Threads of Gold: Power and Passion in a Young Country: The Gold Series, #2

By Jude Thomas

Sequel to Southern Gold

From tough beginnings in the slums of Dunedin, Billie is now society's darling, living at Broad Bay overlooking the beautiful Otago harbour. It is the 1890s and she is right in the middle of big social changes: Lebanese immigrants, women's suffrage, workers' rights. Her fashion empire goes from strength to strength thanks to her association with a young Lebanese woman. And with a charming husband and a posse of distinctive children, she is well fulfilled.

Until the new century dawns and it all starts to unravel.

The indomitable Billie is pushed to the edge of reason. Will she lose her mind and all that she loves and has worked for?

Against a background of social and political upheavals, Threads of Gold is a story of risk, redemption, and the power of love.

It is the story of a New Zealand woman ahead of her time, and the challenges she faces head-on.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jude Thomas
• Release date: Nov 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9780473483562

Jude Thomas

JUDE THOMAS BIO Jude Thomas lives in New Zealand on the magical northern coast of Mangawhai. But she was born and raised in the southern city of Dunedin, where historical fiction Southern Gold is set. She also spent many summers in the Central Otago region where part of the story takes place and says she can still smell the wild thyme and feel the shimmering heat. But her lasting memory of a southern upbringing is the piercing winter and her intensely itchy chilblains. Jude is a member of NZ Society of Authors (PEN NZ Inc) and the International Writers’ Workshop NZ Inc. In 2015 she was awarded a grant through the NZ Society of Authors CompleteMS Programme. This has been invaluable to her in the writing of Southern Gold, her first full-length novel.  She is currently working on it's sequel.

Book preview

PART I

To work with love is to weave the cloth with

threads drawn from your heart.

Khalil Gibran

CHAPTER ONE

September 1890

Port Chalmers

Weak and gaunt, the Lebanese gather on the upper deck and shield their eyes. After all these weeks confined to cramped quarters over the bilge, even the soft southern light is overpowering. Disease and starvation have claimed several of their people on this interminable journey to the nether regions of the world and now they number just eighteen. But they have at last arrived.

‘Move along, move along.’ The ship’s purser herds them forward, impatient to seek out the port’s pleasures. Gawd, these ones don’t half stink—even worse than the riff-raff from steerage. But with no documents on embarkation they were used as ballast, stowed in the ship’s bowels below the livestock and left to endure, poor devils. Good luck to them now, in all their fancy foreign get-up.

They huddle towards the gangway. Then the leader stops, raises his arms and turns to face them. He calls to his followers in Arabic, ‘My brothers and sisters, by God’s grace we have been spared to arrive and go forth in this new land. God is good.’

As his praise is echoed by the people, so do they stretch up their bodies, like flower petals welcoming the new day. They inch down the gangway and prepare to be questioned by officials. But the shipping clerks wave them on—there is no record of these souls on the ship’s lists and therefore they are of no consequence.

The emigrants sink to their knees and pray. They stand and hug one another. This will be their new home and they will prosper again one day—far from oppression, far from the hills of Mount Lebanon.

Yusef Farak had known that thousands of his Christian countrymen had previously sailed for America, Brazil or Australia to escape religious persecution. He knew nothing about New Zealand, except hearsay that it was welcoming emigrants. But he’d known that the people of Bcharre could no longer sustain their beleaguered life on their beloved Mount Lebanon. They must join the mass migration.

A ten-day trek had brought them from Bcharre to Beirut, and then they took a steamer to Port Suez and onto Bombay. From there it was sailing ship, another fifty-five thousand nautical miles of near-suffocation and starvation to Melbourne where they disembarked, only to be kicked along by wharf officials and pointed to a vessel about to depart for a place called Port Chalmers. Although wily and resourceful, Yusef and most of his entourage had few literary skills and no English. But a couple of young women had worked in a silk mill far from their village and were able to interpret for the others. They understood Port Chalmers was further south and east, another thirteen hundred and fifty nautical miles of endurance.

Today, wearing layers of clothing with their best on top, Yusef Farak’s people are dazed and weeping. But they are weeping for joy. Allah Akbar. God is good.

A half-hour before, Billie Macandrew had broken through the cordon of one of the many ships recently come into Port Chalmers and rushed the gangplank. Heedless of the shouts of officials, she had thrown herself in the arms of her husband who had returned from business affairs in London. Robbie Macandrew laughed and hugged this woman, then took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly. He knew there was no point in admonishing her for lack of decorum or trying to avoid public kissing because Billie would do as she pleased. It was better to control the situation by holding his wife tight.

