Chapter Twenty-Four
Hallie
On Saturday, my plane lands in Tauranga just before twelve.
I take an Uber out to the Williams’s house, arriving around 12:20. Isabel herself opens the door, which surprises me.
“Hello, Hallie,” she says, holding out her hand. I shake it, my gaze skimming over her. Today she’s wearing jeans and a white shirt. Her hair is pinned up, and she has big gold hoops in her ears. She looks wealthy but relaxed, and I’m relieved that she smiles at me as she moves back to let me pass her.
“I thought a butler was going to open the door,” I say with a laugh. “Like in Downton Abbey.”
She chuckles and leads the way along the corridor. “I think the gardener’s out there somewhere, but otherwise it’s just me here today.”
“No Adam?”
“Adam’s at work, and he doesn’t live here, anyway. He has a house in Tauranga with his wife and kids.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that.”
She nods, turning into the kitchen. “Adam was keen to find somewhere of his own, and he was happy to let me have the house. I’ve always been the one interested in the family history, anyway.”
The kitchen is large, with many modern appliances, but it’s easy to see how old it is. The ceilings are high, with exposed wooden beams, and the polished kauri floorboards are slightly worn. There’s an original fireplace, complete with a large, cast-iron range, but it doesn’t look as if it’s in use now, so it must just be for decoration. Tall sash windows let in lots of natural light and reveal a gorgeous view of the gardens beyond. The bench is marble, though, and I think the brass handles of the dark-green cabinets are new, even though they’re based on nineteenth-century ones. There’s a modern gas range, but old copper pots still hang from hooks above it.
A weathered wooden table stands in the center of the room surrounded by four chairs. On it, two plates face each other, along with a bowl of salad and a plate of what smells like homemade bread.
“I thought we could have some lunch here,” Isabel says. “Is that okay?”
“Yes, that would be great.”
“Do you want tea or coffee? Or I’ve made some sparkling feijoa and apple cooler in the fridge?”
“Mmm, that sounds nice.”
I take a seat as she puts ice in two tall glasses, then pours the drink from a jug over the ice and brings the glasses to the table. She takes a seat opposite me, and gestures at the salad. “It’s manuka-smoked chicken—you’re not vegetarian?”
“No. It looks lovely. And the bread smells amazing.”
“I baked it a few hours ago.”
I smile as I help myself to the salad. “You sound as if you’ve had a very satisfying morning.”
She butters a slice of the bread. “I have to admit that I do have a cook come in a few times a week, but I enjoy cooking myself, too.”
“Do you work at all?”
“Not now. I was a lawyer, but I had time off a few years ago after I had a hysterectomy and decided not to go back. I’m on lots of committees, and I’m usually quite busy.”
“You’re married, right?”
“Yes, Alastair is a lawyer, too.”
“You have children?”
“Two boys and one girl. Well, they’re all grown now. Ellie is expecting our first grandchild, so that’s exciting.”
I smile. “It’s obvious how important your family is to you. It’s no wonder that you feel so strongly about its history.”
She cuts up her chicken, then gives a little sigh. “My father told us lots of stories when we were young about our ancestors, including Henry Williams and his role in the signing of the Treaty, and Richard and Pania’s love story. And this house has been central to that family for so long. I feel as if they left part of their souls here. Certainly their memories remain. I can feel them when I walk through the house, especially when it’s dark and quiet.” She gives me an embarrassed look. “That must sound crazy to you.”
“Oh God, no. It’s one reason I love working in the museum. I imagine I can feel the hopes and dreams of all the people who once owned the artifacts inside it.”
She smiles at our shared madness, and we have a few mouthfuls of our salad.
Eventually, though, as if she’s been weighing up whether she’s going to go ahead with this, she comes to a decision and puts down her cutlery. “Whina called me,” she says. “She asked me to meet with you. She begged me out of respect for her long history with my father to see you, and I agreed. I don’t know why you’re here; I can only imagine it’s to ask me again to give the letters to the museum, and maybe to hand over the paintings. I have to say, I have no intention of changing my mind.”
“I understand, and I respect that.” I take a deep breath. “First of all, I want to talk to you about Fraser.”
Her expression hardens. She picks up her fork, and she jabs it into her salad.
“I know he upset you several times,” I say softly. “And one of those times was because we intruded on your private property. Isabel, I want to apologize from the bottom of my heart for that.”
She stares at her salad. Then she lifts her gaze to mine. To my surprise, her lips curve up, just a little. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself,” she says.
