Tamar (33 page)

I believe these are your missing pieces of jewellery. I saw them displayed in the window of a pawnshop in Auckland, so I am returning them to you.

Tamar read the note again, more slowly, this time, then looked at Te Kanene.

‘Did you know he knew I was expecting a child?’

‘Yes. He told me before he left for England.’

Tamar lifted a hand and absentmindedly massaged the scar on her brow.

Te Kanene commented, ‘May I say your face is much improved.’

‘How do you know about that?’ asked Tamar in surprise. Then she remembered. ‘Oh. When you came to Kainui?’

‘Yes, but you were still sick. You did not know me.’

‘You came to the village to take my baby?’

‘Te Hau, Riria’s father, summoned me. Riria was against my taking the child.’

Tamar was once again flooded with feelings of gratitude and affection for Riria. She realised she missed her friend very much.

She said suddenly, ‘Did you know my husband is dead? Perhaps murdered?’

Te Kanene examined the blunt but beautifully manicured fingernails on his right hand for several seconds. ‘Yes. I had heard something.’

‘Who killed him?’

He shrugged elegantly but said nothing.

‘Was it you?’ pressed Tamar.

‘No.’

Tamar believed him. If it had not been Te Kanene, she thought, and Kepa was in England, then it could have only been one other person. ‘Riria,’ she said quietly.

‘You must try and understand the concept of
utu
,’ said Te Kanene impassively.

‘Are you telling me it
was
Riria?’ said Tamar, looking at him sharply.

‘I was not there, so I cannot say,’ he replied, although Te Hau
had in fact informed him of exactly what his headstrong daughter had done to the
Pakeha
. ‘But if she did, she would have had her own reasons.
Utu
is not taken lightly. Do you care by whose hand he died?’

‘I suppose not,’ replied Tamar. ‘Where is my child?’

Te Kanene gazed at her, as if contemplating how much he should tell her, then seemed to come to some sort of decision. ‘He is living at Maungakakari, our family’s village in Hawke’s Bay, just north of Napier. He is being cared for by my
tamahine
, Kepa’s sister. She and her husband have no children of their own.’

‘And he is safe and healthy?’

Te Kanene nodded. ‘Yes, he is well. We have named him Kahurangi-o-te-po.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Roughly translated it means blue cloak of the night sky.’

Tamar considered the name then nodded in approval.

She hesitated before she asked, ‘Who does he look like?’

‘His father, but he has green eyes. Like yours,’ replied Te Kanene. ‘You do understand why I had to take him?’ he added, his voice almost gentle.

Tamar sighed. ‘No, not really. I only know that when I discovered he had been taken from me I almost gave up. I could have raised him. A baby needs his mother.’

‘No, a baby needs
a
mother,’ corrected Te Kanene, comfortably secure in the customs and traditions his people had lived with for generations. ‘Not necessarily the woman who gave birth to him. Where would you have gone with him? You could not have returned to Auckland with an illegitimate half-caste child to raise.’ He paused and reached into his coat again. ‘May I smoke?’ When Tamar nodded he drew out a pipe, forcefully tamped in a wad of tobacco and lit it before continuing. ‘And Kahurangi-o-te-po is no ordinary child. He is the first son of the first son of
my brother Te Roroa, a powerful chief. He has to be raised in a certain way.’

‘I could have gone to Hawke’s Bay with him.’

‘No,’ said Te Kanene bluntly. ‘You are too
Pakeha.
And there is Kepa.’

‘What about Kepa?’

‘He has work to do. He cannot afford to be distracted by such trifling issues as lust and love. And he would have been, with you there.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Te Kanene made a wry face. ‘Because, Miss Deane, I know my
iramutu
well. I would have to be blind and deaf not to know how he feels about you. And if he
is
to marry, then he must marry a woman of his own race.’

‘You
sent
him to England, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Te Kanene replied shamelessly. ‘For his own good. And yours, although I do not expect you to thank me.’

‘No, I certainly won’t,’ replied Tamar angrily. ‘I think you’re a crafty, selfish, interfering old buzzard.’ Tamar had never seen a buzzard but she imagined that if she did, it would look and behave exactly like Te Kanene.

