Beneath the Kauri Tree (The Sea of Freedom Trilogy Book 2)

by Sarah Lark

  “Mr. Joshua Biller and the Mrs. Her-her-mi-ne Biller both behind,” he said, struggling a bit with the names. “Is trouble with Mahuika, not understand, but missus loud.”

  Violet was dealing with a Maori for the first time. Did the Billers hire only Maori? She thanked the gardener and headed to the path. Indeed, she did hear an argument.

  “I do not care if there are advantages. She took off her clothes. In front of your son,” a woman said shrilly.

  The speaker, a petite, elegantly dressed woman, immediately came into view. She stood on a small dock that jutted into the river. Beside her were a strong-looking blond man in a waistcoat and suit, a brown-skinned girl, and a little boy. To Violet’s astonishment, the girl was bare breasted, and she had only a light cloth slung around her waist. The man devoured her with his gaze while the woman struggled with her shock.

  “She wanted to teach me to swim,” the little boy objected. He might have been six or seven years old. He had his father’s light-blond hair and his mother’s slender figure and somewhat elongated face. “And what’s more—”

  “What’s more, a respectable woman wears a bathing suit,” his mother said. “In so far as a respectable woman swims. There’s nothing wrong with a modest dip at a seaside resort, but not like this.”

  “We always swim so.” The girl justified herself. She was not tattooed, but she had the same thick dark hair as the gardener, and her figure also looked a bit stocky. Her expression was gentle and reflected neither shame nor guilt. “And children always—”

  “I told you, didn’t I? They’re savages.” The woman spoke agitatedly. “Joshua, please stop staring at her. And, Mahuika, cover yourself. That is not for innocent eyes, the poor boy.”

  The boy did not seem distressed or to understand what the problem was. He did not even look at the bare body of the Maori girl, though she now pulled on her dress.

  “She also speaks her strange language with him. Who knows what she’s saying. No, really, Joshua, I must insist. We need an Englishwoman.”

  “What nonsense, Hermine. In half a year, he’ll be going to boarding school. Sending for an English nanny before then would be madness. There’s no time.”

  “I don’t need a nanny,” said the boy. “I got along on my own just fine. I’d rather have a globe and a dictionary.”

  “You hold your tongue, Caleb,” his mother commanded. “You hear that, Joshua? He lacks any decorum whatsoever. The savages are rubbing off on him. He talks back, he looks at his naked nanny, and the gardener lets him ‘help.’ Yesterday he came into the house with filthy clothes and told me he caught a ‘weta.’ Heaven knows what that is.”

  “It’s an insect, like a giant grasshopper,” the boy said, earning himself another punitive look.

  “Missus complains because of mud on clothing,” the nanny said, presenting a new argument. “That’s why undress today. Is better for playing.”

  “You hear that?” Mrs. Biller said accusingly to her husband. “He’s going to arrive in England completely feral. What will they think of him in boarding school? He—”

  “We could send him half a year early,” Joshua Biller said.

  His wife reacted hysterically. “Now, already? Even earlier? My baby.” She moved to pull the boy to her. This was visibly embarrassing to him. Plus, he had just spotted Violet, who had crept closer.

  “Who are you?” Caleb asked.

  Violet smiled at him and looked apologetically at the Maori girl; then she approached Mr. and Mrs. Biller and curtsied with her gaze lowered. When she looked up, she sought Caleb’s mother’s watery-blue gaze.

  “I’m Violet Paisley,” she said firmly. “And I cannot swim.”

  For Mrs. Biller, it was enough that Violet was white, spoke English, and did not intend to fill her son’s head with anything exotic like Polynesian languages. Mr. Biller asked questions and seemed satisfied with Violet’s answers. Yes, she had experience with children; she took care of her little sister. And she had already served in a manor house, so she would not drop any porcelain and knew how to use a faucet. Mr. Biller nodded when she mentioned Reverend Burton in Dunedin, and Mrs. Biller seemed downright charmed when Violet referenced the Gold Mine Boutique. Kathleen and Claire’s collections were known far beyond Dunedin.

  “And your father works in my mine?” Biller finally asked.

