by Sarah Lark
“Well, Sean,” said Reverend Dawson, “I leave the podium to you. Convince the good citizens of Christchurch of your progressive ideas.”
Sean pulled himself together. He smiled winningly as he stepped forward. “There once was a girl,” he began, “who had a true love. So begin all fairy tales and, alas, almost all the tragic stories I hear in my law office. I’d like to tell you a story today.”
Sean paused dramatically, and the men in the audience exchanged reluctant looks with one another before giving their attention to the speaker. The women hung on his every word. Sean tried to look past the second row. He would only lose his train of thought if he looked into the eyes of the delicate woman with the marble complexion.
“The girl in my story lived in Ireland many years ago, in the dark days of the hunger. Her beloved stole a few sacks of grain and for that was deported to Australia. The girl remained in Ireland without him, carrying his child in her womb. The young man left her with a bit of money, and if this world were a different and better one, she would have been able to lead a good life with it. She was a gifted seamstress. She might have opened a small shop. She would have been able to raise and feed the child, and no one would have bothered about whether it bore his father’s name or his mother’s. But the world was as it still is: her father found the money and took it for himself. She was lucky that he did not drink or gamble it away, but he married her off to the first man prepared to take ‘used goods’ in exchange for a sizeable dowry.”
In the hall, an indignant murmur rose. Sean smiled. This was the desired effect.
“Does my choice of words bother you, gentlemen? I believe I heard the protests from the men. Among the women, I see faces blushing with shame. Without reason, I might add. No one should feel ashamed for being vilified. The ones who vilify should feel ashamed. And, hand over your hearts, gentlemen: Have you never used such terms? Have you ever spoken derisively of ‘fallen women’? Whereby I always ask myself: How did they fall if no one pushed them? But that’s another matter.”
Sean permitted himself a glance at the dark-haired girl and saw her laughing. She no doubt had a sense of humor and understood innuendo. Sean had to keep himself from smiling.
“Our girl must have felt betrayed and traded away, but she politely said, ‘I do’ at the altar. She followed her husband into a foreign country. Her money allowed him to escape his hated life. But don’t think he thanked his young spouse. No, he made his wife pay for her failings. He frightened her, beat her, and he did her violence. When she earned money, he took it from her. The man cheated all his friends and neighbors so that soon no one wanted to speak with him or his wife. And there was nothing this woman could do. There was no one to whom she could turn to in need; even priests took the man’s side—the same church, I should note, that condemns slavery as unchristian. There was no divorce; the Catholic Church still does not accept it. And the woman could not press charges against her husband for his crimes against her and others. A wife testifying against her husband was and is unthinkable. No one would have been surprised if her husband were to beat her to death for that. Some might have excused him.
“Now, I don’t want to make you any sadder, ladies. I already see tears in your eyes. And this is not because women are so sentimental that just a story touches you but rather because more than one of you recognizes yourself or a friend in this story. Is it not so?”
Sean looked into the audience and reaped calls and applause. Naturally, the women recognized themselves, and even the men looked more concerned.
“My story, I’m glad to say, has a happy end. One day, the woman fled from her marriage. She left behind everything to which she was attached: her house, most of her worldly possessions, and even one of her children. Yet she succeeded in bringing her other two children and herself to safety. Today she’s doing well.
“And now, you’re probably asking yourselves why I would begin this speech with such a story, which maybe I’ve made up—after all, it did begin like an age-old fairy tale. However, it is no fairy tale, and it is not age-old. It’s the story of my mother, and I am one of the children she could save. I had unbelievable luck. I was able to go to school, which was made possible by her indefatigable work and, too, her fears and lies. To pass for a good woman, she had to present herself as a widow, and she spent years fearing her husband would find and punish her. My mother lived through hell, and I stand here today in order to make the world a place where such stories will never happen again. Or if not the world, then at least New Zealand. All of you here, gentlemen, have it in your hands, for ultimately you will decide whether to grant your wives, your lovers, your friends, the mothers of your children, the right to go to the ballot box and occupy political office. You will not seriously contend your wives lack the maturity. You don’t really believe that the women who birthed your children lack the strength. It is to your credit that you want to protect these women, to feed and clothe and be there for them. You build them a house where they find sanctuary even when you’re not home. You care for the education and nourishment of your children and secure this in the case that, God forbid, something happens to you. Yet, the greatest security you can give, not just to your own wives, but to all women, is granting them the right to vote. Place all women under the protective roof of laws that make their lives easier, and let women take part in shaping these laws. Just as you let your wives share in shaping your house and as you complement each other in raising your children. Women will not abuse their rights. Has letting women vote on the Liquor License Committees these past two years not proven its value? You know as I do that fewer drunks now brawl in our streets. Many communities have silently offered their female citizens the right to vote, and they do well by it. The time has come for us to spread this through all of Parliament. I’m calling for the active and passive right to vote for women, immediately if possible. Make history, gentlemen, history of which we can be proud.”
With that, Sean, bowed and stepped back. In looking up, he met eyes with the young woman in the second row and was cheered by the admiration that filled them. He suddenly recalled where and when he had seen her before. She had worn the same velvet dress back then and had looked at him just as admiringly. Then her narrow face had still been childlike, and her splendid hair tied in tight braids. The dress had been his sister’s.
