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

by Lark, Sarah

  Elaine laughed and petted her dog. “Nonsense, she’ll be herding children soon!”

  10

  Timothy Lambert took possession of his new office. It was somewhat smaller than his father’s—just to keep up appearances. Officially Marvin Lambert was still in charge of his mine. Still, Timothy commanded more space than Matt Gawain, whose office adjoined his own. Both rooms were located on the ground floor, brightly lit, and offered a wide view of the most important mining structures. Timothy had the headframe tower in view, so he could watch the men arrive for their shift. Soon he would also be looking out over the tracks on which they would be conveying the coal they had extracted directly to the train line. But even now there was brisk activity out front. New mining lamps, modern helmets, and trolleys for moving the coal underground were being delivered, and Matt was out speaking to a group of new miners, some of whom had come directly from coal-mining regions in England and Wales. George Greenwood had advertised for new immigrants with mining knowledge in the immigration ports of Lyttelton and Dunedin.

  Timothy took a deep breath but had little time to take a closer look around his new domain, because Lester Harding, his father’s secretary, materialized to welcome him. The disingenuous servility of the man immediately robbed Timothy of his good mood.

  “Shall I bring you an armchair, Mr. Lambert? It would be a little more comfortable for you. Would you like a glass of water?”

  Timothy did not want to get angry, but if he did not put this man in his place at once, he would get on his nerves every day. So he merely cast an appraising look at the no-doubt-comfortable-but-low leather armchair that had been placed next to a small table and a tiny house bar in a corner of his office.

  “I don’t know about you, but I generally prefer to work at my desk rather than down there,” he explained frostily. “And since I am of a normal height, the chair at my desk suits me just fine. After”—he looked at the clock—“less than a minute in this office, I don’t need any refreshments either. If Mr. Gawain comes in later, however, you are perfectly welcome to serve us some tea.” Timothy smiled to take the edge off his words. “Until then, just bring me the balances for the last two months, and the catalogs for our most important construction-material suppliers.”

  Lester Harding exited the room with an indignant expression.

  Timothy forgot him immediately. Time would tell whether he could work with the man. If not, he could find another secretary. There was no rush. He would run this office and this mine according to what he thought best.

  Florence Biller stepped into her new office. It was a little smaller than her husband’s—just to keep up appearances. And a good deal smaller than Caleb’s father’s, but he had already announced his intention to gradually withdraw from the business. After all, his son was now working there diligently.

  Just that day, Caleb had sat at his desk for almost two hours. Florence had not even noticed when he had left the house. As she passed by, she glanced almost tenderly at his blond head, bent low over his books and papers—none of which had even the slightest thing to do with mining or coal. Caleb was working on a treatise on the geological link between Maori greenstone—or pounamu—and Chinese and South American jade, as well as its mythological significance for the Maori and Aztec cultures. The subject positively enthralled him. The previous evening, he had given Florence a lengthy presentation on the relationship between the various occurrences of jadeite and nephrite. As a good wife, she had listened to him respectfully, but during business hours, he did not bother her with it. Florence quietly closed the door between their rooms.

  Her office! It was not only brightly lit and inviting, but, most importantly, it offered a view of the mine’s buildings. The Biller Mine offices were on the second floor of a warehouse, and from Florence’s window, she could see the headframe tower, the entrances to the mine, and the tracks that ensured the rapid transport of the extracted coal to the rail depot. It was the most modern facility in the region. Florence could not get enough of the view, but then she was interrupted by the entrance of a secretary.

  Bill Holland, she remembered. Still a rather young man but one who had been employed by the Billers for a considerable time.

  “Is everything to your satisfaction, madam?” he inquired in a servile manner.

  Florence took a look at the furnishings in her office. Bookshelves, a desk, a small sitting area in a corner—and a tea set. She frowned.

  “It’s very nice, Mr. Holland. But could you please store the teakettle and the china in your office? It will disturb my concentration to have you tinkering with those in here. You can see to that during your lunch break—or no, rather do it now.”

