Flight of a Maori Goddess

by Lark, Sarah

  At the thought of her family, Nandi’s eyes clouded over.

  “That sounds like at least two men, Nandi. But here—” He let his gaze wander over three beds that had already been planted. “Did you do all that alone?”

  Nandi nodded. “Mr. Drury says to help when has time. When he has time,” she corrected herself. “But much work in hospital. Doctor is hard work. But good. Good to help people.” Nandi picked up the baby, who had woken and begun squirming.

  “But you need help here too,” Patrick observed. Then he cast an eye on the book, which Nandi was tucking into Abe’s basket. “By the way, that was my book once.”

  Nandi’s eyes widened. Patrick found her captivating. He had never before encountered a person with such an expressive, candid face.

  “Oh, forgive me. I not know. Give back, of course. Please forgive.”

  Patrick waved it away. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m sure my mother gave it to you, didn’t she? Consider it a present from me.”

  “Really, Mr. Patrick? My own book? Then I have three now. Two from Miss Fence and now this one. This prettier than others. Others about children, poor and sad. Poor little Oliver and poor little David. But here funny animals. Rabbit talks. And girl.”

  Patrick laughed. “Kevin always picked on me for that—for reading girls’ books. And I have to admit, these belonged to Matariki first, my half sister. Books like this are passed down, Miss Nandi. You can give it to my daughter in ten years. By then, you’ll probably be reading Bulwer-Lytton.”

  Nandi smiled. “Little May very cute,” she said. “But now I keep working, baas Doortje otherwise angry. And must also cut grass and feed sheep and milk cow before she comes back.”

  Patrick had paused his digging. Now, he struck the spade into the ground with all his might.

  “What does my brother pay you for all this, anyway?” he asked. Nandi seemed afraid of Doortje. The haste with which she dug, her attempt to hide the book. “You play nanny, dig, feed the livestock. You’re doing the work of a whole crew—you do see that?”

  Nandi looked away. “I not getting money. Not God’s will. Baas gives work and food; Kaffir works. God’s will.” Her voice was flat.

  Patrick lowered the spade again. “You’re toiling here unpaid? Because it’s God’s will that whites supervise and blacks work? For food and lodging? Well, I’d like to hear what Miss Morison of the Tailoresses’ Union has to say about that. She’d take Doortje to task. And Kevin too. How dare he?”

  “Mr. Drury says he wants to give me. Calls ‘pocket money.’ Pocket money is maybe God’s will?” Nandi looked doubtful.

  “Nandi, God has very little to do with wage laws in this country. It’s the unions that occupy themselves with that. And here, at least, the constitution forbids slavery. You don’t have to dig this garden for Mrs. Drury for free.”

  Nandi looked at him nervously. But an idea was taking root in Patrick’s head.

  “Listen, Nandi, my wife’s wanted an abigail for a long time now.”

  “Abi—?”

  “A lady’s maid, a woman who helps a lady dress and do her hair,” he explained. “You’d keep Juliet’s clothes clean, and we’d also need you to watch May sometimes. But it’s not manual labor. I can manage a pound a week to start and, later, maybe two.”

  “A week?” Nandi asked. “Then I’ll be rich soon.”

  Patrick smiled. “If you’re good about saving it,” he teased her. “So, what do you say? Can I win you away?”

  Desire and duty battled each other on Nandi’s face. She had found Mrs. Juliet intriguing—a baas of color was unthinkable in South Africa, and maybe she would be kinder than a white baas. And Mrs. Juliet lived in the house of Mrs. Lizzie Drury. It would be a dream to return there. Mrs. Drury was so nice, and Nandi would not have to sleep in a shed but would get her own room with a bed and clean sheets. But—

  “I can’t, Mr. Patrick. I belong to baas Doortje Drury; our family work for her family. Always. Is God’s will. And Mr. Drury also paid ship. I have to work that off, says baas Doortje.”

  Fury rose within Patrick. So, Kevin knew very well that he was doing wrong by Nandi—which meant he would not dare protest. And honestly, Patrick no longer cared what “baas” Doortje might say on the matter.

