Song of the Spirits (In the Land of the Long White Cloud saga)

by Lark, Sarah

  “Just watch, sir, I’ll instruct the ladies considerably more thoroughly than usual—I shall be staying in the area with my wife for some time—and afterward they should be fit to earn a living for themselves and their families. You must, of course, come to an agreement with your charity committee over the organization of the enterprise,” William said, nodding to Mrs. Carey, who had just purchased a machine herself, “over whether you hire the ladies to a fixed position or hand over the machines on consignment, so to speak… No, it’s not worth trying with any fewer than three machines, and for five I could offer you a proper price reduction.”

  “You’re irresistible,” Kura said in amazement as the pair rode back into town together holding hands, both of them on the lookout for a chance to leave the road and make love somewhere in the grass. “People really eat out of the palm of your hand. Do you really think Mrs. Carey will figure out this funny machine?”

  William shrugged. “Sometimes there happen signs and wonders. Besides, I don’t really care. After she’s paid for it, she can sew with it or clean her shoes with it. As long as I get my commission. And the ladies didn’t seem unhappy, did they?” He grinned.

  Kura burst out laughing. “You’ve always known how to make women happy,” she said, kissing him.

  William couldn’t stand it a moment longer. He drove the wagon down a side road and pulled Kura under the canopy. Although it was not exceptionally comfortable, they could stretch out, and it would simply be too cold to venture outside at that hour. He had occasionally slept in his wagon during his travels, and he wasn’t any the worse for wear.

  As far as a shared room went, their situation was hopeless. Neither Mrs. Tanner nor Mrs. Miller would allow it, and a suite in the nicer hotels on the quay would be too expensive. William had even thought about renting a room in the Lucky Horse by the hour, but relations between Kura and Madame Clarisse’s establishment were a little tense.

  “What happened to your enthusiasm for sheep?” Kura asked, running her fingers over the back of William’s neck.

  “An obvious dead end,” he replied. “My family has been in animal husbandry for a long time, so I thought I must have a talent for it. But in truth—”

  “In truth it was really your tenants doing the work, and when you came to realize that sheep manure stinks, you lost your ambition.” Kura did not speak much, but when she did, she put things into words very aptly.

  “You could look at it that way,” William admitted. “And what happened to your enthusiasm for the opera?”

  Kura shrugged. Then she told him about Roderick Barrister and her failed efforts to stand on her own two feet as an opera singer. “It’s the wrong country for opera,” she sighed. “The wrong country, the wrong time, what do I know? New Zealand apparently has no use for Carmen. I should have accepted my grandmother’s offer. But I didn’t know that then.”

  William grinned. “Back then, you believed more than anything that Roderick Barrister would lay the world at your feet.”

  “You could look at it that way,” Kura replied, smiling before shutting his mouth with a kiss.

  After stormily making love, Kura told William of her project with Caleb Biller. William roared with laughter at the story of their “engagement.”

  “We need to bring the boy up to the level of an ‘artist’ soon, lest people start whispering that you broke his heart. Or he marries this fabulous Florence Weber. I’d be scared to death of her too.” Florence had attended the sewing-machine demonstration and asked several probing questions.

  “Oh, Caleb truly is an artist. You heard him on Saturday. He’s the best pianist I know, and he has perfect pitch.” Kura would not let anything ill be said of Caleb.

  “But when he has to play before more than three people, he’s scared out of his wits. Grand. Besides, I only heard you on Saturday, which was lovely. But I don’t think I’ll miss Caleb Biller tonight. Shall we pay a little more homage to the spirits?”

  Caleb Biller and William Martyn got along astoundingly well. At first, Kura had worried that William might tease or mock her partner. As it was, however, he recognized Caleb’s potential within a very short time. The pub was always very quiet on Mondays. The few drunks who showed up didn’t have any music requests and either drank away their gambling winnings from the weekend in silence or attempted to drown their losses in whiskey. Kura and Caleb therefore had time—and Paddy’s blessing—to perform their entire program for William. Kura sang and played the putorino as well as the koauau, a hand-sized, heavily decorated flute played with the nose. Caleb accompanied her on the piano, occasionally losing the rhythm because having a knowledgeable listener made him nervous.

