Captive Wife, The (7 page)

But just thinking of the lieutenant makes her heart ache with tenderness. He has had so much to bear, is so unhappy that his life is hardly worth living. She must try as best she can to see all points of view, to consider the matter from every angle.

‘The woman? Oh,' says the surgeon, a trifle airily for her liking, as he swallows brandy, ‘she had some interesting observations to make about the way the New Zealanders live.'

‘Is that all?'

‘All? What is all? She was captured and she was rescued.'

‘Was she glad of her release?' The brandy's trail of fire is doing its work, and restoring her voice.

‘Well, one assumes so. She was returned to her husband.'

Miss Malcolm wrinkles her forehead. ‘Forgive me, but if this man is as evil as you say, would she truly have been pleased to return? Might she not have been happier with the savages?'

The surgeon finishes the remains of his brandy with a noisy suck. ‘She belongs to her husband, of course.' He stands up, straightening his waistcoat. ‘Forgive me, madam, I will take my leave now. Would you please give my excuses to our host? I am returning to England in the morning and I'm due to embark soon after dawn. I can promise you, I will be taking this matter further.'

‘In what way?' Miss Malcolm asks, startled.

‘I will write a book about it. I assure you, it is a story that will shake England when it is all said and done.'

He pauses in the doorway and turns back. ‘She changed her story,' he says. ‘Mrs Guard
changed
her story.'

And here is Betsy Deaves, or Mrs Guard as she is now, sitting in Miss Adie Malcolm's sitting room, in the house of Lieutenant Roddick and his late wife Emmeline, for whom Miss Malcolm remains in mourning, though she no longer wears black.

Though Mrs Roddick has been dead for three years, Miss Malcolm has still no sign of a respectable place to which she can move. Besides, nobody expects her to go. She has spoken from time to time with her employer, asking him what he would like her to do, but he is always so busy, so distracted in his grief, that the matter has been allowed to drop. The children are so fond of her, he murmurs absent-mindedly, and this is true, though it is difficult to see how he knows this for he sees them not twice a week, and then only for a half hour at a time.

Besides, the governess does not want to leave a house so full of memories of happier times. The rooms are ample and cool, with a verandah where one can sit and catch a trace of sea breezes when the summer is in full heat, and there is a jacaranda in the garden that blooms in the summer and an
apple tree that fruits in autumn. There is Indian cane matting on the floors, and cedar furniture, softly shining tables and sideboards, while the walls are hung with delicate watercolours painted by the late Mrs Roddick, and her mother before her. There is a piano on which Miss Malcolm teaches Mathilde and Austen to play, and she is pleased with their progress. The cook, who is named Hettie, is steady and does not drink, even though her nature is disagreeable. Not quite the same can be said of the lieutenant, who keeps a couple of dozen imported wines in the house, which, even though his visits are infrequent, need regular replenishment. His gout troubles him on and off. Miss Malcolm cannot, in all conscience, approve of the circumstances that have led to this condition, but she was nonetheless relieved to see him confined to barracks when the
Alligator
and the
Isabella
set off to the wild New Zealand coast to rescue Mrs Guard. The thought of any ill befalling him is too terrible to contemplate. On account of the children, of course.

Mrs Guard is hunched down on a pink velvet sofa, twisting her handkerchief through her fingers like a child. An empty lemonade glass stands on the occasional table beside her, a half-eaten sandwich rests on a plate that she has pushed away. She dabs at her face, but the piece of muslin is wet through and Miss Malcolm hands her another of her own.

‘Surely,' she says, ‘after all that you have been through, your husband would not abandon you?'

‘He keeps me on for the sake of the children,' says her visitor sullenly.

‘Surely, Betty — you don't mind if I call you that, do you? — you have endured such a terrible ordeal that you are not yourself. You're imagining all this.' Miss Malcolm is anxious not to prolong this visit because the children will soon be back.

‘I thought you'd understand,' says Betty, ‘not that I ever thought of seeing you again, but I did think of you when I was out there in the night, in the pa, which is the village where the
Maoris live, with the sky and the sea stretching all around me, and I was a different person. I thought some nights that I might fly to the stars, like your gods.'

