Page 3 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

I’m flattered he’s confided in me, but I push the pleasure away. This isn’t personal. He obviously needs my help somehow. It’s purely business.

As I study his profile, though, I can’t help but think how much I like him. I know he graduated top of his cohort at Otago University, and he’s smart, dynamic, and ambitious. I admire him a lot, which is one reason why I was so upset that I’d been unprofessional. He’s way out of my league, and I don’t want to lose my job because I acted like an idiot.

Normally, he exudes an air of confidence, but right now he looks worried and a little lost, and my heart goes out to him.

“And this is why Whina’s calling at ten?” I ask.

He brings his gaze back to me. “Partly. I think she wants to talk about Sir Sebastian Williams.”

“I know that name. Wasn’t he an MP?”

“He was, back in the day. He’s descended from Henry Williams.”

“The missionary from the Bay of Islands?” Henry Williams came to New Zealand in 1823, and he and his son were responsible for translating the Treaty of Waitangi into Maori.

“Yep,” Fraser continues. “One of Henry’s grandsons, Richard, was a famous artist.”

“You’re talking about the Richard Williams who married… Pania wasn’t it?”

He smiles. “I should have guessed you’d have heard of him.”

“I’ve read about his paintings,” I reply. “He’s well known for his landscapes, isn’t he? And don’t forget I’m a conservationist. At uni we had to study their letters.”

Pania was the daughter of the leader of a localiwior tribe. Not only was she Maori while Richard was Pakeha or white European, but her family was Catholic, whereas Richard was an Anglican, so both families frowned on their union. They had to content themselves with exchanging a long series of passionate letters until Richard won the families over and they eventually married.

“The letters remain in the possession of the Williams family to this day,” Fraser says. “I came to hear about them through my dad, who was friends with Sebastian through the Church.”

I’d forgotten that Fraser’s father is a deacon. He runs a school for troubled youths in the South Island.

“Dad told Sebastian I’d taken over as Museum Director,” Fraser continues. “He came to see me speak at a conference in Christchurch in December. I talked about how I don’t agree with private collections and believe that New Zealand’s history should be available to everyone. Sebastian approached me afterward and said I’d convinced him, and that he wanted to donate Richard and Pania’s letters to the museum. He also offered a donation of five million dollars.”

My eyes widen. “Wow.”

“On the back of the news, Heritage New Zealand offered a grant for the conservation and restoration of the love letters because they’re a glimpse into the cultural and religious differences of the time.”

“That’s great,” I say. When Fraser’s expression doesn’t match my enthusiasm, I say, “So what happened?”

“Sebastian died five days ago.”

My jaw drops. “Oh… how?”

“He had a sudden heart attack.”

“Oh Fraser, I’m so sorry.”

“He was a great guy,” he says. “Honest and down-to-earth.” He frowns. He’s obviously upset about it.

I don’t want to sound materialistic, but I sense his feelings for the guy aren’t the only problem. “So what about his offer?” I ask. “Did you get anything in writing?”

“I have an email in which he states his intentions, but I don’t think it’ll stand up in court. His son, Adam, wants to honor it, but his daughter, Isabel, doesn’t. She’s hired a lawyer, and now it’s all tied up in red tape.”

“Oh Fraser,” I say softly, “I’m so sorry.”

He gives a heavy sigh and tips his head back to look at the ceiling. “So there are no letters, no donation, and Heritage New Zealand are likely to withdraw their grant. All the money has vanished, and I, like an idiot, gave the go ahead for the development of the west wing. I can’t believe it’s gone so wrong in such a short space of time.”

I try not to stare at his tanned throat and the attractive swell of his Adam’s apple. “So why is Whina Cooper calling? And how can I help?”

He meets my eyes. I think about the dinner party, and some of the things I said that evening when a few glasses of wine had loosened my tongue. After he took off his glasses, I complimented him on his gorgeous blue eyes… I told him he was the most intelligent man I’d ever met… and I’m pretty sure I asked him whether he owned a whip like Indiana Jones… Jesus. My face burns.

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