  Violet nodded. This question caused her the most concern. If Mr. Biller asked the foreman about Jim and Fred, he wouldn’t likely give the best reference. For now, however, the mine owner seemed satisfied.

  “Very well, we’ll give you a try. We expect you—well, Hermine, you tell her, please. I must get to my office. This unfortunate business has already cost me too much time. And find some occupation for the Maori girl. We don’t want to aggravate the tribe by letting her go.”

  A load lifted from Violet’s heart. She would not have liked to take away the girl’s post.

  Mrs. Biller snorted once her husband had turned his back. “Aggravate the tribe,” she muttered. “I’d say you’ve become keen on her.”

  Violet pretended not to hear and curtsied once more in front of her future employer. “Thank you very much, madam. When shall I return?”

  Mrs. Biller requested Violet come at seven the next morning. She was to wake Caleb, serve him his tea, help him wash and dress, and then hand him over to his tutor.

  “The reverend teaches him from nine to twelve. At one, we eat as a family; then you’ll see to Caleb’s afternoon rest, after which you’ll supervise him with his homework.”

  Violet decided not to mention that she had not mastered reading and writing. Likely Mahuika hadn’t either. She smiled at Caleb, who looked at her with a serious expression.

  “He eats his dinner at six.” Mrs. Biller spoke of her son as if giving feeding instructions for a pet. “Thereafter you may go.”

  That would be tight. Jim and Fred came home around seven. She would manage it somehow. It would be best if they never learned of her new job. At most, she would let on that she helped out a bit at the Billers’.

  “Thank you very, very much, madam,” she said again before turning to go. “Then, then until tomorrow, Caleb.”

  The boy did not answer.

  Violet was in the best of moods when she ran home, though it suddenly occurred to her they hadn’t spoken about pay. She had no time for the baker today, but maybe tomorrow he would sell her rolls on credit.

  Caleb was already dressed when Violet arrived the next day. He sat at his desk in his study. Three rooms belonged to his domain: the study, a playroom that doubled as a living room, and a bedroom. Each room was bigger than Violet’s whole hut.

  Violet was nervous when she saw he was waiting. “Am I late?”

  Caleb shook his head. “No, and I’m not a baby. You needn’t wash me and dress me. I’m seven years old.”

  “Almost a man,” Violet laughed.

  “You also needn’t make fun of me,” the boy responded. “I’m lucky. Other children have to start working at seven.”

  “What should I do now, since you’re already dressed?” Violet asked.

  “Whatever you want,” replied Caleb. “Well, breakfast first. You’ll need to get that. My mother does not like me to eat with them.”

  Violet was surprised. “Why not?”

  “My mother thinks I’m a baby. You’ve already seen that. And babies dribble and babble and whatever else. No one wants a baby at the table. Will you fetch the tea now?”

  Violet hurried to the kitchen and met the cook. Agnes McEnroe was a Scot in her middle years. Her husband worked for the Billers as a coachman.

  “So, you’re the new nanny?” she asked amiably when Violet curtsied to her. “Y’look as if you could use one of your own. But the little Maori’s hardly much older—just better fed.”

  At that, Agnes laid two more pieces of toast on the platter. Violet was never to know her as anything but generous.

  “You can break your fast with the little gentleman. That’ll
cheer him. He’s a good lad, the little Caleb, but always bored. See to’t you brighten him up.”

  Violet nervously took the tray, onto which the cook had placed another plate and a second cup of tea. She had felt up to the job of a nanny, but would she succeed in entertaining the precocious boy? Most of all, she was worried about encountering Mrs. Biller. She would recognize that she intended to drink tea with her boy, and that was surely not permitted. Yet her mouth watered at the sight of the full sugar bowl, the creamy milk, the butter, and the two kinds of jam. She had only had a hunk of bread for breakfast in the morning and had not made coffee because Rosie was asleep and she did not want to wake her. Rosie would be alone all day, which made Violet worry.

  Caleb had already cleared a table in his playroom and patiently awaited Violet with his book. He did not find anything amiss when he saw the second cup and the extra toast.

  “You are rather thin,” he said when Violet reached for the first piece of toast.

  “Everyone in my family is thin,” Violet said, blushing. “Would you like strawberry jam or orange marmalade?”

