Captive Wife, The by Fiona Kidman Page B

for luck, not the mourning brooch that is shared by all the family, but the one she held onto after the fall, when my grandfather lost his money and land.
    The brooch is made of gold filigree and cloisonné enamelling. My mother and my aunt both eye it as if it should belong to one of them (though, goodness knows, they would have fought over it) but Granny gave it to me and I will always hold it fast. By good fortune, I left it behind on my last voyage to Sydney, otherwise it would be lost in the bush that lines the coast of Taranaki. My capture took place, not on the way to Sydney, as many have supposed, but when the ship went aground on our way home to New Zealand. I have always kept a good wardrobe at our Sydney house so that I don’t have to carry my town clothes back and forth across the Tasman. There is little call forfancy clothes in New Zealand, not on a whaling station. All the same, I hadn’t meant to leave Granny’s brooch behind me when I was here for Louisa’s christening. I was in a panic when I first discovered it left behind, for Charlotte cannot be trusted to keep her fingers out of my belongings. But as I often wear it, I suppose she never thought to look.
    I feel dashing today, my outfit finished off with the silk scarf and bonnet I bought last year.
    I have brought Miss Malcolm a gift of a paua shell, shaped like a small dish. The outside is rough but the inside is like luminous blue and green mother of pearl, streaked in swirling lines of pink and silver.
    â€˜It is so beautiful,’ she exclaims. ‘This is a jewel of a shell. I hope it didn’t cost you a great deal.’
    I laugh. ‘There are thousands of them to be had around the coast of New Zealand,’ I say. ‘The flesh of the shellfish is black and like a steak. It leaves the strong taste of the sea upon your breath.’
    She continues to sit and wonder over the shell. ‘Such blue. A passionate blue,’ she murmurs, her voice quivering. After a further exchange of pleasantries, and discussions about the weather, she uncovers a prepared tea tray and goes to fetch some hot water. I hear her voice down the passage, low and insistent, as if she is having words with someone.
    I have time to look around the pretty room, which I couldn’t take in at all on my first visit. Though it is nicely decorated, it is a little shabby as if it hasn’t had much attention beside cleaning for a long time. A portrait of a lady hangs above the mantelpiece. The woman is very fine-boned with one of those big straight noses, Roman I think they’re called, and a look of pathos. She reminds me of Mrs Ivy Kentish who came to stay at our whaling station once and spent her whole stay with us in tears. So she had been shipwrecked and it was all a misery, but you learn to make do with what you’ve got, and at least she was alive. I could see this woman in the picture carrying on just the same, fainting andfluttering her eyelids when she came around, and jumping horses without falling off. They’re tougher than they make out, women like that, not my kind at all.
    Miss Malcolm follows my eyes to the painting. ‘My dear friend Emmeline,’ she says, as she pours water into the teapot. ‘We are out of mourning here, officially that is, but all of us still mourn her in our hearts.’
    I wonder if Emmeline would still be mourning Miss Malcolm if things were the other way round but I do not say this of course. This explains the run-down front room, the rubbed fabric of the chairs. No point in giving her the name of a good upholsterer; Miss Malcolm is simply a servant in this house, even if she appears to have the running of it.
    As I sit there, I’m aware that she is waiting for me to make some startling revelation. She too, has dressed carefully, as if for company. Her gown is of dull oyster satin, the neckline filled by a lace collar that frills about her throat.
    But I have nothing to say to Miss