Kitty

By Deborah Challinor

When 18-year-old Kitty Carlisle's father dies unexpectedly in Norfolk in 1838, Kitty and her mother are left impoverished. After Kitty is discovered in a compromising position with an unscrupulous adventurer, her reputation is left in shreds. In desperation, her mother banishes Kitty to the colonies in disgrace, under the guardianship of her dour missionary uncle and his long-suffering wife. Against the backdrop of the wild and unruly Bay of Islands in the period leading up to the signing of the treaty of Waitangi, Kitty meets and falls in love with Ryan Farrell, a rude, aloof and atheistic ships captain. When she discovers he is also a gun runner, her loyalties are torn and her tempestuous nature leads to an estrangement. the path to true love is tortuous, involving rampaging Maori war parties, illicit sexual liaisons and incarceration in Sydney's Hyde Park Barracks, forgery, betrayal and death at sea. A tempestuous romance and a lively adventure with a fiery and memorable heroine, Kitty is a stand-alone novel, with potential as an ongoing saga of love and adventure on the high seas in the Pacific of the 1800s, by one of our leading historical novelists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Feb 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730401360

Deborah Challinor

Deborah Challinor has a PhD in history and is the author of numerous bestselling novels, including the Children of War series, the Convict Girls series, the Smuggler's Wife series and the Restless Years series. She has also written one young adult novel and two non-fiction books. In 2018, Deborah was made a member of the New Zealand Order of Merit for services to literature and historical research. She lives in New Zealand with her husband.

Book preview

Part One

New Zealand

Chapter One

Paihia, New Zealand, February 1839

Kitty Carlisle didn’t know it, but this was the turning point in her life. Not the humiliating shambles of what had gone before, but this—the convergence of a heaving, boundless ocean, an alien shore and the promise of unimagined encounters.

She leant against the bulwark of the Swordfish, her long black skirts clamped between her thighs to discourage the wind from snatching them and revealing her underthings to anyone who cared to look. Her hands were braced on the smooth rail to counter the slow roll of the sea, even though the ship had come to anchor, and her ears still rang from the musket volley fired a minute ago to alert the missionaries on shore of their arrival. She counted at least a dozen other ships anchored in the choppy harbour, almost all whalers and most with their sails tightly furled. It was summer here, so the whalemen said, but the weather today was grey, although it wasn’t at all cold, and a thick wind bullied everything in its path.

The Swordfish, a solid, smelly, square-rigged whaler, had set sail from Sydney Cove thirteen days ago. The vessel that had brought Kitty, and her Aunt Sarah and Uncle George Kelleher, from England to Australia had been delayed in Sydney for unexpected repairs, and the alternative had been a whaling ship or nothing at all for another six weeks. George, a minister with the Church Missionary Society, had been keen to press on, so the Swordfish it had been, despite his wife’s protests at the uncouth company she and Kitty would have to endure during the voyage. Kitty suspected her aunt’s resistance had more to do with wanting to put off another sea journey for as long as possible, as she’d been as sick as a dog almost all the way from England, but as usual Uncle George had had his way.

Kitty herself hadn’t suffered even a moment’s seasickness and had in fact enjoyed the months at sea, in spite of how wretched she felt about everything that had happened at home. She had been soothed by the motion of the ship, exhilarated by the snap of canvas and rigging soaring above her, and enchanted by the constantly changing hues of ocean and sky as they blurred into an endless horizon.

But now they had finally arrived in New Zealand and the Bay of Islands was living up to its name. They had passed more than a score of islands on their way into this deep, ruggedly beautiful harbour this morning, the captain rattling off their exotic names in what was evidently the language of the native Maoris, but already Kitty had forgotten them. The hills and shores and valleys of this untamed country were undoubtedly magnificent, but now they were here she felt more like an inmate on a convict ship in Sydney Cove than a young woman about to begin an adventurous new life.

