by Sarah Lark
Now he could not even innocently suggest to Heather they pay Violet a visit: Sean had been elected to Parliament in Wellington.
“That’s very good news,” was all he had said when Heather showed him the letters. “Please, send both Chloe and Violet my love.”
Heather and Lana returned to Heather’s apartment around midnight, elated and intoxicated from success and the wine. The exhibition had been a huge success. Heather had sold eight of the thirty-two paintings already. Yet that was not all that made that evening unique. Much more exciting were Lana’s fingers, which skillfully unwrapped her “present.” It took endlessly long before all the laces and buttons of Heather’s dress were undone, but all the while Lana’s lips brushed over Heather’s hair and her tongue caressed her ear. Among a thousand caresses, she freed Heather from her corset.
Heather blushed to her core when she stood naked before Lana in the candlelight, and she held her breath as Lana undressed.
“You so beautiful,” Lana said in her deep voice, undoing Heather’s hair with trembling fingers. “You Eve in paradise.”
Heather led Lana into the bedroom. She could not wait much longer.
“If I’m Eve, then who are you?” she whispered between kisses.
“The snake, what thought you? This time we don’t let Adam play.”
Chapter 5
“You really want to leave?” Heather was close to tears.
The last few months, she had lived as if in a fairy tale. Though Lana did not look the part, for Heather, she had been the fairy who saved her. The artist had led her into the secrets of the love between two bodies at once so similar and yet so different. Feelings stormed through Heather she had never thought possible—she followed her friend into the realm of desire, and she learned how she could lead Lana there. In the beginning, she had been fearful and bashful, but Lana had made love to her ever more imaginatively and fearlessly. In comparison to what Lana and Heather did with each other at night, the little intimacies with Chloe had been harmless. No one seemed to find it strange that Heather went to evening invitations and theater performances with Lana. No one thought anything salacious about friendship between two women. Heather found that surprising and pleasing. It did not surprise Lana.
“They don’t believe women capable of anything,” she said in French, a language in which she expressed herself much more easily than English and which Heather also spoke. “We don’t feel anything in bed. That’s what even our mothers tell us. Just lie still and endure. Then, as recompense, we get a screaming brat.”
Lana playfully traced the curves of Heather’s body. They had just made love, and neither of them had lain still in doing so. Only now did Heather rest in Lana’s arms.
Heather shrugged. “I wouldn’t have anything against a baby,” she said.
Lana tickled her with her long red hair. “Then find yourself a husband. There are supposed to be some men with whom it’s fun. Just not for me.”
“So, you’ve tried it?” asked Heather, shocked. She sat up.
Lana rolled her eyes. “I’ve tried just about everything. But so far no fruit has been as sweet as you.” Laughing, she pushed herself onto Heather and began kissing her anew. “I can’t get enough of you.”
Heather felt all the more unhappy when Lana announced she planned to travel to Christchurch and see the plains—“Maybe I portray a few sheep”—and then continue to the west coast. “I want see mountains; I want see west coast. There supposed to be rocks that look like blini.”
“The Pancake Rocks.” Heather smiled through tears.
Lana looked at her. “You cry again already? Why? If you don’t want stay alone, why you not come with me?”
Heather raised her head, confused. “You want to take me with you? But, but—”
“Gladly. Is more fun traveling when we are two. You can also portray a sheep.”
“But the gallery, my work.”
Lana shook her head. “At moment, you not have work. You only paint me.”
That was true. Heather had made a few sketches of Lana and was thinking of a series similar to the portraits of Violet. Once again, she had the feeling she was able to capture a beloved person on canvas. It was intoxicating and confusing at once.
“Gallery don’t make you happy. Now empty, anyway. So, come.”
Lana was right. Her pictures had sold, down to the last watercolor, and there wasn’t another exhibition soon. Heather could close the gallery any day. Besides, spring was almost over, and the art trade stagnated in the summer. Heather could even use the travel opportunity to buy Maori art. Although she had never been interested in the natives’ pictures and artifacts herself, Chloe had always wanted to venture there.
