Toward the Sea of Freedom (44 page)

She did not encourage his attention. Though Kahu was a rather good-looking man, as a member of the Maori nobility his face was adorned with tattoos that simply repulsed Lizzie. Moreover, she did not want to fall in love with another young man who always had one foot in trouble. She feared the discovery of Kahu Heke’s thieving raids and the rebellious thoughts he voiced aloud.

His attitude was somewhat unexpected because Kuti Haoka’s
hapu
, or clan, belonged to the Ngati Pau tribe, which was originally welcoming to the whites. The Ngati Pau’s great chieftain, Hongi Hika, had been one of the first to sign the Treaty of Waitangi. Now, however, even that tribe doubted the new settlers’ honesty. Too often, the
pakeha
had cheated the
hapu
and
iwi
—the Maori terms for their tribes—in purchasing land, and limitations on trade seemed only to apply to the Maori, not the whites. Kahu Heke always had new cases to report when he came to the village.

“They take our land, offend our
tapu
, and cut down our forests for their ships. And what do we get in exchange? Their whiskey and their diseases.”

“Well, you seem to like their whiskey,” Ruiha teased him.

Lizzie’s friend obviously had a weakness for Kahu. Kahu was right with regard to the diseases, however. Many natives died of childhood illnesses like measles. And not every tribal warrior knew how to handle his whiskey, which also led to conflict.

“Soon we won’t tolerate it,” Kahu announced loudly. “Listen to my words. Sooner or later it will come to war.”

Lizzie did not like to hear that. After all, it brought her into a conflict of loyalties with her employers. James Busby would doubtless have expected her to report such seditious speech. But she kept quiet—in the presence of the Maori as well as that of the whites.

Ultimately, it was anything but rebellion that put an end to her happy life with the Busbys. Lizzie’s confrontation with her past caught her completely off guard.

“This evening there’ll be a grand dinner, Lizzie,” Mrs. Busby said, at ease, when Lizzie and the other housemaids came into her receiving room for the morning review. “So everyone please appear for service in neat, clean uniforms and with polished shoes. Keep an eye on the others, Lizzie; you know they don’t take that seriously enough.”

The Maori girls regarded the peculiar European shoes included with the maids’ uniforms as rather suspect.

“Ruiha will serve at the table, Lizzie will handle the reception, and I’ll discuss the menu with Cook later. Polish the silver again. The gentlemen come from England, and they will be used to the finer things.”

“How many people are we expecting, madam?” Lizzie asked politely.

Mrs. Busby shrugged. “Two British engineers or architects, something like that, and a few men from Russell. It’s about some road construction project. I’ll be bored all evening again. Oh yes, and bring up a few bottles of the French wine, Lizzie. Maybe we’ll manage to open them before James can bring out that sour stuff of his.”

Lizzie curtsied and began the preparations. In contrast to the Maori girls, she enjoyed setting out the porcelain and polishing the silver and crystal until they shone.

By the time the guests were due to arrive, even the maids shone, clean and neat, having let Lizzie order them around good-naturedly until even the last bonnet sat perfectly in place. Lizzie waited at the entrance to take the coats and umbrellas from the guests. It was winter, and even if it was not very cold, it rained in buckets all day. A curtain of rain hid the beauty of the bays and forested hills.

Lizzie did not recognize the man at first as he hastened, in the middle of a group, to come out of the weather. Only when the tall, red-faced road construction engineer took off his coat and hat did it strike Lizzie like lightning. Martin Smithers stood in front of her. And he looked just as flabbergasted as she.

Her first impulse was to flee—perhaps she could get away before he recognized her. Of course that was impossible, and he recovered from his surprise much faster than Lizzie. Smithers’s water-blue eyes shone lustfully. He smirked at Lizzie as he handed her his coat.

“Look here, it’s the house kitten. What a pleasure. And look, you’re respectable once again.” His eyes darted around with the speed of a ferret’s, and once he saw that all the other visitors were deep in conversation, he leaned into Lizzie. “I was not at all happy about your leaving, sweet. Do you know who my wife got to replace you? A pale, scrawny fellow who trained as a butler before stealing from his employers. No fun, my kitten.”

Lizzie took a step back from him, then brought his coat and hat to the closet to give herself a moment to think. Smithers would give her away. He would make sure she was arrested and returned to Australia. But perhaps the Busbys would want to keep her; perhaps it was not so bad. Perhaps . . .

Lizzie could feel Smithers’s gaze follow her as she curtsied before the other visitors. She thanked heaven that Ruiha was assigned to serve the meal. All she had to do was look at the food in the kitchen one last time to make sure its arrangement suited the European sense of beauty. The cook sometimes indulged in somewhat exotic creations, which the family was willing to try but which they spared their guests.

James Busby would not, however, be denied the presentation of his own wine. Ruiha appeared immediately after the first course with a task for Lizzie. “You’re to fetch one of our late vintages and de . . . dec . . .”

“Decant it,” Lizzie said, with a sigh.

That meant Mr. Busby wanted the wine served with the main course, and she would have to pour it. James Busby liked to present his own English housemaid together with his own New Zealand wine. Usually she did not mind, but on this day . . .

