Tamar (14 page)

Tamar wiped her eyes and smiled, vastly relieved Myrna had given her blessing. ‘No, not a firm date, but Peter said he would like it to be as soon as possible. I think the beginning of July. By then it will be ten months since his wife died. I’d rather wait the full year, but I don’t think he’ll agree.’

Myrna raised her eyebrows. ‘And ye’ll be having a big church wedding?’

‘Well, yes, a church, but not a big one. Just a few friends. You will come, won’t you?’

‘I wouldnae miss it for the world, lassie.’

When Peter called for Tamar on Friday evening she told him she would accept his proposal, provided they waited until the beginning of July. He swept her into his arms and kissed her full on the lips, leaving her breathless and embarrassed in case someone had seen. Then he moved the sapphire ring from her right hand to her left. ‘You’ll never regret your decision, Tamar my love,’ he said. ‘And July is acceptable to me, but only just! I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy, I promise. We’ll build a beautiful new house and have dozens of little Montgomerys to fill it!’

His enthusiasm was infectious and any doubts Tamar may have retained about the haste in which they were to marry were banished.

They decided they would marry in St Paul’s Anglican Church at the bottom of Princes Street. Tamar was a Methodist, but as she had not set foot inside a church since her father’s death, she wasn’t bothered as long it was a church, and she was wearing white. Or ivory, as it turned out, as the white fabrics Tamar sampled did not complement her complexion or the colour of her hair. Peter
promised her the most spectacular wedding gown Auckland had ever seen.

The following day he returned to Huia but not before he had taken Tamar to the dress maker who made her evening gown and told the woman to spare no expense with Tamar’s wedding outfit.

Mr Ellis was unhappy when Tamar told him her news, but cheered up when Tamar asked him to give her away and promised to seat him next to Myrna at the wedding breakfast.

Peter told Tamar to begin the wedding arrangements, and not entirely sure how to go about it, she enlisted Myrna’s help. Myrna’s girls were thrilled and could not stop talking about the forthcoming event, and frequently came into town to have lunch with Tamar and discuss her plans.

Each trip to the dress maker was an event to be discussed in detail, the girls deeply envious of Tamar’s wedding gown. It was lustrous heavy ivory satin, fitted and full-skirted with a swathe of lightweight gold dupion silk attached to the waist at the back to form a scalloped train extending several feet beyond the hem of the gown itself. The fitted bodice was also embroidered with gold thread. The neckline was modest and, together with the tight full-length sleeves, was draped with ivory organza. A long veil of exquisitely fine ivory net attached to a small circlet of silk orange blossoms completed the ensemble.

Tamar also had a small trousseau made, consisting of a nightdress for her wedding night, some new underclothes, a riding outfit, two day dresses and an afternoon dress with the appropriate accessories. She felt guilty charging it to Peter’s account, especially the extravagant wedding gown, but he insisted she have whatever she wanted. Tamar had invited Polly to be her bridesmaid and decided on a bronze-coloured silk gown for her, with an organza overskirt and fitted sleeves.

By mid-June, the preparations had all been made. A two-tiered
cake decorated with gold and bronze trim had been ordered, a private room at the Thames Hotel reserved for the wedding breakfast, the menu selected, and the guests invited. Myrna and her girls, including Eliza, were coming, and Jane and Sally, who had been thrilled with their invitations. Peter had also invited several friends from the Northern Club, one of whom was to be his best man, plus several business acquaintances and their wives.

After much deliberation, Tamar also decided to invite John Adams. He had been devastated when Myrna gently broke the news that Tamar had a serious suitor.

Deciding that having her as a friend was better than not having her at all, he accepted. Besides, he was curious to meet Peter Montgomery.

Myrna had been introduced to Peter two weeks before the wedding at a dinner one evening at the Waitemata Hotel. Polly, as Tamar’s best friend and bridesmaid, also came along. After watching Peter Montgomery while they sat in the lounge and had a drink before their meal, Myrna had to admit the man was very attractive in a dark sort of way. And he was certainly charming and entertaining, although he was tossing back the brandies a little too quickly for her liking.

Tamar and Myrna had decided it would probably not be wise to tell Peter she ran a brothel, so they reverted to the subterfuge about the training establishment for domestic servants.