They were currently anchored between two settlements, Paihia on the western shore and Kororareka on the eastern. Neither looked like much to Kitty, although there were noticeably more European-style buildings at Kororareka. Paihia, however, appeared considerably tidier, its few buildings surrounded by paling fences and neat gardens that ran back to the base of the bush-covered hills directly behind the tiny settlement. There were also the most spectacular big trees draped with what, from this distance, looked just like vibrant red shawls.

Captain Monk, master of the Swordfish, came to stand beside her.

‘Why is Paihia nice and tidy, Captain Monk, but the village on the other side of the bay a complete hotchpotch?’ she said, avoiding pronouncing the name Kororareka because she was bound to mangle it.

‘That, Miss Carlisle,’ the captain said in apparent earnestness, ‘is because God resides at Paihia while the Devil is commonly known to reign over Kororareka.’ He laughed loudly at her shocked expression, his grin almost splitting his heavily bearded face in half. ‘Ask your missionary friends when you disembark—I’m sure they’ll tell you.’

‘When are we to disembark?’ Kitty said, ignoring his obvious mirth. She quite liked Captain Monk, although Aunt Sarah had told her not to speak to him, but she never knew when he was teasing her and when he wasn’t. ‘And where is the quay?’ she added.

‘Quay? I’m afraid there is no quay, Miss Carlisle.’

‘Well, then, how are we to go ashore?’

‘You’ll row.’

‘I will?’

Again the captain erupted into what Kitty considered was unnecessarily hearty laughter. ‘No, no,’ he said, still grinning as though to imply what a jolly jape that would be. ‘I couldn’t let such a genteel party as yours loose on the seas alone. Two of my men will take you in shortly. Do you have all your bits and bobs packed?’

Kitty nodded. ‘I think so. My aunt was just finishing when I came up on deck.’

‘Good,’ Captain Monk replied. Stimulating though it had been having the comely Miss Carlisle on board for the last fortnight, he would be glad to see the back of all three of his impromptu passengers. Then he and his crew, who had been under strict orders to behave, could relax again. ‘I’ll have the boats lowered,’ he added, and strode off across the deck, yelling at the top of his voice.

Kitty found her aunt sitting in their cramped, airless cabin, surrounded by pieces of luggage, her face in the dim light the palest green of an apple cucumber.

‘It won’t be long now, Aunt Sarah,’ she said. ‘Captain Monk is having the boats lowered to take us in.’

Sarah started in alarm. ‘Can we not disembark at the quay?’ She had always been a slight woman, but was even thinner now after nearly five months at sea, and her features were pinched with fatigue.

‘There isn’t a quay, apparently. We’ll have to be rowed into shore.’

Sarah closed her eyes. Kitty knew what she must be thinking—coming all this way in two creaking, dripping ships had been gruelling enough, but now it seemed she would also have to endure crouching in a tiny boat only inches above the waves before she could finally set foot on dry land. Her aunt was terrified of the ocean and must surely have realised by now that she would never manage the trip back to England, no matter how much she might yearn to make it.

‘Are you ready, then?’ Kitty asked, giving her aunt a deliberately sympathetic look in the hope that she might, even at this late hour, care to unburden some of her misery.

But Sarah, her mouth pressed shut in unhappy resignation, appeared not to notice. She drew her shawl more tightly across her tense shoulders and nodded.

‘Shall I ask Captain Monk to have our trunks taken out on deck?’

‘No, Kitty, you will ask your uncle to ask the captain to have our trunks taken out. There’s no need for you to speak to Captain Monk if it’s not strictly necessary.’

Kitty almost smiled. That was her aunt all over—queasy with seasickness and frightened at the prospect of riding in a small boat, but still worried about propriety.

In the end two boats were lowered, one for the disembarking passengers and their personal belongings, the other for the larger items they had brought out with them. The boats weren’t that small after all, much to Sarah’s relief and Kitty’s disappointment; the harbour was quite rough and she’d been looking forward to the excitement of being hurled about while heading into shore. They were whaleboats, designed to chase, harpoon and tow the huge ocean-going creatures back to the Swordfish, and, although light, were still sturdy and remarkably steady in the water.

