Authors: Martine Bailey
‘Peg?’ I called. I would be glad of a chance to confide my desperation.
‘Grace.’ It was Michael. He strode in and looked about.
‘So this is your hiding place.’ I forced my hands to remain still; not to snatch up my sketchbook, containing my furious pictures of him. Only when he turned his back to gaze at a sketch I had made of the coiling-haired angel on the staircase, did I succeed in pushing Peter’s letter under a blotter.
‘Do you like my angel? It is the Blair crest, I believe.’
‘An angel? That’s a gorgon’s head,’ he scoffed.
I looked at it more closely; at the stern, square-jawed face and the rippling hair comprised of coils that might indeed be living serpents. So that is it, I thought, this is a nest of vipers.
He sat down opposite me and leaned back, eyeing me with an expression I could not read. Suddenly he noticed Peg’s portrait.
‘Do you like it?’
He affected sardonic dislike. ‘No.’
‘Don’t you think I’ve caught Peg’s likeness?’
‘I wouldn’t know – I don’t look at her. She’s a servant, damn her. What sort of man takes notice of his servants?’ His eye slid over to my portrait of John Francis. ‘Who is that?’
‘An old friend,’ I said, with an attempt at cheeriness.
‘A sweetheart? Is he the one your father banished off to sea?’
‘Oh, it was not like that—’
‘I feel sorry for him,’ he said. ‘Were you as cold to him as you are to me?’
I made no reply.
‘You are pulling away from me. One moment you are kind and sweet. And yes,’ he sighed, ‘I admit it: at times you have been the wife I scarcely deserve. There, you have it, in spite of my pride. And now, on a whim, you treat me like an enemy; you make it exceedingly clear that you do not want me near you. I can only bear so much, Grace.’ He looked at me with a wounded expression. ‘I confided in you. I told you of matters that hurt me greatly. Do you know how many people know about my birth?’
I shook my head.
‘My family – and you, alone. I know my family do not care a jot for my feelings, but I thought we had an understanding. I am not blind. I can see that you are disappointed in me.’ I stared into my lap. ‘It is true, I have made mistakes. But I am not as unfeeling as other men – no, don’t deny it. I thought that you would help me. I believed there was the beginning of a good marriage between us.’
He reached out to me across the table – as delicately as a feather, his fingers brushed my hand. But now the sensations he roused, though impossible to dampen, sickened me. ‘Grace, we have been fools. Can we not go back and start again? Come and look at the moon, as we used to.’
Mechanically I rose, and he led me by the hand to the window. A pock-marked moon cast a silver light over the park. ‘It will be Christmas soon. Even a blockhead like me can see it is a time for reconciliation.’ He slid his arm around my waist. ‘I have never had a Christmas in my own home. We should hang green boughs and burn a Yule log. Enjoy a hearty dinner in that splendid room you have created. We can choose freely, Grace – choose to be happy. My parents are in London, as you know. Next year, when the business is established, we will join them with our heads held high. We shall stay in fine rooms and go to all the balls and assemblies. Would you like that?’
I nodded, but still resisted the arm that tried to coax me closer.
‘It is a pity,’ he whispered in my ear, ‘that we have started married life under this strain. But in spite of all, you have always shown yourself to be the best of women. Too good for me. You are a worthy mistress of Delafosse.’
‘I thought you wanted to leave Delafosse?’
He gave a resigned little shake of his head. ‘I have made a search. At present there is nowhere sufficiently grand within riding distance of Whitelow.’
‘We could live in a more modest home.’
‘You could,’ he quipped. Then, seeing my face was still serious, he leaned towards me and tried to kiss me, though I turned my face aside.
‘I should rather not,’ I said feebly, pulling away.
‘Oh, you are not such a wanton as before. I wonder why?’
He grasped my wrist tightly and kissed me violently on the mouth. With strength I didn’t know I had, I pushed him away, very hard, so he almost stumbled. For a long moment he stood blazing before me, very still, his fists clenched.
‘I’ll see you regret that one day.’ Then turning on his heels he marched rapidly away.
24
Delafosse Hall
December 1792
~ Minced Meats for Tarts ~
Take your beef or other meats and tripes and scrape free from skin and gristle; mix with the same weight of suet picked and chopped, then add double of currants, raisins and prunellas, nicely cleaned and perfectly dry, some chopped apples, the peel and juice of two lemons, sweet wine, nutmeg, cloves, mace, pimento, in finest powder; when well mixed, keep it covered in a dry cool place.
Mother’s Eve’s Secrets
The skin around Peg’s nails had started to bleed from stoning all the heaps of raisins and prunellas. No doubt little specks of her own blood were passing into the tarry vat of minced meat. Now wasn’t that true to the proper old receipt? Aunt Charlotte had once said as much, about minced meats being where all the bloody scraps were thrown: raggoty mutton, offal, all the guts and stringy bits. Sweeten it all up and them upstairs would be none the wiser. Fob the scrapings off as a bit of fancy; that was Aunt Charlotte’s creed. Your eyes might feast on her flim-flams and flummeries – but your mouth was generally disappointed.
Peg hummed to herself as she sniffed the concoction; fragrant as muscatel and black as the Earl of Hell’s boots. Nan was well on with the savoury roasts, the brawn and the Yorkshire Christmas Pie – soon she would have the great turnspits spinning before a roaring fire. Nan and the ugly sisters could see to that death-dealing contraption while she enjoyed herself baking macaroons and gingerbread from
Mother Eve’s Secrets
. Yes, and she mustn’t forget the makings of a big inviting Salamagundy salad. Whoever would have wagered on her getting back home to an English Christmas? Hell’s teeth, she knew how to survive.
