Amber

by Deborah Challinor

  As Kitty had predicted, the smaller pool was empty, its surface rippling smoothly as the waters from the stream eddied into it. They sat down together on a log bleached silver by the sun, and watched as a large leaf was propelled from the stream into the pool, where it spun slowly around before drifting beyond the current to float almost motionless near the bank. Kitty removed her boots and set them aside, relishing the feel of the early morning sun on her bare feet and ankles.

  ‘Are there koura in here?’ Rian asked.

  ‘Yes, little ones.’

  They sat for a moment longer, then Rian stood and pulled Kitty to her feet. He drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply, his hands unravelling her plait so that her silky black hair fell past her shoulders.

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured against her ear. ‘This is nice. I fell asleep last night.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I won’t now, though.’

  Kitty agreed, thinking it very unlikely judging by the hardness of him against her belly.

  ‘Take your clothes off,’ he whispered.

  She turned around and held her hair out of the way as he began to unbutton her dress. When he reached her waist he slid the sleeves off her shoulders and kissed the skin at the base of her neck. She gasped and closed her eyes in anticipatory pleasure.

  Goosebumps ran down her spine as he slowly undid the rest of the buttons and she stepped out of her dress, leaving it lying on the ground, then allowed him to turn her around and pull gently on the ribbon that gathered her sleeveless chemise across her breasts. It opened and he ran a finger down her cleavage and caressed an upturned breast.

  ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, moving her chemise aside and bending his head to gently suck on her nipple.

  Kitty clasped the back of his head, and moaned as his hands roamed across her bottom. She felt him smile against her skin and he straightened and pulled her to him again, pressing his hips against her stomach.

  ‘No drawers, Mrs Farrell? I’m shocked.’

  ‘It’s too hot. And I was in a hurry.’

  He grunted and cupped her buttocks. ‘So am I, mo ghrá, a terrible hurry.’

  He pulled her chemise all the way open and pushed it down so that it pooled around her bare feet, and moved back and stared at her, openly admiring her nakedness. Then he lifted her in his arms and carried her across to the log, kicking her boots out of the way as he sat down with her on his knee. She wriggled against him, enjoying the sensation of her naked skin against the coarseness of his trousers and the worn chambray of his shirt.

  ‘Cold?’ he murmured.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she replied against his neck. He tasted salty and he was sweating slightly, and she knew it was because of her and she loved it. She wriggled some more.

  ‘Christ almighty, woman,’ Rian gasped, and clamped his hands on her hips to stop her.

  Kitty giggled. ‘A little sensitive this morning, are we?’

  ‘I’ll give you sensitive, you cheeky wench,’ Rian growled and kissed her hard, his hand creeping between her legs where he began to massage lightly but insistently.

  Kitty almost swooned. Her knees parted and she moved again, unable to stop herself this time.

  She moaned and Rian whispered into her ear, ‘That will teach you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ she whispered back, then removed his hand so she could concentrate on unbuttoning his shirt.

  He shrugged it off and tossed it aside, then stood up, taking Kitty with him, her arms wrapped around his neck. He looked around for a suitable spot, then put her down in a sunny nest of long grass while he hastily tugged off his boots and unbuckled his belt, sliding his trousers down and stepping out of them. The hair on his muscled chest, belly and legs gleamed gold in the sunlight: Kitty reached up for him and he lay down beside her.

  He began to kiss her again, running his hand over her breasts and flat stomach. She slid her hand around to the back of his neck and pulled off the ribbon holding his hair back in its customary queue.

  ‘You need your hair cut,’ she said, her lips moving against his.

  ‘I know,’ he mumbled, but she knew he wasn’t really listening.

  He moved to roll on top of her, but she pushed him onto his back and climbed onto him instead, straddling his hips. Setting her hands on his chest, she lowered herself slowly, gasping as he filled her with a single, slippery stroke. His hands came to rest on her waist and she began to move up and down, frowning with concentration as the tantalising itch deep inside her began to intensify. Rian tightened his grip and thrust back, watching her face as it contorted in ecstasy, delighting in her pleasure and biting his lip in an effort to control himself. When she came, she cried out. She clawed at his chest and threw back her head, her long throat exposed and the veins in her breasts blue against the flush of her skin. Then she slumped onto him, her warm belly pressed against his and her face against his neck.

