I. The Arrival
The morning of 24 November 1856
She and their belongings are delivered as ceremoniously as possible under the circumstances. She is a little unsteady on her feet; dazed and a little queasy from the long and arduous sea journey from Port Glasgow to New Zealand, the Clipper route, crossing the equator at Saint Peter and Paul Rocks, and rounding the Cape of Good Hope, to its destination of Blind Bay, or Te Tai-o-Aorere in the indigenous language; and she is helped down to the ship's tender to be taken ashore by the British ship's crew, and then carried on their shoulders as if on a palanquin, set down gently on the beach as if she were a delicate, fragile thing. The ship is named the Aventurine. It has been nearly three months; eighty-five days, and the voyage has been a marvel, with whale sightings, Fitzroy's dolphins leaping through the waves created by the ship's bow as it pitches through the water, or in its aquamarine wake, and the cries of innumerable seabirds as they approach land, the ports of call. She writes of it daily, in letters and in a journal. Her many boxes and trunks have been all laid out on the beach, and her piano is in a crate stenciled with her name and destination.
This new place is frightening, but impossibly beautiful. The sea and land are powerful and unspoiled, the mountains and rocky cliffs sheer and green, draped in mist. The surf rolls and booms all around them.
The ship's captain asks her if she is sure; they could take her directly on to the settlement of Nelson with some of the other passengers, but she tells him no, thank you; she prefers to wait for her husband-to-be to come and collect her right there, as arranged. It appears he has been delayed by weather. She has to speak up loudly to be heard over the roar of the surf and wind. He looks at her in disbelief, shaking his head; but agrees.
She and her husband-to-be have only ever seen each other in daguerreotype photographs. Her daughter is illegitimate, and he has agreed to accept them both. She can only guess that her father may well have wanted to be rid of his problem daughter and her disregard for societal conventions elsewhere. But she is not ashamed of anything she has done, or that she has loved. But all of that is in the past now and she intends to look forward.
He arrives with a procession of men, women and children to greet her; some are indigenous Māori, to help carry her belongings up to the house. She smiles; how lovely. He looks at her. She feels as though she is being appraised, as livestock, chattel - and perhaps found wanting. She then hears him speak with one of the men, a man whom he calls Marston, who answers him in what she recognizes as a slight Scottish burr.
She worries that the tide will be coming in farther soon and that her piano will be damaged, swept away.
"I'm sure she must be tired after such a long journey." Marston says, gruff, and the group heads for the crates and boxes.
"Please, be careful with it!" She can hear the tightness in her voice, the desperation.
"Mr. Marston!"