In the Land of the Long White Cloud (22 page)

His wife nodded energetically.

Mr. Morrison inhaled sharply. “You don’t want to indulge this little girl’s whims, do you?” he asked Mrs. Baldwin with an incredulous expression on his face.

Dorothy whimpered.

Daphne had thus far observed the scene with an almost indifferent mien. She knew exactly what lay ahead for Dorothy, for she had lived—and survived—on the street long enough to comprehend Morrison’s gaze better than Helen or Gwyneira. Men like him couldn’t afford a maid in London. But there were enough children for them on the banks of the Thames who would do anything for a piece of bread. Children like Daphne. She knew precisely how you buried the fear, the pain, and the shame, how you separated your body from your mind when a shithead like that wanted “to play” again. She was strong. But it would crush Dorothy.

Daphne looked at Helen Davenport, who was just learning—plenty late, in Daphne’s opinion—that you couldn’t change the ways of the world, no matter how much you behaved like a lady. Then she looked at Gwyneira Silkham, who obviously still had to learn that as well.
But Gwyneira Silkham was strong. Under different circumstances, for example as the wife of a powerful sheep baron, she could have done something. But she hadn’t come that far yet.

And then there were the Candlers: charming, kind people who would give her, little Daphne from the gutter, a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If she just played her cards right, she’d marry one of their heirs, lead a respectable life, have children, and become one of the region’s “notables.” Daphne could have laughed. Lady Daphne Candler—that sounded like something from one of Elizabeth’s stories. Too beautiful to be real.

Daphne ended her reverie abruptly and turned to her friend.

“Get up, Dorothy! Don’t howl like that,” she snapped at the girl. “It’s unbearable how you get so worked up. For my part, I don’t care if we trade. You go with the Candlers. I’ll go with him.” Daphne indicated Mr. Morrison.

Helen and Gwyneira held their breath, and Mrs. Candler gasped. Dorothy raised her head slowly, revealing her face, which was red and swollen from crying. Mr. Morrison frowned.

“Is this a game? Red Rover, Red Rover? Who says I’m just going to trade our girl away?” he asked angrily. “This one was promised to me.” He reached for Dorothy, who screamed in terror.

Daphne looked at him, the hint of a smile appearing on her lovely face. As though inadvertently, she ran her hand over her prim hairdo, freeing a few strands of glowing red hair.

“It won’t be any loss to you,” she breathed as the locks fell down over her shoulder.

Dorothy fled into Helen’s arms.

Morrison grinned, and this time there was no disguising his pleasure. “Well, if it’s like that…” he said and pretended to help Daphne fix her hair. “A red minx. My wife will be delighted. And you will surely be a good maid to her.” His voice sounded like silk, but Helen felt as though she were being sullied by the sound of his voice alone. The other women seemed to feel the same way. Only Mrs. Baldwin was immune to feelings, regardless of what kind. She wrinkled her brow disapprovingly and appeared to seriously consider whether she
should allow the girls to follow through with their exchange. Then she graciously handed the papers she’d prepared for Daphne to Mr. Morrison.

The girl looked up only once briefly before following the man out.

“Well, Miss Davenport?” Daphne asked. “Did I behave…like a lady?”

“I love you and will pray for you,” she whispered as she watched the girl go.

Daphne laughed. “I thank you for your love. But you can save your prayers,” she said bitterly. “First wait until you see what card your God pulls out of his sleeve for you!”

Helen cried herself to sleep that night after excusing herself from dinner with the Baldwins under the flimsiest of pretexts. She would have liked to leave the parsonage and curl up in the blanket Daphne had forgotten in the stall. She could have screamed at the very sight of Mrs. Baldwin, and the reverend’s prayers made a mockery of the God her father had served. She had to get out. If only she could afford the hotel. If only it would have been even halfway decent for her to meet her fiancé without a go-between and chaperone. But it couldn’t last much longer. Dorothy and the Candlers were on their way to Haldon. Tomorrow Howard would learn about her arrival.