  He lay still, holding his breath until she caught her own, then rolled quickly over. She clung to him and he pushed into her, driving her down into the grass, thrusting with increasing urgency until, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth bared, he let himself go and exploded. Seconds later his strength deserted him and he collapsed on top of her.

  ‘Christ,’ he said faintly, and moved to push himself off her but she hung on tightly so he couldn’t move.

  They lay like that for some time until Rian finally said, ‘Someone has stolen my knees and replaced them with jelly.’

  Kitty laughed and he smiled at the sheer loveliness of the sound. Then, after a moment, he whispered, ‘Kitty?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Never leave me, will you?’

  Her arms and legs tightened even more firmly around him and she whispered back, ‘No, my love, I won’t.’

  The Purcells had joined together five long dining tables in their front garden, and decorated them with silver candlesticks that gleamed softly in the sun, arrangements of red and white flowers from the missionaries’ gardens and a perfect peach from the Waimate mission orchard next to each plate. There was no decorated Christmas tree, however, although it had been reported that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert had taken to erecting one each year. The missionaries had deemed this a practice just a little too frivolous.

  Kitty sat down at her place next to Rian, unfolded her linen table napkin and spread it across her lap. She had given everyone their gifts privately, taking care to explain that they weren’t Christmas presents really, just tokens of her pleasure at seeing them again, because the missionaries didn’t really favour the giving of Christmas gifts either—at least, not lavish ones. But the presents had been received with much gratitude, and Haunui had liked his top hat so much that he had been wearing it all morning. Kitty wished she had bought something for Tahi but, when she had gone shopping, in her mind’s eye he had still been only a few months old, not the solemn little boy sitting at the table today in freshly laundered long trousers, rolled up at the bottoms and clearly cast-offs from one of the missionary children.

  ‘Take off your hat at the table,’ she whispered to Haunui sitting on her left.

  ‘Eh?’

  Kitty pointed to his hat, and he removed it and placed it reverently beneath his chair. She looked across the table and saw that Simon, talking animatedly to Pierre, was also wearing his new shirt, although he seemed to have got something on the sleeve already.

  The crew of the Katipo had been invited at the last minute, Mrs Williams insisting that they couldn’t very well be left to their own devices with no dinner on Christmas Day. Kitty knew that they would have been just as happy at Pukera where they’d been sleeping, but they had accepted the invitation with good grace and appeared in the morning in time for church, shuffling self-consciously into the back pew with their various hairstyles tidied for the occasion and in their best clothes, such as they were. Daniel was with them, wearing a pair of Mick’s trousers and his shirt recently mended of cat rips.

  Bodie herself was lounging under a tree, flicki
ng her tail imperiously at a grey-striped male tabby—Bodie’s own grandson, according to Rebecca—who was paying far too much attention to her nether regions. Fortunately, as Kitty had said to Rian on the way back from the pool that morning, Bodie showed no signs of being in heat, or there may well have been miniature Bodies all over the Katipo some time in April.

  Reverend Williams was still away, but everyone else was there, including Caleb Jenkins, Sarah’s beau. He was the complete opposite of George: of medium height, with a fairly wide girth, sandy hair, bushy whiskers, and a ruddy face wearing a smile that was frequently directed towards Sarah, who seemed to positively glow under his gaze.