He nodded his head and smiled slightly, as if she had complimented him. ‘You will see one day that I have made the right decision. For everyone.’

Tamar was interrupted by a knock on the office door. Myrna poked her head into the room and asked, ‘Everything all right, is it?’

Tamar stood. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Myrna, this is Kepa’s uncle, Te Kanene. Te Kanene, this is my good friend Miss Myrna McTaggart.’

Te Kanene rose and bowed low over Myrna’s outstretched hand. ‘Good morning, Miss McTaggart,’ he said. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

‘And I you,’ replied Myrna politely. ‘Can I get ye anything?’

‘No, thank you, Miss McTaggart. I have almost finished my business here.’

Myrna looked over Te Kanene’s shoulder at Tamar and raised her eyebrows. Tamar mouthed, ‘It’s all right,’ and Myrna responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

‘I’ll leave ye to it then,’ she said and left the room.

‘I would like to be kept informed of my son’s progress. You cannot deny me that.’

‘No,’ he agreed. ‘I will not keep news of his health and welfare from you. Do I assume correctly you will be living here for some time?’

‘Yes, for the foreseeable future.’

‘Then, as his guardian, I will send word at regular intervals. But I will ask you not to contact him during these early years. It will only confuse him. He is better off where he is, a slightly pale, green-eyed Maori child living amongst Maori, than a brown-skinned child living amongst
Pakeha
.’ When Tamar looked at him doubtfully, he added, ‘I know what I am talking about. You have not been in Aotearoa long enough to appreciate what I mean. When he gets older he will be told. He can make his choices then, when he is mature enough to manage the consequences. But I suspect he will always be more his father’s son than yours.’

Tamar knew that if her son were to be raised a Maori, this would indeed be the case, and the thought hurt her badly. But, her heart aching with a sense of loss that was almost physical, she suspected Te Kanene was right.

She asked sadly, ‘Will he get the best of care?’

‘Of course.’

‘I want to meet him when he is older. And I want to contribute towards his upkeep,’ Tamar added. ‘I am his mother and I will not allow that to be forgotten or ignored. He also has Cornish blood in his veins. He has a heritage other than yours.’

‘There is no need for you to give money, if that is what you mean. My family has more than enough.’

‘And so will I, eventually,’ replied Tamar with a blossoming sense of dignity. She didn’t know if what she had just said was true, but the idea suddenly appealed to her very much. ‘If you choose not to use it now, I will have it placed in a trust fund for his education. I insist that he receive the very best.’

‘Oh, he will, there is no doubt. This child will carry on the work of his father, and his father before him.’

‘Good,’ said Tamar. ‘I’m glad we agree.’

Te Kanene nodded. ‘I think, Miss Deane, we agree on more than you care to admit. We are both committed to this child’s welfare. You are his natural mother, and you are right — that cannot be forgotten. And so we will work together for his benefit.’

Tamar sighed, partly in relief and partly in annoyance. Intuitively she knew he would be a powerful, if perhaps not always loyal, ally.

Te Kanene rose. ‘I will leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel we have come to an understanding.’

‘Yes, Te Kanene, we have. For now,’ replied Tamar, standing herself and escorting him to the front door. As she opened it he turned and took her hand, a formal handshake, nothing intimate, his piercing eyes looking directly into hers. Tamar could clearly see Kepa in him.

‘You are a strong woman, Tamar Deane,’ he said. ‘I see it, my nephew sees it, and your son will also see it one day. You must make that strength work for you.’

He let go of her hand and descended the steps. As he turned at the gate and walked off down the street, Tamar stood looking after him, long after he had disappeared.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

February 1882

S
tand still, will you, Polly?’ said Tamar through a mouthful of dressmaking pins.

‘But it’s so
hot
,’ complained Polly, the breeze from the lace fan she was flapping in front of her face barely touching the sweat trickling down her neck. The French doors were wide open but the mid-morning air was heavy. ‘I wish it would rain.’

