Free Captive Wife, The by Fiona Kidman

has been surprisingly dismissive of the captive wife, despite his enthusiasm for the rescue mission. Not that he had gone on it, for his health was indifferent at the time the expedition left. But he has heard a great deal about it from his comrades who retrieved the unfortunate family.
    Miss Malcolm had been scandalised, reduced almost to tears, when she read the newspaper accounts. That poor woman, she had said repeatedly. To which the lieutenant had simply replied that it was a good thing to teach the New Zealanders a thing or two, and if a few of them had been shot it would remind them that British people were to be respected. Not a word about Mrs Guard.
    Without thinking, Miss Malcolm exclaims to the assembled guests, ‘Surely not. Not a brown man with a white woman.’
    A sudden hush falls around the table, and at once she knows she has spoken so far out of turn that she may never recover her position. Such lewd thoughts are not common to her, but even as she speaks she knows others have thought the same, by the way they glance at each other and away, and down at their plates. ‘I mean,’ she hurries on, ‘she would have had no choice. If it were true at all. If, well, if anything untoward had happened.’ She wishes she could stop herself from talking.
    â€˜I agree,’ says Mrs Deas Thomson evenly, as a waiter delivers portions of roast lamb, carved and ready for serving, on a huge platter. ‘Sad as it is, the evidence suggests that some white men will mix with dark-skinned women. But it would be against the natural inclination of brown or black men to associate with white women. Pass the vegetables and do begin or the food will get cold. I think someone should consider starting a collection for this family as they have had the greatest misfortune.’
    The Governor has been deep in conversation with Mr Bowman, who is both a surgeon and a grazier, trying to convince him that if democracy is truly to exist in the colony, emancipated convicts should be entitled to serve on juries. His face is rather flushed as if the exertion of convincing the younger man is almost too much for him. ‘Perhaps,’ says the Governor, anxious for diversion, ‘we should ask Mr Barrett Marshall for his opinion, since he was present during the rescue. Sir, what do you make of the matter? Surely, you can tell us how much Captain Guard has suffered?’
    â€˜Sir, John Guard is naught but a murderer.’ The surgeon’s face is very pale. A line of sweat beads his upper lip as he spits these words. ‘You will know that there was a massacre of Maoris on the beach, after the boy, the last hostage, was retaken.’
    â€˜I see,’ says Governor Bourke. He reaches for his napkin and wipes his face, then folds it very carefully, placing it beside his plate, though his dinner is hardly touched.
    â€˜Mr Barrett Marshall, is it possible that you have been led astray by the natives of New Zealand?’
    â€˜I beg your pardon? I have been led astray?’ The surgeon chooses his words with care, but the implication is there, that it is the other man who is at odds with truth.
    Bourke’s face darkens with dislike. ‘It happens, you know. Several missionaries have met their downfall in New Zealand. It’s a seductive place for some men.’
    â€˜What exactly is your point, sir?’ The surgeon has earnest brown eyes. When Miss Malcolm had first been introduced tohim, she had thought him charming, even a trifle impish, but now she believes she detects a certain coldness about him.
    But the Governor will not be drawn as the discussion threatens to spiral still further out of control. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he says, raising his glass, ‘a toast to the successful completion of the 50th’s mission, and the restoration of Mr Guard’s family to him, safe and well.’
    The surgeon does not raise his glass, a fact that is noticed by most present, the men in