by Sarah Lark
“Those who have always done it,” Amey Daldy said abruptly. “Virtuous, Christian women. We will need a few more volunteers. I’m sorry, Matariki, but it’s better we roll back our expectations a bit than betray our principles.”
Matariki brushed her hair out of her face. She usually wore it up, but a few strands always broke free. Matariki had often been annoyed by that, but now, however, she felt something like joy and pride welling up about it. Her hair would not be bound, nor would she. She wasn’t fighting for women’s rights just to be locked in a corset of virtue and principles by members of her own sex.
“Then I’ll be going,” she said calmly. “I’ll pick up Atamarie from school, and then we’ll drive to Wellington. I’m going to keep fighting, Mrs. Daldy. I won’t roll back my expectations. And you and your Christian teetotalers should consider whether you really want women’s suffrage. Once we have it, after all, we might vote for something that doesn’t suit you. Something like laughing and drinking wine, perhaps in the company of men. Maybe you’ve been fighting a false fight all these years, Mrs. Daldy. Maybe you don’t just want to give women the right to vote but to take it away from men too. That way a few self-righteous goody-goodies can determine what’s pleasing to God.” Matariki glared at her boss who eyed her, uncomprehending. But she smiled at the old woman. “Regardless, we’ll be seeing each other in September in front of Parliament,” she said. “Now, the last thing we need is to be fighting among ourselves. It was a pleasure working for you, Mrs. Daldy.”
Matariki left the gloomy room and stepped into the sunshine. She practically danced to Atamarie’s school. Her daughter would be happy to get out of the strict institution. Then Matariki would telegraph Meri Te Tai. There was a lot to do. And Matariki was looking forward to it.
White Camellias
Wellington, North Island
1892–1893
Chapter 1
Matariki and Atamarie did not go to Wellington right away; instead, they went to Waipatu, where Meri Te Tai Mangakahia lived with her family and where in June the first Maori Parliament had convened. The Te Kotahitanga movement wanted to oppose the government of white settlers in Wellington with a representative body of the tribes. They agreed on bills, which the two Maori representatives who had sat in the pakeha’s Parliament from the beginning were to make universally valid. That only progressed to a point, and the collaboration was not perfect. So far, it had gone as well for Maori as for white women: they did not take part in the election of representatives to Wellington. In that respect, their representatives were elected by the whites who naturally chose yes-men over freedom fighters. That, too, was supposed to change with the next election, or so Meri and Matariki hoped.
“Why did you start by convening in the middle of nowhere?” asked Matariki. She was impressed by the beauty of the landscape, the white beaches, the almost tropical vegetation, and the very traditional Maori settlements. “Politics get done in Wellington, you know.”
Meri Te Tai, a very pretty, dark-haired woman who always dressed in the latest pakeha fashion, shrugged. “You’d have to ask the men. I don’t make those decisions. But I believe it has to do with independence. We can’t let ourselves be ordered around by the whites when it comes to where and how we arrive at our decisions, and we don’t want a Parliament Building. Our representatives will convene in a different part of the country every time and be hosted by other tribes.”
“But that makes everything more difficult,” Matariki said. “Don’t you think we should have an office? Constant representation in Wellington?”
Meri smiled. “Sean Coltrane also advised us of that. Women should represent. After all, we are fighting on two fronts for the right to vote—as Maori and as women. Would you like to run an office like that? As for the financing, we’re collecting donations.”
Matariki nodded cheerfully. “I might know a tribe on the South Island that’s provided with considerable means and has always generously supported the struggle for freedom.”
She smiled, thinking of Kahu Heke’s thinly veiled extortion attempts. The Ngai Tahu had cursed him but paid. Haikina and her tribe would prefer supporting peaceful emancipation efforts. It wasn’t a hardship. There was still a lot of gold in the stream near Elizabeth Station.
The office on Molesworth Street, diagonally across from the Parliament Building, opened in November 1892, just in time to lend support to Kate Sheppard’s last petition for the right of women to vote.