*
The canoe had carried her, the savages, and dear Jack’s body, up river to a great stone hill, crowned with a village guarded by row upon row of spiked palisades. As she was prodded and pushed up the steep path, every chance of escape vanished away.
Inside the compound she was jostled by mobs of half-naked men, women, and children, who jabbered and laughed in her face. Her new mistress yanked off her blood-stained shift and draped it about her own broad shoulders, her strong teeth bared in victory. She, meanwhile, was left to stand naked before that crowd. Never before had she felt so keenly her bluish-white skin and carroty hair. Bear it, girl, she told herself as they prodded her breasts and sniggered at her privities. A violent tug to her head sent her flying – a leash had been woven into her hair. Henceforth she was to be led, like a bridled horse, behind her new mistress.
The chieftainess, who she learned was named Areki-Tapiru, lived in a carved hut at the summit of the peak, waited upon by a retinue of maids. It was one of the grandest huts of the fort, or Pa, with carvings of pot-bellied manikins on its roof, and walls covered in woven mats.
That first fearsome night she was dragged out to a great gathering, and sat through hours of war-like dancing and stamping. Would she be sliced to bits, or tortured in a drawn-out spectacle? She quivered in continual terror that her own execution would form the high point of the night’s entertainment. Lying down that night on the earth floor of the hut, she was astonished to find her head still attached to her shoulders. The next night her luck continued, and then the next. Straining her wits, she watched, learned, and survived. Whenever Areki-Tapiru asked for something – her
taonga
, the treasure box in which she kept her white feathers, or her
korowa
royal cloak – she practised the word silently until it stuck like fish glue. Soon, her cleverness was rewarded, with her own rug to cover her nakedness, and then a greenstone
teekee
that Areki-Tapiru ceremoniously hung around her neck. Knowing that faking a thing is best achieved by sincerity, she made it her creed to admire Areki-Tapiru, ever mindful of the woman’s great
mana
, the power she carried within her spirit. Even when her mistress returned to the hut with her face as fat as a gourd from hours of torture under the tattooist’s chisel, she praised her beauty as if she were Venus herself.
The chieftainess had other exotic pets in her menagerie of maids: a Chinese woman with hair that fell to her knees like a horse’s tail, and a child with skin like soft black leather. She liked to collect curios: a dancing yellow-eyed
kauri
dog, and a razor-beaked eagle. But most prized was her greenstone knife, edged with the sharpened, pearl-like milk-teeth of all the babies she had borne. Areki-Tapiru believed it to be a living thing; she talked to it, and laughed as she tickled the dog’s nose with it, or used it to nip her women’s flesh. She herself was bitten by it once, as punishment for dropping a pin; the gash it left festered with pus for many a week. ‘Look!’ her mistress squealed. ‘The ghost has red blood, just like us.’ She hated that baby-toothed knife, and wondered if it would be the death of her.
She strove to remain the chieftainess’s favourite. Secretly she practised, and then performed, the old three-cup-and-ball trick, using dried berries and nut shells, all the while pretending to hearken to spirits who told her where the balls were hidden. Any flash trick would do – pulling an egg out of her mistress’s tattooed lips made her gape with astonishment, before she heaved with incredulous laughter. That was how she got her new name, ‘
Kehua
’, or ‘ghost’; both for her bloodless skin and for her supernatural skills.
By slow degrees she earned the trust she needed to wander at will in the village, exploring tracks and byways, drawn always to the ocean that shone, blue and green, like the inside of the
paua
shells the tribe prized higher than jewels. Her new friends teased her, calling her ‘the woman whose eyes are blue from long looking at water’. She laughed back, copying their words, their expressions, their way of standing. All the time, one of Charlie’s sayings guided her: ‘Wear the mask of a friend on the heart of a spy’. When on errands, she learned the trails from the
kumara
fields to the cookhouses and the
hangi
pits, where the bountiful food of the place was artfully steamed in pits underground. She learned that she was fortunate to be Areki-Tapiru’s special
mokai
pet. Other captives were hunched and beaten creatures, who dropped their eyes to the ground as she sauntered past.
After befriending the bone-carver, she traded a few of her mistress’s unwanted gifts for a flute. Slowly she learned to play a few tremulous, melancholy tunes. When Areki-Tapiru’s husband neglected her for his younger wives, the gentle melodies calmed the chieftainess’s jealous fits. She learned to play the love songs of
Hinemoa
, sweet lullabies and mournful laments. ‘Here I stand alone,’ one of the women sang as she played, ‘Don’t let me die just yet . . .’ Then she would play her flute with the tenderest feelings, fiercely praying that she might survive, without knowing whether it was
Ranginui
or Holy Mary Herself who might hear her.
Only as she lay on her sleeping mat at night did she dare to remember those glittering cities far away; even further than the moon, for at least the moon still shone above the roofs of the
Pa
. It was like recalling a dream: a world of racketing fast carriages and glossy horses, of fat penny loaves and yellow butter, of Charlie and his crew, who enjoyed the best of it all, but had still let her be exiled here, so far across the world. As she dropped from wakefulness to sleep, she returned to her vow that she would one day escape back to England. And growing each day more like her cruel and merry captors, she mouthed malicious curses against her enemies.