“And you really want to have me around?” Heather asked once again.
Lana kissed her. “You little kiwi. You sometimes like this bird that digs in at night. I always have to dig you out again. But is nothing, is fun for me. We will see birds, Heather, and mountains and sea. We will have beautiful time.”
For the first time in her life, Heather did something spontaneous and rash. She closed the gallery and went traveling with Lana. At Lana’s request, they did not take the train, instead harnessing Heather’s highbred horse to a light chaise, so they would be unconstrained. Heather showed her friend Christchurch—“Looks like England. Boring”—and then took her into the vastness of the plains. She knew several sheep breeders who always welcomed guests, and despite some nerves, she introduced Lana to the Barringtons and Wardens. The women stayed a few days at Kiward Station, where Heather painted portraits of two horses and a dog, and Lana created wondrous landscape watercolors.
To Lana’s confusion, Gwyneira Warden paid Heather almost as much for the paintings of her animals as Lana’s entire exhibition had made. Her own pictures found favor with Marama, a Maori woman who murmured something about them like, “You paint my songs.”
Lana found the farm and its residents peculiar. Heather laughed.
“You’re peculiar,” she explained to Lana. “The others are normal.”
In a way, that was true. Heather loved Lana, but she didn’t see her as a part of herself or even as a true complement. That had been different with Chloe. Chloe was for Heather a sort of second self. A bit more open and lighthearted, true, but similar: modest and friendly, polite and proper, always disciplined. Lana, in contrast, sometimes seemed like a barely tamed wild thing. She spoke her mind and did so loudly. She could be moody, and she turned every guest room into a colorful confusion of scarves, jewelry, and exotic scents.
When they were in their room, she tended to walk around undressed. As a rule, she slept naked and urged Heather to do the same. In Christchurch, she made Heather’s corset disappear and dragged her friend through the shops to find more comfortable clothing. Heather did feel decidedly comfortable in the empire-waist dresses on which she decided. She didn’t look fat at all. Instead, the draped fabric emphasized her slender figure. However, these styles did raise questions from hostesses like Gwyneira Warden and Lady Barrington about whether these were the latest designs from the Gold Mine Boutique.
“My mother would kill me,” Heather said.
Lara laughed. “Is nonsense. On contrary. Without corset, we live longer.”
Lana did not possess even a hint of shyness when it came to men or women. She never lowered her gaze or even blushed. When the women turned in the direction of Arthur’s Pass, Lana insisted on driving alongside the new train line and asked bold questions of the construction workers. She accepted an invitation to eat with them and laughed boomingly with the men, letting her gaze wander over their powerful muscles. Heather tried her hand at a few drawings of the crystal-clear streams in the beech forests while Lana unpacked her paints and drafted one of her crazy pictures, in which a train inched its way across a filigreed bridge between heaven and earth, mountains and lakes.
Julian Redcliff found the picture so accomplished that he bought it on the spot. Lana asked for just as much as Mrs
. Warden had paid for a portrait of her dogs and was shocked when the construction leader accepted the price without negotiating.
Heather shrugged. “People will pay any price for a picture of what they love,” she remarked, and made another sketch of Lana on her paper.
“Then I should take money from you for modeling,” she said in French.
“Or paint me,” Heather suggested shyly. Sometimes it hurt her that Lana made no attempts at that.
Lana gave her a kiss on the forehead with a laugh. “I’ll paint you soon, dearest. I prefer painting something when it’s complete.”
Heather frowned. “So, you’ll paint me in my coffin?” she asked.
Lana laughed again. “Just wait. Be patient. You’ll see your portrait.”
Heather’s horse pulled the chaise effortlessly over the pass, and they were treated to the natural beauty of full summer. They reveled in the gold of the hills overgrown with tussock grass, traced the structure of the rocks that looked as if they had been polished, and let the cloud formations over the snow-capped mountains inspire them. When they reached the west coast, which Heather, relying on Violet’s letters, had imagined covered in coal dust and Lana imagined inhabited by whales and seals, neither found confirmation. Lana and Heather kept their distance from the coal-mining towns and dove into the green fog of the rain forests. Heather portrayed Lana in a dress of ferns. Lana lay on the moist, lichen-covered ground and looked up at the tree-high, feathery green plants.