‘You must be doing very well, Miss McTaggart. That’s a lovely gown you’re wearing. The cut is very becoming and I’ve always liked brocade, its subtle sheen is so flattering to a woman’s skin,’ commented Peter, sipping his fourth brandy and eyeing Myrna’s elegant rust-coloured gown. She had dressed conservatively, forgoing her usual peacock colours.

Myrna raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘Aye, Mr Montgomery, I’m doing verra well, thank ye.’ She was startled at his appreciation
of her outfit; most men did not know one fabric from another, but this man seemed to have a well-honed appreciation of what became a woman. That, in her opinion, made him either homosexual or a practised ladies’ man. He was probably not the former as he had already fathered a child, and she strongly hoped he was not the latter, for Tamar’s sake.

‘There is considerable demand for trained domestics, as I’m sure ye will be aware, Mr Montgomery. Do ye have a lassie yeself? To look after your house, I mean?’ she enquired innocently.

Peter either missed or ignored the innuendo. ‘Not any more. My first wife had a housegirl to help her when she was expecting but I let her go after … she was no longer needed.’

There was an embarrassed silence at the reference to Peter’s recently deceased first wife.

‘I shouldn’t think I’ll
need
help,’ said Tamar quickly. ‘I’m used to housework and I looked after my own family for three years after mam died.’

‘No, my dear,’ said Peter, patting her hand. ‘I’ll get someone in. There are plenty of native women who will jump at the chance to earn a few pennies. They’re not the most fastidious of housekeepers, but you can train them quite well if you get one with a few brains.’

Tamar was a little disconcerted. She’d never heard Peter speak of Maori before. Clearly he did not view the native New Zealanders in a particularly positive or complimentary light. She herself had not formed an opinion as she’d had very little association with them, except for those she had seen on the streets.

‘No, really,’ he carried on, emptying his glass with a gulp. ‘Some are quite clever. I’ve been dealing with a few regarding the shipping of my timber, and there’s one or two who have successful operations running clippers up and down the coast, although I suspect there aren’t many left. The business of coastal trading has been taken
over almost entirely by Europeans, and quite rightly too. We have a much better understanding of the principles of commerce. Anyway, ladies, shall we go in to dine?’

They followed a waiter to their table and were seated. As they ordered, Peter requested a bottle of best claret and their meal was enjoyable. They chatted as they ate, Peter describing his ideas for his land at Huia, the grand new home he was planning to build for Tamar, and his views on political issues of the day. He was witty and intelligent, but above all attentive to Tamar. Myrna conceded he was obviously besotted with her, and Tamar with him. She seemed content to sit back and let Peter do the talking, following his every movement with her eyes and laughing at his witty comments. And the more he drank, the more amusing he became until Tamar, Myrna and Polly were beset with laughter. Oh, he’s a charmer all right, thought Myrna, wiping her eyes on her napkin.

After the main course, Peter ordered another bottle of wine and then excused himself briefly.

‘Well?’ said Tamar. ‘What do you think?’

‘He’s very handsome,’ replied Polly. ‘I’d marry him. And he’s rich too. He must be, all the things he’s bought for you and the cost of the wedding. I think you’ve fallen well and truly on your feet.’

‘Yes, I think I have. But the money doesn’t matter. I’d be happy living with him in a little cottage.’

‘Ye dinnae think he’s overly fond o’ his drink?’ asked Myrna, aware she was being critical but unable to stop herself.

‘A little, perhaps,’ Tamar agreed. ‘Lots of men drink, and it never causes him any problems. And he’s so charming and funny.’

‘Och, well, let’s hope it stays that way,’ said Myrna, more to herself than to anyone else. She had observed the unfortunate effect alcohol could have on some men, how it could make them angry and violent and bitter. She hoped Peter Montgomery would not turn out to be one of them.

July 1880

The afternoon of the first day of July was bright with winter sun, the breeze a little brisk but not unpleasant. Seated in the front two pews of St Paul’s, the wedding guests waited expectantly for Tamar to begin her walk down the aisle with Mr Ellis.

As the church organ wheezed out the opening bars of the wedding march, the guests turned to admire the bride. Tamar looked truly glorious in her ivory and gold gown and there was a collective sigh from the women in the congregation. Peter, resplendent in a formal black frock coat and matching trousers, a brocade waistcoat in bronze, and a high-necked cream shirt with cravat, beamed proudly as he watched her walk towards him on Mr Ellis’s arm.