‘My gods?' says Miss Malcolm, startled. ‘I have only one God.'

‘No, you haven't, Miss, your head was always full of yarns that no reasonable person would have listened to, but it passed the time, and I was entertained, and perhaps I took in more than you thought.'

‘They were only stories.'

‘Don't tell me they weren't true?'

‘Why don't you tell me what happened?' says Miss Malcolm, casting around for inspiration, anything to deflect these unexpected questions. She has long tried to put Europe behind her.

‘Now why would I tell you that?' counters Betty.

‘Perhaps it would help.'

‘Oh, help me, you want to help me, is that it?'

‘I think you have had a hard life,' says Miss Malcolm faintly. ‘That is what I understood.'

‘I should be getting back home.'

‘Another glass of lemonade?' Betty hesitates and Miss Malcolm senses she will stay. At the back of her mind anxiety about the children persists, but Mathilde and Austen have been collected by carriage earlier in the day for a picnic at the park, with friends of the Roddicks. There is to be a cricket match and, though Miss Malcolm has been invited, she has been glad to have a little peace. She has become as much nanny as governess to these children, and she wonders whether her age is against her, and how long she will be able to take care of these precious charges.

‘It would take longer than the time I have today to tell you what happened to me. If I was to tell it from the beginning,' says Betty.

‘Well, the beginning is a good place to start.'

‘Will you be my friend, Miss Malcolm?'

‘Well, yes,' says her hostess, flustered. ‘I will do what I can.'

‘No, I mean, my
friend
. You know, it is one thing to tell the newspapers the things they want to hear, but it is only that. It is only half a story, or no story at all. And it is, of course, the story my husband will have me tell them.'

‘You have told your husband another story?'

‘Not at all. I have told him nothing except what you have seen in print.' She raises her hand to the shawl that she has kept drawn round her throat during the conversation. ‘Would you like to see the place where the savages sucked my blood? They cut me with an iron hoop, and placed their mouths at my throat, and sucked, drew my life blood, straining it up through their teeth. Come, look at me, Miss Malcolm.'

In spite of herself, and all her instincts to withdraw from this hideous image, Miss Malcolm leans close. The shawl has dropped away to reveal the young woman's long throat that, at first glance, appears only to be marked by a fading sun tan. But then Miss Malcolm sees a small crescent-shaped scar. Betty arches her neck, the better for the mark to be seen. ‘It is healed now,' she says. ‘You can see that it is only half a story. The evidence is less reliable than the truth, don't you think?'

‘You've become very worldly.'

‘Now, come, you can touch my head,' says Betty, as if the other woman hadn't spoken. ‘Give me your hand, and feel this place on my scalp. You'll note that, under the place where I have my hair arranged to cover it, there is a bald spot. Perhaps it will be like that all my life, but whatever the case, it's still quite painful. That is where my tortoise-shell comb, the beautiful creamy-gold and brown piece that my grandmother gave to me when I was ten, because it was hers, and she said I must keep it and wear it in remembrance of her when I was grown, was struck by the Maori tomahawk. Naught but the comb saved me. Come, touch the spot, feel how raised it is, like a rib of knitting. Those are the teeth of the comb which have been pushed into my skull and there is no getting them out though Lord knows I've tried.
Harder, run your finger back and forth over them. It relieves the itch, my scalp is still very tender there.'

Miss Malcolm pulls her hand back as if it has been burnt.

‘Seeing that you have offered, I would like you to know, to bear witness.'

‘You want me to cover something up, something you have held back?' A vision is forming in the governess's mind of having to lie on oath, or of betraying the lieutenant in some grievous way that might bring discredit on his household. Miss Malcolm has begun to tremble. She feels herself straining in her stays, hears the harsh rustle of the light purple fabric of her dress and knows that all of this is too much for her. ‘I did meet your husband last year,' she says. ‘I sat beside him at dinner at Government House when he came to seek help from the Governor to secure your release.'