There was, however, also the matter of getting off the ship and into the whaleboat. Kitty experienced a moment of pure terror as the rope ladder she was negotiating—a very difficult thing to do while also holding onto your bonnet and skirts, even though the two whalemen in the boat below were looking away to preserve her modesty—swung wildly out over the water in one direction while the ship lurched in the other, but she managed the manoeuvre without hurting herself or compromising her dignity.

Uncle George, his black hat jammed firmly over his bony temples, also descended without mishap. Aunt Sarah, however, suffered a severe attack of nerves while waiting at the bulwark, and had to be strapped into a wooden-backed chair, which was lowered by rope and caught at the bottom, her eyes squeezed steadfastly shut against the horror of the looming waves.

As the whalemen struck out for Paihia, various items of furniture were loaded into a cargo net attached to a derrick on the Swordfish’s deck, swung out over the bulwark and lowered into the second whaleboat, which would follow them in. When she had seen that everything was safely stowed, Kitty turned to face the front again, squinting against sea spray as the whalemen hit their stride and the buildings and fences on shore drew closer and closer.

And then she saw them. They were still only figures on the beach, now climbing into canoes and setting out towards the whaleboats, but even from a distance Kitty knew she had never encountered anyone like them in her life. Here they were at last, the Maori people she had been hearing so much about. She waited in fascinated silence as a canoe drew near the whaleboats. Two more, both containing several young women, skimmed straight past, heading for the Swordfish. Kitty swivelled on her seat and, forgetting her manners completely, had a good long stare at the occupants of the vessel that was coming alongside.

Eight men were paddling the long, slender canoe, while a ninth stood in the centre, apparently completely at ease with the rolling of the sea, gazing boldly back at her through what looked horribly like a single eye. They all had dark skins and bushy black hair, which some wore to shoulder length and others had drawn up in a topknot. Their clothes were a combination of European garments and what Kitty assumed was the native garb—some sort of short skirt fastened around their middles. Several were naked from the waist up, their bulging muscles rippling as they held their paddles aloft. As she continued to stare, one of the whalemen barked a few guttural native words, making her jump. The upright Maori man inclined his head then gave a command and they were off again, paddles slicing deftly into the waves, heading out towards the Swordfish.

‘Ferocious-looking, aren’t they?’ the whaleman said, obviously enjoying the expression on Kitty’s face.

‘Er, yes,’ Kitty agreed. ‘Quite frightening.’

‘Frightening or not,’ Uncle George said, fixing her with one of his stern looks, ‘they are God’s creatures, and we have been sent here to convert them to the ways of Christianity and offer them redemption, a better and more glorious way of life, and the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Kitty looked away, avoiding the whaleman’s eye and trying not to smile. Even if Uncle George only said ‘Pass the salt’, it sounded like a sermon.

They sat in silence after that, Aunt Sarah still gripping the gunwale of the whaleboat with both hands, her knuckles sharp and white, watching as the pale shore drew nearer. Then suddenly they were through the waves, and a second later the whaleboat shuddered as it grounded on a shelly beach, the garrulous whaleman proclaiming, ‘Shore close aboard, all out!’

Kitty, however, wasn’t listening. Her attention was claimed totally by the sight of a black-haired giant, his dark face marked with heavy black lines and whorls, striding determinedly down the beach towards them, followed by a phalanx of skipping, twittering children, both brown and fair-skinned. She rose to her feet, whether as an automatic reflex or to run away, she wasn’t sure, but, grinning maniacally, the giant splashed into the shallows and scooped her out of the whaleboat with enormous, heavily muscled arms. She let out a small shriek and hit him across the side of the head as hard as she could.

Behind her, Aunt Sarah gave a squeak of fear.

The huge Maori stopped smiling immediately, dropped Kitty without ceremony and took several steps backwards. ‘Beg pardon,’ he said in a voice as deep as distant thunder.