  The Purcell children were also all present. Albert had developed into a very pleasant-looking if slightly spotty young man, and the other children had all grown like weeds too. Alice was now fifteen, tall and willowy and very pretty, and little Jasmine, who had been three when Kitty had left Paihia, was now eight. The baby, Harriet, named for her brother who had died in the measles epidemic when he was only a year old, was now five and had a younger brother and sister, bringing the Purcell contribution to the mission’s population to nine. Kitty wondered how Rebecca managed, but she seemed as content as ever. Jannah Tait had also had two more children, although in her case the additions seemed only to have deepened the lines on her face. But she had seemed happy to see Kitty, and had actually been rather pleased with the recipe book Kitty had given her. There was also another young couple, John and Emily Henry, who had evidently arrived from England fourteen months before, and had managed to produce a set of twins since. The twins, named Samuel and Luke, lay gurgling in wicker baskets beneath the tree next to the table that had been set for the mission’s smaller children. And at which Tahi had absolutely refused to sit.

  Kitty saw that the women were ready to begin serving the meal, and got up to help. The first course was ham-and-pea soup, with a side dish of pig’s head brawn.

  Sitting next to his wife, Charlotte, Reverend Dow stood and tugged at the hem of his black coat in which he was sweating profusely. He was a slightly younger version of Henry Williams, with the same curly hair and bushy sideburns, but Augustus Dow did not wear spectacles and his chin was considerably weaker. Charlotte Dow, on the other hand, was the complete opposite of Marianne Williams, with her short, round stature, sharp face and beady mouse eyes. Staring up at her husband, waiting for him to speak, she twitched her nose, and across the table Kitty hurriedly disguised her laugh as a cough.

  Reverend Dow tapped the side of his glass with a spoon. ‘May we bow our heads in prayer and give thanks to God for this wonderful repast, and for our health and our spiritual salvation in general.’

  The chatter died down, heads were bowed and he began:

  Almighty God, Father of all mercies, we Your servants give You most humble and hearty thanks for all Your goodness and loving kindness to us and all people.

  We bless You for our creation, preservation, and all the blessings of this life; but above all for Your inestimable love in the redemption of the world by our Lord Jesus Christ, for the means of grace, and for the hope of glory…

  Kitty opened her eyes and glanced around the table. Rian was staring off into the distance, obviously thinking of anything but a means of grace, but Pierre had his eyes screwed shut in devout concentration, even though Kitty knew his religion was more closely aligned to Catholicism than Anglicanism. Mick was cleaning his fingernails with the point of a knife, Simon had his eyes closed but an unreadable expression on his face, and Daniel was staring at Te Rangi and his wife.

  Despite the heat, Te Rangi was wearing a magnificent dogskin cloak, a pair of huia feathers in the oiled hair pulled tight above his tattooed face, a heavy bone earring, a waistcoat with no shirt beneath it, beige trousers and bare feet. His attractive wife, Mahuika, was only marginally less decorated, a large bone pendant around her neck, and her ears stretched by the weight of the greenstone suspended from them, her chin moko in sharp relief against skin that wasn’t much darker than Tahi’s, and her high-necked European gown damp under the armpits from sweat. She also had her head down and her eyes closed, but looked vaguely cross, as though she were wishing she had worn something a little more suited to the weather.

  Haunui had explained that when he had come home with Tahi, it was to find that Te Rangi had stepped in as chief of the local people after Tupehu had been killed at Taupo. But unlike Tupehu, who had been arrogant, overbearing and quick-tempered, Haunui had always found his half-brother—the product of his father’s union with his second wife—quite reasonable, if at times overly conservative. Te Rangi had offered to stand down as chief, but Haunui had declined, wishing only to live a quiet life and raise his mokopuna. However, as he had told Rian and Kitty, Te Rangi often turned to him for advice, particularly after Hone Heke had begun stirring up Maori sentiment against the British.

  Noticing that Sarah was looking at her from beneath her lace cap, Kitty bowed her head obediently and tried to listen as the prayer droned on.

  …show forth Your praise, not only with our lips, but in our lives; by giving up ourselves to Your service, and by walking before You in holiness and righteousness all our days; through Jesus Christ our Lord, to whom with You and the Holy Spirit be all honour and glory, world without end. Amen.

  ‘Amen,’ Kitty murmured as Reverend Dow sat down and signalled that the meal could begin.

