Song of the Spirits (3 page)

Helen got there first, however. She thanked Elaine graciously for watching the desk and in doing so let her know that her presence was no longer necessary. Darkness had nearly fallen—undoubtedly one of the reasons Helen and Daphne had cut their time together short. The pub opened in the evening, and Daphne had to be there to keep an eye on things. Helen felt obliged to glance at the registration card of the new guest who had made such a lasting impression on her granddaughter.

Daphne, already on her way out, looked over her shoulder as she did so. “He’s from Martyn Manor… Sounds noble,” she mused. “A gentleman after all?”

“I will look into it straightaway,” Helen declared resolutely.

Daphne nodded and smiled to herself. That young man had an inquisition waiting for him. Helen had little grasp of romantic relationships.

“And keep an eye on the little one,” Daphne remarked as she headed out the door. “She’s already fallen for that Irish golden boy, and that could have consequences. Especially when it comes to gentlemen.”

To Helen’s surprise, however, her appraisal of the new guest did not prove negative in the least. On the contrary, when the young man first presented himself to her, he was scrubbed clean, shaven, and nicely dressed, and Helen, too, recognized that his suit was made of the best cloth. He politely inquired where he might dine that evening, and Helen offered him the board service she had at the ready for her hotel guests. In theory, one was supposed to sign up for it in advance,
but her eager cooks, Mary and Laurie, would manage to whip up an extra meal. As a result, William found himself in a tastefully furnished dining room at a finely set table alongside two bank employees and a stiff young lady who worked at the newly opened school. The service confused him at first: Mary and Laurie, two happy, buxom blondes, revealed themselves to be twins, and William could not tell them apart no matter how closely he looked. The other guests assured him with a laugh that this was quite normal, that only Helen O’Keefe could tell them apart at a glance. Helen smiled at that. She knew that Daphne could as well.

The communal meal naturally presented the ideal framework for sounding out William Martyn. Helen did not even need to question him herself. The other guests, curious about him, took care of that.

Yes, he was in fact Irish, William assured them several times, and a little gruffly, after both bankers had mentioned his lack of accent. His father had a sheep farm in the Connemara region. This information confirmed the assumption Helen had formed when she had first heard William speak: the young man had been brought up in the best circles and had never been allowed to pick up the Irish dialect.

“But you are of English origins, are you not?” inquired one of the bankers. He was from London and seemed to know a little about the Irish question.

“My father’s family came from England two hundred years ago,” a heated William explained. “If you still want to think of us as immigrating…”

The banker raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “No, no, my friend. The way I see it, you’re a patriot. So what brings you here from the Emerald Isle? Frustration with the Home Rule Bill affair? It was to be expected that the lords would shoot it down. But if you yourself are—”

“I’m no great estate owner,” William remarked icily. “Let alone an earl. My father may sympathize with the House of Lords in certain respects, but…” He bit his lip. “Forgive me. Now is neither the time nor the place.”

Helen decided to change the subject before this hothead reacted any more impetuously. Judging from his temperament, there was no doubt he was Irish. Moreover, he’d had a falling out with his father. It was possible that this was the reason he had emigrated.

“And now you would like to look for gold, Mr. Martyn?” she asked casually. “Have you already staked a claim?”

William shrugged, suddenly appearing unsure.

“Not exactly,” he replied with some restraint. “I was advised about a few places that look promising, but I cannot decide.”

“You should look for a partner,” the older of the two bankers advised. “Your best bet would be an experienced man. There are certainly plenty of veterans in the gold fields who already participated in the Australian gold rush.”

William pursed his lips. “What do I want with a partner who’s been panning for ten years and still hasn’t found anything? I’ll pass on that sort of experience.” His light-blue eyes flashed contemptuously.

The banker laughed. Helen, on the other hand, found William’s superior attitude rather unbefitting.

“It would be hard to fault you,” the older banker said at last. “But hardly anyone makes their fortune here. If you want a serious piece of advice, young man, forget this gold-mining business. Stick to something you know. New Zealand is a paradise for founders. Practically every calling promises a bigger income than gold mining.”

The real question was whether this young man had ever learned a practical calling, Helen thought. So far, he struck her as the well-brought-up but rather spoiled scion of a wealthy house. It would be interesting to see how he reacted to the first blisters on his fingers when he went out mining for gold.

N
ow what do you boys think you’re doing?”

James McKenzie let his already foul mood loose on his son, Jack, and the boy’s two friends, Hone and Maaka. The three of them had tied a basket to one of the cabbage trees that gave the approach to the manor of Kiward Station an exotic flair and were practicing throwing balls into it. Or they were until Jack’s father appeared, his irritated countenance giving the boys pause.

They did not understand why he had gotten so angry. Sure, the gardener might not be thrilled about the transformation of the front yard into a playground. After all, it required a great deal of effort to rake the pale gravel evenly and care for the flower beds. And Jack’s mother considered it important to maintain a suitable appearance for the front of the manor—she might not be pleased to discover a basketball hoop and trampled grass there. Jack’s father, however, did not tend to care much about such superficialities. Indeed, the boys had rather expected him to pick up the ball that had landed at his feet and take a shot himself.

“Shouldn’t you boys be in school right now?”

Ah, so that was what this was about. Relieved, Jack beamed at his father.

“Actually, yes, but Miss Witherspoon released us early. She still has to pack and get ready… for the trip. I didn’t even know that she was going.”

The boys’ expressions—both on the Maori boys’ wide brown faces and Jack’s freckled one—revealed their delight at the prospect of more free days ahead.

James, however, was ready to explode. Heather Witherspoon, their young governess, offered a far more attractive target for his rage than the three basketball players.