Violet Paisley. She had asked clever questions back then, and now she counted among the first who raised a hand when Reverend Dawson opened the floor to questions. The reverend called on a gentleman in the third row, and Sean politely answered his question about the general stance of the Liberal Party toward prohibition. After that, Reverend Dawson chose someone else. He seemed to be ignoring the girl in the second row. After Sean had answered his third question from a man, he called on the girl himself.
“Mr. Coltrane.” Her voice was somewhat breathless, but very pretty and lively. “Mr. Coltrane, if I understood you correctly, you are demanding both the active and passive right to vote for women. Whereby you are exceeding the demands on some female activists like Mrs. Nicol in Dunedin. She is of the opinion we should first settle for the opportunity to vote at all. The opportunity likewise to be elected would be—”
She became stuck, and Sean smiled at her.
“Reaching for the stars. I’m familiar with the argument,” he said. “But why shouldn’t you reach for the stars? Miss Paisley, isn’t it? I’m very happy to see you again.”
Violet blushed with embarrassment but also with happiness. He remembered her.
“It’s like this, ladies and gentlemen: if women may vote, but men still determine for whom they may vote, then we damn the freshly baked voters to another hard struggle. Again they will have to do what many of them do see as all too feminine, but which must be felt as unworthy among all people of equal rights: courting the favor of a man, dancing carefully around a representative who is perhaps prepared to do something for them, but then again perhaps not. And if no one at all is prepared to promote what is dear
to the hearts of female voters, then the right to vote is of no avail. That is why I say let’s strike while the iron is hot. I hope one day to sit in Parliament with heads as beautiful as they are smart. For example, beside Mrs. Kate Sheppard, Mrs. Ada Wells, Helen Nicol, or you, Miss Paisley.”
Sean signaled the women to stand. Kate Sheppard and Ada Wells did so; they routinely spent time in public, but Violet remained seated and blushed deeply. He remembered her, but he knew nothing about her marriage. She would have liked to flee. Naturally, that was not possible. The room was full of people. What would she do if he came to talk to her after his speech? No doubt he would, perhaps to take greetings to his sister. Violet was afraid she would die of nerves.
Sean answered more questions, but glanced again and again at Violet. When Reverend Dawson finally ended the gathering, Sean Coltrane turned to Kate and Ada—and Violet. She blushed again when he greeted her first.
“You must forgive me. I did not recognize you at first glance, Miss Paisley. Naturally, you’ve grown up, and so beautifully that I’d almost have to accept my opponents’ argument: a woman like you in Parliament, and the speakers’ breath would catch, one after the other.”
“Well, that would be progress,” Kate Sheppard observed. “Now, stop your sweet talk. You’re going to make the girl faint. Besides, you’re speaking to a married woman and mother of two. Your Miss Paisley is our Mrs. Fence.”
Violet thought she saw a hint of regret flash in Sean’s eyes, regret and amazement.
Sean furrowed his brow. “Aren’t you still rather young for that?” he asked. “But it’s none of my business, and as I said, almost all stories of women begin with true love.” He smiled, that expression perhaps also a bit forced. “I hope yours is a happy story.”
Violet struggled for words. She wanted to say something in reply and vacillated between a polite generality and an urgent wish to scream out the truth. However, then someone else addressed Sean, and he had to turn away from her.
A few women now brought in tea, and Kate poured some for Violet.
“Here, with lots of sugar, dear. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
She laughed and looked at Violet probingly. “Even if one you rather fancy. How do you know Sean Coltrane? Are you from Dunedin?”
Violet told Kate and Ada about her acquaintance with Heather Coltrane and the Burtons.
“Oh yes, Reverend Burton.” Kate smiled. “And Kathleen of the Gold Mine Boutique. I should reject her collection vehemently. For one, it’s just for the rich, and for two, it’s to be worn over tightly laced corsets. But it’s sooo lovely.”
She eyed Violet’s burgundy dress. “That’s from her, too, isn’t it? There’s something unmistakable about the cut.”
Ada Wells frowned. “Kate, I must protest. This is a political meeting, and you’re talking about fashion.”
Violet almost had to laugh.
Kate shrugged. “Well, yes, female representatives can’t walk into Parliament in waistcoats,” she said. “We’ll have to dress appropriately.” Her face beamed. “Now that I think about it, we should talk to Kathleen Burton about it. She could consider it for her next collection: dresses for women to catch the breath of parliamentarians. Whether at her sight or heckling, the main thing is the gentlemen shut their mouths.” She laughed and patted Violet’s back. “Now come, Violet. We’ll find Mr. Coltrane, and you can give civilized conversation another try. His sister will surely want to know how you’re doing. Perhaps you could even introduce your children to him.”