  It was not Caleb’s piano playing that impressed William anyway. He might normally have performed better, but one could find pianists of Caleb’s caliber in any of the better music schools. However, when it came to the arrangement of the pieces, Caleb was without a doubt a master. The way he had combined the haka’s simple melodies with the complicated passages on the piano, the conversation between the different instruments, the musical bridge between the cultures—all of that sprang from the creative spirit of Caleb Biller. Kura was an exceptionally gifted interpreter; she could perfectly embody the soul of any music. But to create that soul—to work it out note by note and even open the ears of laypeople to it—required more than voice and expression. Caleb was unquestionably an artist, though unfortunately one plagued by stage fright.

  “You’ll have to get over that,” William said after he had told them how impressed he was. “Last time, when I listened to it outside, it was much better. And you, of all people, don’t have reason to be nervous. What you do is sensational. You won’t just create a furor with that music; you’ll conquer Europe!”

  Kura gave him a disbelieving look.

  “It’s not enough to be sensational,” she said. “Even though that’s what I used to think. But organizing concerts isn’t easy. You have to rent spaces, advertise, and negotiate for good terms. You need an impresario like Roderick Barrister.” She sighed.

  William rolled his eyes. “Sweetheart, just forget that Roderick Barrister of yours. He didn’t do anything but hire a few third-rate singers and a couple of pretty dancers and distribute a few flyers. That’s not enough though. Someone has to talk to the press. You have to attract patrons, draw the right people to the concerts—in your case, perhaps get local Maori tribes to participate. George Greenwood was the one who organized the entire opera tour, and that’s why it was so successful. You need a businessman at your side, Kura, not a choirboy. And no charity dames or pastors—they always send a hint of ‘would but can’t.’ You need grand rooms, hotels, and convention centers. After all, you want to make some money while you’re at it.”

  “You sound as though you know something about all that, Mr. Martyn,” Caleb remarked hesitantly. “Have you done anything like that before?”

  William shook his head. “No. But I sell sewing machines. In certain respects, that’s also a show—and we certainly had a few people during training who had proper stage fright. I’ll teach you a few tricks, Mr. Biller. And you can always give your shows a charitable aspect.

  “Like you did with the factory for the wives of the mine victims?” Caleb asked, smirking.

  William nodded seriously. “First and foremost, you have to remember that you’re selling something. In order to sell sewing machines, I need a cheap room for the demonstrations and reasonable accommodations for my horse and myself. But none of it can look shabby. Over time, you develop a sense for it. I can tell from one glance which pubs I can host a sales show in and which ones no honorable woman would set foot in. I would never allow the two of you to perform at the Wild Rover, for example. No one brings his sweetheart here for cultural entertainment. Nor the Lucky Horse, of course. Here in Greymouth, the grand hotels would be the only places even worth considering. But all in all, it’s not the right town.” William’s last words sounded almost wistful. He seemed already to be planni
ng the tour, reviewing in his mind which of the towns he knew would fit the bill.

  Kura and Caleb looked at one another.

  “Why don’t you try selling us for a change?” Kura finally asked. “Show us how it’s done. Organize a big concert in a proper hall in a big city.”

  “Well, the South Island doesn’t exactly have the biggest cities,” William said, “and I don’t have the contacts that someone like George Greenwood does, of course. But very well, we’ll start in…” He furrowed his brow. Then his face lit up. “We’ll start in Blenheim. I know a lady there… Really, we both know a lady there, Kura, who is in desperate need of something to do.”