  The boy rolled his eyes. “I. Am. Not. A. Baby.” He repeated his favorite phrase slowly and more than firmly. “You don’t need to butter my bread. I can even pour my own tea. Here.” He proved it by standing up, draping his napkin over his arm, and gripping the teapot like a practiced waiter. Head upright and back straight, he approached Violet from the left, poured tea expertly in her cup without spilling a drop, and then in a servile tone asked, “Does the lady desire milk and sugar? Or does the lady prefer lemon?”

  Violet laughed. Caleb took his seat again and reached for his own toast. “You can eat my other piece,” he offered generously. “And you like, hmm, strawberry?” he decided. “You have a sweet tooth, don’t you?”

  Violet furrowed her brow. “How did you know that?” she asked.

  Caleb shrugged his shoulders. “You look the type.” He laughed. “And now, tell me: What do you want to do? We have more than an hour before the pastor comes for my lessons.”

  Violet bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “What did Mahuika do with you?”

  Caleb pursed his lips. “Nothing. Well, she fetched breakfast. But then she went to the garden. The gardener is her sweetheart, you know.”

  Violet wondered if Mrs. Biller’s concerns about the Maori girl might have been justified. Who knew with whom besides Caleb she had shared her nakedness?

  “That’s why I also had to play in the garden a lot, which wasn’t a big deal. I like weta.”

  “What’s a weta, again?” asked Violet.

  Caleb grinned. “An insect, like a grasshopper. Here, look.”

  He fetched a book from his shelf and opened it. Violet recognized a long block of text and a picture—although the bug depicted there did not improve her estimation of the fauna in her new homeland.

  “Where do you find them?”

  Caleb skimmed the text. “Depends. The tree weta like to jump around, but the cave weta will come in the house. Here, you can read it yourself.” He pushed the book over to Violet.

  Violet hesitated. “I can’t read very well,” she said quietly. “I’d like to, but—”

  “But you’re at least thirteen,” Caleb marveled.

  Violet bit her lip. “I’m fifteen,” she said. Her birthday was at the beginning of the year, but it had gone uncelebrated. Her father hadn’t even remembered the date. “But you don’t learn it by growing older. And it’s, it’s rather hard.”

  Caleb shook his head. “It’s not hard,” he said confidently. “Shall I teach you?”

  Over the next few weeks, Caleb Biller opened a whole new world to his fifteen-year-old nanny.

  Apocalypse

  Parihaka, North Island

  1879–1881

  Greymouth, South Island

  1880–1881

  Chapter 1

  Since they had met with the students from Parihaka, Kupe wanted to see it and to meet Chieftain Te Whiti. Matariki had no illusions: if Te Whiti was half as charismatic a leader as he seemed, Kupe would fall for him and would want to live in Parihaka.

  She didn’t care. Matariki was not in love with Kupe. It was true she felt something for her savior, but even if he had freed her from her slavery in Hamilton, Kupe didn’t have enough in common with the man she’d imagined. He was nice and lovable, but also puppylike. He stumbled more than strode through life in Auckland. Matariki did not exactly feel sorry for him, but he didn’t impress her. Once again, her Maori and pakeha sides were in conflict: while a Maori woman thought nothing of being superior to her man in matters of mana, the schoolgirl dreamed of a hero.

  What was more, he pricked her conscience. During her time in Hamilton, the girl had sworn to live as a Maori in the future and to fight for the rights of her people. After just a few days in Auckland, however, she admittedly fell for the charms of pretty dresses and soft beds. If she followed Kupe to Parihaka, he would compel her to stay, but she was excited about the coming academic year at Otago Girls’ High School.

  Then, Kupe found support from a side she would never have expected. He and Matariki had been in Auckland two full weeks before her parents finally arrived. They had traveled as quickly as possible from the South Island, and now Lizzie Drury wanted to visit Parihaka.