Sean Coltrane did not mind leaving his conversation with Reverend Dawson and some male citizens of Christchurch. Violet was astounded by how willingly he followed her to the play corner to see her children. Kate was less astounded. She had, after all, just witnessed the sparkle in his eye when he faced Violet. And Violet looked different. Even Ada Wells had noticed how often Violet checked the hold of her hair, which was put up especially elaborately. Her cheeks looked as if she had pinched them to redden them, and her eyes were filled with more anticipation and excitement than a political speech might usually inspire.
Sean Coltrane really might only have recalled Violet Paisley at second glance, but Violet had been dreaming of meeting him even if she was fueled only by a childish infatuation—she could hardly have been more than fourteen when she came with the Burtons to New Zealand.
“A nice young man,” Sean said of Joe, “and what a charming little girl.”
Sean insisted on picking Roberta up and rocking her. Violet beamed at him. So, even he found Roberta cuter than Joe, who despite the meagerness of his diet was already showing signs of someday being as stout as his father. Roberta took after Violet. Already her first chestnut locks were curling over her delicate face.
“And that’s Rosie?” If Sean was shocked at the sight of her, he hid it well.
Rosie had gotten hold of crayons, although Carrie Delaney usually avoided letting her color. Kate Sheppard had spoken in favor of it, but Carrie was frightened by the way Rosie colored page after page with red scribbles. She did that now, too, without looking at Sean or anyone else.
Violet nodded. “She’s, she doesn’t speak. People say she’s slow.” She bit her lip.
Sean eyed Rosie. It was not the first time that he had encountered such a child. In the charitable institutions, too, there were such children who clung silently to their mother’s skirts or stared absentmindedly into space. Almost always they were children of women who had fled abusive husbands. Sean’s eyes wandered from Rosie to Violet. He had almost expected her to lower her gaze. Most women felt guilty for what happened to them and their children. Violet, however, did not lower her eyes but instead looked at him directly. Sean felt he could read her thoughts: Not a nice story, Sean Coltrane. And no true love.
Sean cleared his throat. He had to say something about Rosie. “I don’t think she’s slow,” he said. “She was such a bright child. She’s scared.”
“A Maori wisewoman once said the spirits closed her eyes to, to protect her, and apparently, her lips too.”
She never told anyone about that. Although talking about it with Sean seemed entirely natural, she immediately chided herself for her openness. Sean Coltrane was the stepson of Reverend Peter Burton. Surely as fanatical a Christian as Julia.
Sean smiled at her. “Don’t we all occasionally wish we could have such friendly spirits?” he asked softly. “Don’t lose hope, Mrs. Fence. Someday her eyes will open again. And maybe she’s even well on her way to that.”
He gestured to Rosie, who now briefly paused and seemed to waver between the different colors of the crayons. Violet looked at Sean and felt strangely comforted, and happy.
“You’ll give your sister my greetings, won’t you?” Violet asked. “I haven’t sent her a letter in a long time.”
She had not written to Heather since she had been forced to exchange her dear wooden house for the shack behind the pub. She had convinced herself she could not find any more time to read and write with all the singing and demonstrating with the Temperance Union. In truth, though, she had only been ashamed.
Sean returned her gaze. “We won’t lose contact again,” he promised her, “not now that we, that we’ve—” He broke off.
“Mr. Coltrane.” Reverend Dawson had come over with a few notables of Christchurch who wanted to speak to the future representative.
Sean had to go. He was already spending an unseemly amount of time with the women and children. Violet, too, girded herself to depart. Sean saw her pull Rosie away from the crayons and take Roberta in her arms. Kate had revealed to him that the Fences lived in Woolston. That was far. He would have most liked to offer Violet his carriage, but that would not do. People would talk about him. Still, he could not simply leave her like this.
“We’ll meet again, Mrs. Fence,” he said quietly before turning away.
Violet gave him a slight smile, but her face seemed to radiate from within.
“Violet,” she said.
With Violet’s next wages from cleaning the pub—Brown paid the money to her directly instead of putting it in Eric’s hands—she bought crayons for Rosie. At first, Violet’s sister filled page after page with the color red. Then she began to use the black crayon. Rosie did not talk again while coloring, but she now became calmer and at least did not break the crayons anymore. Violet let her do as she pleased, although Julia complained, and Eric declared his wife was just as crazy as her sister.
“She doesn’t even know what she’s doing,” he mocked.
Makere, the Maori midwife, would probably have said that the spirits were guiding Rosie’s hand.
Chapter 10
“Riki, you can’t just sit around all day. You should do something—didn’t you want to study?”
Kathleen Burton was happy to let Lizzie and Michael’s daughter live with her for a time, but her inactivity could not go on, and after nearly a week, Kathleen finally worked up the nerve to do something about it. After her fight with her parents, Matariki had remained in the city. She appeared in the early morning—although Kathleen had her suspicions that she arrived in the garden an hour before and waited there until it was appropriate to enter. And in the evening, she disappeared, usually just after it grew dark. The reason for this was easy to uncover: Colin’s strict landlady got up early and went to bed with the chickens. The girl matched the landlady’s hours.
This was not compatible with Kathleen and Peter’s ideas of morality, and it did not please Michael or Lizzie. No argument, however, reached Matariki. And she defended herself by referring to the customs of the Maori, which allowed her to see a lover when she wanted.