“Officially we can’t leave our representation to any woman on her own,” said an apologetic Hamiora Mangakahia, the premier and Meri Te Tai’s husband. “It can’t be just about the right to vote. It will be a proxy for the Te Kotahitanga Maori Parliament in Wellington, and we can’t occupy that with just women.”
Matariki had recruited a few of her former students from the beginning of her time with Amey Daldy to work with her. “I thought I was taking over the office management,” Matariki said confidently. “Especially since I organized the largest portion of the financing.”
Hamiora nodded. He had come out of his way to Wellington to open the office and speak with Matariki.
“And you will. But together with a man, you see? Sean Coltrane recommended an exceptionally capable young jurist to us, someone else who’s spent a long time supporting the campaign for the right to vote, that is, someone used to women with mana.”
Matariki smiled grimly. “But not a pakeha, right?” she asked.
Hamiora shook his head. “No, a pure-blooded Maori. Even if he doesn’t know in which canoe his ancestors arrived in Aotearoa. He should be here any minute. I told him three o’clock.” He looked at the wall clock.
“And why all this cloak-and-dagger?” asked Matariki somewhat indignantly. “Why couldn’t you tell me ahead of time?”
“Sean Coltrane thought it would be better if we asked pardon rather than permission,” he said sheepishly.
Matariki was not particularly surprised that they were placing a male coworker at her side, but she had hoped to be involved in selecting candidates. While she was looking for further arguments and objections, there was a knock.
Hamiora opened the door.
There stood a Maori whose powerful body almost burst out of his proper suit. His hair was short, but he wore the tattoos of a warrior.
Kupe looked at Matariki just as incredulously as she looked at him.
“You?” they asked each other almost simultaneously.
And then came a whining sound from under Matariki’s desk. Dingo, now very old, struggled to his feet and greeted his friend. Contrary to how he felt about Colin, Dingo had always liked Kupe.
Kupe scratched the animal, giving him an excuse not to look at Matariki. Eventually, though, he would have to look up.
“I didn’t know,” he said.
Matariki shrugged. Then she smiled. “I didn’t either. But I’m happy to see you.”
Kupe wanted to make an unfriendly reply. However, he could not bring himself to do so. He would not abandon her. Besides, how would he explain to Hamiora Mangakahia that he was not going to take the work after all, which he had just called his dream job?
Matariki held out her hand. “To doing good work together,” she said firmly.
Kupe was silent. He simply shook her hand.
Matariki and Kupe managed to work almost half a year together in the same office without ever exchanging one word with each other. Kupe was the one who wouldn’t speak. Matariki found his attitude childish. After a while, she got annoyed and ceased talking to him, which would not have been so easy for her if Sean Coltrane had not added a position to the office, thus setting a buffer between the two representatives of the Maori: in February, Violet Fence occupied a desk in the office of the Te Kotahitanga.
“You do have space here,” Sean had said, and he presented his plan to Matariki and Kupe. “And Kate Sheppard and her Women’s Christian Temperance Union urgently need permanent representation in the capital for as long as the campaign lasts.”
“And for that, someone had to come all the way from the South Island?” Matariki asked. She reacted as if allergic to the words “Christian” and “temperance.” “Aren’t there any teetotaling Methodists in Wellington who could work from their living room?”
He had expected a question like that and gave Kupe a pleading look. After the rally in Dunedin, Kupe had stood in for him in Christchurch. Kupe had to sense that Sean wanted Violet Fence near him for personal reasons as well.
“Violet is not a fanatic. She’s a very reasonable woman. You’ll like her, Matariki. And she needs to get out. She needs a job.”
“And there are no jobs in Dunedin or Christchurch for a reasonable woman who can read and write?” asked Matariki. “Well, fine, what do I care? Hopefully it’s just for a few months. I won’t drink in her presence. I’ll ask her not to pray. I’m sure we’ll get along.”
Violet wouldn’t ever think of praying in the office, and after two months of working together, she let Matariki convince her to try the new wine Lizzie sent to Wellington with high hopes: “Tell me if this isn’t as good as the Chardonnay at the Four Seasons.”
