Call of the Kiwi (46 page)

Jack shut his eyes. So an empty house after all. Nothing more than the echo of voices and feelings in abandoned rooms.

Then again, Jack was astonished to realize that he felt something. A twinge of anger—or jealousy. Once again someone was attempting to take Gloria away from him. First the Martyns, now Tonga. He always arrived too late to protect her.

“I don’t know what to do. He just holes up in his room. It’s almost worse than with Gloria. At least when she first returned she went riding.”

Gwyneira refilled Elaine’s cup with tea. Elaine had made her annual trip to Kiward Station to breathe a little country air with her youngest sons.

“You mean he doesn’t do anything on the farm?” Elaine asked. She had just arrived and had yet to see Jack. His friend Maaka had insisted he go see a few animals meant for breeding. The foreman was desperately trying to get Jack to take an interest in Kiward Station again, but since his return Jack had still not settled in. Gwyneira knew exactly how it would go. Jack would ride out, glance at the animals, and say a few noncommittal words. Then he would excuse himself on account of his fatigue and barricade himself in his room anew.

“But he used to be foreman here,” Elaine said.

Gwyneira nodded sadly. “Yes, he had it all under control. And it was in his blood, you know. Jack is a born farmer and husbander—and dog trainer. His collies were always the best in all the Canterbury Plains. But now? He tolerates the whelp I gave him, but nothing more. He’s not training her, doesn’t go out with her. She just keeps him company while he looks out the window. When she gets bored of that, he lets her out; then she follows me around or goes to the stables. I’m at my wits’ end.”

“Maybe the boys and I can get him to come out,” Elaine pondered. “He does like children.”

“Try it,” Gwyneira replied, “but Maaka has tried practically everything. He works so hard at it; it’s touching. I had been worried it might come to wrangling over who’s in charge since Maaka’s managed the farm for the last three and a half years, but he would have gladly turned the rudder over to Jack if only he had wanted it. But he keeps running into a wall.”

“Maaka didn’t join the tribe for their migration?” Elaine asked.

“No, thank God. I wouldn’t have known what to do without him. Especially during this awful summer. The cold stunted the grass, and the hay harvest was disastrous; the rain spoiled half of it. And if things continue like this, we’ll have to herd the sheep back into the hills early. Hopefully the tribe will be back by then.”

“If not, I’ll do it with my two cowboys,” Elaine said, looking out the window. Her boys were enjoying themselves in the pasture with two cob mares. Frank Wilkenson was trying his luck as a riding instructor. “And do you know what? I’d like a new collie. Callie’s been gone so long now, but I’m still always looking around for her. I need a new shadow. I’ll ask Jack to help with its training. He has to show me how to do it. Then he’ll thaw.”

Jack appeared an hour later, sweaty and drained from the ride. A short outing like that would never have been a strain before, but it was clearly too much for him. He drank some tea and exchanged a few polite words with Elaine. What interested him most was Roly.

“Roly’s doing well; he’s finally getting married,” Elaine told him with deliberate cheer. Jack’s thinness and paleness had shocked her. “I was told expressly to invite you. Aside from that he’s very busy. He’s taking care of Tim again, of course—which is doing Tim good. He gets along fine on his own, but it’s tiring. Roly also has a new patient, Greg McNamara—the boy who went off to war with him. You know, the poor fellow lost both legs. And his family is completely helpless. Until Roly returned, Greg just lay in bed all day. His mother and sisters couldn’t lift him, and his small pension is only enough to survive. We gave them Tim’s old wheelchair as a start, and our pastor wants to see to it that they receive donations for his care. Greg would like to work, but that doesn’t look likely. Mrs. O’Brien could give him a job in the sewing shop, but Roly doesn’t dare make the offer. It would look too much like charity.”

Jack’s frowned. “All the male nurse jokes,” he said, remembering Greg’s teasing.

“Like I said, it’s tragic,” Elaine replied. “You were lucky, Jack.”

“Yes, I was,” he said softly. “Would you excuse me? I should go wash.”

In a certain sense, Elaine’s plan worked. Jack politely agreed to help train her dog, and he showed up punctually every morning to work with them. Tuesday likewise benefited. She learned quickly and adored her master. Unlike Shadow, however, she did not get to enjoy a walk or ride afterward. Jack always retired immediately after the training session. He no longer appeared to derive any joy from working with the animals as he once had. When he praised the dog, he did so kindly, but his eyes did not light up, and there was no smile in his voice.

“He behaves impeccably,” Elaine informed Gwyneira, “but it’s as if something inside him is dead.”

3

H
ave you heard anything from your lost children?”

Gwyneira had been so preoccupied with her own troubles that she did not ask about Lilian and Ben until late in the visit. She was driving her granddaughter to Christchurch in the chaise. Elaine planned to visit Elizabeth Greenwood for a night before returning to Greymouth.