Now they are taking tea outside the Marine Hotel on Princess Street before taking the ferry to the other side of the harbour. Summer has, at last, arrived in the southern regions of New Zealand and today’s light is particularly clear and dancing on the water.

A frisson of suspense runs over Billie and she looks up. A wave of colour is slowly moving up the hill. The many men are resplendent in puffed trousers and long leather boots. They wear fur-lined cloaks or striped woven cloth belted with swathes of dark fabric and ornate buckles. Scarves are coiled about their heads. The few women and girls wear bright veils pinned at the throat, their edges bordered with metal disks that flash and gleam like minnows in a stream. The sleeves of their long black coats are heavily embroidered and the open fronts reveal silken waistcoats edged with braid, and many-layered skirts over colourful pantaloons. Waists are wrapped in braided silk embellished with glass beads and gold thread. And atop all this intricacy is their jewellery—collars of golden links, neck bands of silver and semi-precious stones or glass, and bracelets that glint in the sunlight. Most are carrying a bag like a folded rug.

‘How wonderful,’ cries Billie. ‘What a vision! But why are they walking, and with all those heavy layers on?’

‘Good Lord, what a circus,’ claims a male from the adjacent table, and a female titters her response.

‘Turks from the Middle East,’ says a man at another table.

‘Arabians,’ says his companion. ‘Dirty and uncivilised rabble.’

‘They’re from Mount Lebanon!’ cries Billie. ‘I read that Christians are leaving that part of Syria, emigrating to America and Australia, and that a few are settling in New Zealand, up north. But now they’re here—in Dunedin!’ She looks pointedly at the man’s tweed vest, alive with cake crumbs and spilled beer, and tells him, ‘They are certainly not uncivilised, sir. And so, if you don’t mind, we shall move away from dirty and uncivilised opinions.’

‘Madam—’ Tweed Vest prepares to respond in a lively debate but clearly thinks better of it. Both men rise and bow as she flicks her head and takes her husband’s arm. He smiles down on her, then nods curtly to those foolish enough to make uninformed remarks in the presence of Billie Macandrew.

Billie cannot leave it there. As she watches the weary group trudging up George Street she says to Robbie, ‘I think they’re going the wrong way—or at least, why are they walking up the hill?’

She runs out of the tea rooms and waves. ‘Yoo-hoo! Hello! I wonder if you are heading for Dunedin?’

Yusef widens his arms as if to protect his followers, and they come to a halt.

‘Dunedin?’ beams Billie. ‘Dun-e-din?’

‘Heya, Dun-e-din?’ The man seems unsure.

A tall girl moves forward and says to him, ‘Abouna, esmahle ehke ma hel mara.’ Father figure, allow me to talk with this woman.

At his nod, she turns to Billie. ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum. Peace unto you, madam. We are travelling, Dunedin of New Zealand. We are correct route, yes?’

Billie’s wide smile is infectious and some of the group are reaching for her. She says, ‘Yes, this can be the route, but you needn’t walk! No, no, you must take the train or the ferry.’

The girl translates this to the group, and Yusef replies in Arabic, ‘But how much is a train or ferry? We do not need to spend precious piastres.’

‘Madam, we have only Lebanese coin, no New Zealand monies,’ says the girl.

‘But it is four hours’ walk from here, and with all your luggage! Much easier to take the train,’ says Billie. ‘You just go back down the hill and turn right. You’ll see the train station, just opposite the tunnel. Or you can catch the steam ferry—but you may be so tired of the sea! Whichever you choose, it’s two pence each.’

The young woman repeats, ‘We have only few Lebanese monies.’

‘Then perhaps you would exchange your coin for mine?’ Billie opens her reticule and brings out one silver crown, enough for eighteen tickets at two pence, with two shillings left over.

Yusef speaks angrily, ‘We are poor, but not destitute!’ and the girl translates.

‘Please do take the train,’ says Billie, ‘and consider it my pleasure—yes, for the pleasure of just looking at your beautiful braiding and needlework!’

Yusef cannot believe what is translated. Everywhere outside of their homeland people have spat at them, pushed them away—and here is a woman offering them hospitality. Allah yusallmak!

Billie is excited. For fifteen years she has run the Ivimey fashion house in Dunedin city. To learn as much as she can, she has travelled to London to visit Liberty & Co, where she found Arthur Liberty to be a kind and generous man. She has been to Paris to study the new concept of runway shows, to Venice to purchase silk of the kind not yet seen in New Zealand, and to Belfast to select fine and complex linen. She has travelled to New York to visit the publishers of her fashion bible Harper’s Bazaar. She has always been fascinated with their exquisite illustrations. With years of knowledge and skill, her own fresh and bold designs are well sought after but she is always alert to new ideas.

