Kitty (13 page)

‘You bloody bitch!’ the girl spat, although her words were drowned by the cheering of the men across the street. She lifted her arm to retaliate but Amy skipped out of reach, her fists up in front of her face. When the girl charged, Amy hit out and punched her. The girl sat down hard, wailing, with her hands clamped over her bleeding nose.

‘Here, you bloody cow!’ the blonde girl shrieked and lunged for Amy. But Amy had moved well out of range, although she hadn’t lowered her fists.

Kitty was horrified. ‘Amy, come away! Leave them!’

Wai darted up, grabbed Amy’s arm and did her best to drag her cousin back out on to the street.

‘I am
not
a whore!’ Amy insisted.

‘Amy, come away
now
!’ Kitty snapped.

Reluctantly Amy gave the blonde girl a last evil glare and walked away, much to the disappointment of the men on the verandah.

‘Buy you a drink, ladies?’ one called, but Amy made a rude gesture and kept walking.

By the time they reached the end of the street, Kitty’s legs had turned
to jelly. She sat down abruptly on someone’s front step.

‘I feel a bit sick,’ she said.

Amy snorted.

‘Listen,’ Wai said, then pointed to a store across the street. ‘There is a man talking. I want to hear him.’

Kitty sighed.
She
wanted to go home now, but she got up and followed Wai and Amy across the road.

They entered the store, which was empty of people except for the shopkeeper leaning on the counter. ‘Help you, ladies?’ he asked, straightening up.

‘Where is the man talking?’ Wai asked.

‘Round the back on the green. Can’t miss him—he’s the one standing on a box.’

Behind the store, tidily dressed and apparently sober, a man was addressing a group of about fifteen—settlers rather than sailors by the looks of them.

‘So that is why I say, countrymen,’ he declaimed grandly, ‘that we must continue to petition the British Crown to annex New Zealand. There are two thousand of the Queen’s good subjects living in this country now, but as you well know we are beset by criminal activity perpetrated by ruffians and drifters at every turn, Wakefield’s New Zealand Company is buying up land sight unseen at a terrifying rate, and, as the good missionaries say, our Maori brothers will soon be in need of the Queen’s protection.’

‘Hear hear!’ someone called.

Kitty ducked; it was Frederick Tait.

‘Brothers my arse,’ Amy whispered.

‘We must beg for the intervention of the Crown, gentlemen, the
British
Crown. Why, this very settlement—our home, gentlemen!—is known throughout the English-speaking world as an
American
whaling port!’

A general rumble of agreement emanated from the onlookers, although someone yelled, ‘Get down, O’Brien, you’re talking through a hole in your hat!’

A firm hand closed on Kitty’s arm. ‘What the
hell
are you doing here?’

Kitty nearly jumped out of her skin. ‘Captain,’ she gasped, ‘I didn’t see you there.’

Her skin tingled where his fingers lay, and she jerked her arm out of his grip. She knew her face was burning and could feel her heart thudding madly in her chest. Resenting the unsettling effect his presence always seemed to have on her, she glanced at his face for some hint of the attentiveness and kindness he had shown her earlier in the week, but could see none; he was back to his usual terse, unpleasant, bossy self.

‘Clearly not,’ Rian said, his grey eyes narrowed in disapproval. He turned to Wai. ‘Your father will skin you alive if he knows you’ve been over here.’

‘We only came for a look,’ Amy said defiantly.

‘Well, you’ve had it, so go home,’ Rian said. ‘You might be all right over here, girl, but these two aren’t.’

Amy tossed her hair. ‘We are going anyway. This town is full of whores.’

Kitty glanced at him as they walked off, but he’d turned his attention back to the man on the box. If, however, she’d looked again a moment later, she would have seen him staring contemplatively after them.

The journey home was made in silence; Amy seemed deep in thought and Wai did not seem keen to talk.

Back at the house they set about their evening tasks. Supper was a subdued affair with George appearing even more taciturn than usual. He said only a few words to Sarah and nothing at all to Kitty.