Her tone is a little snarky, but also holds some humor, and so I take a risk and start laughing, and to my relief she joins in.
“That was very cheeky of you both,” she says. “But I was young once, so I do understand.”
“I didn’t know where he was leading me,” I admit, “but once I realized I should have told him off and left the room.”
“Young love,” she says.
“I believe Richard and Pania did something similar once.”
That does make her smile. “That’s true.”
“I assumed when Whina found out about us that you were the one who told her, but she said that Wiremu from the Bay of Plenty Archaeology Group is her brother-in-law, and that’s how she found out. I wanted to take this opportunity to say thank you for not telling her.”
“I wouldn’t have done that,” she says stiffly. “He’s your boss, isn’t he?”
I blush. “Yes.”
“Is your relationship a long-term thing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “He says he’s in love with me.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Yes,” I say shyly. I don’t want to talk to her about my love life, though. “It’s one reason I wanted to come here,” I say, determined to draw the conversation back to the museum. “I wanted to plead his case. I know that he’s come across as arrogant and overconfident, but he’s really not like that at all. The thing is… he’s got himself into a bit of a pickle with the museum.”
“Oh?”
“He’s an amazing fundraiser. He’s raised millions for the museum. I don’t know if you’ve ever been there, but he’s turned it from a stuffy old building into a modern work of art. He’s worked so hard. He’s the smartest guy I know, and the most generous. He wants to rebuild the west wing of the museum, and he’s had a top architect draw up the most amazing plans. He applied for a whole bunch of big grants and got them… but one by one they’ve all fallen through—the Penguin Community Trust, The New Zealand Creative Arts Association, the Taonga grant…”
“Yes, I heard about them,” she says. “I didn’t realize your museum was one of those affected.”
“We also had a storm in December that caused a ceiling to leak which damaged some exhibits. Fraser had to divert money to restore it. And he made the mistake of giving the go ahead to rebuild the west wing before the funds were secured.”
She leans back in her chair. “Oh…”
“He’d already met your father, and Sebastian had told him of his plans to donate the letters, as well as a significant sum of money. So at the time, Fraser had all this money coming in. But they’ve all fallen through, one by one. And so when your father died, it was the straw that broke the… well, you understand. He was very upset, by the way, and not just because of the money. He said Sebastian was a great guy, honest and down-to-earth.”
“So he must be under significant stress.”
“He is. And then, while we were in Tauranga, we… you know… and unfortunately it has only added to his problems because we work together.”
Isabel pokes at her salad. “I feel for him a bit more now. But it still doesn’t change my view. I don’t want the letters or the paintings made public. My family is too precious to me.”
“I understand. Whina and I talked about this, and we came up with a solution I’d like to put to you. Your father had already loaned most of the letters to Rupert Hemingway for his book on conservation, plus the letters are on permanent display here in the house, so I’m guessing the family doesn’t object to them being public per se . It’s the fact that one of the letters talks about more portraits, and the manner in which they were painted?”
She nods slowly.
I take a deep breath. “What if the museum agrees not to display or publish the specific letter that references the paintings? Instead, we would focus on Richard and Pania’s love story, as well as its historical significance, without drawing attention to the more intimate artwork. We’re holding a Valentine’s Day exhibition, and I think the letters could play a central role in the display. They’re a wonderful example of two cultures coming together, and of the power that love can have even when families have cultural and religious differences. That way everyone would get to see these really important historical documents, but we would be able to preserve your family’s legacy the way you wanted. We’d be willing to sign a legal agreement ensuring that the twelfth letter remained private, if you wish.”
She looks out of the window, at the garden. I drop my gaze to my salad and eat a piece of the chicken. I want to beg her, but I can’t force her to accept. I can only hope that my heartfelt plea has convinced her.
“Dad loved history and archaeology,” she says, her voice distant. “He told me about meeting Fraser.”
My eyebrows rise. “Oh, really?”
“He said he’d met this young guy who’d spoken so passionately about his objection to private collections. He admired Fraser a lot. Dad was very old school, and he knew he could be intimidating, but Fraser tackled him head on, and he wasn’t afraid to argue with him.” Her gaze comes back to me. “It shocked me, though, that Dad had changed his mind. Those last few weeks before he died, he had a serious bladder infection, and he struggled to remain lucid. He talked a lot about the state of cultural relations in this country, and said we should be open about our past, even though it might mean calling unwanted attention to ourselves. He’d never said anything like that before, and I assumed it was the infection talking.”
“But now you think it wasn’t?”
