by Sarah Lark
“Look here, it’s the house kitten. What a pleasure. And look, you’re respectable once again.” His eyes darted around with the speed of a ferret’s, and once he saw that all the other visitors were deep in conversation, he leaned into Lizzie. “I was not at all happy about your leaving, sweet. Do you know who my wife got to replace you? A pale, scrawny fellow who trained as a butler before stealing from his employers. No fun, my kitten.”
Lizzie took a step back from him, then brought his coat and hat to the closet to give herself a moment to think. Smithers would give her away. He would make sure she was arrested and returned to Australia. But perhaps the Busbys would want to keep her; perhaps it was not so bad. Perhaps . . .
Lizzie could feel Smithers’s gaze follow her as she curtsied before the other visitors. She thanked heaven that Ruiha was assigned to serve the meal. All she had to do was look at the food in the kitchen one last time to make sure its arrangement suited the European sense of beauty. The cook sometimes indulged in somewhat exotic creations, which the family was willing to try but which they spared their guests.
James Busby would not, however, be denied the presentation of his own wine. Ruiha appeared immediately after the first course with a task for Lizzie. “You’re to fetch one of our late vintages and de . . . dec . . .”
“Decant it,” Lizzie said, with a sigh.
That meant Mr. Busby wanted the wine served with the main course, and she would have to pour it. James Busby liked to present his own English housemaid together with his own New Zealand wine. Usually she did not mind, but on this day . . .
“Kitten, wait for me in the hall.” Smithers whispered these words to her as she filled his crystal goblet with wine. “We have a few words to speak to each other.”
Lizzie thought once more of fleeing, but it was doubtless better to hear what Smithers had to say. Perhaps she could negotiate with him. She left the kitchen immediately after the next course and stood in the hallway. Martin Smithers did not make her wait long.
“Kitten, you won’t believe how I’ve missed you.”
He pressed Lizzie against the wall and kissed her as if to save his life. Lizzie tasted juice from the roast with a sour tinge of wine. She felt nauseous.
“But you haven’t missed me, have you? Mr. Busby surely keeps an open house; lots of clients for a sweet little whore like you.”
Lizzie tried to struggle free.
“I’m a respectable woman, Mr. Smithers,” she said. “I’ve done nothing wrong since I escaped Australia. Only work. And, and after seven years with the Busbys, I’ve served my time.”
Smithers laughed. “You can’t be serious, kitten! Served your time? Perhaps for the little theft in London. But what about the money you took from poor Parsley? After you seduced him and tricked him. He became the laughing stock of the colony. Do you think he wouldn’t report it? They’re looking for you, kitten. And this time you won’t get an escape or pardon. They keep girls like you in the factory ten, fifteen years.”
Lizzie pictured the walls of the factory, remembered the never-changing daily routine. Back then, none of it had seemed so bad to her. But now she was used to freedom: the vast sky over the bays, the forests and their secrets, her Maori friends.
“Mr. Smithers, please.” Lizzie did not know why she pleaded. Surely this man knew no mercy. But perhaps she really could bargain with him.
“Mr. Smithers, perhaps, perhaps I did miss you, after all.” She tried to smile but knew it came out miserably.
Smithers laughed again. “Oh, don’t lie, kitten. But you do look cute when you smile. This bonnet deserves a smiling face. Oh I, I could eat you up.” He kissed her again.
“Mr. Smithers, you can have me, but only if you don’t give me away.”
Smithers let her go and furrowed his brow. “Oh?” he asked threateningly. “And just who is dictating that to me?”
“I am,” said Lizzie calmly. “If you don’t swear by, by, by your God you won’t give me up, then I’ll cry out right here.”
Smithers smirked. “But no one will believe you, sweet. I’ll say you attacked me.”
Lizzie felt a burning desire to kill the man. She had heard the Maori legends that told of female warriors. In ancient battles, women had fought at the sides of their husbands. The girls had shown her old war clubs made for women’s hands. Lizzie had only felt a creeping feeling at the time, but now she imagined smashing this man’s skull in with one of the clubs. Again and again until his wide, sweaty face and evil smile were unrecognizable.