‘You move in high society these days, Miss Malcom.'

‘My circumstances have changed since we first … met.' Her voice falters. Does teaching this girl count as having met her? she wonders.

‘And you told him what a bad girl I was at school, did you?'

‘I did no such thing,' says the governess firmly, endeavouring to reassert herself. ‘I did not know of the connection.'

‘So what
did
you talk about then?'

‘I found your husband quiet, withdrawn, as if he were suffering greatly. We had little to say to each other.'

Betty sighs and turns away from her.

‘Is it true,' asks Miss Malcom, feeling faint, ‘what they say about you?' As soon as these words are spoken she wishes she could take them back, but it is too late.

‘What do they say about me?' A goading note has crept into Betty Guard's voice, despite her young and still tear-stained face. A wet patch is gathering on her dress where the shawl has fallen away and Miss Malcolm sees the outline of a nipple.

‘You want to know what I did at night with the Maori savages, don't you? You want to know how far I have fallen. I
don't know that you're the right person for me to tell this story to. You're afraid of what you'll hear, even before I've begun telling it.'

‘What are you suggesting?'

‘I see it written on your face. What have you touched? Am I infectious? When you tuck the children into bed tonight, will your hands give them bad dreams? Oh, I could tell you about bad dreams, I have them every night. Tell me, Miss Malcolm, have you ever lain down beside a man?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said that. It is not what happens under the covers between a man and a woman that gives me bad dreams. There can be worse things than that.'

Miss Malcolm looks at her guest and trembles afresh. ‘But if you are taken against your will …' she says, a note of entreaty entering her voice.

Betty draws herself up, appearing to recover herself. ‘Yes, if you are,' she says, ‘that is bad indeed.' She touches the growing wet spot on her dress; now the other breast has begun to leak as well. ‘I should go home to my little girl, there's nobody else can feed her there at the moment.'

‘I think perhaps you should,' says Miss Malcolm, averting her eyes.

‘So you don't want me to tell you my story now?'

‘You will tell me half the story and then I will never know the end,' says Miss Malcolm peevishly.

‘But you are my friend now,' says Betty, with a small artful smile, rearranging her shawl. ‘What I cannot tell you today, I can tell another day.'

‘You're planning another visit?'

‘Before this one has ended? That is for you to decide, Miss Malcolm.'

‘So when will you come next?'

‘Perhaps tomorrow. At about this time. Do you have other plans?'

‘I — there are the children, you understand.'

Betty glances around the room. ‘What tidy children they must be. Never mind. You're their governess?'

Miss Malcolm nods. ‘I'd like you to come. I'll be free tomorrow. At this time.'

‘Well, we shall see. I must put my thoughts in order.'

With that, Betty Guard collects her bag, and the little wooden horse given to her by Mr Spyer, and Miss Malcolm is astonished at the way she appears to glide out of the room, as if she were on smoothly rolling wheels herself.

Te Awaiti, 1827
    

Back from Sydney. Much has been settled with Mr Campbell who is a true gentleman. I reckon sir, I said to him, that Te Awaiti is as good a site for a whaling station as any.

He looked puzzled. You have learnt their lingo Guard?

Not really sir, I try to make a note of what they say, so that when the rascals change their minds and tell you 1 thing is something else, and a place is not where it was yesterday, I have a record.

Very good Guard. I could see he was impressed.

The sailors call the place Tar White I said.

Well that is good enough for me.

Anyway I said, the island is much covered with bush. There is excellent timber that grows above the bays, on its high hills and in the deep valleys. There are many coves and inlets, with fresh water streams, some areas of flat land near the beach where we can build houses and fishing works. The whales come about the beginning of April and have their calves somewhere
near by, and stay until the middle of September.

I persuaded him that a whaling station wd be a better way to harvest these whales than at sea, for we can have many try-pots on the beach, all going at once if we catch several whales in a short space of time. Besides I told him, we wd get a bigger return on the
Waterloo
if I stayed on land to collect goods for trade when there were no whales about. I wd work hand in hand with the chief Te Rauparaha.