  “Listen, Nandi, I’d like for you to come with me now. We’ll take Abe with us. Kevin and Doortje can pick him up later, and then I’ll explain to them why you’re now working for Juliet and me. This is a free country. You can go where you want and work for whom you please. And don’t worry about the ship—you’ve long since worked that off. It’s your decision: slave for Mrs. Drury or lady’s maid and nanny for Juliet and me?”

  Nandi took a breath. Then she grinned slyly at Patrick.

  “I would like to work for Mr. Patrick, and Mrs. Juliet very pretty. Miss May very sweet.”

  Patrick smiled. “Don’t start calling my daughter ‘Miss.’ She’s spoiled enough as it is. Now, let’s see if my horse can carry us both.” He glanced at Nandi’s bare legs. “Or, no, that wouldn’t be proper. You’ll ride, and I’ll lead the horse. A little exercise would do me good. My brother, too, for that matter. He should dig his own garden.”

  Chapter 6

  Kevin Drury stopped by his practice in Lawrence before riding up to the cabin. No one was waiting in front of it, so no one was likely to have missed him while he’d been at the hospital in Christchurch. Kevin had overestimated the villagers’ need for medical help when he had offered to take over old Dr. Winter’s practice. Of course, Lawrence was very small, and almost no former gold miners ran to the doctor with every little booboo. Their wives preferred the midwife, and there was also a Maori healer in the area. No, Kevin would not be leaving anyone in the lurch if he moved back to the city. He entered the treatment room to look for his bottle of whiskey. Kevin was ashamed that he drank secretly, but Doortje would not tolerate alcohol in the home. That was something else he should talk to her about. Vincent was right—his happiness mattered too.

  “I thought you’d come.” A dark, sensual voice.

  Kevin almost dropped the matches with which he meant to light the gas lamp.

  “Juliet.”

  She smiled and waggled the whiskey bottle. “I prefer champagne, but I suppose that’s not strong enough to drink your little Boer away. Isn’t that what you’re doing? You don’t need to drink to make her look good. She’s beautiful. But cold, isn’t she, Kevin? Cold as a—is it cold in that strange country she comes from?”

  Kevin shook his head. Juliet was sitting in his chair. Between them stood his capacious desk. The chair he offered to patients remained for Kevin to sit in, but he stayed standing indecisively.

  “Nothing’s cold in her country,” he answered. “It’s hot and dry.”

  Juliet giggled. “A country where the gods don’t cry. A happy country?”

  “No, not a happy country. What are you doing here, Juliet? You shouldn’t be here. People will think—”

  “No one saw me come in,” she said. “And if someone sees me when I go, so be it. I’m your sister-in-law, Kevin. Or did you forget?”

  She left the chair and lolled lasciviously on the desk. She wore a skin-tight, dark-red dress.

  “Precisely,” said Kevin with a husky voice. “That’s precisely why we should not get too close. Patrick has done enough for me, for us.”

  “Now, don’t act as if Patrick acted selflessly,” she purred. “And if it assuages you, I’ve rewarded him generously. All for a little name for the child.”

  “She’s very lovely,” Kevin said, trying desperately to bring the conversation back to a neutral footing, but it was hopeless. Juliet had him back under her spell. Kevin desired his wife more than he ever had Juliet, but what good was that when Doortje’s heart was shut to him? When she hid her golden hair under a severe bonnet? Juliet’s thick, black locks were spilling over her shoulders. Her fine, slender hands, which usually danced over piano keys, grasped his fountain pen and brushed it a
cross the tops of her breasts as if she were writing a love poem. Kevin thought of Doortje’s honest, callused hands, her cheese making, the dough she kneaded. He tried to recall her scent, fresh and earthy and warm as bread, but Juliet’s heady perfume pushed it aside. Tomorrow, Kevin would recall why he had fallen in love with Doortje van Stout. But now, she was gone. “He’s my brother, Juliet,” he pleaded. “We can’t—”

  Juliet waved this away. “He won’t know, and I’ll compensate him, not to worry.” She smiled wickedly as she now saw jealousy in Kevin’s eyes. She would make him forget his Boer woman soon. As for his brother, perhaps they would come to hate each other. It was no concern of hers. “But now and again,” she whispered, “I need a real man. You know what I mean, don’t you, Kevin? You know Patrick. He is”—she laughed—“far too good. And sometimes you need a real woman. Or isn’t she good, your cold beauty from a hot country? Does she kiss you like this, Kevin?” Juliet’s lips moved toward his. “Does she love you like this?”