“Sir, I’ve served in this house for many years,” she said with dignity. “And I have yet to attack a gentleman. So they won’t simply believe you. You could tell them of my escape. But then they’ll arrest me. I’ll spend tonight in police custody. Do you mean to sneak off to the station to bribe an officer? Do you mean to rape me in the tiny jail where the walls have ears? You’re too cowardly for that, sir. All of New Zealand would hear of it.”
Smithers bit his lip. He did not like it, but she was right. And she had the leverage.
“Very well, kitten, what would you suggest?”
He no longer smiled, but desire burned in his eyes.
“I’ll come to your hotel room. You need only sneak me inside, but that won’t be hard. The inn has a back entrance.” Lizzie had often been present when wine and other products of Busby’s farm were delivered there. However, Smithers interpreted her knowledge of the inn differently, of course.
“You go there often, do you, sweet?” he asked, once again with his puerile smile. “Very well, but I’m expecting an unforgettable night.”
Lizzie nodded. If it bought her freedom, she would let him have his way in everything. Though, in her experience, he was not hard to please so long as she wore her bonnet.
Smithers ended the evening early—he was the most important guest, but he seemed unfocused to the other guests, and so did not succeed in convincing the notables from Russell of his plan for a road to Auckland.
“As if he had plans for later,” Busby said with astonishment to friends with whom he was having a last drink in his study. “Odd fellow. Maybe it’s better we look for someone else.”
If only Mr. Busby had thought of that earlier, Lizzie thought as she performed her last duties. Ruiha and the others went home, cheerful, with some of the remaining food for their families. The cook was generous about that, and Mrs. Busby hardly kept an eye on her.
Lizzie slunk into her room. Should she take a bag? Should she flee, just to be safe, after satisfying Smithers? But where? She loved her work at the Busbys. She quickly packed a change of dress and some underclothes. She had promised Smithers the whole night. If he insisted on that, she would have to go straight to work for the Busbys the next morning.
Martin Smithers was already waiting at the back door of the inn when Lizzie cautiously knocked. He succeeded in sneaking her into his room, unseen by the innkeeper, without difficulty. Lizzie sighed with relief. She would have died of embarrassment if the old lady who managed the inn caught her with a guest. Smithers wanted Lizzie to wear only her apron, and he found it exceedingly arousing when she obliged. Lizzie just prayed all of this would pass without further incident, and without pregnancy. Lizzie had stopped noting her monthly cycle but hoped not to be in her most dangerous days. Still, she would douche herself afterward—something she used to do as a matter of course—just to be on the safe side.
Smithers insisted on the whole night, but did not demand much of Lizzie. It nauseated her, but he mauled her with wet kisses and asked her repeatedly to curtsy in her apron and bonnet and say phrases like: “Dinner is served.” His advances hardly caused her pain. He was rather an unimaginative lover. Nevertheless, Lizzie did her best to make the night special for him. She held up her end of the bargain and proved more active, tender, and willing than in Campbell Town.
Early in the morning, Smithers fell asleep. Lizzie lay next to him a while longer, as if on coals. She wanted to go home. The sooner she took a vinegar
douche, the better. And a little sleep before work would be nice, of course. She was deathly tired. But she could hardly hope for rest. It was five in the morning, and her work began at half past six.
Lizzie cast a final glance at the man in bed as she gathered her bag and stole quietly from the room. She hoped never to see him again.
Unfortunately, the innkeeper was already awake and busy in the kitchen wing. The back door was blocked, and Lizzie did not dare slink out the front. She waited impatiently until the innkeeper went into the front of the house, then she ran back to the Busbys. It was cold on the road and in the kitchen, but Lizzie took a pitcher of icy water to her room and washed herself as thoroughly as she could. She had forgotten the vinegar. Once, she had always kept a small bottle on hand, but this was her first douche in years.
