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“But now you think it wasn’t?”
“Maybe.” She has a sip of her drink. “What about the paintings? They would have been very risqué at the time, and I think they still have the power to be inflammatory. I’m reluctant to let those go, too.”
My pulse races. It sounds as if she’s actually considering giving us the letters. “That would be up to you. If you did want to loan us the paintings, we could work with you to write display boards that were sensitive to the cultural and religious issues of the day. I understand that you don’t want to cause problems for your family. But in the end, you’re not to blame for the actions of your ancestors.”
“That’s a very naïve view,” she says with some amusement. “Don’t you think we have a responsibility toward the way our ancestors’ actions are perceived?”
I frown, pushing my salad around my plate. Then, finally, I put down my fork. “I’m going to tell you something,” I say slowly. “I’d be grateful if you didn’t repeat it to anyone.”
“Of course.”
“I’m in witness protection because, twenty years ago, my father raped and murdered eleven young women.”
Her jaw drops. “Oh my God.”
“I’ve spent twenty years feeling as if I need to atone for what he did.”
“You weren’t responsible,” she protests. “Of course you weren’t.”
Then she stares at me. Her lips gradually curve up. “I see,” she says.
“I think we’re very similar,” I admit. “I think we’re both very sensitive, and we can feel the ripples of what our ancestors did all the way through the years. I knew I wasn’t to blame for what my father did, but I still bear the wounds of his actions, the same way I think you bear the wounds of what you think people will interpret Richard’s actions to have been. But maybe it’s time we came to terms with it. That we allow ourselves to heal. And that we feel confident to show others that our ancestors’ actions don’t reflect on us personally.”
Her gaze scans my face, and her eyes have lost their iciness. “You’re very wise, considering you’re so young,” she says softly.
I laugh and eat a piece of chicken. “I don’t know about that.”
She puts down her cutlery. “Would you like to see the other paintings?”
My eyes light up. “Oh yes, I’d love to.”
“Come on, then.”
We rise, and she leads me out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Pania looks down at me from her portrait, and I imagine I can see a mischievous smile on her face.
Isabel goes past the cabinet containing the letters and over to the far wall. She feels along the bottom of the batons and clicks a few buttons, then opens up the panels right across the wall, revealing six paintings of Pania. In all of them she’s baring her shoulders or her legs, and of course she’s very young.
“They would have been very risqué at the time,” Isabel whispers.
“True,” I reply. “But Richard’s letters held so much love. They were married for many years, weren’t they?”
“Yes, and they had seven children and fifteen grandchildren.”
“He loved her,” I say. “And physical and sexual attraction is a huge part of love. Yes, she was young, but not by the standards of his day. One of the first rules of studying history is that we have to learn not to judge the past by today’s standards.”
“That’s true.”
“They’re magnificent pieces of art.” I move closer, looking at the brushwork, and the way he’s managed to capture the folds of the material in her dress, the intricacies of the lace, and the beauty of her skin with its tattoo. “It’s almost a crime to keep them locked away like this.”
Isabel stands beside me, looking up at them. “I know what you mean. Do you believe the same as Fraser, that private collections are wrong?”
“No, not wrong. I mean, Maori view treasures ortaongaas belonging to theiwirather than an individual, don’t they? They believe items holdmana, and their connection totaongais deeply spiritual and genealogical.Taongaare to be guarded and protected, and held in trust for future generations.”
She gives me a look, apparently appreciative of what I’ve said. “That’s true.”
“So in that sense, you are the guardian orkaitiakiof these paintings, protecting them for your children and your new grandchild. I feel that what’s most important is that they’re treated with the proper respect, rather than where they actually reside. So maybe, if you did decide to donate them to the museum, just like with the letters, we could work together to ensure they were displayed in the correct cultural context, with an explanation of life at the time, and how Pakeha and Maori—and Protestant and Catholic—families put aside their differences in order to bring these two young people together, because they were so in love. Surely that’s something to be celebrated, not criticized?”
Isabel smiles. “I don’t know if Whina is aware of what an asset you are to the museum. Its very owntaonga.”