At first, Violet found it a little strange to be between two people who had mastered both English and Maori and who liked to talk to people but never with each other. They tried not to communicate at all, but when there was no choice, the messages passed through Violet: “Please tell Kupe he should remind Sean of the copy of Sir William Fox’s letter if he runs into him later.” “Would you be so good as to inform Miss Drury that more signed petitions have arrived from Mrs. Daldy?”
Violet put up with this for a while. She wondered if this sort of behavior was normal among secretaries and clerks but could not imagine it was. However, she did not want to cause problems. She was happy about her work for Kate Sheppard, which also kept her near Sean Coltrane and far from Colin’s sphere of influence.
There had been some fuss before she convinced Joe to begin his apprenticeship with Tibbot instead of Coltrane. Violet had to admit that without Sean’s support, she wouldn’t have managed to face Colin and justify her decision. Naturally, Colin had raged when she accused him of having misled her son into dishonest business practices. He would charge her with slander and any damages to his business if she spread such accusations. That had frightened Violet, but Sean wasn’t concerned.
“This isn’t about whether you’re a horse swindler, Colin,” he finally had said. “You’re not the guardian of Joseph Fence. The boy is a minor, so from a legal perspective, that means his mother decides about where he lives and apprentices. Joe would like to work with horses, and Mrs. Fence has found a trainer with whose family he can live during his apprenticeship. You can’t offer him anything comparable since your wife did, regretfully, leave you, which, you have to admit, might relate to the question of whether you’re a horse swindler. In any case, you can’t offer your apprentices a family life. Therefore, Joe is going to Mr. Tibbot, or to Dunedin with his mother.” He turned to Joe. “And you do not need to start screaming again, young man. Those are your two options, so decide.”
Violet had looked at Sean in awe after this speech. She couldn’t imagine the confidence to argue with such polish. Colin kept his mouth shut, as did Joe; Violet had never seen him so pliant as under the calm but definite guidance of Sean Coltrane.
“You’ll be a good father someday,” she had said shyly after Joe was delivered to his new master, having parted with a polite bow. “If you ever marry, I mean.” She blushed again.
Sean acted as if he did not notice. “And you, Violet,” he remarked with a smile, “are a very good mother.”
Before she moved to Wellington, Violet had heard that Colin Coltrane found himself in great financial difficulties. Naturally, she assumed this had to do with the contents of Eric’s notebook. How precisely, she did not know, nor did she care. Should Colin find out that she had something to do with it, however, well, she felt more secure at a distance.
Ultimately, Violet asked Sean about the strange conditions in his office. He sometimes picked her and Roberta up on the weekend—they had rented a room in a widow’s large penthouse while Rosie had stayed in Dunedin to work for Chloe and Heather—and took them walking or for a drive. Only in busy areas. He would not dream of compromising her. Now he seemed about to topple from laughter at Violet acting as go-between for Kupe and Matariki.
“No, Violet, that’s not normal. I can assure you of that. But what exactly happened between the two of them, I don’t know.”
“Atamarie says Kupe is in love with her mom,” Roberta said. On their first day in Wellington, she had made friends with Matariki’s daughter, who was one year younger than Roberta, and since then had lost some of her shyness.
Violet furrowed her brow, but Sean laughed again. “I suspected as much, Roberta, but it’s not proper to say so directly to people.” He winked conspiratorially to the girl, then to her mother. “Just ask the two of them why they don’t talk to each other sometime, Violet. I’m curious how they’d answer.”
After that, Violet took heart and spoke to Matariki, who then invited Violet to lunch at the nearest café, where she told her about Parihaka.
“We were always good friends,” Matariki observed. “Sure, he was in love with me, and I wasn’t with him, but that didn’t burden the relationship. Until they arrested Kupe, and I went to Dunedin with Colin. What’s eating him now, though, I don’t know. But if that’s how he wants it, I don’t need to talk to him. We’ll just see who lasts longer in silence.”