He warmed to my plan and spoke of employing a master to sail the ship while I was ashore.

This was good news to my ears but I had not finished yet. I am now doing well enough that I can afford to buy a ½ share in the
Harriet
from Captain Underwood, for it is a ship I have always wanted for my own. I asked if Campbell was willing to be my partner. And to my pleasure he agreed straight away.

Why we will have a regular little fleet of ships he said, and poured another tot. Have you thought again of marriage says Campbell, when we was finishing our cigars.

I am not sure that it is for me sir.

He looked across at me. I heard you had a daughter.

I have no daughter I said.

Well then, who is Betsy who lives with John Deaves, for I have heard she is not his.

I am her patron I said, and Deaves is her stepfather. She works for Spyer and Cohen, who are 2 Jewish dealers who know naught about business but are good to her. On Saturdays she goes to school.

He wrinkled his brow. She is young he says.

That is all there is to it I said, rather short, though I do not like to be short with such a man. She is just a girl.

A girl she may be, but Betsy is about as tall as me already. Last time I seen her, she could look me in the eye. She is shaping up to be a handsome woman. Not that I tell her this for handsome is as handsome does.

When I ask the dealers how she is doing, they say she is a quick girl. And we hear she is doing well at school.

As I had instructed Charlotte, Betsy has gone to live with her mother and so have her brother and sister. She has taken the name Betsy Deaves. She is not partial to it but I told her it is all for the best. Harriott and Deaves have tied the knot and you have to make the most of things I tell her.

But that house feels like it is full of monkeys with all the Deaves children and David and Sophia back from the orphanage. It pleases Betsy that they are there, esp. David the one she likes so much though for my money he is a snivelling brat. You would think he would be glad to be rescued from that orphanage. He is a boy not happy about anything as he quivers and cowers in a corner.

Now when I want to see Betsy I do not call, I tell Charlotte to bring her to my house in Cambridge Street.

But lately it seems to me that Betsy thinks more of school than work. The way she talks has changed. She is on about Greece and the gods. I tell her if it's gods she wants she need only go to New Zealand. The natives there have gods for everything.

So now I have built a house in New Zealand. Men from Sydney come to work for me. The women from hereabouts are happy to be their wives. The try-pots stand on the beach at Tar White. Every morning at daylight the boats are sent out. When we are fortunate enough to kill a whale we tow it ashore, flinch and boil it up on the beach. If the creature is tried out when it is fresh, the oil is more pure and does not smell bad like Greenland oil.

The easy part is killing the whale, it is towing it inshore that is the worst. The water in the bays is from 14 to 20 fathoms. If the whale should slip away, that is a long way to fall. A long way for our boats to be pulled to the bottom of the sea. All the same, we bring in many. We get 10 tuns, may be 13 tuns of oil for a good 'un and 300 weight bone. The cows are best. They give more oil than bulls. It is a shame about the calves. We fasten up
the calf first, in order to draw the cow. The cow will always follow its young. The younger we can get the calf the better because the cow gets thin towards the end of the season from feeding its calf. They are big brutes.

Even when times are lean with the whales there is good trade to be had. I collect perhaps 20 or 25 tuns flax, go down south and get some seals, as much whale bone as I can lay hands on, some pigs and potatoes and I have good loads to take to Sydney. I do not encourage my men in the trade of dried native heads which is illegal in Sydney these days.

Besides I keep in mind the word of my friend Rangi, the 1 I met when I first went after whales, that it is not safe to touch the heads of the Maoris. I do not want to offend the Maoris esp. now I know Te Rauparaha the head chief here. It is better to be his friend than his enemy. It is easy to make a mistake with their taboos but they will not take that as an excuse.

So far I am on the right side of Te Rauparaha. He is keen to trade. Robulla my men call him or just the Old Serpent. For he is a tricky lot. I wd not trust him if my back was turned. He is a man about 50, not tall in height but then I am not either and it makes no difference. He could be taken for younger, he is hale and stout, only his hair moving backwards. To meet him you wd think him striking at first his eyes like that of a prowling animal. His manner is meant to hide his ferocious nature but soon it shows.