“Those are kauri trees?” she asked.
Heather shook her head. “No, those are ferns. The kauri trees are on the North Island.”
“We’ll go there next,” Lana said.
She laughed boisterously at the whirlpool in the Pancake Rocks, was enthusiastic about the seals and the colony of boobies, and painted the birds as residents of their own city lost to dreams at the end of the world. The women floated along the coast on a fishing boat they had rented, admiring the forested cliff sides and waterfalls. Finally, their path took them to Blenheim, where they boarded the ferry to Wellington.
“I don’t get seasick,” Lana claimed, only to spend half the journey hanging over the railing.
Heather grew increasingly sure of herself and more easygoing. She stopped wondering what people thought of her. Lana did her good, though she still missed Chloe. Again and again, she caught herself viewing this lake, that rock, or some fern through Chloe’s eyes, and now they were on the North Island, where her friend had lived with Terrence.
The capital, Wellington, almost seemed familiar to her. After all, Chloe had described it down to the last detail. Lana and Heather explored the city. They admired the government building, which was supposed to be one of the largest wooden buildings in the world, and visited Sean in his office on the second floor. Lana seemed a bit astonished when a strong-looking Maori, his face emblazoned with a warrior’s tattoos, opened the door for them. Heather was not especially taken aback. After all, her brother had often represented the Maori tribes in Dunedin on questions of land. She was more astounded by the young man’s perfect English and his exceptional manners.
While Heather and Lana waited, the Maori buried himself in the mountain of documents on his desk in Sean’s anteroom. Apparently, he was serving as a secretary.
Sean was more than a little surprised at the visit. He did not know Heather to be someone who enjoyed traveling, and he marveled at her heartfelt friendship with Lana. Heather grew nervous under his probing gaze. For the first time, she had the feeling that someone sensed something of their true relationship.
“Have you heard anything from Chloe?”
Heather hated herself for it, but she blushed. Why was Sean suddenly taking such an interest in Chloe?
“I, um . . .”
She had written Chloe a few times, but always just postcards with information about the trip. She had not received any letters herself. How would she? Lana and Heather rarely remained in the same place longer than a few days.
“And, uh, from Violet?”
Heather relaxed again. So that was the way the wind was blowing. Sean’s interest in her former ward had caught her notice in Dunedin.
“I haven’t, but I’m going to visit her as soon as I return, and then I’ll report back to you. I promise.” Heather spoke quickly with feigned cheerfulness. “Are you, um, getting anywhere with women’s suffrage?”
Sean shrugged. “First we need universal suffrage. As long as only landowners and taxpayers may vote, we Liberals are never going to win. And until we have a majority, there’s also no chance for either the white or Maori women. Although, the Maori argue that their women already urgently need the vote because they do own land. We’re doing our best in any case, and it won’t be for lack of petitions. Amey Daldy is writing her fingers sore, not to mention Kate Sheppard. It’ll happen, but it takes time. As with everything in politics.” He sighed. “And so, now you’re traveling around the North Island, Miss Sergeyevna? Looking for new motifs? I very much liked your exhibition back in Dunedin. And you, Heather, are you painting landscapes now?”
Heather blushed again. Sean was asking her why she was running around with Lana.
“Heather makes more portrait,” Lana said. “These days paints me. But could also paint others, has great talent. Sees in soul. Heather, why you not try portrait from this, how you say, Maori? Your secretary, Mr. Coltrane, is Maori, no? Fascinating face. Why you have Maori as secretary?”
Heather did not know whether to be indignant at Lana’s lack of tact or to marvel at her skilled change of subject.