“Kitten, wait for me in the hall.” Smithers whispered these words to her as she filled his crystal goblet with wine. “We have a few words to speak to each other.”

Lizzie thought once more of fleeing, but it was doubtless better to hear what Smithers had to say. Perhaps she could negotiate with him. She left the kitchen immediately after the next course and stood in the hallway. Martin Smithers did not make her wait long.

“Kitten, you won’t believe how I’ve missed you.”

He pressed Lizzie against the wall and kissed her as if to save his life. Lizzie tasted juice from the roast with a sour tinge of wine. She felt nauseous.

“But you haven’t missed me, have you? Mr. Busby surely keeps an open house; lots of clients for a sweet little whore like you.”

Lizzie tried to struggle free.

“I’m a respectable woman, Mr. Smithers,” she said. “I’ve done nothing wrong since I escaped Australia. Only work. And, and after seven years with the Busbys, I’ve served my time.”

Smithers laughed. “You can’t be serious, kitten! Served your time? Perhaps for the little theft in London. But what about the money you took from poor Parsley? After you seduced him and tricked him. He became the laughing stock of the colony. Do you think he wouldn’t report it? They’re looking for you, kitten. And this time you won’t get an escape or pardon. They keep girls like you in the factory ten, fifteen years.”

Lizzie pictured the walls of the factory, remembered the never-changing daily routine. Back then, none of it had seemed so bad to her. But now she was used to freedom: the vast sky over the bays, the forests and their secrets, her Maori friends.

“Mr. Smithers, please.” Lizzie did not know why she pleaded. Surely this man knew no mercy. But perhaps she really could bargain with him.

“Mr. Smithers, perhaps, perhaps I did miss you, after all.” She tried to smile but knew it came out miserably.

Smithers laughed again. “Oh, don’t lie, kitten. But you do look cute when you smile. This bonnet deserves a smiling face. Oh I, I could eat you up.” He kissed her again.

“Mr. Smithers, you can have me, but only if you don’t give me away.”

Smithers let her go and furrowed his brow. “Oh?” he asked threateningly. “And just who is dictating that to me?”

“I am,” said Lizzie calmly. “If you don’t swear by, by, by your God you won’t give me up, then I’ll cry out right here.”

Smithers smirked. “But no one will believe you, sweet. I’ll say you attacked me.”

Lizzie felt a burning desire to kill the man. She had heard the Maori legends that told of female warriors. In ancient battles, women had fought at the sides of their husbands. The girls had shown her old war clubs made for women’s hands. Lizzie had only felt a creeping feeling at the time, but now she imagined smashing this man’s skull in with one of the clubs. Again and again until his wide, sweaty face and evil smile were unrecognizable.

“Sir, I’ve served in this house for many years,” she said with dignity. “And I have yet to attack a gentleman. So they won’t simply believe you. You could tell them of my escape. But then they’ll arrest me. I’ll spend tonight in police custody. Do you mean to sneak off to the station to bribe an officer? Do you mean to rape me in the tiny jail where the walls have ears? You’re too cowardly for that, sir. All of New Zealand would hear of it.”

Smithers bit his lip. He did not like it, but she was right. And she had the leverage.

“Very well, kitten, what would you suggest?”

He no longer smiled, but desire burned in his eyes.

“I’ll come to your hotel room. You need only sneak me inside, but that won’t be hard. The inn has a back entrance.” Lizzie had often been present when wine and other products of Busby’s farm were delivered there. However, Smithers interpreted her knowledge of the inn differently, of course.

“You go there often, do you, sweet?” he asked, once again with his puerile smile. “Very well, but I’m expecting an unforgettable night.”

Lizzie nodded. If it bought her freedom, she would let him have his way in everything. Though, in her experience, he was not hard to please so long as she wore her bonnet.

Smithers ended the evening early—he was the most important guest, but he seemed unfocused to the other guests, and so did not succeed in convincing the notables from Russell of his plan for a road to Auckland.

“As if he had plans for later,” Busby said with astonishment to friends with whom he was having a last drink in his study. “Odd fellow. Maybe it’s better we look for someone else.”

If only Mr. Busby had thought of that earlier
, Lizzie thought as she performed her last duties. Ruiha and the others went home, cheerful, with some of the remaining food for their families. The cook was generous about that, and Mrs. Busby hardly kept an eye on her.

Lizzie slunk into her room. Should she take a bag? Should she flee, just to be safe, after satisfying Smithers? But where? She loved her work at the Busbys. She quickly packed a change of dress and some underclothes. She had promised Smithers the whole night. If he insisted on that, she would have to go straight to work for the Busbys the next morning.

Martin Smithers was already waiting at the back door of the inn when Lizzie cautiously knocked. He succeeded in sneaking her into his room, unseen by the innkeeper, without difficulty. Lizzie sighed with relief. She would have died of embarrassment if the old lady who managed the inn caught her with a guest. Smithers wanted Lizzie to wear only her apron, and he found it exceedingly arousing when she obliged. Lizzie just prayed all of this would pass without further incident, and without pregnancy. Lizzie had stopped noting her monthly cycle but hoped not to be in her most dangerous days. Still, she would douche herself afterward—something she used to do as a matter of course—just to be on the safe side.