But as Kitty was changing for bed, he knocked perfunctorily on her bedroom door then barged in without being invited. He strode over to where she stood holding her dress closed because she’d just unbuttoned it, and punched her on the arm. It hurt badly—for such a skinny man he was surprisingly strong.

‘Do not ever go to that place again, niece, do you hear me?’ he said in a horribly quiet voice, pushing his face so close to hers that she could see the pores in his nose. ‘I am the hand of God and if you disobey me again, you will know it.’

He swept out. Kitty remained frozen until she heard the door to
his study slam, then quickly wriggled out of her clothes and into her nightdress. She extinguished the lamp, got into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, but stared into the darkness for a long time before her eyes finally closed.

Later that night, a man knelt in a small disused hut behind the mission church. Beside him on the ground lay a naked girl. Her hair was loose and spread over her shoulders, covering her breasts. Her hands were cupped over the triangle of hair between her legs, and she stared unblinkingly up at the holes in the thatched roof.

A lit candle sat on the ground between them, casting shadows to the four corners of the hut and turning the girl’s smooth skin to gold.

The man glanced down at her, then turned the page of his book and continued to quietly chant the words.

‘“Notwithstanding I have a few things against thee, because thou sufferest that woman Jezebel, which calleth herself a prophetess, to teach and to seduce my servants to perform fornication, and to eat things sacrificed unto idols. And I gave her space to repent of her fornication: and she repented not.”’ He raised his voice slightly, so that it became a hiss rather than a drone. ‘“Behold I will cast her into a bed, and them that commit adultery with her into great tribulation, except they repent of their deeds. And I will kill her children with death; and all the churches shall know that I am he which searcheth the reins and hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.”’

He reached down and carefully swept the long hair away from the girl’s breasts. ‘You know this must be done, don’t you?’ he asked, excitement rendering his voice little more than a croak.

The girl, her eyes huge in the candlelight, said nothing.

‘It is for your own good. You must be saved from the terrible sins of your sisters, you must be delivered from the filthy and depraved machinations of Satan. Those who choose to lie with men for profit or carnal satisfaction are trucking with the Prince of Darkness himself, and will be cast screaming and begging into the burning pit of Hell. But you,
child, you can be saved. Salvation can and will be yours if you will only accept the words of God.’ He stroked her cheek with long fingers. ‘God has chosen me to deliver you from evil, so that you may experience the blinding glory of redemption. Are you ready?’

Again no response, except for a brief flicker of something in the girl’s eyes, which he chose to interpret as acceptance.

He moved the candle and placed it at her head, a foot out from the dry raupo wall so it wouldn’t catch and burn. Then he prayed, asking God for the moral and physical strength to guide this girl from the darkness and into the divine light, and, from the stirring of his penis inside his trousers, he knew his prayers had been answered.

He stood up, stooping slightly because the roof of the hut was low, removed his jacket and boots, then undid the buttons of his flies and let his trousers and flannel drawers drop to the ground before stepping out of them. His erection reared up beneath the hem of his shirt and bobbed about as he stood between the girl’s legs in his stockinged feet. Crouching down, he settled himself on his bony knees and pushed her legs apart. They flopped, as though belonging to a rag doll. He glanced at her face, but her eyes were in shadow and he could read nothing in them.

Moving forwards, he lowered his weight onto her. She grunted slightly, but that was all. He reached down between their bodies and took hold of his penis, positioning the head of it against her warm softness.

‘“I am Alpha and Omega,”’ he muttered in her ear, ‘“the beginning and the ending, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty.”’

He pushed into her. She stiffened and whimpered, and he clamped a hand over her mouth.

‘Do not resist, child,’ he whispered. ‘I will not hurt you, I am your divine benefactor. Pray. Pray for salvation and redemption, and it can be yours.’

Slowly she relaxed, and eventually, as he grunted away on top of her, his sweat dripping onto her face and the silver and ivory cross he wore at his throat banging against her nose, her arms came up and settled resignedly across his back.

September, 1839

K
itty pushed her bedroom window up and squinted out at the sky. It was cold with a good chance of rain, but there still weren’t enough dark clouds amassing overhead for her liking.