  Kupe stood by, awkward and uncertain, during the emotional reunion among Matariki, Lizzie, and Michael. Until then, he had always seen Matariki as a chieftain’s daughter, but she threw herself without hesitation into the arms of this tall, blue-eyed pakeha she called Daddy. And even Lizzie, the famous pakeha wahine, did not meet Kupe’s expectations. He had imagined a powerful, spiritual personality, a tall, majestic chieftain’s wife. Instead, the short, delicate Lizzie alighted from the carriage Michael had rented in Wellington in her elegant traveling clothes and her bold little hat. She was cordial and friendly—even to Kupe whom Michael eyed with suspicion at first—but not at all like the woman he’d pictured at Kahu Heke’s side.

  Lizzie spoke fluent Maori and addressed Kupe in his language. She didn’t look twice at his tattoos. Kupe’s admission that he had only a limited mastery of his people’s language earned him Michael’s sympathy. Over dinner, Matariki’s parents questioned Kupe at length, and Michael asked the decisive question: “What, young man, do you intend to make of yourself?”

  Lizzie laughed at Michael’s serious question. To her, it was clear that no kind of romantic relationship existed between their daughter and this gentle giant—at least they were not sleeping together. Lizzie believed she could pick up on attraction between two people, and she had the sense that Kupe was getting on Matariki’s nerves. Then, however, the young man mentioned Parihaka—offering the opportunity to bring the conversation around to another subject.

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard of it,” Lizzie said. “Or read, rather. Even the Ngai Tahu talk about it, though it’s not as important to them because they don’t have serious problems with pakeha like the Maori here. Why don’t we drive there, Michael? We can bring Kupe to his new home and see the whole place.”

  She looked to her daughter for approval. Lizzie was going to free her of her nice but unsuitable admirer with the skill of a diplomat. Matariki, however, seemed unsure. Didn’t she want to go to Parihaka? Lizzie would talk to her about it later.

  Michael had nothing against a side trip to Mount Taranaki, and he hadn’t the slightest concern about losing his daughter to the venture. He was certain Matariki would return with them to Dunedin and take up her old life. If she got rid of this Maori boy in the process, all the better.

  Unlike Lizzie, Michael wasn’t particularly attuned to emotional nuances, and he did not notice the tension in the carriage when the four of them made their way south the next morning. If anything, he attributed Matariki’s unease to the fact that she was again traveling the route by which she and Kupe had fled Hamilton.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to press charges against the McConnells?” he asked Matariki. “For fals
e imprisonment or whatever it’s called? We could go to the police.”

  Matariki smiled. To make that suggestion, he had to swallow his pride. Even three decades after his deportation to Australia, Michael Drury had a strained relationship with authority.

  “Oh, forget it, Dad. We gave them enough trouble already. Not to mention, Hamilton doesn’t even have a police station. I never want to go there again.”

  Michael nodded in relief, steering the carriage carefully over the bumpy side roads that led past Hamilton. He would have liked to stay far away from the town, but there were only a few well-paved roads on the North Island. The road led through farmland, mostly pastureland, none of which seemed nearly as vast as the Canterbury Plains, or through shrub-covered hills. Occasionally they also crossed through beech or fern forests and marveled at the giant kauri trees.

  To Kupe’s astonishment, Lizzie knew a lot about them. She had lived a long time on the North Island where a Maori tribe in Kororareka had befriended her.

  “The Ngati Pau,” she told Kupe, “Hongi Hika’s tribe where I got to know Kahu. Even back then he was a rebel, although not as fanatical or cold-blooded as you two describe. I like Te Whiti’s idea much better. I’m so excited for Parihaka.”

  Lizzie smiled at Matariki. The girl had opened her heart up to her the night before their departure: “I feel like a traitor. On one hand, I know that Kahu Heke is right. I never took all that about oppression by the pakeha seriously. But Hamilton—”

  “That was an experience,” Lizzie soothed her. “You have to consider that on the North Island there were quite a few deaths during these disastrous wars and conflicts caused by madmen like Te Ua Haumene or fanatics like Te Kooti. Every side has victims to mourn, and they don’t forgive each other easily. You don’t have to take sides if you don’t want to.”

  “But I do.” Matariki stood up and paced—followed by loyal Dingo—restlessly around the room. A mannerism she had picked up from Michael. “It can’t go on like this. Things like what happened to Kupe’s village. They can’t just happen, and—”