Free Kitty by Deborah Challinor

bacon and half a dozen eggs set aside for tomorrow’s breakfast. But she felt it too soon to reprimand Amy, as the girl had barely had time to settle in, and George, who had arrived home late in the afternoon, was in a pensive mood and would not, Sarah was sure, appreciate a sulking housegirl or a carping wife.
    George had spent the morning with Reverend Williams and the afternoon with Frederick Tait and Win Purcell, discussing the mission school and the spiritual state of the Maoris in general.
    ‘They sound to me like a curmudgeonly lot,’ he said after Sarahhad settled him in the parlour, away from the stink of burnt food in the kitchen, and fetched him a cup of tea and one of Rebecca’s scones. ‘Quick to help themselves, and even quicker to demand payment for services they perceive to have delivered, such as worshipping on Sundays or having their children baptised and educated, when actually those services—no, privileges —have been provided to them.’ He shook his head disbelievingly at the perfidy of it all. ‘But that is to be expected, given that they are not yet a civilised race. Reverend Williams thinks otherwise, but perhaps he’s lived amongst them for too long. Either way, it does not matter. They are God’s children, all of them, and there is clear evidence that they are coming to understand and accept His word. Mr Williams considers that although our conversion rate is not phenomenal—and by that I mean genuine conversions, not the sort which evidently occur only when there is some form of reward on offer—it is steady, which he believes is very gratifying.’
    Sarah touched the side of the china teapot with the back of her hand. ‘Is your tea hot enough?’
    George glanced at her sharply, as though she hadn’t been listening. ‘Yes, it is. I myself think that, with a more rigorous application of the teachings of the Bible, together with a reduction in what I fear is a slightly laissez-faire attitude among our colleagues, the number of conversions could be significantly higher.’
    But Sarah had been listening, and was pleased to note the brightness in his eye that always accompanied his enthusiasm for a new challenge. However, he was not, he said, looking forward to burnt stew for dinner, and suggested that someone be sent along to prevail upon Mrs Purcell to feed them once again.
    ‘Where are these housegirls, anyway?’ George said. ‘I suppose I should make myself known to them.’
    Sarah collected Wai, who was outside at the pump scrubbing the blackened stew pot, and Amy—sulking in her room—and herded them into the parlour where George was now reading his Bible.
    ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘this is Reverend Kelleher, the new minister, and also of course my husband.’
    George glanced up. The girls stared back, fascinated by the uncommon pallor of his skin even for a white man, the sharpness of the bony knees straining the fabric of his trousers, and the long, almost translucent fingers splayed across the black leather cover of his book.
    ‘Reverend Kelleher,’ Sarah continued, ‘this is Wai, Chief Tupehu’s daughter, and her cousin Amy. Girls, say “Good afternoon”.’
    ‘Good afternoon, Mr Kereha,’ Wai and Amy said in unison.
    ‘Reverend,’ corrected George, not wanting to encourage familiarity just because they would all be living under the same roof. ‘Good afternoon,’ he added, then went back to his reading.
    Rebecca Purcell of course welcomed them all to supper, and the fare they received was far preferable to incinerated stew.
    Just as the pudding was served—stewed apples with cinnamon and cream—they were interrupted by the tread of boots on the verandah and a knock at the door. Win reluctantly tugged his napkin from his collar and rose to greet the caller. Kitty, focused on her delicious-smelling pudding, didn’t look up as conversation was exchanged outside and the visitor welcomed in.
    She raised her eyes, however, when Win said, ‘Rebecca, Captain Farrell