Magpie Hall (13 page)

He starts as the door to the library suddenly opens. He places his body between the jars and the doorway and glances back at the intruder. Dora Collins is halfway into the room before she even notices he is there.

Oh, forgive me, she says. I didn’t know you were in here. She shows him the books she has in her hand; three of them, all bound in the same leather as the others. I was just returning these. I can come back.

No, please, Henry says. Do come in. He hastily packs the human specimens back into the crate and closes it.

Dora walks around the edge of the room to the far side, facing him always, as though scared to turn her back. She is dressed in simple white muslin, and it gives her a freshness, emphasising her youth, as does the wildness of her blonde hair.

Please ignore me, she says, and finally turns her back to retrieve the library ladder, which she places and mounts.

May I help you? asks Henry.

No thank you. It is quite stable. She steps up three or four rungs and replaces the books in the gaps they have left.

Henry continues with his job, aware of Dora stealing glances at him as she moves about the shelves, browsing for her next book. He discovers quickly that his prized possession, the tiger skin, is missing. He lets out a sigh. Perhaps it would have been easy enough to miss on the floor, but he suspects his father coveted it for himself, and now all the sweat and pride Henry poured into it is lost. It is a final insult. At least he still has his tattoo as a reminder.

The false mermaid is there, hideous though it is, and Henry leaves it sitting in the crate. Truth be told, he prefers the one he has on his bicep; it is certainly more pleasant to look at, with its womanly curves, the hint of a breast beneath long golden hair. But he couldn’t resist having the hoax in his collection, even if just to celebrate the audacity of some people.

He has forgotten that Dora is in the room until she gives a strangled cry and slips from the ladder into a heap on the floor.

Are you all right? He takes her hand, and she pulls herself up in her own time.

So silly of me, she says. I’m so embarrassed.

But you are unhurt?

Yes, she assures him, although she is limping slightly as she walks to a chair and drops into it. Would you mind …? She gestures to the books that have fallen to the floor. He glances at their titles as he hands them back to her:
The Castle of Otranto, The Mysteries of
Udolpho, Northanger Abbey
. Sensational nonsense, filled with castles in foreign lands and imprisoned maidens waiting to be rescued.

You like to read novels, I see.

Dora blushes and tries to hide the books in her skirts. They are just a diversion, she says. I do read other things as well. It’s just that sometimes … sometimes I like to imagine I am somewhere other than New Zealand, with a life that is not all balls and picnics and the same people everywhere one turns. It can be quite suffocating at times. You can understand that, can you not, sir?

Oh, more than you can know. He chuckles.

We are so far from everything, she continues. It takes months to get to London by ship. Not to mention Europe, or other continents, which I can only dream of visiting.

I am fully aware of our geographical constraints, Miss Collins. In fact, I have just been dwelling on them myself.

Oh, but forgive me, she says. You have the world at your disposal I’m sure. You must tell me one day about your travels. Are they wonderful? Did you bring back wonderful things?

She is looking over his shoulder now, hopeful eyes scanning the crates until they alight on something.

Is that a snake? She puts her hand over her mouth. Oh, I long to see a real snake. But it looks so
alive
.

Henry has forgotten the snake, which lies coiled on the floorboards, looking fresh and meaty; its scales glow in the muted light. He is impressed by her curiosity; any of the ladies he knows in London would have screamed and thrown themselves out the door
sobbing at the sight of a snake, dead or no.

I’m afraid it may have started to decay, says Henry.

Dora has risen from her chair, her limp forgotten, and has begun to move towards it.

Do not come any closer, please, he says.

She stops, hovering.

Would you like to look at something else? asks Henry.

She nods. Henry can’t help thinking that her attitude towards him has changed since he saw her in the square by the cathedral. The fact that she did not appear for dinner seemed to confirm that she was avoiding him, but now she is all eagerness. He wonders if it is to do with his vast array of treasures, or, more likely, with the novels she has returned to the library, and the heroes within them.

Butterflies, he says. Jewels of the jungle. Just wait a moment.

He retrieves his drawers from the first crate and selects the collection of morphos he captured in the Amazon. They glisten behind their glass like sapphires.

