by Sarah Lark
Now the commissioner was questioning everyone who had been involved, beginning with Fenroy and Reverend Tate. The other survivors of the expedition, too, would be questioned privately. Tate verified Fenroy’s statement, and added to it significantly. He said that Te Rauparaha had felt provoked by Wakefield, and that had doubtlessly had an influence on the chieftain’s decision to grant Te Rangihaeata’s wish for vengeance for Te Ronga. But the chieftain also believed that his daughter’s death had been an accident, that the shot had not been fired purposefully. He would not apologize for the execution of the pakeha, but he didn’t want to start a war either.
Spain nodded and then dismissed Fenroy and the missionary after they’d signed their statements. “There were mistakes made on both sides,” he said regretfully. “It’s very sad for the families of those who died. And above all, it’s the final blow for any proposed new settlements in the area. Actually, I would have had to negotiate soon with the chieftain, anyway. I had already notified him, and he was ready to talk about the Wairau Valley. But now we won’t be able to broach the subject for several years at least.”
Christopher told Cat about Spain’s questioning on the way to Beit’s house. He had found the girl washing her breakfast dishes in Mrs. Robins’s kitchen. The landlady, she told him, had gone to the market.
“But I can’t really imagine what she wants to buy there,” Cat said, tidily hanging the dish towel on its hook. “She was already at the baker’s, the butcher’s, and the grocer’s this morning. What could she possibly need?”
Christopher rolled his eyes. “An audience. She’s just dying to tell everyone what I told her. Fortunately, Wakefield’s brother has been informed about his death already, but I don’t know if the families of the other victims know.”
“Oh . . .” Cat smiled sadly. “Now I see. That’s finally something that pakeha and Maori have in common. Everybody gossips.”
Christopher gazed at her appraisingly. This morning, Cat seemed much more relaxed than she had been the day before. Her first contact with the pakeha had been positive, and Chris hoped for another good experience with the Beits. He also had a personal reason to visit the agent. A message had been handed to him at the magistrate, politely requesting that “Lord Fenroy” call on the Beit household at his convenience. It must be about the daughter.
Christopher oscillated between eagerness and regret. If he got engaged, he wouldn’t be able to spend time with Cat anymore—at least not without rousing suspicions. He’d grown fond of Cat, and he hoped to learn more about her life with the Maori. And aside from that, she looked beautiful again today. She had washed her hair, and it shone like gold in the sunlight. She had managed her chignon quite well, even if it was more like the bun of a Maori warrior than the modest hairstyle of a pakeha woman. Her face, too, seemed softer and more girlish since most of the tension had ebbed out of it. Christopher wondered how old she was. As he considered briefly whether she was still a virgin, he almost blushed. If she had adopted the customs of the Maori, that was unlikely. Many of the girls had their first amorous experiences with boys around the age of fourteen. And by eighteen or nineteen, which he assumed was Cat’s approximate age, they were usually married. Just like pakeha girls.
“Did you—with the Maori, I mean—did you have a man?”
Chris’s cheeks burned. He had never asked an English girl such a thing. But Cat just smiled.
“No, none of them was interested in me that way,” she said. Then she gave him a sidelong glance that seemed almost flirtatious. “And I didn’t want any of them either,” she added. “What about you? Do you have a woman? Among the pakeha, I mean. You will have had a few Maori girls . . .”
There was no contempt in her words. Native women were often curious about their European guests. Chris felt a stab of jealousy at the thought.
“None of them interested me that way,” he replied with a smile, and hoped that she wouldn’t ask about a pakeha girl again. But then they were standing in front of the Beits’ house. Christopher knocked.
Peter Hansen opened the door wearing his full butler uniform: black suit, white shirt, gray vest, black tie, and snow-white gloves. Cat stared in disbelief, especially when the small man bowed formally.
“May I take your jacket, sir?” he asked Chris crisply. “And your shawl, miss?”
Mrs. Partridge had chosen a pale woolen shawl to go with Cat’s brown dress, and the girl had already needed it. She admired the soft yarn, which kept her much warmer than the woven cloth of the Maori.