“Maybe.” She has a sip of her drink. “What about the paintings? They would have been very risqué at the time, and I think they still have the power to be inflammatory. I’m reluctant to let those go, too.”
My pulse races. It sounds as if she’s actually considering giving us the letters. “That would be up to you. If you did want to loan us the paintings, we could work with you to write display boards that were sensitive to the cultural and religious issues of the day. I understand that you don’t want to cause problems for your family. But in the end, you’re not to blame for the actions of your ancestors.”
“That’s a very na?ve view,” she says with some amusement. “Don’t you think we have a responsibility toward the way our ancestors’ actions are perceived?”
I frown, pushing my salad around my plate. Then, finally, I put down my fork. “I’m going to tell you something,” I say slowly. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t repeat it to anyone.”
“Of course.”
“I’m in witness protection because, twenty years ago, my father raped and murdered eleven young women.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God.”
“I’ve spent twenty years feeling as if I need to atone for what he did.”
“You weren’t responsible,” she protests. “Of course you weren’t.”
Then she stares at me. Her lips gradually curve up. “I see,” she says.
“I think we’re very similar,” I admit. “I think we’re both very sensitive, and we can feel the ripples of what our ancestors did all the way through the years. I knew I wasn’t to blame for what my father did, but I still bear the wounds of his actions, the same way I think you bear the wounds of what you think people will interpret Richard’s actions to have been. But maybe it’s time we came to terms with it. That we allow ourselves to heal. And that we feel confident to show others that our ancestors’ actions don’t reflect on us personally.”
Her gaze scans my face, and her eyes have lost their iciness. “You’re very wise, considering you’re so young,” she says softly.
I laugh and eat a piece of chicken. “I don’t know about that.”
She puts down her cutlery. “Would you like to see the other paintings?”
My eyes light up. “Oh yes, I’d love to.”
“Come on, then.”
We rise, and she leads me out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Pania looks down at me from her portrait, and I imagine I can see a mischievous smile on her face.
Isabel goes past the cabinet containing the letters and over to the far wall. She feels along the bottom of the batons and clicks a few buttons, then opens up the panels right across the wall, revealing six paintings of Pania. In all of them she’s baring her shoulders or her legs, and of course she’s very young.
“They would have been very risqué at the time,” Isabel whispers.
“True,” I reply. “But Richard’s letters held so much love. They were married for many years, weren’t they?”
“Yes, and they had seven children and fifteen grandchildren.”
“He loved her,” I say. “And physical and sexual attraction is a huge part of love. Yes, she was young, but not by the standards of his day. One of the first rules of studying history is that we have to learn not to judge the past by today’s standards.”
“That’s true.”
“They’re magnificent pieces of art.” I move closer, looking at the brushwork, and the way he’s managed to capture the folds of the material in her dress, the intricacies of the lace, and the beauty of her skin with its tattoo. “It’s almost a crime to keep them locked away like this.”
Isabel stands beside me, looking up at them. “I know what you mean. Do you believe the same as Fraser, that private collections are wrong?”
“No, not wrong. I mean, Māori view treasures or taonga as belonging to the iwi rather than an individual, don’t they? They believe items hold mana , and their connection to taonga is deeply spiritual and genealogical. Taonga are to be guarded and protected, and held in trust for future generations.”
She gives me a look, apparently appreciative of what I’ve said. “That’s true.”
“So in that sense, you are the guardian or kaitiaki of these paintings, protecting them for your children and your new grandchild. I feel that what’s most important is that they’re treated with the proper respect, rather than where they actually reside. So maybe, if you did decide to donate them to the museum, just like with the letters, we could work together to ensure they were displayed in the correct cultural context, with an explanation of life at the time, and how Pakeha and Māori—and Protestant and Catholic—families put aside their differences in order to bring these two young people together, because they were so in love. Surely that’s something to be celebrated, not criticized?”
Isabel smiles. “I don’t know if Whina is aware of what an asset you are to the museum. Its very own taonga .”
I blush again. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
“You are a real treasure, Hallie, a young woman with a huge heart. Look, can you give me the weekend to think about it? I’ll call Whina soon and let her know my decision.”
“Of course. I appreciate that you were kind enough to see me.”
She smiles. “Why don’t we finish our lunch, and then maybe I’ll take you on a tour of the garden, if you’re not in a rush to get back?”
“My flight isn’t until four.”
“Come on then, and you can tell me all about Mr. Bell and just why you light up like a Christmas tree every time you say his name.”