The ceremony was short and simple, and the guests and the newly married Mr and Mrs Peter Montgomery were outside the church in less than thirty minutes. Tamar hurled her bouquet of cream roses exuberantly into the air. Eliza, already a head taller than the other women, caught it easily, smiling widely as she hugged the flowers to her flat chest.

After the photographer fussed about arranging everyone for formal photographs, the party made their way to the Thames Hotel for the wedding breakfast. Tamar and Peter followed in an elegant hired brougham pulled by a pair of matching chestnut horses. Sitting proudly in the carriage holding her new husband’s hand and feeling absurdly joyous and blessed, Tamar reflected that the only other thing she could have wished for was the presence of her family.

The reception was a thoroughly pleasant affair. Peter and his best man made speeches, both toasting the bride’s beauty, and Myrna
wished the couple happiness and prosperity. True to form, Peter had ordered more than enough alcohol and by the time the meal was over, the guests were conversing loudly and laughing uproariously at every remotely witty utterance. Myrna’s girls were on their best behaviour and Tamar thanked God none of Peter’s friends from the Northern Club appeared to have been past customers. Mr Ellis became quite drunk and made a fool of himself over Myrna, who rebuffed him politely but firmly. John Adams, who had maintained a resolutely pleasant smile and an enthusiastic demeanour, excused himself early. Myrna watched him go, sad for his disguised but, to her at least, still discernible hurt. She noticed Tamar looking after him with a fleeting expression of sorrow.

Later in the evening, when their guests had finally departed, Peter led Tamar into the private lounge for a nightcap before they retired to the suite he had booked for their wedding night. He ordered port but she opted for tea as she was feeling decidedly lightheaded.

‘Tired, my dear?’ he asked as they sat opposite one another in the lounge. A small table between them held Peter’s bottle of port and his half-smoked cigar. His face was ruddy and his eyes sparkled.

‘A little,’ replied Tamar.

In truth she was both tired and nervous thinking about what awaited her in their wedding chamber. For some months she had been battling with an insistent and disturbing physical urge she had never experienced before. She suspected it was not at all seemly, but felt a desperate need to lie naked with Peter, to allow him to rub his virile body against hers and feel the two of them joined together, physically and emotionally. She wanted to be taken and owned by him, and left exhausted but fulfilled by his caresses and his love.

But she was still nervous. She had a reasonable idea of what was entailed regarding the physical act, but couldn’t imagine the details. She knew what went where, but how on earth did it fit? What if it
wouldn’t
fit? How mortifying! And would it hurt her? Would she bleed? Myrna told her making love would come naturally once she became used to it, and not to worry, but she
was
worried. Peter had been married. What if his new wife was too inexperienced and he spurned her?

She started as Peter asked, ‘What are you thinking about, my lovely? Has your wedding day been what you envisioned?’

‘Oh, yes, it was beautiful. Perfect,’ she replied truthfully. ‘More than I could have ever asked for.’

Peter poured himself another generous measure of port. ‘I said I would give you anything you desire, and I meant it. Here’s to our marriage and our life together, my beautiful new wife,’ he said, raising his glass and emptying it. Then, waggling his eyebrows playfully, he asked, ‘And is my beautiful new wife ready to retire to our wedding suite?’

Tamar nodded, feeling herself blush hotly.

‘Well then, Mrs Montgomery,’ he said, getting unsteadily to his feet and offering his arm. ‘Let us retire.’

As Tamar rose from her chair, he turned back to the small table and picked up the bottle. ‘No sense wasting good port,’ he said.

Walking arm in arm, they went upstairs to their suite. When they unlocked the door, they saw the cover had been turned down and a small posy of bright flowers placed on each pillow.

‘Oh, that’s a nice touch,’ said Tamar, nevertheless embarrassed that the staff of the Thames Hotel knew this was the bed upon which she would be deflowered.

‘Yes, isn’t it,’ replied Peter distractedly, removing his coat and throwing it over the back of a chair. He sat on the bed and wrestled his boots off. ‘God, I’m dying for a pee. Where’s the privy?’