Kitty landed on her hands and knees in a foot of water, her bonnet jarring down over her nose and her skirts taking flight over her back in the strong wind. Her embarrassment quickly turned to mortification as she felt, through the gap in her linen drawers, a tickle of fresh air on bare skin. Even worse, she thought she heard one of the whalemen give a muffled exclamation of appreciation.

But before she could do anything about it, a pair of long, scuffed sea-boots appeared in front of her. She took a second to wrench her skirts down, then looked slowly up past the brown leather of the boots to the off-white moleskin trousers tucked into them, then to a faded, open-necked blue serge shirt and, finally, into the face of their wearer. He was a European and he was laughing his head off. But, in his favour, he did lean down and offer her his hand.

Shoving her bonnet back where it belonged, Kitty grasped his wrist and heaved herself out of the water, her heavy, sopping skirts clinging to her legs as she struggled to her feet.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, her face burning. How indescribably rude of him to laugh!

Still grinning, the man replied, ‘My pleasure, madam.’ There was a melodic touch of Irish in his accent.

Kitty, her sleeves soaked to the elbows and her legs itching already from the seawater, glared at him. Then suddenly, and for no apparent reason at all, she felt her fur crackle. This was a phrase that her grandmama—long dead, and known in her old age for her colourful and increasingly eccentric ways—had occasionally used, and Kitty couldn’t think of a better description for the uncomfortable prickling just beneath the surface of her goosepimpled skin.

The man was solidly built and a little above average height. His hair, tied back in a short queue, was the colour of ripe wheat, although his brows, sideburns and the stubble on his chin were darker. A slightly crooked nose nearly dominated his sun-weathered face, his eyes glinted an intelligent, silvery grey, and laughter lines bracketed his mouth. Fairly ordinary, Kitty thought, but moderately attractive if you liked that windswept sort of look—which she didn’t, especially if it was accompanied by a character as discourteous as this man’s obviously was.

A strangled squawk from the whaleboat caught her attention: Uncle George was attempting, not entirely successfully, to lift Aunt Sarah out of the boat and carry her up the beach. The fair-haired man stepped forward and intervened, taking Sarah from her husband as though she were no heavier than a feather, which actually wasn’t far from the truth, then setting her gently down on the sand.

‘Thank you, young man,’ Sarah said, staggering slightly and straightening her bonnet. She looked vastly relieved to be on dry land at last. ‘Forgive me, but you are…?’

But before the man could answer, a woman with a flushed face and wisps of ginger hair escaping from her house cap hurried down the beach towards them.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Reverend Kelleher, I presume? We weren’t sure exactly when you’d be arriving. My boy Albert just ran up and told me. If we’d known…’

Uncle George raised a calming hand. ‘No harm done I’m sure, even though we did sound the volley. The Lord has regardless seen fit to deliver us safely, Mrs, er…’

‘Purcell, Rebecca Purcell. My husband is one of the missionaries here. Good heavens,’ Rebecca said, catching sight of Kitty, ‘you’ve had a soaking, haven’t you? Come on, come up to the house, I’ve just put the kettle on.’

Kitty looked around for the man in the sea-boots, but he’d gone.

Chapter Two

Slumped against the head of the narrow iron bed, Kitty squeezed her eyes shut against the seeping tears. She had done her best on the voyage out—trying to stay cheerful despite the enormous, unthinkable turn her life had taken, pretending that she was at least resigned to becoming a missionary if not delighted about it, determinedly pushing all thoughts of Hugh’s betrayal to the back of her mind. But the most difficult thing of all had been hiding how much she missed her mother. And her father. She had barely accepted that he’d gone for ever and now she had lost Mama as well. Aunt Sarah had been so ill that Kitty hadn’t wanted to burden her with her own misery, and Uncle George, well, Uncle George just wasn’t the sort of person you confided in, even if he was a minister.

So she was lonely, and homesick, and more than a little apprehensive about her new life, and the incident with the huge Maori man had been the last straw. She was uncomfortably aware that when she’d found herself on her hands and knees in the water, she had come frighteningly close to bursting into tears in front of everyone.