  Juliet swung herself around on the desk and wrapped her legs around Kevin’s hips. Kevin Drury gave up. He pulled Juliet into his arms.

  Chapter 7

  Doortje was beside herself when Kevin got home.

  “Nandi’s gone,” she cried. “Look.”

  Doortje held out a piece of paper, on which Patrick had explained the circumstances in brief words.

  Kevin shut his eyes. “I can’t do anything about that.” Under no circumstances was he going to fight with Patrick now. Kevin was ashamed of what he’d just done, and he was desperate to make up for it. Instead, however, he was going to further destroy his wife’s world. “Nandi doesn’t belong to us, Doortje. If she would rather work for Patrick, that’s not our business. I told you we should pay her. This is a free country.”

  “But she’s ungrateful,” Doortje erupted. “Her family lived on our land for generations. We gave them food, tended to them when they were sick—”

  “Before you came, it was probably their land, Doortje. They weren’t waiting for you and your home remedies. You’re not in Transvaal anymore. And you don’t even need Nandi. Sure, you’ll have to take care of Abe yourself. And we can talk about hiring a housekeeper who also takes him off your hands sometimes.”

  “Housekeeper?” Doortje scowled. “What are you talking about? Where are you going to get a housekeeper here? And what about the garden and the livestock and—”

  “We’re going back to Dunedin,” Kevin announced calmly, but his heart was in his throat. He hated this, but Vincent was right. She would never assimilate out here. “And we can’t take the livestock with us. I’m sorry, Doortje. This isn’t South Africa, and you’re not a baas or a farmer anymore. You’re the wife of Dunedin’s Dr. Kevin Drury. And you’ll act like it from now on.”

  “But you—you promised.” Doortje looked at Kevin, stunned. “We would live on a farm.”

  “I can’t take it anymore, Doortje. And I certainly didn’t promise you a farm in the veld with a kraal for the blacks and vespers in Dutch. At most, I promised a New Zealand farm, but you didn’t like it on Elizabeth Station either. I really do want you to be happy. Think about the vow you took, ‘Wherever you go, there, too, will I go.’ And you—you do love me a bit. In Africa, you loved me a bit.”

  Doortje’s gaze vacillated between despair and hate. If she had ever loved and wanted Kevin, those feelings were now buried deep.

  “I never wanted this,” she said tonelessly. “This with you. It simply happened. But it’s not pleasing to God. Even if it looked so simple. Because a name for the child pardoned everything. But the child is cursed anyway. And so am I.”

  “You can’t lock your wife up on Elizabeth Station.” Michael Drury felt it necessary to lay down the law with Patrick. Any sympathy he’d had for Juliet had long since evaporated. And the tiresome woman was desperately unhappy in the country. “If you overdo it, she’s just going to run away again.” Michael tried the only argument he thought might have the slightest chance of success.

  “At least no one will seduce her out here,” Patrick insisted. “And she didn’t leave of her own accord. It was that scribbler, that—”

  “Patrick! The man didn’t throw her over his horse and gallop away. Juliet packed her bags, abandoned the baby with Claire, and quite willingly climbed into a stagecoach.”

  “But he promised her an engagement,” Patrick repeated the explanation Juliet had given him, “that she couldn’t resist.”

  “And next time, she’ll book one herself. Patrick, she can’t take it much longer. Nor can we. And don’t give me that business about the piano again. We’re most certainly not going to set one up here. The house isn’t big enough.”

  “The house doesn’t seem big enough for mother and Juliet, anyway,” Patrick shot back.

  “I can’t deny it, Patrick. Your mother and Juliet don’t get along. In the long run, we’ll have to think of something. But right now, you need to offer Juliet a change of scenery. She’s going to go crazy here and your mother with her. Take her to Dunedin, at least for a few days. Go to a few social events, a few concerts—make her happy, Patrick. Try to make her a little bit happy.”