Lizzie ran to the kitchen, hoping to get the vinegar before the cook arrived. If she had to she could make up some story for the cook, but a pregnancy could not be hidden. On the way back to her room from the kitchen, she suddenly heard voices.
“At this hour, Mr. Smithers?” James Busby’s aggravated voice came from the receiving room. “Could your urgent news not have waited a bit? You’ve dragged us from our beds, sir.”
“By the time you woke on your own, the criminal might well be on her way to the next town,” Martin Smithers said.
That bastard! She had given him his night, but here he was to betray her.
“I was not sure yesterday if it really was the girl, but when she came to my hotel last night . . .”
Lizzie felt sick. All Lizzie had was the desire to weep. She had not managed to protect her virtue. Worse, she had sold herself anew.
But for now she was still free. By the time the sleepy Busby had made sense of Smithers’s frantic telling of the story and taken action to seize her, she could be gone. If only she had a destination. Lizzie could not hide in Russell, or Kororareka as the Maori called it. Though it was not far, it was too small, and in a whaling camp, a woman on her own was fair game. She might get by as a whore, but as soon as there was a small bounty for her, her next customer would hand her over.
The Maori village, she suddenly thought, and a great relief washed over her. Why hadn’t she thought of this the day before? Her Maori friends would not betray her, and the pakeha would not dare press into a Ngati Pau village on suspicion alone.
Lizzie couldn’t risk returning to her room, but on her way out of the house, she met the cook, Ruiha, and Kaewa, the other kitchen girl.
The three women listened to Lizzie’s confused story. She did not know if they understood everything, but at least there was no doubt that she was welcome in the village.
“You can stay as long as you want,” said Kaewa.
“Could you . . . my things?”
Lizzie wanted to ask the girls to bring her bag, but she was so exhausted and overwhelmed, her ability to express this in Maori faltered. The bag she had packed the night before was still in her room. She somehow made herself clear enough, and Ruiha nodded gently and thoughtfully, as was her manner.
Despite the early hour, the tribe’s marae was already bustling with activity: the women were preparing flatbread on an open fire and feeding the hangi ovens, the children were playing, and the men were caring for the livestock—the tribe now kept sheep. Lizzie was received with excitement. No one asked what she was doing there on a workday, but the women noticed her confusion and fear.
“Are you sick?” Ruiha’s mother asked. “Go to Tepora. She’s speaking with the gods, but afterward, surely she’ll have time for you.”
Tepora was the village midwife. She also knew about healing and served the gods as a priestess. Lizzie did not completely grasp the range of duties of a tohunga, as they called Tepora, but Lizzie knew Tepora to be helpful and calm. She received Lizzie without many words, roasted bread for her, and heated water and herbs. Lizzie felt better as she ate and drank. Then she began to tell—of London, of Australia, and finally of the previous, horrible night.
Tepora gently stroked her hand. “I know you suffered through yesterday,” she said kindly. “All of that defines your life today, but you must not let it rule you.”
“Is that supposed to mean that it’s my fault?” Lizzie said angrily. “I never desired that bastard.”
Tepora shook her head. “You don’t understand, child. You don’t see the difference between taku and toku. Taku tells you how important you are for your story. And toku tells you how important your story is for you. You are not important to London or to Australia. And this man is not important for you.”
“I’m running away from him anyway,” said Lizzie bitterly. “And I have to leave a life that I like well.”
“Perhaps you are running to a destination that waits for you in the past,” said Tepora quietly. “All times are one, Lizzie. You can define them for yourself.”
Lizzie sighed. She didn’t understand Tepora—even if she knew the meanings of the words. Clearly the old woman could not help her. Or could she?
“Do you know of any herbs that will keep me from getting pregnant?” Lizzie asked hopefully.
Tepora shrugged. “Not completely sure but somewhat sure,” she said. “Wait, I’ll fetch something for you. It will cause a bleeding.”
Lizzie waited patiently in front of the wise woman’s house. She was not permitted to enter. That, too, counted among the tribe’s many taboos. Tepora soon appeared with a cup, and Lizzie drank the bitter brew with a sigh of relief.