But she’d managed not to cry, and that was the important thing. Her father had always told her that well-reared young ladies never wept in public; she never had and would not start now. Instead, she’d waited until Rebecca Purcell had shown her to her temporary room, and only when the door had closed behind her did she allow herself to collapse on the bed and sob her heart out. Now, she had a grinding headache, and knew she must look an absolute sight.

When a discreet knock came at the door she sat up in alarm, furiously wiping tears from her cheeks and fluffing her ringlets, which had gone all flat from lying on them.

‘Come in,’ she said, her voice hoarse.

The door creaked open and Rebecca Purcell popped her head into the room. ‘Feeling a little more rested, dear?’

‘Yes, thank you, Mrs Purcell.’

There was a short silence while Rebecca lingered in the doorway. In her thirties, she had a solid figure and hands that looked like a man’s. Her face, although not notably pretty, was kind and her eyes gleamed with good humour. Eventually she ventured, ‘May I come in?’

‘Oh, I do beg your pardon. Yes, of course.’ Kitty swung her legs off the counterpane and set her feet on the floor.

Rebecca closed the door behind her and sat down on the end of the bed. ‘You’ve been weeping.’

Kitty nodded, embarrassed.

Rebecca patted Kitty’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, dear, we all did when we first arrived. It’s very daunting, isn’t it, and I expect you’re more than a little homesick? We gave your aunt and uncle the end room. We thought you’d appreciate somewhere to yourself.’

Trying to look as grateful as possible, Kitty said, ‘I do. Thank you very much.’

The room was tiny, barely eight feet by six, just big enough to accommodate the bed, a nightstand and Kitty’s trunk. From the slope of the ceiling Kitty suspected it was part of a skillion, a lean-to attached to the back of the house, even though the door opened directly onto the main room. There was a small window under the lowest part of the roof and the walls were of worn, white-painted timber. A bright rag rug gave a touch of colour.

Rebecca chattered on. ‘We’ve four little rooms like this. Our housegirls and some of the children occupy them when it’s just us. There’s also the main room, which you came through, and the one that Mr Purcell and I share, another for the rest of the children, and the kitchen and the privy outside. The housegirls go home at night to the village at Pukera when we’re full up. It’s not far, only about two miles.’

‘Sounds like a rabbit warren,’ Kitty said, then bit her lip because it seemed so critical and ungracious.

Rebecca smiled. ‘Oh, it is, and very cramped when we’re full, especially when the rain comes down day after day, as it can do. But we manage. We’re more than happy to put up visitors and new families as they arrive, it’s part of our work. And the children don’t mind.’

‘How many do you have, Mrs Purcell?’

‘Children? Six.’

Kitty glanced involuntarily at the older woman’s noticeably thickened waist.

‘And another one expected soon.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ Kitty said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so rude.’

Rebecca waved her hand dismissively. ‘You’ll find we go in for big families here. Reverend and Mrs Williams have eleven of their own, the youngest just over eighteen months. You’ll be the same when you find yourself a young man, which is bound to happen, a girl as pretty as you.’

Except I don’t want a young man, Kitty thought miserably. I don’t want any man.

Rebecca glanced at the saltwater marks on the front of Kitty’s dress. ‘We really should sponge that,’ she said, ‘or you may never get the stains out.’

Kitty brushed ineffectually at the marks. ‘Who was that person who, er, assisted me out of the whaleboat?’

‘That, my dear, was Haunui. His brother Tupehu is chief of this particular area.’

‘I was terrified. I had no idea what his intentions were.’

‘Yes, he is rather alarming, isn’t he? He was just trying to be helpful, though. He really is the most pleasant fellow, in spite of the way he looks. Unlike his brother, I might add, who can be cantankerous, arrogant and rude all at the same time and considers Reverend Williams to be his pet missionary. You have another dress you can wear?’

‘Yes,’ Kitty replied, puzzled by the question.

Rebecca rolled her eyes in mock frustration. ‘There I go again. I keep forgetting that you’ve probably brought lots of lovely dresses out with you, haven’t you?’