He is after all manner of things: tomahawks pipes fish-hooks clasp knives baccy rum cotton handkerchiefs which seem to his liking as are red blankets. Also cartridge paper bullets cartouche boxes bayonets cutlasses bullet moulds and leather belts. But most of all it is the muskets.

They are like a drug he cannot have enough. Mind, the New Zealander will not take any old gun nowadays, they know a good musket just as well as white men. Before they buy them they take off the locks and have a damn close look at them. They like best
those with a Tower stamp with stocks dark in colour and lots of brass.

What Te Rauparaha does with his muskets is none of my business. He rules Cook Strait from his island of Kapiti. He can have his island and I will have mine and as long as we keep that in mind we can be friends.

1 time I was at sea on a short trip and the house burnt down. I built another 1. I do not know where Te Rauparaha was at this time but nobody has seen him about. They wd tell me if it was him. The men's wives know these things. This is not to say he does not do his work in darkness.

I thought of shifting for I have found another port I like even more than that at Arapawa Island. I did not know it was there at the beginning. I come across it by accident when bearing across Cook Strait in the
Waterloo
. The day was bright and very clear. I spied a low-lying neck of land on the farther shore I had not seen before. I changed course to go and explore. If I thought Te Awaiti a fair place it was nothing to what I came to now — bay after bay lying against a shining sea, amazing calm and gentle in the air. We came across a wide-necked bay facing out to the islands in the strait. It being close to evening I ordered the anchor dropped to shelter there for the night.

In the night the ship began to shake. There was a fierce rumbling sound. My 1st thought, we was on the rocks. I went up on the deck and all was quiet and we were riding high in the water and no sign of trouble. I dropped the lead-line over and found 7 fathoms deep beneath us.

I took myself down below and there it was again. I think perhaps it's an earthquake, of which the natives have told me, when all the earth rolls from side to side and mighty mountains shift their seats and tumble into the sea. I believe none of this but what am I to think on hearing this harsh and grating sound so close beneath me. I think the ship is about to capsize.

Again I went on deck and cast the lead-line, finding the same
depth as before. Then for'ard it started like a living thing. In the moonlight I saw the cause of all the fuss, it was a whale and her calf rubbing against the anchor chain, as if to get the barnacles off their backs. Dawn was coming up fast and the last of the moon hurried away, and I saw 7 whales and their calves making their way out of the bay, taking their time.

I knew then, this was where they come to have their calves, that when they pass through the strait they are on their way in and out of here. I had a vision before my eyes of a huge port filled with whaling ships the biggest the world has ever seen. As we sailed out a cloud came down across the sea and we sailed through it, the damp like quiet rain upon our faces, and I called it Cloudy Bay.

About the house burning down. Mine is not the only 1. Some of the others have gone up in smoke. I heard the trouble was over 1 of the whalers' wives, for she already had a husband when she come to live with him. The trouble is often about women. Not that it is anything to do with me. They think I am the chief which is true but not in the same way that the Maori chiefs rule. They expect me to put a stop to it. I have had a word with the men, told them to be careful who they take up with or they will get us all killed.

After that, I think the trouble will pass and it is easier to stay at Te Awaiti than shift camp. In the back of my mind, I put away the idea that Cloudy Bay is there for the taking, but first I need to turn a profit for Mr Campbell on this station. I decide that I will tell nobody about Cloudy Bay.

About this time I begin to think that if the girl wd come over with me and settle it might be a good thing. Perhaps it wd be better for her than in Sydney and I wd stay more often at Te Awaiti. On my own, it is much like an animal's life, living on whale meat which is not good to the taste and wild turnips. I need someone to put in a garden and cook my dinners and wash the clothes.

Was this when I began thinking of bringing Betsy over?

No.

I have been thinking of her night and day for going on 2 years.

She has flashing eyes.

Her smell is that of the sweet untouched.

My balls ache but I do not want to put my poker in other women the way I did. When I do it is never what I want.