Just as she was leaving the wise woman, Lizzie saw a possible ally who was likely anchored in the here and now. Kahu Heke strolled, self-assured, through the camp. The young warrior smiled at Lizzie as she approached him.
“There you are, Elizabeth,” he said happily. He always called Lizzie by her proper name, although she thought it sounded strange from his mouth. “I was sent to find you. The chief wants to speak with you. The women say you ran away from the pakeha.” Kahu’s whole face shone, making the blue tattoos on his cheek seem to dance. “As it should be. Perhaps now you understand why I don’t like them.”
“It was something completely unrelated.”
Kahu arched his brows. “If I understood the women correctly, the pakeha sold you to an old lecher.”
Lizzie once again felt the blood rise to her cheeks. It was difficult to explain in the foreign language what had happened to her. But, of course, Kahu spoke fluent English, like most of the younger Maori. He accompanied her to the chieftain’s house, and she was happy he did—regardless if it was as protector, as interpreter, or simply out of curiosity.
Kuti Haoka received Lizzie in front of the wharenui, the village’s meeting house. It was not raining that day, so he spared them the extensive ceremonies necessary, according to Maori custom, to admit a visitor. The setting was awe-inspiring enough as it was. Kuti Haoka, an old warrior, stood in traditional clothing in front of the wharenui, which was richly decorated with thousands of carvings. Against the wintry cold, he had wrapped himself in a voluminous shawl, which made him look like a powerful, dangerous raptor. The mountains reared up behind him and the village, and, despite the rain the day before, the air was crystal clear.
Lizzie, Kahu, and an audience from the village kept a respectful distance. The tribal chieftain was tapu as well. He could not be touched.
“You are here, pakeha wahine, to ask our aid?”
Lizzie swallowed when she heard his deep, husky voice. She nervously began to tell her tale, but Kuti Haoka soon bade her to stop and, with a few curt words, asked Kahu to translate.
“Just speak English,” Kahu encouraged her. “That will make it easier for everyone. The chief appreciates that you speak our language, but he also sees that yesterday’s burdens are weighing on your speech today. I’ll translate for him.”
Lizzie smiled gratefully. Then she began to explain in English what had happened to her. Kahu translated, and the chief listened to everything quietly and carefully.
“As a punishment, they took you fro
m your tribe to an island with strange stars?” he asked. “Because you wanted to feed children and so took a few flatbreads from a neighbor’s fire?”
“Something like that,” said Lizzie. Kahu’s translation had sounded rather free to her as well. “Only, I don’t really have a tribe.”
“And then a man you did not want took you, and the other women did not intervene?”
Lizzie nodded.
“Any woman would have run away,” Kahu said.
The chieftain nodded but then reflected a long time before offering Lizzie a response.
“I would very much like to help you, pakeha wahine, but I don’t want any trouble,” he finally said—or at least this was how Kahu translated his flowery expressions. “There is ever more bad blood between Maori and pakeha lately, and arguments among the tribes as well. So, it is difficult to send you to another tribe. Perhaps to the Waikato; they now host our king. What do you call that, Kahu? Asylum?”
Some time ago the Maori chieftains had voted on a king from among moderate leaders like Hongi Hika. They hoped to be able to negotiate better with the whites if they could oppose their queen with a kingi. However, it had been hard to find volunteers for the office of kingi, and Queen Victoria had so far mostly ignored Potatau I of Aotearoa.
Kahu Heke shook his head. His eyes flashed willfully, as if he were planning another strike against the pakeha just then. “Potatau won’t even understand what this is about, Uncle!” He paused a moment so the chief could consider this. “Besides, he doesn’t have the slightest influence. This will only lead to aggravation, believe me. If you lend me the big canoe, the chief’s canoe, I’ll take her to the Ngai Tahu.”
“To whom?” asked Lizzie. She had never heard of the tribe.
“On the South Island,” Kahu said quickly and quietly, so as not to disturb the chief in his consideration of the bold proposal. “They’ll never find you there.”