  The ham-and-pea soup was very tasty, and so it should be—Kitty had prevailed upon Pierre to give her his recipe—even though it was perhaps a little more spicy than the missionaries were accustomed to. The pig’s head brawn, however, had been made by Rebecca, and was also very good.

  Kitty was surprised to see that alcohol was served with the meal. She knew the missionaries were as partial to a good drop as anyone else, but she thought they might have refrained, given that Haunui, Te Rangi and Mahuika were present: the CMS had always gone to great lengths to ensure that the Maoris were not given alcohol. But when Haunui was offered the claret, he placed his hand over his glass and shook his head, an expression of exaggerated piety on his face. Te Rangi and Mahuika did the same.

  Kitty stared at Haunui incredulously, knowing full well from their time in Sydney that he was more than capable of matching the amount that any of the Katipo’s crew might drink. He smiled innocently back.

  The second course consisted of stewed rump of beef, roast fowl, kumara, roast potatoes and peas, served with fresh bread baked to Mrs Williams’s own recipe. Kitty knew that some settlers made bread from buttermilk and carbonate soda, or even from yeast made from shredded flax, but Mrs Williams made her yeast from flour ground from wheat grown at Waimate, sugar, porter and water, shaken in a bottle and left to ferment, and always managed to produce light, white loaves.

  The third course was plum pudding with custard and cream, and gingerbread, and several bowls of sugarplums—although the plums were actually carefully pitted cherries because the plum crop had apparently failed that year—which Te Rangi and Mahuika almost polished off between them.

  At the completion of the meal, port was served, and again the Maoris present declined, except for Ropata, who sipped his luxuriously while studiously ignoring the missionaries’ frowns.

  Rian moved his chair back from the table and surreptitiously let out his belt a notch. ‘That was an excellent meal, thank you very much,’ he declared.

  ‘Oui, absolument magnifique!’ Pierre agreed expansively, even though Kitty had noticed him poking at his beef and frowning.

  There were murmurs of agreement from around the table, and the mission’s collective housegirls, who had had their Christmas dinner on the Purcells’ verandah, swooped in and began to clear the table. Rebecca got up to clean the faces of her two youngest children, and Eliza Henry gathered up her twins and disappeared inside with them, presumably, Kitty thought with a pang of envy, to feed them. They were darling little boys, with tufts of fluffy brown hair and bright blue eyes.

  Marianne Williams folded her ta
ble napkin neatly and suggested, ‘Ladies, shall we adjourn to the parlour?’ When they were settled inside, leaving the men in the garden to sit back, pour themselves more port and light their pipes, she said, ‘That was a wonderful meal, ladies. Thank you.’ She opened her workbox and withdrew a piece of embroidery. ‘And it is lovely to have you back, Kitty. I trust you are adjusting to life as Mrs Rian Farrell?’

  Kitty glanced at her, noting the twinkle in her eye. ‘Oh, definitely, Mrs Williams. I am finding that it suits me very well.’

  ‘You must have the most wonderful adventures, sailing about the high seas.’

  ‘Well, sometimes we have adventures, but usually our daily lives are quite routine.’

  ‘Just like any life, I expect,’ Mrs Williams noted.

  ‘Do you not get bored on that little schooner, Kitty?’ Rebecca asked.

  Kitty thought about it. ‘Not really. I have my daily chores and my handiwork, and I read. And there is always something new on the horizon. And we’re not at sea all the time. Sometimes we’re in port.’

  ‘In England?’ Eliza Henry asked, trying to settle both babies on her lap at once. Apparently they didn’t want to settle and Samuel began to grizzle.

  ‘Occasionally,’ Kitty replied, ‘but more often than not somewhere else. We were in Sydney a few weeks ago, and before that Durban.’

  ‘That’s in Africa, isn’t it?’ Eliza gave up and set the babies on the floor, where they immediately crawled off in different directions.

  ‘South Africa, yes,’ Kitty said, scooping up Luke and sitting him on her knee.

  Eliza nodded. ‘The CMS almost sent us there instead of here, but I’m glad they didn’t. I’m not at all sure I would have managed with those Zulus. Such ferocious people.’