Oh they are beautiful, she sighs. I have never seen such a creature. The only butterflies here are plain little things that are strangers to real colour. The Amazon, you say? Was it terribly dangerous?

Well, yes, actually, it was, he concedes. No more than your usual dangers, but they were plentiful enough.

Such as?

Let me see. The insects for one. Snakes. Crocodiles. Man-eating fish.

Dora’s eyes seem to grow wider with every description. He continues, warming to his role of gallant adventurer.

The natives weren’t always friendly. Then there were diseases. Cholera. Yellow fever. I caught malaria, and it plagues me still. Do not be alarmed, it is not contagious.

And why do you need so many?

I beg your pardon?

The butterflies. You have more than forty specimens here, and they are all the same. Why do you need to kill so many of them? Did you plan to sell them?

Well, I … He thinks for a moment before answering: The purpose of collecting is not to amass great numbers.

It isn’t? I don’t understand, given the evidence I see before me.

It’s hard to explain. It’s a hunger. Not for quantity but for different quality. To you, these butterflies all look the same. But I see forty very different creatures. One is not enough because collecting is all about the search for the perfect specimen, the specimen that represents the entire species perfectly.

And any number of these won’t do this?

Oh, one might think so at first. And then one sees another that is bigger, or more symmetrical, or brighter, and one realises that the search has in fact only just begun. You will understand for yourself one day, Miss Collins, if you ever find something that you are passionate about collecting. You will not be able to get enough of whatever it is.

I can only hope, Mr Summers, she says, and smiles somewhat enigmatically. But as for these butterflies … I am in love with each and every one, so perhaps I am on my way. Although I would far rather see them flying about in the jungle with my own eyes than see them dead and halfway around the world. But I suppose that is something I really can only dream of.

We can all have what we want, if we set our mind to it, says Henry.

Do you think?

Just then they are interrupted by Mr Collins, who has walked past the slightly open door and pushed his head in.

Dora!

His daughter jumps. He gestures for her to come to him and she obeys. Collins closes the door behind them but Henry can hear him chastising her. Most improper, he hears.

The door opens again a moment later.

I apologise, Mr Summers. I trust my daughter has not been bothering you with her idle chatter. I’m afraid she reads too many novels. I know you wanted to be alone.

It is of no consequence, says Henry. I was just finishing my work anyway.

Collins pours himself into the room. And is it all to your satisfaction?

Mostly, says Henry. Would you like to have a look?

Collins’ face breaks into a broad grin. It is just the invitation he has been waiting for.

Collins is an impeccable host. He asks few questions about Henry’s intentions and seems to enjoy having him there to show off to a string of visitors. Life here is very much as it is in the English countryside: the neighbours call on each other at all times of the week, families and servants often in tow, and expect to be entertained, fed and given beds. They spend their days in the manner of the leisured classes anywhere: with picnics, shooting, game-playing and idle conversation, centring mostly on gossip about what is going on in town.

He has encountered no Maoris, and in this he is disappointed. Schlau has piqued his interest, there is no doubt, and he longs to meet them, to trade with them, to gaze upon their famous moko. It is as though they have been driven from the South Island altogether.
Perhaps in the north he will have more luck.

There is little sign of Redstream being a working farm — for the most part the stock and the workers are kept well away from the daily life of the house, as if the sight of an escaped sheep is likely to send the nearest ladies into fainting fits. Collins sets off on horseback for a few hours each morning, but speaks little of his business on his return: he has managers for every aspect of the running of the farm and its spoils. The only hint that Henry gets of any difficulty is when dinner conversation with neighbours turns to the plague of rabbits threatening to destroy the pastures.

But this is fascinating, says Henry. The rabbits have been introduced from England, have they not? And they have no native predators? So the colonials have upset the natural order of things in this country.

He intends to ignite a conversation about natural history but the gathering sinks into a stony silence around him until someone else changes the subject. Evidently one can complain about the rabbits, but not about the probable cause of the problem. It is ridiculous. Nobody will meet his eye. Nobody, that is, except Dora. She gives him a smile and a nod, as if to say
I agree
. The effect on him is instantaneous. His breathing slows and he feels the blood that had been rushing to his face subside. Amazing, that this woman, that
any
woman, has the ability to calm him with only a glance. He must pay her more attention; undoubtedly there is something special about this girl. He returns the smile and their mutual gaze lingers.