And the costumes of these new arrivals have set Billie Macandrew’s mind racing.

Robbie recognises the set of his wife’s mouth and he wagers to himself that this will be her next project. She thrives on projects and her life has been a whirl of them, defined by a strong will and a determination to rise above challenging situations. There were many challenges in the back streets of Dunedin where she grew up, but there was no lack of love in her home. Educated by her own curiosity and intelligence, she had met him, the son of prosperous Scottish immigrants, when she was a fourteen-year-old wild child—and no one was more surprised than Robbie when, four years on, he knew he must ask her to marry him.

Time had brought many changes and circumstances. They had lost two babies, but five had survived. They had come through the world economic depression that affected New Zealand not long after their marriage. They had experienced bitter and sweet experiences together and they still love each other deeply.

Arm in arm Billie and Robbie embark on the ferry to Portobello.

‘Dearest, I do hope you’ll stay home for quite a while now.’

Robbie presses her hand and touches her cheek. The day has been tiring, but their friend Tama Ellison will be waiting with the horse and trap. And at the end of the journey to Mac’s Bay the bairns will be waiting for their dear father.

‘Papa, Papa!’ Five children fling themselves onto their parents. Fred at eleven, tries to offer a handshake but can’t complete it as he hugs his father. Eddy, just one year younger, wraps himself around both parents and beams up at Robbie. ‘Papa, Papa, I need to show you something!’ Twins Emerald and Sapphire squeal and dance and laugh and little Sophia stumbles and roars until she is swept up and hugged.

‘Enough,’ shouts Robbie as he endeavours to move along. ‘Mac’s Bay, I’m home again, hurrah!’

‘Hurrah!’ they all echo.

Broad Bay is the settlement’s name, but when the young Mr and Mrs Macandrew were building their new home Billie wouldn’t have a bar of it. ‘Broad Bay—ugh! The bay is so very pretty, but Broad Bay reminds me of broad beans and I hate them! I could never live in a place called Broad Bay.’

‘That’s been its name for many a long year,’ said the pragmatic Robbie.

‘Then it shall remain so to others, but we should know it by some other name, not so repulsive as broad beans. It can’t be Macandrew’s Bay because there’s one already. What about Sunset Bay—so beautiful. Or perhaps Aurora Bay—we do see such wonderful auroras from here. No? What do you suggest then?’

‘There is nothing wrong with Broad Bay as I see it,’ said Robbie.

‘But dear, as I see it, I cannot say to myself that I live at Broad Bay. It would make me—’ Billie made a dramatic choking gesture. ‘What about Little Macandrew? Or Mac’s, like your friends call you? What about Mac’s Bay?’

And to family and friends, Mac’s Bay it became.

They had started their married life at the harbourside community of Portobello, in the home of Robbie’s parents. Billie had known Mr Angus Macandrew since the gold rush days of her youth and knew his gruff tone was a cover for a dry wit and keen mind. Mrs Isobel Macandrew was more the strict Scot—very upright and not fond of her daughter-in-law, the one from the slums who had bewitched her son. Robbie handled his mother with composure, and only rarely did he respectfully instruct her against speaking about his wife in an unkind manner.

Billie, in her own way, rose above any slight. In that spacious farmstead overlooking the harbour they were happy for the first three years and their two little boys were indulged by their aunts and uncles yet unmarried, and in his own kind way by their grandfather. He took them on his shoulders to visit the stockmen and pet the animals before taking them on the ferry into the city. He talked with them as if they were little adults, and as a result Fred and Eddy adored their grandpapa.

It was Billie’s wish to resume working full time at Ivimey that initiated their move to a new home. Her mother-in-law was horrified at the thought of a married woman going off to work full-time—she’d barely tolerated Billie’s previously short trips to the salon. ‘The boys are only three and two, and their mother must be with them. A good wife and mother does not gad off to work like the lower classes! A woman’s place is in the home!’

‘Not always, Mrs Macandrew.’ Billie was respectful, but always spoke her mind. ‘I love being at home with the boys, but I see no reason to sit and take tea and pick flowers and wish the day away when I can be doing something more valuable. I’ve been popping in and out when I’ve been in town but now I believe it is time to be there on a more regular basis. I shall take the ten-fifteen ferry in and the three-thirty home. The boys are perfectly happy, and their Aunty Janet has agreed to take charge for the time being. And of course my husband agrees entirely.’

This rebellion, and the fact that her daughter had dared abet it by agreeing to mind the children without consulting her, further tightened Mrs Macandrew’s manner towards Billie. Robbie knew it was now time to