I. The Arrival
The morning of 24 November 1844
She and their belongings are delivered as ceremoniously as possible under the circumstances, she supposes. The sailors stand together on the beach in a rare few moments of idleness, talking and laughing amongst themselves, at the far edge of her field of vision. Too far away for her to make out what they are saying. A few stand back from the group to relieve themselves, and she turns her eyes quickly away.
How easy things are for men, to be a man, she thought, not for the first time, and not only in that way. She and Gracie would have to make their way to someplace discreet and squat behind a bush, and soon, mindful of soiling their lovely but cumbersome layers of skirts and petticoats, with one or the other standing lookout so no one would see them in such a delicate and undignified state.
"Come," she says, holding out her hand to her daughter, and picking up their skirts a bit, she and Gracie make their way across the beach, trudging through the sand.
She is a little unsteady on her feet; dazed and still a little queasy from the long and arduous sea journey from Port Glasgow to New Zealand, the Clipper route, the ship crossing the equator at Saint Peter and Paul Rocks, and rounding the Cape of Good Hope, as far south as they dared take her for the advantage of the push of the strong Roaring Forties westerly winds, whilst also avoiding the potential danger of icebergs. She is twenty-seven; soon to be twenty-eight. To its destination of Blind Bay, or Te Tai-o-Aorere in the indigenous language; and she is helped down to one of the ship's tenders to be taken ashore by the British ship's crew, and then carried on the sailors' shoulders as if on a palanquin, set down gently on the beach at Wharariki as if she were a delicate, fragile thing. And then the same for her daughter.
The ship is named the Aventurine. A sparkling green gemstone. From the Italian a ventura; meaning by chance, a happy accident, good fortune. A grand adventure.
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 she bounds and pitches through the water, or in its aquamarine wake. The quickening of her heart when she hears the cries of innumerable seabirds as they approach land, the ports of call, the sight of sleek fur seals and sea lions basking or frolicking in the waves, their barks carried by the water, and the little blue penguins, all along the rocky coast headlands and inlets. She writes of it daily, in letters and in a journal, from the mahogany lap desk in the small passenger cabin that she shares with her daughter. The desk had belonged to her father, to whom she still writes.
Sometimes when her daughter is snugly asleep in her berth, she secures the door, and, wrapping herself in her hand-embroidered quilt from home, a wedding gift and part of her trousseau, she steals up to the deck at night for a few moments to watch the starlit, glimmering waters, that sometimes glow in a phosphorescence of their own as the ship's passing stirs the waves.
The sea. How might Werner's have described its colour? She'd tucked a copy of the slim volume in with her books and belongings, the cases covered with oilcloth to protect them from water damage on the voyage, and it was one of the few she had retrieved and kept with her in her cabin. Werner's Nomenclature of Colours, the very same book that had informed Charles Darwin's observations on his remarkable scientific expedition. To her, her voyage is remarkable as well.
Dark ultramarine blue, blue-greens, blue-greys, the silty, milky turquoise of a glacial lake, a luminous ink black at night, so many different colours and moods; but her favorite was the colour of the seas in shallow waters, with the sandy seafloor visible beneath. Verdigris, the color of copper turned a particular green by exposure to the air and seawater, the colour of the tail of the tropical Small Long-tailed Parrot. Or perhaps Verditer Blue, the aqua tint of ore as clear as crystal, of water slipping through her fingers when she would reach over and trail them through it.
This new place is frightening, but impossibly beautiful. She squeezes her daughter's hand in hers. The sea and land are powerful and unspoiled, the mountains and rocky cliffs sheer and green, draped in cool mist. The surf rolls and booms all around them, and the air smells of the sea.
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 point of origin, and destination.
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 reluctantly agrees, returning with the crew to the longboat, and then they are alone.
It is an engagement, of a sort. She and her husband-to-be have only ever seen each other in a daguerreotype photograph, sent with one of the few letters of correspondence that have acquainted them. 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.
The next morning, he arrives with a procession of men, women and children to greet her and help her with her things; some his hired hands from the mine, 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 soft 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 scowling, and the group heads for the crates and boxes. Yes, she is exhausted; as if she could fall asleep on her feet right there and then. She picks up and carries the valise she had taken on board with her in one hand, taking her daughter's hand in her other. The surf surges over their boots. She calls out to them.
"Please, be careful with it!"
She can hear the tightness in her voice, the desperation.
"Mr. Marston!"