This last point sounded defiant. Matariki seemed intent on making a sort of game out of the situation. Violet didn’t think Matariki was truly indifferent toward Kupe, and she wondered if this was some form of flirting.
As their lunch continued, she learned about Matariki’s relationship with Colin Coltrane and thereby a bit of the background to the marriage of the mistress she idolized, Chloe.
“He can be very charming. I can’t blame Chloe for falling for his act,” said Matariki. “And he has other qualities, too, if you know what I mean.”
Violet did not know what she meant—at least not until that evening, when the women ended up telling each other secrets over glasses of Lizzie’s wine.
“Colin was the best lover I ever had,” Matariki said, “but an ass otherwise.”
“So, you mean it can really be enjoyable?” Violet finally asked, doubtful, after Matariki had also commented on her other experiences with men. “You did it willingly? I only ever found it horrible.” Her face showed repulsion and fear at the memory of Eric’s embrace alone.
Matariki took her hand and led her to the window. “Look out there, Violet,” she said, rather tipsy after three glasses of wine. “Outside is the night. It’s part of life and inextricable at that. It sometimes seems threatening, and not always without reason. Somewhere there really are murderers and thieves slinking about. Sometimes it’s horrid—when you have to fight through the dark while it’s storming, and hail hits your skin like arrows. But it can also be beautiful: velvety and warm and lit by the full moon, and thousands of stars to show you the way. When everything goes right, Violet, when you can choose, then you only go out in starry nights like these, when you can bathe in the moonlight and your ancestors send you a smile through the stars. But when it’s not going well, when you have to flee through dark, dangerous nights, or when you live in an area where it constantly snows and rains, then you learn to hate the night. It’s the same with lovemaking. When you’re forced, when the man is brutal, and when you don’t love him, then it’s horrible. But with a good man, an experienced man—especially one with whom you’re in love—it’s the most wonderful thing in the world.” Matariki looked at her friend radiantly.
“And what’s it like to be in love?” Violet inquired.
Matariki’s ecstasy turned to confusion. “Don’t you know? Oh, I didn’t realize. What with the way you’re always looking at Sean.”
After this and more evenings with Matariki, Vio
let began to dress more consciously and colorfully, and she tried not to lower her eyes shyly when she encountered Sean. With every day that passed in Wellington, she felt younger and happier. For the first time in her life, she had a real friend, she was reading novels instead of the dictionary, and spending the money she earned on new clothes.
And she dared to admit to herself that she loved Sean Coltrane.
Kupe and Matariki stuck to their silence for the first months of 1893, though it was an exciting time for the suffragettes and their supporters. The list of signatures on Kate Sheppard’s petition that year grew longer and longer, but at the same time, the opponents of women’s suffrage mobilized. The movement’s archenemy was a politician from Dunedin, Henry Smith Fish, a lobbyist for the alcohol industry. Fish wrote requests and petitions almost as ardently as the women, and he found it easy enough to gather signatures: one round through Dunedin’s pubs on Saturday night, and he had just as many signatures as Kate in a month of laboriously knocking on doors. Once, however, he had bad luck and picked a pub where Peter Burton and a Catholic brother of the cloth not opposed to a well-poured beer himself were topping off their evening. The priest and pastor observed with equanimity as Fish first made a fiery speech—and then had every guest at the pub sign it three times. Burton and the priest went public with the story, and from then on, Fish was considered untrustworthy. Ballance, the premier, ordered him to his office and upbraided him. Ballance was avowedly on the side of the women, and everyone was counting on a victory in September.
But then, on a quiet day at the end of April 1893, Sean Coltrane rushed into the office of the Te Kotahitanga. He could hardly believe what he had to tell Kupe, Matariki, and Violet.
“He’s dead,” he blurted out. “John Ballance. In his office. A heart attack, we think. His secretary was on hand. All morning he was saying he felt under the weather, and then he seized his chest and fell over. The doctor couldn’t do anything for him.”