Dora

Dora is startled awake by her bed shuddering across the room. In the fog of sleep she thinks she is back on board the ship that she and her father took from England last year, but within moments she knows this is not so. The earth, which had been shrugging and sighing the evening before, has finally given in to its anger and heaves the wooden house from side to side. It creaks and groans; her washbasin falls from its stand and smashes. She curls into a ball and clutches her knees until it subsides.

The silence that follows seems to last forever. She finds herself wishing for her mother, a mother that she never knew, but it is her father who comes to her, bursting through the door, shouting, Dora Dora, are you hurt, are you all right?

He sits on the bed and she allows herself to be embraced by him
as her feet find the freezing floorboards and she realises how cold the room has become in the night, with all her bedclothes shaken off by the earthquake. Her father holds her as he did when she was a little girl until her shivering subsides, while a dark shadow hovers around the door. Her stepmother.

She feels terrible then, that she is keeping secrets from him, but last night, when the last guests had left the ball, he had retired immediately and she and Henry had parted company, with him promising he would speak to her father in the morning.

Last night. At the ball, she watched Henry across the room as what seemed like all the women in the country paraded themselves past him. He spoke to a few of them, charmed them even, and they whispered to each other behind their fans as they walked away. But when it came to dancing he stood resolutely by the wall, observing them all, like a man unsure whether to feast with his eyes or turn away in boredom.

He looked up and saw her, and she did not look away. He had been a guest at her father’s house for two weeks now, and she knew enough about him to be sure that he couldn’t abide coyness. She had avoided him when he first arrived, she admits it now, but she knows how stupid she had been, how foolish and proud, just because of one night when he had drunk too much. She had been listening too closely to her friend Kate Johnson. It was their encounter in her father’s library that made her rethink her opinion of him. After all, none of the men she had met in the neighbourhood or in town had impressed her. They all brayed on about Home, but half of them had never been to England and were happy to live their lives moving between country and town houses with their horsey laughs and their sunburnt foreheads, accumulating money and attending the same parties and races.

Mr Summers was very different from these men. For a start, he only spoke when he had something worthwhile to say. That day in the library she had watched him as he unpacked his wonderful collection, and instead of fidgeting and trying to make polite conversation about the weather with her, as so many of her potential suitors would have done, he ignored her completely. He seemed mesmerised by his work, as if each object he unwrapped transported him back to the time and place of its provenance. She felt infected by him, by his collection: it made her yearn to catch even a small glimpse of what he had seen and done to acquire such treasures. The sight of the adder lying so nakedly on the floorboards —
her
floorboards, in the house she had grown up in — made her want to kneel beside it, pick it up and wrap it around herself like a shawl.

Since that day, they had been spending more and more time together. Her father’s initial disapproval relaxed, and he allowed her to take walks with Mr Summers to show him the pocket of bush by the river, where he could crouch beside fallen logs and plunge his little shovel into the loam, looking for insects. Her father implied that she should count herself lucky — back in England, young ladies were expected to be chaperoned at all times.

Mr Summers had accompanied her family on one or two picnics with neighbours, who had quizzed him mercilessly about his life back in England and his travels. He answered politely, and only she could see the vein that popped up in his neck as he spoke, the set of his jaw as he gritted his teeth. But just when she thought he was going to snap, he would find her gaze and it seemed to calm him.

She wondered if he looked upon the ball guests as he did upon a herd of wild animals, hyenas perhaps, gathered at a watering hole to drink and to scavenge what they could. She tried to see the scene through his eyes: Mrs Yates, dressed far too young for her age as
usual, yellow feathers in her hair, preening like a cockatoo. Old Mr Dodds in the corner, looking for all the world like a rhinoceros with his jutting forehead, shoving ham and bread into his mouth not looking at anyone. The Whitter sisters standing whispering in their tight circle with large eyes and long, insubstantial limbs, like gazelles in the presence of a lion.

When Mr Summers approached her, she suppressed a smile.

I trust you are enjoying yourself? he asked.

She nodded. As well as can be expected, she said. These balls are all alike; the same people, the same gowns, the same music. Even the same conversation.

And you have been looking at me from over here. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Do you think me handsome, is that it?