‘Well, not lots, but I do have two or three quite nice ones. But I’m in mourning at the moment, as you can see.’

‘Yes, your aunt did mention it. I’m very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ Kitty said. She cleared her throat quickly, willing away the sharp stab of loss at the reminder of her beloved Papa. ‘I do have another black, though.’ She didn’t feel she needed to mention that her mourning dresses were the only ones she owned that hadn’t come from the second-hand clothier in Norwich.

She thought back to the list of requirements her mother had produced for ‘a lady travelling abroad’, given to her by someone who was accompanying her husband to India for a year. The list had recommended, among many other items, four morning dresses, eight muslin dresses, four dinner dresses, and three evening dresses—two silk and one satin. Not to mention forty-eight chemises, thirty-six nightdresses, twenty-four pairs of cotton stockings and fourteen pairs of silk, and at least four dozen pairs of gloves. That had been the first real laugh she and her mother had shared since the dreadful thing had happened.

‘I had some pretty dresses when we first arrived,’ Rebecca went on, looking regretfully down at her own faded skirts, ‘but they all fell apart from the salt air. I was as careful as I could be, sponging them regularly and taking care not to wear them while working, but they didn’t last. I salvaged what I could and made clothes for the children, and they fell apart as well. We all seemed to go around in rags for the first few years. My sister sends the odd box of clothes from time to time, and we’re very grateful for those. The Society at home and in Australia orders what they consider we need here, but pretty dresses are obviously not a priority. Sometimes we get bolts of cloth, but it’s usually practical rather than fashionable—flannel and drill and muslin and the like. But I don’t suppose the Lord cares what we wear while we’re about our work, as long as we’re decent.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘A nice length of silk or even chambray would be lovely, though. I hear the mission store has some patterned indigo denim at the moment, which would be just the thing for work dresses and frocks for the girls, but it really is such a journey to get there.’

Kitty said, ‘I saw some of the Maori people wearing European clothes. Where did they come from?’

‘We make things up for them, or else they barter for bits and pieces with the traders and occasionally the sailors.’

‘You sew for the natives?’ Kitty was surprised.

‘Yes, it’s part of our work. They set a high value on the garments, so they make good rewards. We teach the women and girls to sew as well, which they enjoy.’ Rebecca leant closer, as though someone might overhear her. ‘Although I have to say that they do not enjoy wearing the undergarments that civilised women wear, especially stays. But still, a dress is better than nothing at all, which is fairly close to the state in which they used to go about, and sometimes still do, I’m afraid to say.’

‘And the children on the beach in the little dresses and trousers?’

‘Handiwork from the girls we train in our homes. We also provide uniforms for the children at the mission school and, when we hear that a Maori woman is expecting, we either knit or sew her a set of baby clothes.’

‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Well, no, not entirely. We began doing it years ago because it encouraged them to bring their babies in to be baptised. If they agree to that, they receive the baby clothes, which they adore.’

‘But they still wear the native costume as well? Some of the men in the canoes that came out to meet us were wearing a little skirt thing.’

‘It’s called a piupiu,’ Rebecca explained. ‘But they wear more or less whatever takes their fancy. Sometimes it’s everything at once, and other times it’s nothing at all,’ she added, then shrugged as if to say that the situation was regrettable, but there wasn’t much to be done about it.

Kitty sighed. ‘There seems so much to learn.’

‘There is, but we all felt that way when we first came here. I’m sure you’ll hear more about everything at supper, which will be at six o’clock. Reverend and Mrs Williams will be joining us to welcome you, and so will the Taits, the other missionary family here.’

Kitty thought for a moment. ‘Mrs Purcell?’

‘Please call me Rebecca, dear. We don’t stand on ceremony here, not among the women anyway. Except that we do address Marianne Williams as Mrs Williams. The natives called her Mata Wiremu, which is the native for Mother Williams.’

‘Thank you. May I ask how long you’ve been here, in New Zealand?’