It was an abnormally hot, humid Auckland day and Tamar was putting the final touches to a new gown. The bustle had disappeared completely from fashion and this new dress had tight three-quarter-length sleeves and a fitting bodice above a flaring, princess-line skirt. Unlike most gowns of the day, however, this one was made from fine, slightly transparent pale green muslin, which accentuated Polly’s shapely figure and offered a hint of the pleasures beneath. Fashionable evening gowns were already cut low in the bodice but this one was exceptionally daring, the neckline not quite covering Polly’s upthrust breasts and nipples. The dress was saved from vulgarity by a swathe of semi-opaque gauze draped around the neckline, but if one looked hard enough Polly’s large brown nipples were still visible, which was of course the intention.

When Tamar had begun sewing the girls’ costumes last year,
Myrna had stipulated they should be alluring and a little risqué, but not whorish. The idea was to tempt the customers, not excite them beyond the point of no return before they even got upstairs.

Tamar sat back on her heels and wiped the sweat from her own brow. The faint scent of honeysuckle wafted in through the open doors on a slight breeze that died almost before it reached her. She opened the collar of her dress and blew down her cleavage but found scant relief.

Just before Christmas she had decided she’d had enough of wearing widow’s weeds and, flouting convention, had made herself several fashionable, prettily coloured dresses, wearing them well before her year of mourning was officially over. As she now lived and worked at a brothel, she hardly thought it would make any difference to what people thought of her.

‘I’ve got a headache,’ moaned Polly. ‘I need some of my medicine.’

Tamar frowned. Polly had been needing a lot of her ‘medicine’ lately. ‘Well, have some then,’ she replied, ‘if it will make you stand still. You’re supposed to be wearing this dress tonight.’

‘I
know
,’ snapped Polly. She stepped off the low stool, went to her dressing table and pulled open a small drawer. Selecting a flat, brown glass bottle she removed the cork and took an unmeasured swig. And then another. And then one more.

‘Just for luck,’ she said. As she replaced the cork she noticed the bottle was almost empty. ‘Bugger, I’ll have to get some more. I’ll go up the street later.’

‘To the pharmacy?’ asked Tamar. When Polly nodded she said, ‘I’ll come with you — I need to get one or two things myself.’

Tamar was worried about Polly. Since before Christmas, her friend had become progressively sadder and more lethargic; rarely now did anyone see the happy, carefree Polly, except for when she was working. Between two in the afternoon and one the following morning when the house was open for business, she was vivacious,
sparkling, witty and very popular with the customers. She was in demand and very busy, sometimes accommodating five or more men in one day, and none had ever complained they were not getting their money’s worth.

Tamar and Myrna both sensed that, for some reason, Polly was frantically throwing herself into her work, but neither had been able to find out why. Myrna had talked to her several times but she insisted she was fine and merely anxious to build up her nest egg; she still talked, though less frequently, about owning a parlour with ostrich feathers in a vase on the mantelpiece, and a special chair by the fire for Cabbage.

Myrna had not been satisfied with Polly’s explanation. She confided to Tamar that even though Polly was popular, she might have to insist she stand down from working if she continued to show signs of being, as Myrna put it, ‘no’ quite right in the head’.

And on occasion, Polly was quite obviously that. The girls had made a habit of meeting around the kitchen table on Sunday afternoons, the only day they did not work, to talk about anything they needed to air, usually their customers. They started drinking tea or coffee but as the afternoon wore on they would often open the gin or sherry. The tone was usually lighthearted and occasionally hilarious, but several Sundays ago something disconcerting had occurred.

On this particular Sunday Polly started drinking early but instead of being lifted by the alcohol, she seemed to withdraw into herself, barely smiling whenever one of the girls told a particularly amusing anecdote that would have the others almost crying with laughter.

The girls delighted in entertaining each other with stories of their various customers. Myrna knew it was irreverent, and unkind to the men, but they would never know and she firmly believed it helped her girls banish or at least contain any unpleasant feelings
they might harbour about their profession; to mock the men they serviced helped them regain their sense of power. So she encouraged it and laughed with them, sometimes even contributing amusing stories from her own past.

‘What I hate,’ said Vivienne, ‘is when they won’t hurry up and do the business. I put such a lot of effort into them before they hop on, so I won’t have to lie there forever, but this one customer, Mr Reece — the one with the really hairy back and the awful breath?’