“That’s news to me too!” grumbled James. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you. I’ll rid the lady of her travel plans soon enough.”

He picked up the ball, threw it at the basket and, much to his own surprise, made a perfect shot.

Monday, his dog, who followed close at his heels wherever he went, chased after the ball excitedly. Jack had to work to beat her to it. He could not even bear to imagine her tearing the basketball to pieces, the real one that he had dreamed of for weeks before it was finally delivered from America. Christchurch, the largest settlement close to Kiward Station, was inching its way slowly toward being a proper city, but there was still no basketball team.

James grinned at his son as Monday gazed at the ball with her lovely three-colored collie eyes, as hurt as they were greedy.

Jack called the dog to him, stroked her, and returned James’s smile, visibly relieved. Clearly all was well again. Father and son rarely fought; Jack was not just a chip off the old block physically—Gwyneira having passed on only the red hue of her hair and her propensity toward freckles to her son—but also with regard to his character. Even as a toddler, Jack had followed his father through the stalls and shearing sheds like James’s sheepdog’s pups followed her. He’d sat in front of his father in the saddle, the horse never able to go fast enough for him, and tussled with the dogs in the straw. Since then, the thirteen-year-old boy had become a real help on the farm. He had been allowed to ride along the last time they herded the sheep down from their summer pastures and was undeniably proud to have “held his own.” As were James and Gwyneira McKenzie, both of whom were delighted every single day by the wonder of this late-born child. Neither of them had even thought children were a possibility when, after many years of luckless love, separation, misunderstandings, and contrary circumstances, they had finally exchanged vows. Gwyneira had by then already passed her fortieth birthday and no one had counted on another pregnancy. Little Jack, however, had not been bothered by that, being in rather
too much of a hurry: he came into the world seven months after their wedding, after an uneventful pregnancy and relatively easy birth.

In spite of the piqued temper that had him taking the approach to the house in long, purposeful strides, James smiled tenderly just thinking of Jack. Everything about that child was easy: Jack was uncomplicated, bright, and a great help with the farmwork. And he would be a good student as well, if Miss Witherspoon would just exert herself a little!

James frowned. Just the thought of the young teacher Gwyneira had brought into the house, primarily for her granddaughter Kura, caused his anger to flare up again. He did not blame his wife in the least: Kura-maro-tini, the daughter of her son from her first marriage, and his Maori wife, had desperately needed a foreign tutor. The girl had long since become too much for Gwyneira—let alone for her own mother, Marama. Nor was Gwyneira exactly the most patient teacher. Though she had endless reserves of patience when it came to horses and dogs, she lost her nerve in a flash when she was helping someone who could only clumsily write. Marama was calmer in that respect but had remarried two years before and thus had other preoccupations. Besides, she had only attended Helen’s improvised school in the “wilderness”—and Gwyneira wished for a more comprehensive education for the heiress of Kiward Station.

Heather Witherspoon had appeared to be the ideal choice—even though James suspected that Gwyneira had chosen her first and foremost because “Heather” sounded a bit like “Helen.” James would have trusted Gwyneira to assemble an entire sheepshearing team any day of the week. But when it came to judging governesses’ qualifications, she lacked the knowledge and interest. So the decision had been made in a rush—and now they were stuck with Miss Witherspoon, who was undoubtedly well educated but still only half-grown herself, no less spoiled than her pupil. James would have preferred to send her back ages ago; a passage to New Zealand did not have to be a once-in-a-lifetime journey these days. Since steamships were now employed, the crossing had become both briefer and safer. Within eight weeks, Miss Witherspoon could have been peddling her talents in England
again. But that would have gone against the express wishes of Kura-maro-tini, who had immediately befriended her new governess. And neither Gwyneira nor Marama had wanted to risk one of the child’s tantrums.

James ground his teeth in anger as he took off his jacket in the house’s entryway. Originally, it had been the vestibule for the resplendent parlor, complete with a little silver tray for receiving calling cards. Gwyneira had long done away with the tray though. Both she and the Maori maids had thought it superfluous to constantly be cleaning it. A flower vase now stood in its place, filled with branches of the native rata bush, which made the room feel more inviting.

However, the sight could not soothe James that day; he continued to nurse his resentment against the young instructor. For over two years now, the McKenzies had looked on as Miss Witherspoon carelessly neglected her duties toward Jack and the other children, despite her contract explicitly stating that she was to see to the elementary education of the Maori village’s children as well as Kura’s private studies. She was supposed to hold classes in the village daily. Jack would not have minded and it certainly would not have hurt Kura any to take part in these lessons. Yet Heather Witherspoon put it off whenever she could. The adult natives scared her, she said, and she could not stand the children.

When she did, nevertheless, condescend to hold class, she designed the content of the lesson entirely around Kura—which demanded too much of the village children and therefore bored them. She read, for example, exclusively books for English girls, preferring those in which a young princess suffered through the fate of a Cinderella until she was finally rewarded for all her good deeds. Such a tale did not resonate with the Maori girls, as it was completely foreign to their reality, and Heather Witherspoon made no effort to help them understand it. The Maori boys were nearly driven mad by the stories, as patient princesses did not interest them in the least. They would much rather have listened to tales of pirates, knights, and other adventurers.

James cast a quick glance at the onetime parlor that now served as Gwyneira’s office. His wife was not present, so he crossed through to
the salon furnished with expensive English furniture, still muttering to himself. Would it kill Heather Witherspoon to read
Treasure Island
to her class just once—or the stories of Robin Hood or Sir Lancelot that had so delighted Fleurette and Ruben in their childhood?