The Fire Blossom (The Fire Blossom Saga)

by Sarah Lark

  “The land by the Moutere River is a kind of marshland,” Karl said. The people, particularly the settlers from other villages of Mecklenburg who didn’t know him, listened with interest as he walked to the front of the room. “That means it floods every time the river rises—and it does that regularly, in winter and summer. It’s fed by streams from the mountains, and it rains there often. I must seriously advise you not to build your village in the Moutere Valley. Mr. Spain specifically registered that land as being unfit for settlement.”

  “Who is that?” a settler asked Lange and Brandmann, who were both glaring at Karl.

  “What business is this of yours?” Brandmann asked Karl.

  Karl shrugged. “As I said, I’m here to warn you. Mr. Tuckett is extremely upset about Wakefield and Beit’s offer. We only heard about it when we arrived this afternoon, and we were afraid that you had already agreed. When I heard that your meeting was this evening, I came immediately.”

  “This is our meeting, as you rightly say,” Lange said and pursed his lips in disapproval. “I ask you again, what business is it of yours?”

  “I just told you,” Karl said, staring at him in disbelief. Then he straightened his back. “Besides, I’m from Raben Steinfeld too. Like you, I came with the Sankt Pauli, and my family was part of your community.”

  “You’re a landless thief!” Lange muttered.

  “Day laborer,” Karl corrected him, and attempted to remain calm. “There’s a difference. And that was a long time ago. I’ve been working almost two months now for Mr. Frederick Tuckett, the head surveyor for all of New Zealand. He’s paid by the governor in Auckland, not the New Zealand Company. Mr. Tuckett has no interest in selling you useless land—as opposed to Colonel Wakefield and Mr. Beit. So you’d be wise to listen to what I’m telling you.”

  “So this young man gets no land at all?” asked one of the men who didn’t come from Raben Steinfeld.

  Karl sighed. “No, I came as a free immigrant. I was on the Sankt Pauli with you. I shared a cabin with Mr. Brandmann’s son. Ottfried, perhaps you can add something. You will certainly want to offer your wife a safe home?”

  Karl exchanged glances with Ida, who looked alarmed. Ottfried, however, was unmoved.

  “I agree with my father,” he said. “Whatever the elders decide will be for the best. I don’t have to believe anything you say. You’re just envious.”

  Karl rubbed his forehead. Ottfried was right in one way. He was terribly envious of him. But not over a swamp! Karl wouldn’t trade his current job even for a parcel of good farmland. He was well on the way to becoming a serious, well-respected, and well-paid surveyor. He was learning the language and traveling all over New Zealand. He would have settled in one place only for Ida.

  “I have a right to speak here,” Karl said, trying again, “as a member of the church congregation. You can’t deny me that, even though my family was poor. So I’ll warn you once again, do not accept Wakefield’s offer! Wait until usable land is available for you. After all, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “But what about the missionaries?” a man said. “They’ve lived there for years!”

  Karl shrugged. “With a regularly changing lineup, I hear. Ask the current occupants how often the mission gets washed away, or why it’s built so high up on the valley wall. I’ve never been there, but Tuckett told me all about it.”

  The last remark was a mistake. The angry voices of the settlers turned against him. How could he give them advice when he’d never even seen the land?

  But Brandmann and Lange exchanged a nervous look.

  “Is it on the hillside?” Ida asked Ottfried.

  “It offers a very beautiful view over the valley,” he replied.

  Ida bit her lip. For her, that was enough. But Karl was obviously losing the settlers’ support.

  “Then we can vote now,” Brandmann said. “Will the men who would like to found Sankt Pauli Village in the Moutere Valley please raise their hands?”

  What about the women? Ida wanted to ask, but she knew better. Of course no one would ask the women. They were supposed to trust their husbands blindly and then help them without complaint to carry the consequences.

  Karl left the barn while the votes were still being counted. Ida saw her chance to escape when Brandmann called Ottfried forward to help. Elsbeth saw her slip out, and for a moment Ida was afraid that her sister would betray her, but she was reassured by a spark in her eyes. “Elsbeth” would have run to her father immediately, but “Betty” could be trusted.