  So I feel, my dear Heather, that you would find great fulfillment in such a task. In addition, you should keep in mind that the position of your husband will force you sooner or later into social or cultural engagement of one kind or another. The prestige that comes with being a celebrated patroness of the arts surely eclipses that of being a simple member of the local orphanage’s advisory board. Finally, your exceptional education predisposes you to a calling that goes above and beyond purely charitable endeavors. The presentation of our project, “Ghost Whispers—Haka Meets Piano,” would make an excellent debut since you have personally contributed significantly to the musical development and formation of Kura-maro-tini’s artistic character. I am certain that your husband would agree with me in this matter. I remain, with most humble regards,

  Your,

  William Martyn

  “How does that sound?” William looked—as though asking for praise—from Kura to Caleb, who was just ordering his third whiskey.

  Caleb thought Kura’s husband was inspiring and his way of talking irresistible. But Caleb felt like he was being pulled into a whirlpool in which he would inevitably drown.

  “Whaikorero, the art of beautiful speech,” Kura said. “You’re a master, no question. Is Heather Witherspoon really married to a wealthy railroad magnate and living in a mansion in Blenheim?”

  “The spirits have willed it so,” William said dramatically. “So, should I send it? Then you can’t back out, Caleb. If Heather agrees—and she will, I trust—you’ll be playing in front of a hundred or maybe even two hundred people. Will you manage?”

  No, thought Caleb, but he said yes.

  At that, Kura ordered a round of whiskey. She wanted to drink with the men, too, that day. Perhaps her career would finally take off!

  William looked at Caleb skeptically. The man was too nervous, too pale, not charismatic enough. They would have to replace him eventually. He would never last through a tour of Europe. Still, they would have to make do with him in the beginning. They needed a starting point, a rousing success.

  William blew his wife a kiss as he stood up to grab the drinks. It would not be whiskey much longer. If everything went well, Kura would soon be drinking champagne. William was finally prepared to keep the promise he had made to Kura before their wedding. He would go to Europe. With her.

  Heather Redcliff’s answer came almost as soon as they’d sent the letter. She expressed her joy that William had found Kura again and said that the prospect of smoothing the path to success for her former student appealed to her. After all, she had always believed in Kura and would be happy to tell that to the local press. Indeed, she had already mentioned it—at her last reception on the occasion of the opening of a new wing of the hospital. While Heather had long been engaged with the local charities, art lay closer to her heart. William had been quite astute to recognize that. All of Blenheim society was now waiting rather impatiently to meet Kura-maro-tini. And she, Heather Redcliff, would consider it an additional and special pleasure to see William again.

  William smiled. He left out the last line as he read the letter to Kura. Their active future patroness had booked a concert hall at once. Located in the city’s best hotel, it comprised some one hundred fifty seats. A reception for invited guests would follow. And the evening before, Mr. and Mrs. Redcliff would take the liberty of introducing the artists to the city of Blenheim’s notables. Sunday, the second of September, would be suitable, would it not?

  “There you have it, Kura. All you need to do now is sing,” William remarked.

  The light in Kura’s eyes was otherworldly. William had not seen her so inwardly radiant since their wedding. Nor had she kissed him so happily and sincerely since then. William returned her kiss, relieved. He knew then that Kura forgave him everything. The lies and stalling techniques before the wedding, the unwanted pregnancy meant to bind her to Kiward Station—even his affair with Heather Witherspoon. William and Kura would begin anew, and this time it would be just like in Kura’s dreams.

  If only it were not for Caleb. He had not smiled but instead turned pale as William read Heather’s letter.

  William did not like how Caleb had been behaving recently. He had become increasingly agitated, making so many mistakes on the piano that even Kura grew vexed at him. In fact, Caleb couldn’t even start to loosen up until he’d had his first or second whiskey and he was certain that William would not be hearing from his prospective patroness in Blenheim that day. But now Heather’s letter had come. This was serious. Caleb withdrew from the table, muttering his apologies as he exited the pub. He looked to be in even rougher shape when he returned.

  “These hundred and fifty seats, there’s no way they’ll sell out, will they?” he asked, playing with an empty glass.

  William wondered whether he should lie, but there would be no sense in that. Caleb had to rise to the occasion.

