Page 68 of Possession Under the Southern Stars

“Sorry about that,” she says as I turn her into my arms. “They asked me how much you enjoyed acting inRaiders of the Lost Arkand it kinda went downhill from there.”

I laugh. “Anytime you want to see the whip, you only have to ask.”

She gives one of her delightful giggles, then takes my hand again so I can spin her around.

We dance to that song, and the next, and the next, stop for a glass of champagne, then continue on. I love dancing, and while neither of us is particularly accomplished, we’re both enjoying ourselves, which is the most important thing.

The sun gradually sinks toward the horizon, and the sky turns a romantic blend of pink, purple, and orange, like the background of one of Richard Williams’s landscapes. Venus is visible as a sparkle to the west, and the moon is rising to the east like a piece of shining silver foil.

The evening wears on. Hallie and I dance a lot together, and we also have several slow dances, but we keep the mood light and just enjoy each other’s company. I don’t mention what’s going to happen when we get back to the hotel, and neither does she.

I think a lot about it, though.

I also think about Richard’s paintings and letters. I’m conscious of screwing things up with Isabel by being caught with Hallie in the bathroom, as well as looking at the letters when she didn’t want us to, so when I see Isabel going up the steps of the veranda and into the house around seven thirty, I excuse myself and head after her.

The house is cool and relatively quiet. I walk slowly along the hallway, listening for Isabel’s voice, but I can’t hear or see her, and I realize she might have gone into her private rooms.

Deciding to wait in the hope of catching her on the way out, I go into the dining room to take another look at Pania’s portrait.

I stand in front of it for a minute or two, admiring the brushstrokes and the way Richard has cleverly managed to capture the shape of her tattoo as well as the flush of her skin. It makes me think of Hallie, and I smile.

I glance at the wall to my left, wondering whether Richard ever hung any of his other paintings there to complement this one. Or have they always been hidden? The wall is bare of artwork now, and divided into large square panels bordered with wooden batons, each covered with floral wallpaper. It’s an odd design, and I go still, frowning as something sparks in my memory, as sharp and bright as Venus in the sky outside.

Then it comes to me. In the eighteenth century, the artist, Hogarth, once produced a series of eight paintings calledA Rake’s Progress. They show the decline and fall of a spendthrift son and heir of a rich merchant who wastes all his money on gambling and prostitution, goes to prison, and ends up in Bedlam.

The paintings are hidden in a secret recess behind a wall at Sir John Soane’s Museum in London, and they’re only revealed to the public a few times a day.

Surely not.

It’s much more likely that they’re boxed up in the attic or kept somewhere more secure.

Or maybe the family wanted them close by, because of their sentimental value?

Glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s around, I walk up to the wall and investigate the square panels. I feel around them with my fingers. The batons are rounded and flush to the wall. But then I find it—a tiny button where the batons meet, hidden by one of the flowers on the wallpaper.

I press it. There’s an almost inaudible click. And then the panel to the left pops open a few millimeters.

My heart racing, I open it to reveal a large oil painting. It’s clearly of Pania, as her face is recognizable with her light-brown skin and tattoo. She is dressed, but her gown hangs off her shoulder, almost—but not quite—baring her breast, while the skirt of her dress is bunched in her hand, revealing her naked thigh. By modern standards it’s tame, but in New Zealand in the nineteenth century, it would have been salacious to say the least.

“What are you doing?”

I spin around. I was so engrossed in the painting that I forgot to keep a lookout. It’s Isabel, and she is not a happy bunny.

She marches across the room and slams the panels shut, then turns to me, her eyes blazing. “How did you know about these?” Plural—so there are definitely more.

Deciding there’s no point in lying, I reply, “We read the twelfth letter. I suspected the paintings were in the house. And while I was looking at the one over there, I recalled how Hogarth’s series is kept behind panels because of its content.”

“These are private,” she snaps. “They belong to the family, and you had no right to snoop around.”

“Isabel,” I say as calmly as I can, conscious that things aren’t going well, “please believe me when I say I do understand your desire to protect your family’s history. But these aren’t just beautiful works of art; they’re historical documents that give an important insight into nineteenth-century culture and life. They should be available for everyone to see.”

“To see and accuse,” she bites back. “Pania was fourteen! And Richard was thirty-one! I can see the headlines now—Sebastian Williams’s racist and pedophile ancestor takes Maori girl against her family’s wishes. You don’t think that will create a cultural rift in today’s society? You don’t think my father and I would still be held accountable for Richard’s actions? Ourancestor, Henry, was responsible for translating the Treaty. You know what tension that’s creating, even now.”

I clench my fists in frustration, because even though she’s being dramatic, she’s right. It doesn’t matter that it all happened over one hundred and sixty years ago. Certain words in the treaty, such as ‘sovereignty’, had no direct equivalent in Maori at the time the Treaty was translated, and it’s led to continual problems, with some Maori protesting that their ancestors didn’t know they were giving away their land. Even today, many generations later, and with Isabel and Adam having nothing to do with the original Treaty, there’s still tension. Isabel is fearful not just for herself and her family, but for the memory of her father. And how can I criticize her for that?

“I would like you to leave,” she states, lifting her chin.

“Please,” I reply, “there’s no need for that. I promise I won’t be any more trouble. I’ll keep to the garden, and—”

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