Sean laughed. “Oh, Kupe is helpful because of his bilingualism. I wasn’t, however, looking specifically for a Maori, just for a young law student. Kupe is still studying. The top of his class. His heritage was of secondary concern.”
“Perhaps put in good word for us with him.” Lana smiled. “We would like visit Maori tribe. Heather has interest in Maori art.”
Lana casually laid her hand on Heather’s thigh, and Heather grew hot under her loving gaze. Embarrassed, she shifted to the side.
Sean ignored the wordless exchange between the two women. He shook his head. “Kupe won’t be able to help you there. Kupe doesn’t have a tribe. He grew up in an orphanage. A tragic story, a victim of the thousand fights and misunderstandings in the relations between the Maori and pakeha. But you are traveling to Auckland, aren’t you? You can speak to Matariki Drury there. She’ll put you in contact with a tribe quickly.”
Sean scratched an address on a piece of paper.
“You’re in contact with Matariki?” Heather asked. “I thought she couldn’t stand to hear the Coltrane name again.”
For Heather and Chloe, it had seemed back then that the girl had left for Auckland above all to forget Colin Coltrane.
Sean furrowed his brow when Heather said as much. “I am in contact with Matariki almost weekly.” Sean handed Heather her address. “She works for Amey Daldy; that is to say, she writes petitions. For women’s suffrage, for the unions, for the establishment of relief offices. She’s always thinking of something. Matariki is almost more ardent about it than Mrs. Daldy. Clearly, it’s her dream job. Someday she’ll probably take her seat as the first Maori woman in Parliament. And she’s hardly likely to ever forget Colin—the kid looks an awful lot like him. Or our mother, as you’ll see. It’s going to be extremely good-looking someday either way.”
“The kid?” asked Heather, blindsided. “You mean to say, he—”
Sean’s eyes flashed. “Precisely,” he said, “the little shit got her in a family way. Please pardon my language, ladies.”
Svetlana shook with laughter. Until then, the young representative had seemed somewhat stiff, but now he showed some fire. “For that it takes two, Mr. Coltrane.”
Sean nodded. “Matariki shares your perspective. She says she wanted the kid, that she was trying for one. Then, however, she realized Colin only actually wanted her money, and she left him. Then he fell in love with Chloe’s money.”
“Well, you like so much your brother, Mr. Coltrane,” Svetlana teased. “You also speak so clearly in Parliament?”
“I try, Miss Sergeyevna.” Sean smiled.
Heather sighed with relief when she saw the warmth in her brother’s gaze. Clearly, he liked Svetlana. At that moment, there was a knock on the door, and Kupe entered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Coltrane, but Sir John Hall would like to speak with you in his office when you’re done here. Can I inform his secretary when he can expect you?”
Sean smiled at him. “I’m coming at once, Kupe. By the way, you’ve just met my sister, Heather, and her friend Miss Sergeyevna. The two of them will soon be in Auckland to see Matariki Drury. Shall they take her your regards?”
A shadow crossed the tall Maori’s otherwise friendly expression. “My thanks but no, Mr. Coltrane,” he said stiffly. “I see no value in further contact with Miss Drury.”
Sean shook his head. “Now, there’s no cause to be so spiteful, Kupe. She knows you work for me. Every time she writes me, she tasks me with giving you her regards. We’re all fighting the same fight. You can’t hold a grudge against her forever.”
The Maori bit his lower lip—a gesture Heather recognized from Matariki. Had the two of them once been close?
“You’ll have to leave that to me, Mr. Coltrane,” said Kupe.
Heather turned, embarrassed, to her brother. It was clearly time to change the subject.
“A child! Do Mother and Peter know? Does Chloe?”
Sean shrugged. “I’m sure Chloe doesn’t know. She would not have kept it a secret from you, after all. As for Mother and Peter, I imagine it depends on whether Lizzie and Michael have told them. Matariki makes no secret of it, but she hasn’t sent copies of the birth certificate either.”
“What is it, anyway,” Heather asked, “a boy or a girl?”
“A girl,” Sean said, and was about to add something when Kupe interrupted angrily.