  The man had to be put in his place. Florence thought of Caleb, who had no doubt forgotten to have breakfast that morning. She smiled. “Following that, take a cup of tea in to my husband along with a few sandwiches. And please bring me the balances for the last two months, along with the catalogs for our most important construction-material suppliers.”

  Holland withdrew with an indignant expression. Florence watched him go. Time would tell whether she could work with him. It would be a shame to have to let him go. He did not seem to be stupid, and he was exceptionally handsome. If he also proved discreet, he might go straight to the short list. After all, she would eventually have to decide which of their loyal employees was worthy of siring Caleb Biller’s heir.

  Florence smoothed her sharply cut dark skirt and rearranged the neckline of her flouncy white blouse. She would need a mirror! Though there would certainly be people who would wonder at the management of the Biller Mine over the next few years, she had no reason to be ashamed of her femininity. Florence had time. She would run this office and this mine according to what she thought best.

  Emere strode through the rooms of Lionel Station. The old Maori woman walked slowly, holding her putorino flute clenched in her hand, as though she needed it for support. Lionel Station. Her home and that of her children. The house to which John had brought her so long ago, when she had still been a princess, a chieftain’s daughter and ward of a sorceress. She had loved John Sideblossom then—enough to leave her tribe after he had lain with her in her family’s sleeping lodge. Emere had thought that she was his wife until he came home with that girl, that blonde pakeha. When Emere had asserted her claims, he had laughed at her. Their connection did not count. Nor did the child she was carrying below her heart. John Sideblossom wanted white heirs.

  Emere let her fingers wander over the new furniture decorated with intarsia that Zoé had brought with her as a new bride. The second blonde girl. More than twenty years after the first had died. Not entirely through no fault of Emere’s—she was a skilled midwife and could have saved John’s first wife. But back then, she had still hoped that everything could be like it was before.

  And now Zoé was the heiress—or would manage to become it. Emere felt a certain esteem for Zoé. She seemed so fragile and delicate, and yet she had survived everything—what John called “making love” and even the births with which Emere had “assisted” her.

  The old Maori had long since made her peace with Zoé. Let her keep the farm’s profits. Arama would see to that, down to the last penny. Emere did not want any money. But she wanted the house and the land, and Zoé was not interested in that.

  Emere entered the next room and tore open the curtains. No one was to shut the sun out of here any longer. She took a deep breath after she had opened the window. Her children were free. No more John Sideblossom, who had first sent them away and then enslaved them. Emere waited impatiently for Pai to return with the last child. She had sent the girl to Dunedin to retrieve her youngest son from the orphanage. The child she had borne a few months after the flame-haired girl had gone away. The girl through whom the curse she had placed on John Sideblossom’s heir so long ago had finally fulfilled itself.

  Only once had she ever demanded something for one of their children: a little land signed over to their firstborn. But once
again, John had only laughed—that was when Emere had learned to hate his laugh. Emere should be happy, John had said, that he let their bastards live. They would never inherit anything from him.

  That night was the first time he had forced Emere into his bed—and he seemed to enjoy it. Ever since then, she had hated everything about him, and to this day, she did not know why she had stayed. She had cursed herself a thousand times for it, for this fascination that he had exercised on her until the last, for her worthless existence lived between longing and hate. More than anything she cursed herself for having let his son by that white woman live. But back then, Emere had still had scruples about killing a defenseless baby. By the time Zoé’s children were born, no more.

  She had then taken her firstborn son to her tribe. Tamati, the only one of her children who did not look like John. He had now fulfilled his destiny by protecting the flame-haired girl.