She closed the window again and sat down on her bed, contemplatively smoothing the shiny grey fabric of her dress over her lap. It was one of the second-hand ones she’d brought with her from Norfolk, her best. There had been very pretty lace at the neckline and the wrists but Sarah had made her take it off, insisting that such embellishments did not befit missionary work. Kitty was out of mourning for her father now, which was fortunate because she’d worn her two mourning gowns, both the bombazine and the crepe, so often that they’d become quite tatty and had taken on a greenish sheen. They were currently hanging in Haunui’s armoire, waiting to be cut down and made into something else useful.

The reason she was wearing her best dress was because someone was coming to tea this afternoon, a young lay missionary named Simon Bullock from Waimate mission station. She’d not met him before, and didn’t particularly want to meet him now, but Sarah had arranged the tea party and Kitty hadn’t managed to come up with an excuse for not being at home. She knew what her aunt was up to—she was attempting to arrange a match.

Kitty sighed. Her disastrous affair with Hugh Alexander had ended
over a year ago, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember exactly what he looked like, but the misery he had caused her—and admittedly, she had caused herself—still smouldered painfully. She knew now that Hugh wasn’t and never had been the man for her, but she was still troubled by the nauseating memory of how naïvely willing she’d been to trust him, and how that willingness had led to a temporary but terrible blindness. She knew full well that if she hadn’t been so foolish she wouldn’t be sitting here today, and that there was no one else to blame for her predicament but herself. Her feelings of humiliation had faded, but the hurt was as sharp as ever: she would never put her faith in a man again.

Not that there had been many opportunities. There was Rian Farrell, but the captain had irritatingly bad manners—except for that one inexplicable occasion with the coral bangle—and her physical reaction to him reminded her far too uncomfortably of the arousal she’d experienced with Hugh Alexander. And look where that had got her. If charming, cultivated Hugh hadn’t been trustworthy, then it was extremely unlikely that Captain Farrell, with his arrogance and disrespect for authority and social conventions, would be.

No, most single men in the Bay of Islands were either traders who were constantly coming or going or, more likely, were of the wrong sort of character, like Rian Farrell. And all the missionary men currently in Paihia were already married.

In her letters home Kitty had admitted to her mother that she wasn’t interested in finding a husband, but Emily still seemed to be hoping that her daughter would meet a nice young man in New Zealand, marry him and have a family, and perhaps one day even return to Norfolk where, by then, all memory of Kitty’s past indiscretions would have disappeared into the mists of time. Emily wrote once a fortnight without fail, as did Kitty, but as it took such a long time for letters to travel halfway around the world neither could tell the other their latest news in a timely manner, nor answer questions with any sort of relevance. While a letter from Kitty describing the lack of shops and supplies in the Bay of Islands crossed the oceans towards England, another was coming the other way describing
the latest fashions and suggesting that a new silk shawl might be all Kitty needed to catch someone’s eye.

But someone had evidently caught Aunt Sarah’s eye. According to her, Simon Bullock was a very personable young man, although she hadn’t actually met him herself. And today he was walking over from Waimate just to meet Kitty, then spending the night with the Williamses before returning home the following morning.

‘It’s quite a long way to come, you know, Kitty, especially through the bush,’ she had said this morning at breakfast. ‘He must be very keen to meet you, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, Aunt Sarah,’ Kitty had replied.

‘I’m so glad I asked Mrs Williams if she knew of anyone who might be a suitable, well,
companion
for you. I think it’s a lovely idea, don’t you?’

‘Yes, Aunt Sarah.’

She had been so dismayed at the prospect of having to go through the charade of being interested in this poor person that she hadn’t been able to concentrate on her students at all this morning. They ranged in age between six and eleven, and there were seventeen of them, boys and girls, all dressed in their little uniforms made by the missionary women. The morning had started as usual with Kitty’s customary ‘Good morning, children’, to which her pupils had responded with their customary ‘Good mooooorning, Miss Karaia!’, which was how they pronounced Carlisle. But any semblance of control had disintegrated soon after, when the children, bright and always alert, noticed that Kitty’s mind wasn’t altogether focused on the lesson. Knowing from past experience that settling them when they were in such a mood was impossible, she’d decided that they probably wouldn’t burn in hell if they had another day off from their catechisms, and, banishing Rian Farrell’s rude observation that she wasn’t a proper missionary from her mind, she had organised games for the rest of the morning.