Self-consciously, she gave it to the strange man, and noticed with relief that Chris didn’t seem to feel any less awkward handing his stained oilskin jacket to the servant.
“Whom may I announce to Mr. Beit?” the man inquired.
“Fenroy,” Chris said. “I believe Mr. Tuckett told him about me. And this is Miss Cat.” He turned to her. “Do you really have no family name, Cat? We should really come up with something.”
Cat blushed, especially under the scrutiny of this strange man. He seemed to work for John Nicholas Beit, but Cat couldn’t figure out what kind of work could leave his shirt and gloves so white.
“Just Cat.”
The man nodded, bowed again, and turned to go. “Please wait here. I’m sure Mr. Beit will receive you soon.”
After he’d left, Chris grinned incredulously. “And if it takes longer, may we send you our slave to serve you a few refreshments?” he said in an imitation of the man’s posh accent. Then he laughed. “Oh my God, a butler! I knew they existed in London, but here, in good old Aotearoa?”
“What’s a butler?” Cat asked. “Mr. Beit doesn’t really have slaves, does he?”
Christopher laughed again. “No, I was joking. Slavery was outlawed here a couple of years ago. In large upper-class households, a butler has command of an entire army of servants. He’s a kind of manager, and he has a higher status than all of the rest of the staff, from the cook to the chambermaid. What’s more, he’s the valet for the man of the house, at least in smaller households.”
“What does a valet do?” Cat asked.
Chris shrugged. “I don’t know, I never had one. But hush now, he’s coming back.”
The butler announced that Mr. Beit was ready to receive Mr. Fenroy. He didn’t mention Cat but didn’t stop her when she shyly followed. The house almost scared her. It was much more ostentatiously decorated than the Hemplemans’ had been, and certainly more than Mrs. Robins’s guesthouse. Heavy, polished furniture with strange clawed feet was everywhere, as well as gold-plated lamps, mirrors, and picture frames . . . Cat was fascinated by the collection of exotic objects but definitely didn’t find all of them beautiful.
Beit was waiting for them in a dignified room full of dark wooden furniture and leather-upholstered chairs, which had a slight smell of cigar smoke. The large, bearded man approached Chris with a broad smile and offered his hand.
“Lord Fenroy!” he said grandiosely. “I’m terribly pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Chris returned his handshake. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Beit,” he said politely. “But I’m no lord. Only one member of my family carries that title.”
Beit touched his forehead. “Oh yes, of course. Where are my manners? Naturally, the correct title is viscount.”
Christopher bit his lip and wondered if it would be wise to correct him again. There was also only one Viscount Fenroy, who was the designated heir to the lord’s title. Christopher was far removed from that line of succession, but Beit obviously had no understanding of British aristocracy.
“Just Fenroy, please! Or call me Christopher. We’re far from England, Mr. Beit.”
“I understand. British understatement, of course, Viscount . . .” Beit winked at him. “You and I will get along with each other famously. But who have we here?” His face became stern. “Do I assume correctly that Mr. Tuckett informed you about the, um, potential nature of our introduction?” He fixed both Chris and Cat with a cool stare. “Do you consider
it appropriate, then, to bring a young lady with you?”
Christopher smiled apologetically. “Mr. Tuckett was very discreet. But please don’t misunderstand. I’m very happy that you are considering me in the capacity he mentioned, and in no way do I wish to offend your daughter. However, we have to find employment for Miss Cat as soon as possible, and—”
“Ah, I see.” Beit nodded. “A distant relative of yours? Or perhaps one of your family’s servants? She should apply to the butler; he’ll certainly find something for her to do. And now—”
“Mr. Beit, excuse me, you’ve misunderstood. Please allow me to explain. Surely you are interested to hear the latest developments in the Wairau Valley.”
Cat listened silently while Chris spoke again about the unfortunate expedition, and also told Beit about the role she had played.
“So you see, without Miss Cat, I would be dead,” he said finally. “I owe her a great deal. I don’t want her to regret having given up her life with the Maori. If she’s willing to share her invaluable knowledge about the tribe and their language, you could profit greatly by employing her.”
“But you speak the language too,” Beit said, showing only mild interest.