  Emere raised her putorino flute and paid homage to the spirits. She had time. Zoé Sideblossom was young. As long as she lived and Lionel Station generated money, Emere was secure. No one would lay a hand on the house or the land. And later? Rewi, her thirdborn, was smart. John had recently brought him back to the farm, but Emere was thinking of sending him back to Dunedin. He could continue his schooling, perhaps attain the profession of that man who had recently spoken with Zoé. Attorney. Emere let the word roll around on her tongue. Someone who helped others attain their rights. Perhaps Rewi would someday want to fight for his heir. Emere smiled. The spirits would see to it.

  11

  Timothy Lambert danced at his wedding. Though it was only a short waltz and he leaned heavily on his bride, the guests applauded wildly. The mine workers tossed their caps in the air and cheered for him just as they had at the race, and Berta Leroy had tears in her eyes.

  Timothy and Elaine married on Saint Barbara’s Day, exactly two years after the legendary Lambert Derby. There was once again a happy celebration on the mining compound. George Greenwood presented himself as the new controlling partner and introduced himself and his business manager, Timothy Lambert, by supplying all their employees and half of Greymouth with free beer, barbecue, games, and dancing. The only thing missing this time around was a horse race.

  “We didn’t want to take the chance of my bride riding off,” Timothy said to loud acclaim in his toast before he kissed Elaine in front of the entire workforce. Everyone roared again. Only Elaine blushed. After all, her mother and grandmother Helen were among the spectators. Fleurette and Helen waved to her supportively, though. Both of them liked Timothy. Even Fleurette’s famous intuition had raised no objections.

  The reverend did not need to wage a battle with his conscience over his flock’s passion for gambling this time. He was faced instead with the quandary of a divorced bride. However, Elaine did not present herself in white but wore a pale-blue dress trimmed with dark lace—from Mrs. O’Brien’s workshop, of course. She had even foregone a veil, opting to wear a crown of fresh flowers instead.

  “It has to have seven different flowers,” she insisted, causing her friends to scratch their heads. “Then I can lay it under my pillow on the wedding night.”

  “But beware you don’t dream of someone else,” Timothy teased her, recalling her story about that long-past Saint John’s eve.

  In the end, the reverend sidestepped altogether the question of how to address the unconventional marriage and Saint Barbara—whom he, as a Methodist, had never venerated—by performing the service out in the open and supplying the town and those gathered with an all-encompassing blessing afterward. He had reserved Timothy and Elaine places in the first row, and Elaine’s brother Stephen played “Amazing Grace.”

  Kura-maro-tini would certainly have enriched the festivities with more complex rhythms, but she was not present. Timothy and Elaine would see her on their honeymoon, however. Elaine not only wanted to see Queenstown again but Kiward Station too, and Helen was keenly interested in Kura’s music program. Thus, everyone with the exception of Ruben—who had to return to tend his business—planned to travel to Christchurch after the wedding to attend Kura and Marisa’s highly anticipated farewell concert. The artists, with William by their side, would leave for England afterward. Concert dates in London and several other English cities had already been set. William had initiated contact with a well-known concert agency that was planning their tour.

  “So in the end, Kura’s getting exactly what she always wanted,” Fleurette said disapprovingly. She had not seen Kura again in Greymouth and was still upset. Granted, she would have cared much less for William as a son-in-law than Timothy, for whom she had quickly developed a heartfelt affection. But Kura and William had hurt her daughter, and as a mother, she was slow to forgive that.

  “What are they doing about their little girl?” Fleurette asked, remembering Gloria. “Is she going with them to Europe?”

  “Not as far as I know,” answered Helen. The ill will caused by Kura’s marriage to William had not lasted long. The women’s friendship was too strong to let anything come between them. They had resumed their correspondence soon after Kura’s wedding and shared their concern over Elaine’s disappearance during the last few years. “The little girl will stay on Kiward Station, for the time being anyway. No one knows what Kura will want to do next. But thus far, neither father nor mother has shown the least interest in Gloria. Why should that change now? And dragging a three-year-old across half of Europe would be nonsense.”