  One expected obedience from a Boer woman—joyful obedience. Doortje knew this from her mother and grandmother: a Boer woman willingly followed her husband over the mountains, into the wilderness, and into battle. She learned to load and fire guns. When she had to, she waded through blood. She was ready to kill and to be killed for her husband’s sake, and she stood unyielding behind him—against exterior foes, but if necessary, also against the rest of her family and even her children. Doortje van Stout had been taught all of this from the earliest moments of her life, and now she did her best to fulfill her duty in her new country. Without another word, she left the cabin in Otago, her livestock, and her freshly planted garden. Kevin took them back to the apartment over his old practice, but he offered to look for a somewhat more rural home.

  “Perhaps in Caversham, at the edge of the city,” he proposed. “There are very cute little cottages with gardens. And Kathleen and Reverend Burton live there. You like them. You could work in the church, caring for the children and the poor.”

  But Doortje had only looked at him with big eyes. Caring for total strangers was unknown in her society. Families were big and stuck together; strangers rarely came to the villages or the farms. Besides, the Dutch Church shared the view of the Church of Scotland: as a rule, whoever was suffering deserved it, and everyone’s fate was predetermined anyway. The past year had made Doortje question these fundaments of the faith, but her doubt did not yet go so far that she would volunteer at an Anglican soup kitchen.

  At first, though, Doortje had to get her bearings—not halfheartedly this time, but as part of her husband’s firm charge to assimilate. So, she put away her beloved apron and wore the reform dresses Kevin had bought her during their first stay in Dunedin. Now the more comfortable clothing was completely out of fashion. But corsets were out of the question, and Doortje looked captivating in the wide dresses. Dunedin society fought over the picturesque doctor’s family. Kevin insisted on accepting every invitation, and Doortje tried in vain to make witty conversation at art shows, struggled through multiple-course dinners, and was so occupied with learning the proper way to hold silverware from watching Kevin and Roberta that she often missed other guests’ attempts to communicate with her.

  Roberta was an inestimable help. The young teacher seemed to like being with her and Kevin, and her friendly manner almost made Doortje forget her unacceptable fraternizing with Nandi on the ship. Roberta also inducted her into the mysteries of dance steps so that Doortje survived her first ball without any major faux pas.

  Doortje attended concerts and let other society women invite her to tea, but she did it all reluctantly. When she did enjoy something—Heather’s exhibition of female portraits had deeply touched her, the music of a violin plucked at her heart, and she had almost liked the feeling of Kevin’s hand on her hip when th
ey waltzed—she would not admit it to herself. Doortje’s smiles were always forced, and even if others didn’t notice, it tore at Kevin’s heart.

  Patrick Drury took Juliet on excursions to the city as his father had advised. They attended theater performances and art shows—and the couple began to receive invitations from Dunedin society again. Of course, they’d have to run into Kevin and Doortje at some point. It happened at a soiree at the Dunloes’. Doortje, who entered the salon on Kevin’s arm, suddenly felt his tension. She followed his gaze and was horrified—if for completely different reasons than he.

  “They let coloreds in here?” she asked incredulously.

  “She’s my brother’s wife!” Kevin snapped. He had gone pale and saw in Doortje’s eyes that she’d noticed. “Now, do me a favor and stop talking about her skin color. Juliet is Creole, but if I understood her correctly, her father’s plantation is roughly twice the size of all Transvaal. You don’t have to be her friend, Doortje, but please be polite.”

  Doortje tried to be an obedient wife once again, but Juliet did not make it easy. The young Boer was not socially sophisticated, but she recognized a mocking look when it was directed at her, and she saw the glint in Juliet’s eyes at the sight of Doortje’s husband. Patrick Drury followed his wife reluctantly as she approached Kevin and Doortje. He reminded Doortje of Cornelis. A coward.

  “How nice to see you, Kevin, and, Dorothy, isn’t it? Like the little girl from Kansas whom the tornado rips from her home. How does it feel to be a tornado, Kevin Drury?”

  Juliet smiled. Conspiratorially? Seductively? Doortje felt like a fool for not understanding Juliet’s allusion.

  “Doortje,” she said, “or Dorothea, if you can’t pronounce it.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll manage. If I put my mind to it. But you should think about ‘Dorothy.’ It really is a cute name. And she wears wide little dresses like that too.”