop around them, “have come to record an important moment. I think we can make it even more important, if you will help me.”
“What is it you wish?”
Rose Hull leaned forward to whisper into the old woman’s ear. As she talked, the smile on Ane’s ancient face widened. Finally Rose straightened.
The Maori matriarch gazed up at her and nodded. “A good idea. Very good thing. Let us do it.”
“Let’s. This way is better than any other. This will be the best way. If you will allow me?” Rose Hull extended her right arm. The old woman slipped her much smaller arm through that of the tall pakeha.
“It’s time,” Andrew Coffin declared.
The courthouse doors opened inward. The clerk who’d unlocked them stared in surprise at the two women waiting side-by-side in the entry way. Then he shrugged and stepped aside.
With flashbars exploding and reporters scribbling furiously, the two women entered the courthouse arm in arm, making history with their entrance.
Cheers began to rise behind them, from a few of the watching pakehas, from the Maoris who’d escorted the senior mother all the way from the country to the heart of the great stone pa. Now they could rightly claim this as their city too.
Ane and Rose Hull did not hear the cheers and shouts. They were too busy conversing with each other. Not about the forthcoming election or whom each intended to vote for, nor about the weather or their families or themselves.
They were talking about the old days.
Te Tapea
About the Author
A New York Times–bestselling author of more than 120 books, Alan Dean Foster has written in a variety of genres, from science fiction and fantasy to mysteries and contemporary fiction. Born in New York City in 1946, he studied filmmaking at UCLA but first found success in 1968 when August Derleth published one of his short stories. A world traveler who has visited more than one hundred countries, he was particularly taken with the unique history o
f New Zealand, which resulted in his writing the historical novel Maori.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1988 by Alan Dean Foster
Cover design by Mauricio Díaz
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1639-1
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Maori Page 54
