A Letter to Agnes Busby

Dearest Agnes,

I walk the same ground you once did — though time has softened its edges and the gardens now bloom in a different rhythm. Still, I often wonder if you would recognise this place, if you'd approve of the paths we’ve shaped, the colours we've chosen and if you remember the way the morning light filters through the trees.

Sometimes, as I tend the garden near the old house, I pause and listen — and imagine the laughter of your children playing on the lawn, unaware of the weighty decisions unfolding around them, simply finding joy in a world that could be harsh and uncertain.

What did you see, Agnes, when you stood at the veranda and looked out across the Bay? Today the sea lies calm and glittering, dotted with the sails of pleasure boats and cruise ships. But in your day, it must have been a bustling theatre — towering-masted whaling ships anchored in the harbour, Māori waka slicing swiftly across the waves, the air alive with trade, diplomacy, and perhaps the distant sound of a haka or a waiata.

I often think of you in the quiet of early morning, when it’s still misty and the birds haven’t yet decided what sort of day it will be. It’s then that I feel closest to you — a woman I’ve never met, yet somehow feel I know.

You were so courageous. I wonder if you knew it. Not just in the grand way history likes to remember men, but in the quiet, unrecorded ways — when James was away for days, maybe even weeks, and you were left here, on the very edge of the world, with small children to care for and so much unknown at your doorstep. Were you scared? I would have been.

What did you make of it all — the customs, the language, the relationships between cultures? You were strong, Agnes. You had to be.

Did the scent of fresh soil and the sight of familiar plants and flowers bring you peace? Were there moments, amidst the diplomacy and difficulty, where your hands in the earth gave you strength?

Today, the Treaty Grounds are visited by thousands, but in the quiet hours, before the gates open, it’s still yours. I hope you'd smile to see how your gardens have grown — filled with both native taonga and colonial heirlooms, carefully balanced in harmony.

You left your mark here in many ways, Agnes — some seen, some still felt.

Do you remember that beautiful pink camellia you planted in the sheltered spot by the stream? It’s still here. It blooms every winter, as if to remind us of you. Some years ago, it was identified as Middlemist Red — one of the rarest flowers in the world. They say only two are known to exist. And you, you planted one here.

There’s still a row of cabbage trees, lining the edge of the lawn, not so strong and spiky now, and of course the Norfolk Pine you planted has grown into a grand sentinel — its wide, sheltering arms reaching into the sky.

I like to think you’d be proud of how the gardens have grown. They still carry both the native and the introduced — a living symbol of the conversations that happened here, and the ones that still need to.

Some days I find myself whispering to you — asking if I’ve done enough, if the gardens feel right to you.

You were a witness to the earliest threads of a nation. I am but a caretaker of what came after. But somehow, I feel we share a purpose.

With aroha, from one gardener to another.

Bernice

Head Gardener, Waitangi Treaty Grounds

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