She had come home after that and, with Sarah, prepared the afternoon tea. Wai also helped, but Amy, deemed too clumsy to be allowed to handle Sarah’s best tea service, had been relegated to dusting and sweeping the parlour. Everything was ready now. Like Sarah, Wai and Amy were in a
state of high excitement at the idea of a potential suitor for Kitty.

A distant clap of thunder rolled over the house and Kitty went to the window again to check the sky. Heavy charcoal clouds were certainly gathering now, but, she saw with a sinking heart, they were too late because someone was walking up the garden path, a posy of flowers in one hand and the other holding his hat against the brisk wind. He disappeared beneath the verandah, and a second later Kitty heard someone hurrying to answer the door.

Quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Wai’s face appeared around the bedroom door. She smiled delightedly.

‘He is here,’ she said, ‘and he does not even look like a dog’s backside!’

Kitty laughed, but her discomfort had returned by the time she made her way downstairs.

Over the months, Sarah had made a lovely job of furnishing the parlour, especially for someone who professed to eschew the trappings of a non-spiritual life. She had added a sofa and a chaise she had brought out with her, and draped the two old chairs already there with rugs she’d crocheted herself. There was a small writing table with a lamp under one of the windows, which had been dressed with new drapes of Irish linen over sheer muslin, an afternoon tea table currently set with a damask tablecloth and plates, cups and saucers, and the rug purchased from Rian Farrell covering the wooden floor. Displayed on the mantel over the hearth, in which a cheerful fire was burning, were a clock, several vases and a pair of matching silver candlesticks, and the shelves now held the books George had deemed not essential enough to his work to keep in his study. The room was cosy and warm, and if Simon Bullock hadn’t been in it Kitty would have been glad to spend the afternoon settled on the chaise reading or sewing.

Mr Bullock sat on the very edge of one of the old armchairs, his hat on his knees and the bunch of flowers clutched in both hands. He lurched to his feet as Kitty came in, followed by Wai and Amy, both tittering and eyeing him up.

Sarah, who was hovering nearby, swooped. ‘Kitty, this is Mr Simon
Bullock. Mr Bullock, please meet my niece, Miss Kitty Carlisle.’

Kitty held out her hand. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Bullock. How nice to meet you.’

‘It is my pleasure entirely, Miss Carlisle,’ the young man said, going pink and briefly taking Kitty’s hand, not quite a shake but not a hold either. He thrust the flowers at her. ‘These are for you, from the garden at Waimate mission house. I do apologise, but they seem to have become a little battered during my journey.’

‘Thank you, Mr Bullock, they’re beautiful,’ Kitty said, taking the compact bunch of white camellias and pink hellebores, their woody stems wrapped with string. And they were beautiful; Mr Bullock seemed to have gone to some trouble to select particularly pretty blooms. ‘Could you please put these in a vase?’ she said to Amy and Wai, to get rid of them. ‘Please, Mr Bullock, do sit down.’

Sarah, Simon and Kitty all sat, then stared at each other in silence. There was a loud crash from the kitchen. Sarah winced.

‘Mrs Williams tells me you are a teacher, Mr Bullock,’ she said.

‘Yes, I am, Mrs Kelleher. I teach the native children at the mission school.’

‘Well, what a coincidence! Kitty teaches at the school here, don’t you?’

Kitty nodded, wishing she was in her little classroom right now.

‘When did you arrive in New Zealand, Mr Bullock?’ Sarah asked.

Simon apparently had to think about it for a moment. ‘Approximately four months ago, although I’ve been travelling around the North Island for most of that time, visiting various missions and the like. I heard at home—Dorset, that is—that Waimate mission was in need of a teacher, so I applied and, happily, the Society accepted me.’

