In the Land of the Long White Cloud (14 page)

“That can be very helpful for the acquisition of land,” Gerald remarked. “An acquaintance of mine once received a chief’s daughter as a present—and twenty-five acres of the best pastureland to boot. My friend fell in love at once.” Gerald winked meaningfully.

Mr. Brewster boomed with laughter while Gwyneira and Mrs. Brewster smiled reluctantly.

“Might even be his daughter, your son’s lady friend,” Gerald considered further. “She would have to be about fifteen now, a suitable marrying age for the natives. And many of the mixed children are stunning. The pureblooded Maori, on the other hand…well, they’re
not to my taste. Too short, too stocky, and there are the tattoos…but to each his own. There’s no accounting for taste.”

From the Brewsters’ questions and Gerald’s answers, Gwyneira began to learn more about her future homeland. Up until then, the sheep baron had primarily spoken of the economic opportunities of breeding and pastureland in the Canterbury Plains, but now, for the first time, she learned that New Zealand consisted of two big islands and that Christchurch and the Canterbury Plains were situated on the South Island. She heard about mountains and fjords but also about a jungle-like rainforest, whaling stations, and gold rushes. Gwyneira remembered that Lucas was supposed to be researching the country’s flora and fauna and replaced her daydreams of plowing and sowing at her husband’s side with an even more exciting fantasy of expeditions into the islands’ unexplored reaches.

At some point the Brewsters’ curiosity was satisfied and Gerald had exhausted his cache of stories. Warden clearly knew New Zealand well, but animals and landscapes interested him only as economic ciphers. It seemed that this was also the case for the Brewster family. They cared only that the area was safe and that a possible business venture would pay off. As they discussed these questions, various merchants and farmers were mentioned. Gwyneira took the opportunity to put the plan she’d long nourished into effect and asked innocuously about a “gentleman farmer” by the name of O’Keefe.

“Maybe you know him, then. He’s supposed to live somewhere in the Canterbury Plains.”

Gerald Warden’s reaction surprised her. Her future father-in-law turned red, and his eyes seemed to leap out of their sockets in agitation.

“O’Keefe? Gentleman farmer?” Gerald skewered each word and snorted, flaring his nostrils. “I know a scoundrel and cutthroat by the name of O’Keefe,” he rumbled on. “Scum that should be sent back to Ireland as quickly as possible. Or to Australia, to the penal colonies; that’s where he comes from, you know. Gentleman farmer! That’s not even funny. Out with it, Gwyneira, where did you hear that name?”

Gwyneira raised a supplicating hand, and Mr. Brewster hurried to refill Gerald’s glass with whiskey. He clearly hoped it would have a
calming effect, as Mrs. Brewster had cringed when Warden exploded with rage.

“I’m sure I have a different O’Keefe in mind,” Gwyneira said quickly. “A young woman in steerage, a governess, is engaged to him. She said he belonged to the notables of Christchurch.”

“Oh?” Gerald asked leerily. “Strange that he should have escaped my notice. A gentleman farmer from the Christchurch area who shares a name with this damned son of a bitch…oh, forgive me, ladies…who has the misfortune of sharing a name with this dubious fellow O’Keefe should really be known to me.”

“O’Keefe is a very common name,” Mr. Brewster said in an effort to appease him. “It’s entirely possible that there are two O’Keefes in Christchurch.”

“And Helen’s Mr. O’Keefe writes such lovely letters,” Gwyneira added. “He must be well educated.”

Gerald laughed loudly. “Well, then it’s definitely someone else. Old Howie can hardly put his name to paper without making a mistake! But it doesn’t suit me, Gwyn, that you’re running around in steerage. Keep your distance from those people down there, even from this so-called governess. Her story sounds suspect to me, so don’t talk to her anymore.”

Gwyneira frowned. Angry, she did not say a word the rest of the night. Later, in her cabin, she let her anger out properly.

Who did Gerald Warden think he was? The transition from “my lady” to “Lady Gwyneira” and now plain “Gwyn” had been awfully quick, and now he spoke so cavalierly and informally, ordering her around. Like hell she’d break off contact with Helen! Helen was the only person she could speak frankly with. Despite their different social pedigrees and interests, the two were becoming better and better friends.

Besides, Gwyneira had taken a liking to the six girls. She had warmed to serious little Dorothy in particular, but daydreaming Elizabeth too, tiny Rosie, and even the occasionally shady but doubtlessly clever Daphne, hungry for life. She would have liked best to
take them all to Kiward Station straightaway, and had planned on speaking with Gerald about taking on at least one new serving girl. It didn’t look that promising, true, but the journey was still long, and Warden would no doubt calm down. The things she had learned about Howard O’Keefe caused Gwyneira much more of a headache. Sure, the name was common, and two O’Keefes in a region was not unheard of. But two Howard O’Keefes?

What exactly did Gerald have against Helen’s future spouse?

Gwyneira would gladly have shared her thoughts with Helen, but then thought it best to keep them to herself. What good would it do to ruin Helen’s happiness and give her things to worry about? All speculation was ultimately useless.

In the meantime it had become warm, almost hot, on board the
Dublin
. The sun now scorched the ship mercilessly from the sky. The immigrants had enjoyed the heat at first, but after almost eight weeks on board, the mood was shifting. While the cold of the first few weeks had made everyone listless, the heat and stifling air in the cabins put them increasingly on edge.