C
ANTERBURY
P
LAINS
—W
EST
C
OAST
1852–1854

G
erald Warden and his baggage did little more than creep forward, though Cleo and the young flock kept a brisk pace. Gerald had needed to rent three wagons to transport his European purchases to Kiward Station, as well as Gwyneira’s comprehensive dowry of occasional furniture, silver, and fine linen. Lady Silkham had not scrimped in that regard, going so far as to reach into the contents of her own trousseau. It first struck Gwyneira when they were unpacking how many useless extravagances her mother had packed in her chests and baskets—items that no one at Silkham Manor had needed for thirty years. What Gwyneira was supposed to do with them here at the edge of the world was a mystery, though Gerald seemed to hold the bric-a-brac in high regard and wanted to bring it all to Kiward Station straightaway. So three teams of sturdy horses and mules lurched across the Canterbury Plains. The rains had made the trails muddy in places, which dragged the trip out considerably. The spirited riding horses did not like the slow pace, and Igraine had been pulling at her reins all morning. Yet, to her own surprise, Gwyneira wasn’t at all bored: she was enthralled by the endless landscape through which they rode, the silky carpet of grass on which the sheep would gladly have paused, and the view of the towering and majestic mountains in the background. After the past few days of rain, it was as clear as the day after they had arrived, and the mountains appeared once more to be close enough to touch. Near Christchurch, the land had been mostly flat, but it was becoming noticeably hillier. It consisted primarily of grassland, stretching as far as the eye could see, and was broken only occasionally by hedges or boulders that protruded so sharply from the green that it was as though a giant child had thrown them into the
landscape. Now and then they crossed streams and rivers whose currents were so mild that they could be waded through without danger. Now and then they rounded inconspicuous hills—suddenly to be rewarded with the sight of a small, crystal-clear lake in whose water the sky or the rock formations above were reflected. The majority of these lakes, Warden revealed, had volcanic origins, although there were no longer active volcanoes in the area.

Not far from the lakes and rivers stood the occasional humble farmhouse with sheep grazing in the meadows beside it. When the settlers noticed the riders, they came out from their farmhouses, hoping for a chat. Gerald spoke only briefly with them, however, and took none of them up on their offers of rest and refreshment.

“If we start accepting their invitations, we won’t reach Kiward Station for another two days,” he explained when Gwyneira found fault with his gruffness. She would have liked to have a look inside one of these sweet little houses because she assumed that her own future home would look similar. But Gerald allowed only short rests on riverbanks or at hedges, and otherwise insisted on maintaining a rapid pace. Only in the evening of the first day did he accept accommodations at a farm, which appeared considerably larger and neater than the houses of the roadside settlers.

“The Beasleys are wealthy. For a while, Lucas and their eldest son shared a tutor, and we invite them over every now and then,” Gerald explained to Gwyneira. “Beasley spent many years at sea as a first mate. An exceptional seaman. Just doesn’t have a knack for sheep breeding, or they’d have even more. But his wife wouldn’t settle for anything but a farm. She comes from rural England. And that’s why Beasley’s having a go at agriculture. A gentleman farmer.” Coming from Gerald’s mouth it sounded a bit derogatory. But then he smiled. “With an emphasis on the ‘gentleman.’ But they can afford it, so what’s the harm? And they provide a little culture and social life. Last year they even put together a fox hunt.”

Gwyneira wrinkled her brow. “Didn’t you say that there weren’t any foxes here?”

Gerald smirked. “The whole thing suffered a little because of that. But his sons are prodigious runners. They provided the bait.”

Gwyneira had to laugh. This Mr. Beasley sounded quite original, and he appeared to have a good eye for horses. The thoroughbreds resting in the paddock in front of his house were definitely imported from England, and the composition of the garden along the approach struck her as classically English. Indeed, Beasley turned out to be a pleasant, red-faced gentleman who reminded Gwyneira vaguely of her father. He too resided on the land rather than working the soil with his own hands, yet he lacked the landed gentry’s aptitude, cultivated over many generations, of running the farm effectively, even from the salon. The path leading up to his farm might have been elegant, but the horse pastures’ fences could have used a fresh coat of paint. Gwyneira also noticed that the meadows were overgrazed and the water troughs were dirty.