Kitty watched him while he spoke, guessing that he was somewhere in his early twenties. His voice was lilting, and really rather pleasant if not particularly forceful. His light brown hair, almost copper in places, was cut short, and he was clean-shaven. Pale blue eyes looked out from beneath fine sandy brows, his nose was neither big nor small, although it was slightly red from the sharp wind, and he had a nicely shaped mouth.
His clothes were remarkable only because they weren’t the flat black that most of the missionaries wore, but shades of brown thrown together with what seemed to be little regard for fashion. He looked guileless and inoffensive and, no doubt to Sarah, very much like suitable husband material.

Kitty sighed inwardly. If he had looked odd, or had an obvious physical or character fault, she could claim that as a defence against a possible courtship, but so far there seemed to be very little wrong with him. And he was certainly pleasant and polite.

‘And do you intend to stay in New Zealand long, Mr Bullock?’ Sarah asked. ‘Or do you have plans for pastures new? It’s a very exciting vocation, evangelising, isn’t it? So many far corners to visit, so many souls to be saved.’

Simon looked slightly startled. ‘I’m not sure yet, Mrs Kelleher. I’ve only just settled into Waimate, although I am enjoying my work there, I must say.’

Sarah went on fishing. ‘And will Mrs Bullock be joining you at any stage?’

Mortified, Kitty shot a glance at Simon, who looked even more alarmed now.

‘My mother?’ he said.

‘No, no,’ Sarah said, waving her hands as though to shoo away a misunderstanding. ‘I was referring to your wife.’

‘Er, I’m not married.’

‘Not even promised, a fine young man like you?’

‘No.’

Kitty felt a flash of anger towards her aunt. Apparently Mrs Williams had already reported that Mr Bullock was unattached, but clearly Sarah wanted to hear it herself.

Sarah ploughed on relentlessly. ‘It must be very lonely for you out at Waimate then in the evenings.’

Kitty wanted to reach out and slap her aunt now.

Simon cleared his throat nervously. ‘Actually, no, it isn’t, really. I have my lessons to prepare, there’s always work to do on the farm, and I’ve
been spending much of the little spare time I do have getting to know the Maoris. A fascinating and highly intelligent race of people, to my mind. Would you not agree, Mrs Kelleher?’

Sarah stared at him for a moment, as though vaguely perturbed by the fact that he’d said something requiring an insightful response. ‘Quite,’ she said. ‘Although somewhat challenging at times, I fear.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘I think there’s always something to be learnt from people who look at life from a different vantage point, and there are plenty of those about.’

Kitty, sensing something of the intellect behind his words, gave him another, more appraising, glance.

Sarah bowed her head graciously. ‘You know, Mr Bullock, I do believe you are right. And the Lord himself tells us to practise tolerance and acceptance, does He not?’ Another loud crash came from the kitchen, and Sarah shot to her feet. ‘If you will excuse me for just a moment, I must check on how the girls are getting on with the tea things.’

She hurried out, skirts swishing, giving Kitty an exaggerated nod of encouragement as she left the room.

Kitty sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, hoping that she wouldn’t have to come up with something interesting to say first, but Mr Bullock remained silent. Looking at him from beneath her eyelashes, she saw that he was gazing at the floor, his hands resting awkwardly on the arms of his chair. He appeared to be tongue-tied now that they were alone, and as uncomfortable as she felt; the thoughtful and philosophising young man of a moment ago had retreated.

Neither of them said anything. The ticking of the mantel clock seemed very loud.

After several minutes Sarah came back. Wai followed carrying a tray on which sat a china teapot, matching sugar bowl and milk jug, and a plate of lemon slices, the tip of her tongue out as she concentrated on not dropping the lot. Amy came after her, bearing another tray that held sandwiches, pikelets and slices of freshly baked fruit cake. The cake had been in one piece when Kitty had last seen it and she wondered how much of it the girls had eaten when no one was looking. When everything had
been laid out they departed, but not far enough before they burst into clearly audible high-pitched giggles. Sarah frowned. Kitty covered her mouth.

‘A cress and mustard sandwich, Mr Bullock?’ Sarah urged, offering him the plate of tiny sandwiches with the crusts removed. ‘Or perhaps a slice of fruit cake? Kitty made it—it’s very moist. She’s an excellent cook.’