Free Captive Wife, The by Fiona Kidman Page A

particular, but goes unremarked. As the dinner is resumed, Miss Malcolm realises that if she does not talk to Barrett Marshall, nobody else will. Even Mrs Deas Thomson is looking chastened.
    â€˜The poor man must surely have been out of his mind,’ she says tentatively.
    â€˜He was out of his mind with rage and jealousy. He would have murdered the chief who kept her safe, had he not been stopped. But plenty of others were killed on the same account.’ The surgeon keeps his voice low and insistently soft, as if to make his points without being overheard.
    â€˜By Captain Guard himself?’
    The surgeon shrugs his shoulders and looks weary, as if all of this is academic.
    â€˜I have met Captain Guard. Here, at this table,’ says Miss Malcolm. ‘While his wife was still being held captive.’
    â€˜Well, then, surely you understand what I am talking about.’
    â€˜He looked merely sad. And he had little to say for himself.’
    â€˜Well, I would have imagined you a good judge of character,’ says Barrett Marshall. ‘Surely you saw him for what he was.’
    â€˜If what you say is true, shouldn’t he be brought to justice?’
    â€˜It was his men,’ says Barrett Marshall, with a sudden unease. ‘It was his men who shot the Maoris. Guard was back on board the ship.’
    â€˜Then how can you say that it was him?’
    â€˜They sought revenge on his behalf. His brother was among the murderers.’
    â€˜You seem very sure in your judgments.’
    â€˜The military were no better. They burnt and pillaged the homes of those humble savages. Not for nothing is the 50th Regiment known as the Dirty Half Hundred.’
    â€˜Oh really sir, I must object — your language is unseemly.’
    â€˜You’re familiar with the works of Erasmus?’ asks the surgeon, for they have discussed Miss Malcolm’s classical interests over the fish soup and found common ground.
    â€˜A little, yes,’ says Miss Malcolm, aware that they are beginning to attract attention from others at the table.
    â€˜They who deem it a trifling loss and injury when the poor and low are robbed, afflicted, banished, burnt out, oppressed, or put to death,’ Mr Barrett Marshall quotes, in his persistent voice, ‘do in truth accuse Jesus Christ — the wisdom of the Father — of folly, for shedding his blood to save such wretches as these.’
    â€˜I see,’ says Miss Malcolm, who fears she may have a sliver of mutton bone stuck in her throat. She covers her mouth with her napkin, hoping not to attract attention. Mr Barrett Marshall is observing her intently. ‘I wouldn’t have thought, from what Lieutenant Roddick has said …’ But what the lieutenant had said goes unuttered, for Miss Malcolm thinks she is choking to death, the prickle in her throat grown to the size of a spear.
    â€˜You’re in trouble; let me take you to the drawing room. Don’t panic, Miss Malcolm, just breathe quietly through your nose and follow me. I’ll take care of you.’
    The walk past the astonished faces of the assembled dinner party guests seems the longest Miss Malcolm has ever made. She remembers the children she has banished from her classes in years past, and feels very much as they must have — in as much as she can feel anything except the burning pain when she tries to swallow.
    In the empty drawing room, the surgeon instructs her to lie back on a chaise longue beautifully covered with surf-green velvet, a tender and caressing colour which Miss Malcolm thinks she might shortly be sick on.
    â€˜Please open your mouth,’ says Mr Barrett Marshall. ‘You must be very calm. If I have to send for my instruments, then it becomes a matter of life and death that you remain composed so that your air passages remain open.’ He peers into her mouth, and gives a triumphant little cry. ‘Why Miss Malcolm, all is well.’ He