  “And so Mother’s getting exactly what she wanted too!” Fleurette smiled. “A second chance to raise the heiress of Kiward Station, in a way that aligns with her values. Tonga must already be sharpening his knives.”

  Helen laughed. “It won’t be all that bad. With Kura, he tried using love after all. How could he have guessed that there would be someone else who was even better at whaikorero?”

  The rail line between the West Coast and the Canterbury Plains was now running, and Elaine had been looking forward to her first train ride with great anticipation. Timothy had just been hoping for a less arduous trip than the ride to Blenheim. They were not disappointed. Their honeymoon trip was a truly luxurious affair, given that George Greenwood had a private parlor car at his disposal. He generously made it available to the married couple, and so Timothy and Elaine made love on its rattling bed and poured champagne, laughing as they did so.

  “I could get used to this!” Elaine declared enthusiastically.

  Timothy smiled. “Then you should have remained Kura’s pianist. She’s still raving about her idol’s private train car. What is that woman’s name again?”

  “I don’t know, some opera diva… Adelina Patti! Doesn’t she actually travel with her own train? Maybe you should have started working with Julian Redcliff. As a railroad man, you probably get a discount on trains.” Elaine leaned happily against Timothy’s arm.

  The McKenzies were awaiting the travelers at the train station in Christchurch, and Gwyneira wrapped her arms around Elaine with great emotion. Unlike Helen, whose features had grown more haggard and severe over the last few years, Gwyneira seemed to have hardly aged.

  “How could I have aged gracefully with a house full of children?” Gwyneira remarked happily when Helen paid her a compliment. “Jack and Gloria, and Jennifer is still quite young too, and such a sweet girl. Look!”

  Jennifer Greenwood, who was still teaching the Maori children on Kiward Station, blushed as she greeted Stephen O’Keefe. The two of them were discussing—employing impeccable legal-argumentation language—whether one was permitted to kiss in public or not. They ended up doing so behind Jennifer’s parasol.

  “That will be the next wedding. After he completes his studies, Stephen’s going to start working as a corporate attorney for Greenwood.”

  Helen nodded. “Much to the dismay of his father. Ruben would have liked to see him as a judge. But c’est la vie. Now, someone’s grown up!” Smiling, she pointed at Jack and little Gloria. Jack was now eighteen, a tall young ma
n with wild auburn locks who reminded Helen greatly of a young James. Despite his lankiness, he moved with astounding dexterity as he steered his tiny companion through the muddle of the train station.

  “Railroad,” parroted Gloria as she pointed like Jack at the steely monster.

  “Dog, come!” she said next, with considerably more enthusiasm, reaching for Callie. Elaine whistled for her dog and indicated that she should give her paw to the little girl. Callie was distracted by other things though, Jack’s own dog most of all.

  Elaine took Gloria by the hand. “She’s certainly pretty,” she said. “But she doesn’t look a bit like Kura.”

  That was true. Gloria did not resemble either Kura or William. Her hair shone neither black nor golden blonde, but rather, brown with a hint of red. Her porcelain-blue eyes were a little too close together to lend distinction to her face. And although Gloria’s features still contained their baby roundness, they might later be a little too square to be beautiful.

  “Thank God,” Jack remarked. “By the way, Lainie, your dog must have gotten some pretty slipshod training. It doesn’t look good to have a Kiward collie running all over the platform, letting strangers pet her. The dog needs sheep!”

  “We’ll be here for a couple of days, you know,” said Elaine, smiling.

  Kura’s concert in Christchurch was a triumph. She had expected nothing less. Indeed, she had floated from one sensational success to the next. Kura and Marisa attributed this to their talents as musicians; William, to Kura’s reputation as a spirit conjurer. In every interview, he lapsed into obscure innuendo, and Kura feared he had already supplied the agency in England with similar stories. She did not bring it up with him, however. She did not really care why the people came. The main thing was that they talked about her and paid for their tickets. Kura enjoyed being rich again. And she had done it all on her own.