In steerage, people grated on each other’s nerves and got annoyed at even the flies on the walls. The men were the first to come to blows, passengers and crew members alike, when someone felt swindled at the food or water distribution. The ship’s doctor used a lot of gin to clean wounds and calm tempers. In addition, almost every family was fighting; the forced indolence got on everyone’s nerves. Helen alone enforced peace and quiet in her cabin. She kept the children busy from dawn until dusk with their never-ending lessons on working in a grand house. Gwyneira’s own head spun whenever she listened in.

“Goodness, I’m lucky to have escaped all that.” She thanked her good fortune, laughing. “I would never have been suited to managing such a house. I would constantly have forgotten half of it. And it would never have dawned on me to have the servants polish the
silver every day. It’s such superfluous work. And why do you have to fold the napkins in such a complicated manner? They get used every day as well.”

“It’s a question of beauty and decorum,” Helen informed her strictly. “Besides, you will still have to see to all of that. According to what I’ve heard, you’re expected at Kiward Station, a manor house. You said yourself that Mr. Warden is supposed to have modeled his home’s architecture after English country manors and had the rooms decorated by a London designer. Do you think he scrimped on the silverware, lamps, trays, and fruit bowls? You even have table linen packed in your trousseau.”

Gwyneira sighed. “I should have married my way to Texas. But seriously, I believe…I hope…Mr. Warden exaggerates. True, he wants to be a gentleman, but under all that genteel affectation hides a rather rough character. Yesterday he beat Mr. Brewster at blackjack. What am I saying—‘beat’—he cooked his goose! The other gentlemen accused him of cheating, and he wanted to challenge Lord Barrington to a duel over it. They might as well have been in any common harbor gin shack! Finally the captain himself had to ask the men to calm down. In reality, Kiward Station is probably a blockhouse, and I’ll have to milk the cows myself.”

“That would suit you!” Helen laughed, having gotten to know her friend well during their trip. “But don’t fool yourself. You are and will remain a lady, in a cow stall if it comes to it—and that goes for you too, Daphne. Don’t sit about looking slatternly, with your legs spread, just because I’m not looking. You can do Miss Silkham’s hair instead. You can tell by that alone that she misses her maids. Seriously, Gwyn, your hair curls as if someone had taken a curling iron to it. Do you ever comb it?”

Under Helen’s guidance and with some supplementary advice from Gwyneira on the latest fashions, Dorothy and even Daphne had grown into rather skilled chambermaids. Both were polite and had learned to help a lady dress and do her hair. Sometimes Helen had reservations about sending Daphne up to Gwyneira’s room alone because she didn’t
trust the girl. She thought it entirely possible that Daphne would take advantage of any opportunity for theft. But Gwyneira reassured her.

“I don’t know if she’s honest, but she’s certainly not dumb. If she steals here, we’d find out. Who else could it be, and where would she hide the stolen goods? As long as she’s here on the ship, I’m quite certain she’ll behave.”

The third-oldest girl, Elizabeth, proved just as ready to help and was irreproachably honest and loveable. She did not, however, demonstrate an abundance of skill. She preferred reading and writing to working with her hands. As a result, she was a source of anxiety to Helen.

“She should go back to school and perhaps then to a teaching college,” she remarked to Gwyneira. “She would like that too. She likes children and has a lot of patience. But who would pay for it? And is there even something like that in New Zealand? She’s a hopeless case as a housemaid. When she’s supposed to scrub a floor, she floods half of it and forgets the rest.”

“Maybe she’d be a good nanny,” Gwyneira considered, ever practical. “I will probably need one soon.”

Helen reddened at this observation. With regard to her coming nuptials, she only thought reluctantly about childbearing, especially conception. It was one thing to marvel at Howard’s polished writing style and bask in his admiration, but the thought of letting a complete stranger touch her…Helen had only a vague inkling of what transpired between men and women at night, but she anticipated more pain than joy. And here was Gwyneira talking so matter-of-factly about having children. Did she want to talk about it? And did she maybe know more about it than Helen herself did? Helen wondered how she could broach the topic without violating propriety from the very first word. Of course, this was a conversation that could take place only if none of the girls were nearby. Breathing a sigh of relief, she established that Rosie was playing with Cleo beside them.

In any case, Gwyneira could not have answered Helen’s pressing question. Though she spoke openly about having children, she had not given a thought to the nights with Lucas. She had no idea what
to expect from them—her mother had only shamefully hinted that it was just part of a woman’s fate to endure these things submissively. In return for which she would, God willing, be rewarded with a child. Gwyneira sometimes wondered whether a screaming, red-faced baby could truly be a reward, but she was not under any illusions. Gerald Warden expected her to bear him a grandchild as soon as possible. She wouldn’t refuse him that—not once she knew how one went about it.

The sea journey dragged on. In first class, people battled with boredom; all the pleasantries had been exchanged, all the stories told. Meanwhile, the passengers in steerage wrestled with the increasing difficulty of daily life. The paltry, monotonous diet led to sickness and symptoms of deficiency, while the narrowness of the cabins and the now constant warm weather created a perfect breeding ground for vermin. Dolphins had begun accompanying the ship, and big fish, even sharks, could be seen. The men in steerage tried to get their hands on them by means of fishing or harpooning but were rarely successful. The women yearned for even a modicum of hygiene and had resorted to collecting rainwater to wash their children and clothing. Helen found the results unsatisfying, however.

“In that broth the clothes only get dirtier,” she complained, eyeing the water that had collected in the bottom of one of the lifeboats.

Gwyneira shrugged. “At least you don’t have to drink it. And we’re in luck with regard to water, says the captain. Although we’ve been making our way slowly through the…the calm belt, thus far there have been no lulls. The wind doesn’t always blow here as it should, and sometimes ships run out of water.”