No, sir, she said.

Miss Collins, you have put a dagger through my heart. He placed his hand there, to prove it.

I can see that all these other ladies think you very handsome. Why do you not go and engage one to dance?

Oh, it is not in my nature to dance. You should know me by now — I am far too serious for such frivolities.

She was about to reply when she noticed the large vase of flowers beside her on a mantelpiece shivering as if it had a fever. Her head felt light for a moment and she reached out a hand to steady herself, catching Mr Summers’ arm.

Did you feel that? she asked him, as she took her hand away, embarrassed. A look around the room told her nothing had changed: the dancers continued unaware and people still talked to one another as before.

I did, he confirmed, to her relief. A small tremor. I’m sure it is no cause for alarm.

Still, she was shaken, and the room became unbearably hot at that moment.

Are you all right? he asked. You are quite flushed. Do you need some air?

He escorted her onto the terrace outside, where the spring night was clear and bitingly cold. Everything was still, and the moonlight rested on the chestnut tree, making shapes in the bark. As a child she would lie in its shade for hours, staring at the patterns in the leaves and on the trunk. It was hard to imagine that only moments before, the land was moving of its own accord, however mildly.

You have to admit that this is beautiful countryside, said Henry.

But of course. I grew up here, Mr Collins, and I have had a very happy life.

But you desire something more.

Something of what you have had perhaps, yes.

What if I were to tell you that I desire some of what you have had, and that I propose to stay and make a life here?

I would say that I am very surprised. What she did not say, was that she was also very pleased.

I met a man in the post office the other day, perhaps you know him: a Mr East. He is a schoolmaster here, but like me, he has come from a good family in England and has …
decided
to make a life here. He is a very keen botanist and regularly sends his pupils home early so that he can go out collecting. Sometimes he even takes the children with him on nature walks, to teach them about the local flora.

Dora listened, wondering about the purpose of this conversation. She had heard of this Mr East, but never met him — he was a shy man, it was said, and did not attend many social functions, although he was single.

Henry continued. He told me about the collecting opportunities
in these parts, not to mention the rest of the country, which I plan to explore by and by. He says there are moa bones to found readily, and the bones of an extinct animal are highly prized, especially in England. He has offered to introduce me to some other enthusiasts in the area, and to lead me in as many expeditions as I would like, to sites quite close to these parts.

His voice became quite high in his excitement. She felt a little cloud of disappointment, for although she was delighted he wished to stay, she was sorry he was not planning adventures further afield. Surely New Zealand could not compare with Africa, or Brazil. She had perhaps been hoping that it was not just the prospect of a few old bones that was making him stay.

And for this, you have decided to give up your life in England?

No, not to give it up. To postpone it. I have made up my mind to buy some land here, to build a house, perhaps, and to stay for as long as it takes.

As long as it takes?

To gain my independence.

Dora was confused.

He sighed and covered his face with his hands. It is complicated, he groaned. I am too ashamed to explain myself any further. But Miss Collins …

He surprised her by taking both her hands in his.

Make no mistake, I would like to find a way to make your wishes come true. We could stay here, just for a few years, and then we would be free to explore the world and all its wonders at will.

She felt a tremor run through her body. Mr Summers, she said, what is it you are saying to me?

I am saying that, if I can find myself suitable pastures to call home, I would like you to share them with me. As my wife.

There now, says her father, and he tries to settle her back in bed.

What time is it? she asks. I cannot possibly think of going back to sleep.

It is around half past four, he says. There will be no light for three hours, and you have not had enough sleep.

But what will you do?

I am going to check on the servants, and on our guests. A fine welcome to a new country this must be for Mr Summers!

I am coming with you, she says.

I forbid it. Her father is firm in his resolve, and she sinks back under the bedclothes.

Very well, she says, but I shan’t sleep.

When he has gone, she can hear him walking about the house, and talking. She knows that Henry cannot come to her, but the peaceful sounds tell her he is unharmed. Against her predictions, she falls into a light sleep, and when the dawn seeps into her room, she gets up quickly to look out at the surrounding countryside.

The first thing she sees is a fissure that has opened up in the ground not twenty feet from the house. It has travelled through her beloved chestnut tree, and torn it in two.