Christopher nodded and had to keep himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But Cat has lived with the Maori, and that gives her an entirely different insight into their culture and values. What’s more, she speaks German,” he added.
“Oh yes?” Beit’s countenance brightened a little, and he regarded Cat for the first time with a little interest. “That’s certainly practical.” He turned toward the door. “Mr. Hansen!”
The butler answered so quickly that he must have been waiting by the door for just such a summons.
“Yes, Mr. Beit?” He bowed slightly.
“Please bring this girl to your wife in the kitchen; she wants to make herself useful. Apparently, she speaks German, so perhaps she could help care for the children so they won’t forget the language of their ‘fatherland’ completely.” He smiled inattentively as he said it; the matter didn’t seem very important to him. Cat soon discovered that Beit himself was German, and his wife, Sarah, was of English descent. “Thank you, Cat. We will surely come to an agreement about your pay. And now to you, Viscount. Can I offer you a whiskey? It makes it easier to approach such delicate matters.”
Cat threw Chris an uncomprehending glance before the butler led her away.
The kitchen was on the ground floor, not in the cellar the way it would be in a stately English home. It was a large room that housed a woodburning oven and long worktables. Cat gawked at the rows of copper pots and pans in all sizes and shapes, which would have been worth a fortune to Maori women. There were spices on a shelf and baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. An aromatic smell permeated the entire space. A woman of approximately the butler’s age and a girl sat at the table in the middle of the room drinking coffee. Both were wearing tidy light blue dresses with white aprons and bonnets.
“A new girl, Margaret,” the butler said, introducing Cat. “Mr. Beit suggested that she could help you with the children. She speaks German.”
“Oh, really?” The woman, who was somewhat taller and significantly more rounded than her husband, smiled kindly, but also with some pity. “Yes, perhaps that will make things easier. Do you know anything about what a maid does? I mean, do you know how to wait on a lady, do her hair, lace her corsets, and care for her clothes?”
Cat stared at her. “No,” she admitted.
Margaret Hansen, whose red curls were peeking out from under her bonnet, sighed. “I feared as much. You’re one of the farm girls from the Sankt Pauli, aren’t you? Strange, I didn’t see you on the ship. What’s your name? I’m Mrs. Hansen, the matron. At least that’s what they call me here, ever since we’ve had more personnel. Before, I was just Mrs. Beit’s maid. I’d be glad to show you how everything works, but . . .” She shrugged. “Well, I hope you learn fast. This is Mary, our chambermaid—”
“—who doesn’t learn very fast,” the girl added sarcastically. “But no one could possibly learn as fast as the Beits want them to.”
“Mary, please!” Mrs. Hansen said in a scolding tone. “How many times do I have to tell you that we don’t speak ill of our employers? Perhaps they don’t always make our lives easy, but that’s part and parcel of being a servant. Cat probably understands that without the help of our chatter, don’t you, dear? What an interesting name you have, by the way. I thought it must be a nickname for Catherine, but if you’re German—”
“I’m not German,” Cat said. “And Cat isn’t a nickname. It’s Cat, like the animal.”
“Cat!” Mary cried. “Oh no, Mrs. Hansen, isn’t she the Indian girl?” The girl leaped up and almost knocked over her cup of coffee.
“The what?” the butler interjected. “Really, Mary, even you should know that the natives of North America are called Indians. Here the natives are called—”
“She’s the Maori girl!” Mary proclaimed, pointing a finger at Cat. “Mrs. Hansen, I wanted to tell you before. I heard it at the market. She’s lived with the savages. And you wouldn’t believe what else Mrs. Robins said about her!”
Chapter 22
In the first meeting between Chris Fenroy and Jane Beit, almost everything went wrong. It began with Jane’s entrance. John Nicholas Beit’s daughter was nothing like the dainty blonde fairy who had been dancing through Christopher’s hopeful dreams, but of course he hadn’t actually been expecting her to be. Jane couldn’t possibly be like Cat, and Chris was determined not to feel disappointed. But when he saw the broad form of his prospective bride, her round face, and her heavy brown hair, he had to force himself to smile.