  Outside, it was still raining. Ida saw Karl put on his hat again and walk toward a horse. She wondered where he had gotten it.

  “Karl?”

  The young man spun around when he heard her voice, in spite of the pouring rain. She wondered if he’d been expecting her.

  “Ida!” Karl beamed and quickly led her under the eaves of the barn. His horse was waiting there, nibbling on old hay. “Ida, how wonderful to see you! I wanted to say goodbye before, but everything happened so fast. Tuckett, the job . . . It’s a great job, Ida! I’m an apprentice surveyor. It’s not easy, you usually need to complete a university degree first. But here there are so few candidates, and Tuckett thinks I have talent for it, even the math. And there will be plenty of work for years, if not decades. It’s paid well, and I enjoy it. Look, I even have a horse!” He stroked the russet gelding. “His name is Brandy. Tuckett says it’s because of his color. I don’t know for sure, because I’ve never seen brandy. I don’t like whiskey very much. But it doesn’t matter, I’m babbling. Ida, tell me about you! You aren’t married yet?”

  For the space of a heartbeat, Ida wondered with annoyance if his warning about the Moutere Valley could be an attempt to sabotage her engagement, or at least to delay her marriage. But then she dismissed the unworthy thought. Karl surely had honorable intentions.

  “If we are settling now, I will be soon,” she answered.

  Karl rubbed his forehead. “Ida, I’m serious. If you even have a little bit of influence over Ottfried, try to dissuade him from taking land in the Moutere. The settlers paid so much money, three hundred pounds! They’ll never give it back to you if the land turns out to be a mudhole. And then you’ll have nothing.”

  “Ottfried won’t listen to me,” Ida said bitterly.

  Karl sighed. “Then at least try to talk your father and the others into not building the church first, but digging drainage ditches instead. It might be possible to redirect the river when it overflows its banks. I could ask Tuckett about it.”

  Ida laughed grimly. “They’d hardly take advice from a woman about what to build first,” she said. “They don’t even want the women to learn English. They only want us to help them re-create Raben Steinfeld exactly the way it was in Mecklenburg. I can only hope, Karl, that Mr. Tuckett is wrong about the valley.”

  Ida sounded depressed, but there was a new resonance to her voice that gave Karl hope. Even if she wasn’t outwardly protesting yet, she was expressing bitterness and doubt about the community. Karl had intended to be patient and wait for her to make up her mind. But to hell with it, he couldn’t wait much longer! Very gently, so as not to scare her, he put an arm around her shoulders.

  “There’s another possibility, Ida. My offer still stands: you can marry me instead and come to Auckland. Tuckett and I are only here for a few days for a friend’s wedding. Afterward, we’ll return to the North Island. You could stay with Tuckett’s family to protect your reputation until we could be married. I’d rent a small house for us. A cottage, with a garden. A garden, Ida, with flowers and some vegetables—not a field that you would have to work yourself to death in. After a while, your father would get used to the idea! You wouldn’t have to give up contact with your family.”

  Ida hesitated. It sounded so good, and it felt so right to be standing here listening to the pattering of the rain and the homey noises of the horse eating hay—and to be looking into Karl’s eyes. They were peaceful, kind eyes, in which
she could see no signs of the insecurity and agitation that she had detected in Ottfried’s recently.

  She didn’t resist when he lowered his face toward hers and looked as though he were about to kiss her.

  But then her father’s voice cut through the magical moment. “Ida! What are you doing! Come here this instant!”

  Lange stormed over and tore Ida angrily away. “Get out of here, Jensch! If I catch you one more time with my daughter, I can make no guarantees about what I’ll do!” He glared at Karl, and for a moment the young man was afraid he would be punched. But then Lange stopped. “Actually, you’ll never have the chance again. The decision has been made. Sankt Pauli Village will be built by the Moutere River. And as soon as we arrive there, Ida, as soon as the first hut is standing, you will be married!”

  Karl watched with desperation as Ida listlessly followed her father back into the barn. He wondered for a moment if he should attempt to get her to stand up for herself, but he knew she couldn’t. And in the barn, there were over a hundred settlers already fired up by the imminent rebuilding of their villages and the revival of their traditions. It would have been insanity, and perhaps even suicide, to take a stand against them by himself.