Rebecca frowned. ‘Let’s see, my children were all born here and Albert is twelve now—he’s my eldest—so thirteen years, more or less.’

Kitty’s heart plummeted. Thirteen years! She had no intention whatsoever of staying here for anything like thirteen years.

Rebecca noticed her expression. ‘Oh, Kitty, it’s not that dreadful, I promise. We’re very happy here, and the work is rewarding. What were you expecting, when you decided to come out here?’

‘I didn’t de—’ Kitty stopped, aware that her aunt and uncle would most certainly have said nothing about why she had accompanied them. ‘I didn’t know what to expect, really. But I expect I’ll find out.’

‘That you will, love,’ Rebecca said, patting Kitty’s arm again. She stood up. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see to supper. One of the housegirls is supposed to be keeping an eye on it, but, well, her mind does tend to wander.’

Kitty rose too. ‘Just one more question, Mrs…Rebecca. Who was the fair-haired gentleman on the beach? Unfortunately I didn’t catch his name.’

‘The Irishman? That was Captain Farrell.’

‘Captain?’

‘Yes, Rian Farrell, a trader. He owns a rather handsome schooner and comes and goes between here and Sydney town, and various other ports of call, if what I hear is correct. But he’s not really the sort of person you should associate with, dear. He’s, well, he’s a seaman, and there have been one or two stories concerning him that suggest he isn’t suitable company for a young lady. Or any lady, if it comes to that. We don’t have much to do with him, unless trade or supplies are concerned.’

‘Oh,’ Kitty said. ‘I thought he was very rude, laughing like that.’

‘Yes, I understand he’s not always the gentleman. In fact, they say he’s quite a law unto himself.’

Supper was a sociable event, with the Purcells, Reverend Williams and his wife, the Kellehers and Kitty, and Frederick and Jannah Tait seated around the long dining table in the main room. The Purcell children ate outside on the wide verandah—even the baby, who at fourteen months was apparently quite accustomed to being spoon-fed by his older sisters while his mother was busy. Fortunately, the Williams and the Tait children had been left at home, or the house would have burst at the seams.

The meal consisted of soup, then baked fish with vegetables from the mission garden followed by a fruit tart with custard, and was greatly appreciated by those who had spent the last five months eating shipboard food.

Between the fish and the pudding, George dabbed at his lips with a napkin and pushed back his chair, the legs scraping unpleasantly on the wooden floorboards.

‘What an excellent repast,’ he said. ‘The Lord is truly a generous provider.’

Kitty, who had been about to thank Rebecca Purcell for being the generous provider of such an excellent repast, kept quiet.

‘Do you all normally dine this well?’ George asked Mr Tait, seated on his right.

Frederick Tait, the mission carpenter and a solid, benign-looking man in his mid-thirties, thought for a moment. ‘We do when we sup here,’ he said. ‘Mrs Purcell is a very talented cook.’ He smiled at the recipient of his compliment. ‘Of course, Mrs Tait is a wonderful cook, too,’ he added hastily, glancing at his wife across the table, ‘but we tend to eat a little more simply at home.’

Jannah Tait gave her husband a sharp look. A very thin woman with a pinched nose and shadows beneath her dark eyes, she looked some years older than he did.

‘One is so very

Reviews for Kitty

[debbiemccauley-2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

First in the Kitty Series (I've already read the second and it was so good I've found the first!). It's 1838 and 18-year-old Kitty Carlisle's father has died unexpectedly leaving her and her mother impoverished. Kitty is discovered in a compromising position with a well-known rake (promises were made!), leaving her reputation in ruins. Luckily her missionary aunt and uncle are about to leave for New Zealand so her mother sends with them. They arrive in the Bay of Islands prior to the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi (1840). Their settlement is just across the harbour from Kororareka, Hell-Hole of the Pacific. Whilst there, Kitty is drawn to a ships captain, Ryan Farrell. Events take a turn for the worse, and Kitty must flee the Bay of Islands, taking refuge in Sydney, Australia. A great read.