Jane, for her part, didn’t make the effort. She squinted at him appraisingly, and disaster struck when Beit attempted to introduce them to each other.
“My daughter Jane . . . Viscount Christopher Fenroy.”
“Viscount?” Jane’s surly expression transformed into a sneer. “So you’re going to inherit a shire in England?”
Christopher could have slapped himself. Why hadn’t he sorted out the situation properly from the start?
“Just Fenroy, Miss Beit. Your father must have misunderstood me.”
Jane simpered. “That happens sometimes,” she remarked. “What shall we do now, Mr. Fenroy? Did you bring me flowers?”
The blood rushed to Chris’s face. “I—it was such a surprise,” he sputtered.
“Fine,” she said. “Then I can spare myself the trouble of calling a maid to put the things in a vase. On the other hand, it would have covered the first moments of embarrassment so nicely.”
“Jane!” Beit scolded.
Jane ignored her father. “What shall we do instead, Mr. Fenroy?” Chris squirmed under her gaze. “Shall we talk about the weather? It’s sunnier here than it is in Canterbury, but you probably already know that.”
“Miss Beit—” Chris understood that she was alluding to the farmland her father had promised him: countless acres in Canterbury. Beit had obtained enough land in the undeveloped inland area around the Waimakariri River for a small kingdom. Only the king and queen were missing.
“Really, you don’t have to keep calling me Miss Beit. It will be Mrs. Fenroy soon enough. Or Lady Fenroy, perhaps? That’s not really correct, but who cares? We’ll have more land than the lord who goes rightfully by that title, anyway. And you must be a ‘country gentleman’ at the very least.”
“Jane!” her father repeated, more severely.
Now Christopher wished he had accepted the proffered whiskey. In any case, he had to say something. This young woman seemed to favor directness.
“I hope very much that I’m a gentleman,” he said. “And you have doubtlessly been raised to be a lady. It’s clear to both of us that marriages between lords and ladies are usually arranged, and I’m sure we’ll make the best of it. Next time I will bring flowers.”
Jane made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, spare your
self the effort. Instead, tell me what I can expect. What can you offer me if I marry you, Mr. Christopher Fenroy, country gentleman?”
Christopher cleared his throat. “Well, I—I’m young, not entirely stupid, hardworking, honest—”
“Honest, Viscount?” Jane inquired. Finally, her eyes flashed with interest; she seemed to be enjoying the exchange. “Please spare me the platitudes. I’m sure my father wouldn’t have chosen an idiot or a layabout for me. But how will my life be on your—on our farm, Mr. Fenroy?”
Christopher wet his lips. He’d just made another faux pas. Now at least she was giving him the chance to talk about his dream. The tension inside him ebbed a little as he began to speak.
“I imagine our farming business to be large,” he explained. “Not just because it’s so much land, but because—well, this island has huge amounts of potential! It’s only just begun to be settled, and in the coming years, more and more people will arrive. They won’t all be farming. There will be cities. And the surveyors I’ve been traveling with this past year are sure that there are plenty of natural resources. Even now, whaling stations and towns like Nelson need to be provided with goods. So the market exists for wheat, potatoes, corn, basically anything that we could plant.”
“We?” Jane repeated, unimpressed. “You don’t expect me to grub in the dirt?”
“Of course not,” Chris reassured her. “But you’ll surely want to plant your own garden. At first, vegetables, and then later”—he tried to smile winningly—“a rose garden?”
“No,” Jane said. “I don’t care about vegetables or roses, and I don’t know anything about planting them either. What about you, Mr. Fenroy?”
Christopher was caught off guard. “You mean, do I know about roses? Um, no, not really. But I’ve worked in farming, I—”
He stopped. The truth was that his farming experience was limited. He’d helped his father on farms sporadically. But the only vegetables Christopher had ever personally had anything to do with were kumara, the sweet potatoes that were highly valued by the Maori. He had always dug them up with his friends from the tribe, and roasted them in the ashes of campfires. They ate them with fish, right by the streams. If his family ever stayed in one place for longer than a few months, his mother planted kumara too. They were easy to grow, and would thrive practically anywhere. However, they weren’t exactly one of the staple foods of the white settlers.