Beasley seemed sincerely pleased by Gerald’s visit. He uncorked his best bottle of whiskey straightaway and fell all over himself with compliments—alternating between Gwyneira’s beauty, the skill of the sheepdogs, and the Welsh Mountain sheep. His wife, a well-groomed middle-aged woman, welcomed Gwyneira heartily.

“You must tell me about the latest English fashions! But first I’ll show you my garden. My goal is to grow the prettiest roses in the plains. But I won’t be upset if you outdo me, my lady. No doubt you’ve brought the prettiest examples from your mother’s garden and spent the whole trip taking care of them.”

Gwyneira swallowed. Not even Lady Silkham had thought to give her daughter some of her roses to bring along. But now she felt obliged to marvel at the flowers that so perfectly mirrored her mother’s and sister’s blossoms. Mrs. Beasley almost fainted when Gwyneira casually mentioned this, dropping the name “Diana Riddleworth” in the process. Apparently, it was the crowning achievement of Mrs. Beasley’s life as a rose gardener to be compared to Gwyneira’s famous sister. Gwyneira let her enjoy the moment. She certainly had no plans to outdo Mrs. Beasley. Not especially captivated by the roses, she
found herself instead much more interested in the native plants that grew all around the manicured garden.

“Oh, those are cabbage trees,” Mrs. Beasley explained, disinterested, when Gwyneira pointed to a palmlike plant. “It looks like a palm, but supposedly belongs to the lily family. They shoot up like weeds. Be careful you don’t get too many of those in your garden, child. Or those over there.”

She pointed to a blooming bush that Gwyneira actually liked more than Mrs. Beasley’s roses. Its blossoms glowed a fiery red, in handsome contrast to its lush green leaves, which were unfolding beautifully after the rain.

“A rata,” Mrs. Beasley explained. “They grow wild across the whole island. Can’t get rid of them. I always have to take care that they don’t sneak in with the roses. And my gardener is no great help. He doesn’t understand why you care for some plants and weed out others.”

As it turned out, the Beasleys’ entire staff was Maori. They had hired only a few white adventurers who claimed to know what they were doing to look after the sheep. Gwyneira saw a pureblooded native for the first time here and was initially a bit frightened. Mrs. Beasley’s gardener was short and stocky. His hair was dark and curly and his skin light brown; his face was marred by tattoos—or at least that’s how Gwyneira saw it. The man must have liked the whirls and zigzags himself, however, since he’d agreed to have them scratched painfully into his skin. Once Gwyneira had gotten used to his appearance, she found she liked his grin. He was very polite too, greeting her with a deep bow and holding the garden gate open for the ladies. His uniform was no different from that of white servants, though Gwyneira assumed that the Beasleys had ordered it. Before the whites had appeared, the Maori had no doubt dressed differently.

“Thank you, George,” Mrs. Beasley said to him kindly as he shut the door behind her.

Gwyneira was surprised.

“His name is George?” she asked, taken aback. “I would have thought…but your help are no doubt baptized and have taken English names, is that right?”

Mrs. Beasley shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t even know,” she admitted. “We don’t go to church regularly. That would mean a day’s journey to Christchurch every time. So on Sunday I just hold a little devotional here for us and the help. But if they come because they’re Christian or because I demand it…I don’t know.”

“But if his name is George…” Gwyneira insisted.

“Oh, child, I gave him that name. I’ll never learn the language of these people. Their names alone are unpronounceable. And he doesn’t seem to care either way, do you George?”

The man nodded and smiled.

“Proper name Tonganui!” he then added, pointing at himself when Gwyneira still looked dismayed. “Means ‘Son of Sea God.’”