  Finally, he gave up and led Brandy out into the rain. He had to return to the guesthouse to change his clothes. In a few hours, he would be celebrating Christopher Fenroy’s wedding.

  Chapter 24

  Jane Beit tugged at her wedding gown and decided that she looked like an oversized cream puff. The dress was snow white, which didn’t suit her, and so overloaded with ruffles and bows that her already not inconsiderable waistline seemed double its size. Mrs. Hansen had already laced her corset as tightly as possible, and Jane wondered how she would ever survive the evening in it. But it could have been worse. Her parents could have planned the wedding for the morning, and then she would have had to celebrate for the entire day.

  Fortunately, Christopher had arrived at the last moment. He didn’t seem as though he was being carried on the wings of love either. Of course, Jane hadn’t been expecting that. On the contrary, she knew that he felt as though he was the mouse and she the cat. She did rather enjoy mocking him. It was one of the few tragic reasons that she had chosen Fenroy instead of any of the other suitors.

  Her father’s idea about “Lord Fenroy” hadn’t been terribly serious until Jane had found that letter laying bare the desperate situation of the New Zealand Company, but then he’d jumped at the chance to get Jane as far away from Nelson as possible as quickly as he could. Her carefully conceived plans for salvaging the situation would have proved to be very useful by now, but her father wouldn’t hear a word of it. In Beit’s eyes, Christopher Fenroy, with his noble name and his distant farm, was the perfect solution.

  Plus, the young man had been right, New Zealand had potential. A farm in Canterbury could become a profitable business—but not under his leadership. If Jane had assessed him even partly correctly, Fenroy had no idea about running a business. He was throwing himself into the project with enthusiasm but without a clue about bookkeeping, staffing, actuarial work, or anything else. For Jane, this offered endless possibilities to keep herself occupied. And she was completely confident that she could bully him into letting her run things. He could already barely say no to her. Of course, some women achieved that result by charming their husbands . . .

  Jane scrutinized herself in the mirror. No, she had no potential for that strategy. And now she remembered her second reason for choosing Christopher: the unpleasant physical duty that came with marriage. For better or worse, she’d have to allow a husband to lie on top of her and exchange bodily fluids with her; at least that was what she had understood. And in that case, she would rather have the young, slender Fenroy than the other suitors her father had trotted out.

  So she had accepted Christopher. She sighed. Well, at least he was afraid of her.

  Later that afternoon, Christopher arrived at the Beits’ house. Beit had decided against holding the ceremony in the Episcopal church so as not to upset the German settlers, and his townhouse had been decorated for the occasion. The parlor had been chosen for the ceremony, and the butler was already ushering guests to their places. New arrivals were greeted by the maid, who was busy taking their soaked raincoats and finding places to hang them where they wouldn’t be in the way and perhaps could even dry. When Cat opened the door for Christopher, their eyes locked. It was the first time they had seen each other since their escape. Not only had the young woman been haunting his dreams, but he also had a very bad conscience about her fate. He hadn’t intended for her to end up in such a menial position.

  “Please don’t do that,” he said in embarrassment as she curtsied. The grace of her movements still entranced him, as did her beautiful face below the bonnet that only barely covered her blonde hair. “It’s me, Christopher.”

  Cat smiled bitterly. “We have to,” she said. “And since Mary still thinks I’m about to pull out a war club and attack people at any moment . . .”

  “Oh, Cat! You aren’t happy here. I knew it, but I really tried—” He stopped. Had he truly tried hard enough? Of course he’d told Tuckett about her, and the man had shown interest. But as head surveyor, Tuckett had a lot to do, and had been busy of late traveling around the North Island. He’d forgotten the Maori foster child whom no one in Nelson knew what to do with.

  “Are you at least halfway comfortable?”

  Cat shrugged. “Of course,” she said, telling him what she’d been telling herself ever since she’d been stranded in Nelson. She had a much easier life now than she’d had as a child.