  “Blenheim sees itself as an up-and-coming city, Caleb, but between us, it’s a backwater. A little bigger than Greymouth and more developed. But it’s no London. Blenheim isn’t exactly filled cheek by jowl with cultural offerings. If one of the city’s leading ladies presents a few artists, people will be falling over themselves to get tickets to the concert. We could probably have another show the very next day.”

  “But—”

  “Now be happy, Caleb,” Kura yelled. “And if you’re too scared to be happy, then think about what comes next. You’ll be a famous artist! You’ll be able to live like you want, Caleb. Think of the alternative.”

  “Yes,” Caleb said weakly. “I’ll be able to live like I want.”

  He did indeed seem to be thinking about it, but William could tell just how despondent Caleb was.

  As the day of Timothy and Elaine’s engagement party neared, Elaine had the sense that she was in the eye of the storm. Nellie Lambert had been a bundle of nerves for weeks, spending entire days planning the decorations and the order in which the various courses would be served—or would a buffet be better? She booked a band to play during the dancing, though she almost found it inappropriate since she thought, naturally, Timothy and Elaine could not open the dance. Timothy nonetheless trained tenaciously. Poor Roly ceased his role as a male nurse only to take up that of dance partner.

  Timothy almost had a panic attack when he saw the engagement notices in the various West Coast newspapers. He would have liked not to let Elaine out of his sight, and every stranger in town put fear in his heart. Timothy was now seriously planning their emigration. Although he could certainly have started working in the mine’s office for a few hours a day by then, his father continued to veto all of his attempts to do so.

  Timothy no longer traced that back to his disability. Marvin Lambert was hiding something. The balance sheets were probably even worse than Matt had suggested. The mine was losing money, and the railroad would surely make little progress during this very wet winter. They couldn’t count on quick profits from Lambert’s investment—and Nellie was spending every penny to show off with this engagement party. If things continued in this manner, there would be nothing left to save. Timothy expected that the mine would have to be shut down while the most important renovation work was being done, which would mean further enormous losses. They would have to declare the losses to the bank, and Timothy’s father was not making any effort even to apply for the l
oan they so desperately needed. In addition to all that, there was the continual danger in which Elaine found herself.

  Timothy had had enough. He wanted to leave—before the wedding if possible. Or right after a small, secret ceremony and a round with his friends at the pub. The passage to and organization of their new life in England or Wales would be simpler if they were already married.

  Elaine, however, had only just begun to get excited about the engagement party. She could not help herself; she was looking forward it—in part because Nellie Lambert was finally taking her seriously. The women still hadn’t completely warmed up to each other, and they were clashing about Elaine’s dress for the celebration. Nellie wanted to have Mr. Mortimer tailor it or, better yet, to order an outrageously expensive tulle-and-silk confection from Christchurch. Elaine, on the other hand, wanted to entrust Mrs. O’Brien and her new workshop with their first really big contract.

  Here, too, there had been bad blood in recent weeks. The sewing machines had arrived, and William had instructed the women from the miners’ camp on how to use them, as he had promised. When it came time to decide who would manage the enterprise, however, the more-than-capable Mrs. Carey got into it with the no-less-capable Mrs. O’Brien. Roly’s mother was a skilled seamstress, and she had the necessary business savvy. Hence, she began right away with the production of simple children’s clothes that were so reasonably priced that it was not worth it for even the poorest miner’s wife to sew the clothes herself. Mrs. Carey, however, was in favor of finishing the seamstresses’ training first thing and then “giving a bit of soul,” as she put it, to the factory rooms—for which, against his will, Marvin Lambert had placed an old shed near his mine at their disposal.

  “I’m not going to spend weeks sewing curtains for this shed,” Mrs. O’Brien complained to the pastor. “And we don’t need to paint the walls either, least of all in a ‘warm antique pink.’ If anything, whitewash ’em. I need money, reverend. I’ve got enough ‘soul.’”