  Contrary to Christopher, Cat didn’t think her work at the Beits’ was demeaning. After all, back when she did a little cleaning for Frau Hempleman, it had felt like the fulfillment of her greatest dream, and had seemed like social advancement. And among the Maori, every woman did housework, regardless of her status. Te Ronga, too, had helped cook the communal meals, weaved, and worked in the fields. No tasks were considered subordinate among the Maori. If someone did something well in any area, they could earn respect from others and be rewarded with the title of tohunga.

  However, in the Beit household it was impossible to earn respect. Mrs. Beit complained about everything that Cat or Mary did, reproaching them so bluntly that Mary often broke into tears. Cat emulated Mr. and Mrs. Hansen, who stoically endured Mrs. Beit’s moods. But it was Jane, constantly in a bad mood, who tended to mistreat the staff the most. Cat didn’t like her, and it had pained her to hear about Chris’s plans for marriage. She couldn’t figure out why it hurt so much, and tried to repress any unkind thoughts. After all, nothing had happened between the two of them, and she wasn’t even looking for a husband. But somehow, the thought of Chris and Jane together cut right through her. Perhaps she simply felt sorry for him.

  The thought gave Cat the courage to smile at him comfortingly.

  “I’m really fine, Chris. The Beits aren’t easy to deal with, but Mr. and Mrs. Hansen are very kind. They—they don’t insist that I—” Cat stopped herself. The second reason for her discontent in Nelson was much greater than her employers’ moods. It was about her reputation in the town. She was often referred to as “the Maori girl,” or even just “the savage.” It had been a terrible mistake to tell Mrs. Robins her story on the first day. But Cat couldn’t have known how the landlady’s gossip would be taken. And she hadn’t told Mrs. Robins anything that would compromise her virtue. After all, what was so bad about growing up as the foster daughter of a Maori leader and healer?

  But the women in Nelson had pounced on the story like vultures. Mary had heard at the market the same morning that Cat had taken part in battles and had hacked enemies of the tribe to pieces, and perhaps even eaten them. Of course the rumors said that she’d shared the bed of almost every man in the tribe. That was probably Mrs. Robins’s interpretation of the communal longhouse. Cat could also figure out the origin of some other rumors if she thought carefully. After all, M
rs. Robins had asked about the customs of the Maori, and Cat had answered freely. How could she have known that her explanations would be so completely misconstrued?

  But whether Mrs. Robins alone was responsible for the stories going around, or if they had been embroidered upon by others, it didn’t matter. Any time Cat left the Beit house, she had to prepare herself to run the gauntlet. In the best case, she would hear insults. Young men would yell obscene remarks at her, and after the Wairau massacre came to light, she was pelted with rotten fruit and even stones, and had often been threatened. At some point, it was rumored that she herself had taken part in the atrocities against Wakefield and his men.

  Fortunately, none of the Beit family was interested in local gossip. Mrs. Beit and her children lived such insulated lives that they probably didn’t hear any of it. And Mr. and Mrs. Hansen proved to be very understanding. They soon learned to appreciate Cat for being skillful and affable, and believed her when she disputed the rumors. Her protestations of innocence hadn’t worked as well with Mary or Jamie, the houseboy. They both tended to regard her with annoyance and mistrust.

  For Cat, it was all very stressful, especially being trapped in a house. Te Ronga had taught her to live with nature, and now she missed the song of the wind in the trees, the gurgling of the brooks, the red splendor of the rata, and the majesty of the mountains in the distance. In her free time she hardly knew what to do with herself, until Mary left a penny dreadful lying in the room they shared and Cat attempted to decode the first few sentences of the cheap booklet. She had learned to read well with Linda Hempleman, but in recent years hadn’t had any opportunity to practice. And of course, she had learned to read in German, while the adventure stories Mary read so voraciously were written in English. Cat soon discovered that her memory of the letters returned quickly, and she also became aware of the differences between English and German script and pronunciation. Soon she was spending all of her free time reading, occasionally borrowing books from her employer’s library. She read both novels and nonfiction, devouring love stories and travelogues. The books were the one ray of light in Cat’s life. But they didn’t help her figure out what to do about her situation.