“Contradictory things,” Elaine replied.

Gwyneira frowned. “What should I take that to mean?”

She was not expecting any big news, as Elaine would have reported that without prompting. She gave Gwyneira regular updates about the young couple in her letters, so Gwyneira knew about her first great-great-grandson, whom Lilian had named Galahad for incomprehensible reasons.

“According to Caleb’s sources, the professors at the university, that is, they’re doing well. According to George Greenwood’s private detective, they’re doing
very
well.”

Jeremy and Billy were out of earshot, proudly riding two horses alongside the carriage. Otherwise Elaine would never have talked so openly. She kept what she knew about Lilian and Ben to herself—just as Caleb Biller did with his family. Caleb relied on his connections to Ben’s university, and twice a year Elaine received reports from a detective George Greenwood had hired for her.

“What’s the difference?” Gwyneira asked.

“Well, they moved to Wellington recently. Ben has a teaching professorship there. Caleb is bursting with pride. Normally they place men that young in an assistant position at best. Ben was always a high achiever—though I never noticed it, that doesn’t mean anything.”

“And?” she asked.

“Well, a teaching position means a small income. So Ben doesn’t need to work on the docks anymore or whatever else he was doing to feed the family. He could afford a small apartment and just be able to make ends meet if Lilian pinched pennies. Or gave some additional piano lessons.”

“But?” Gwyneira was getting impatient.

“But in reality they live on the edge of town in a darling house with a garden. In the morning a nanny pushes little Galahad around in a stroller—a very expensive stroller, the detective thinks. Lilian wears nice dresses, and whenever there’s a theater performance or a concert, they attend.”

“How do they pay for that?” Gwyneira asked, surprised.

“That’s precisely the question.”

“I hope Elizabeth Greenwood might be able to tell me more. George has put the detective on the case again.”

“Do you suspect anything illegal?” Gwyneira asked.

Elaine laughed. “Hardly. The thought that Ben Biller could rob a bank has frankly never occurred to me—though that would certainly make him more interesting. But from all I’ve heard about him, he’s simply a nice bore. Very much like his father.”

“Why does Lily find him so interesting then?” Gwyneira asked. “She’s such a lively girl herself.”

“The charm of the forbidden,” Elaine sighed. “If Florence and Tim hadn’t gotten so angry, everything would probably have worked out differently. But they didn’t even learn anything from their children running away. In fact, war is brewing between the Lambert and Biller Mines right now. Each of them is trying to snatch shares from the other. Florence went deep into debt for her own coke furnace and is now trying to lure away our customers by lowering her prices. Tim wanted to do the same, but Uncle George advised Tim to wait it out. While the Biller’s furnace is busier than ours at the moment, it’s not profitable and should simply run itself into the ground over time. We just hope Florence doesn’t ruin herself with it. The whole business is absurd. But I’d just like to see my grandson at least once. And I miss Lily. Though he would never admit it, Tim does too. We absolutely have to think of something.”

“Have you heard of this?” Elizabeth Greenwood asked, pushing a book across the table toward Elaine.

Gwyneira had just left, and the two women were having tea. Elaine took the book with furrowed brow. She wanted to ask about Lilian and Ben, but she tried to be patient.

“Well, have you?” she asked again.

Elaine flipped through the book. “
The Mistress of Kenway Station
. Yes, I read it. Very exciting. I like stories like that.”

“And?” Elizabeth asked. “Did anything stand out to you?”

Elaine shrugged.

“About the story, I mean. The farm at the end of the earth, the scoundrel who more or less keeps his wife prisoner.”

Elaine blushed. “You mean me. It should have reminded me of Lionel Station?”

Elizabeth nodded. “I couldn’t help noticing.”

“It wasn’t all that similar. I can’t remember the heroine, well, he
r . . .
”

“No, the heroine is saved by a childhood friend,” Elizabeth agreed. “The ending wasn’t the same. But then came this.” She produced a second book,
The Heiress of Wakanui
.

Elaine read the jacket text:
“
‘Since the death of his beloved wife, Jerome Hastings has become a difficult, withdrawn man. He manages his farm, Tibbet Station, with a hard heart, and his enmity with the Maori chieftain Mani threatens to plunge the entire region into war but for Ahu, the chieftain’s daughter, who secretly loves him.
’
”

“What am I missing here?” Elaine asked.

Elizabeth sighed.

“In the end they have a baby,” she helped.

Elaine reflected. “Paul and Marama Warden. Kura-maro-tini. Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?” She looked at the jacket. “Brenda Boleyn. I don’t know a Brenda Boleyn.”

“And is this just a coincidence too?” With a grand gesture Elizabeth revealed a third book,
The Beauty of Westport,
and read the jacket text aloud:

“
‘Through no fault of her own Joana Walton loses her position as a governess in Christchurch. Fleeing the cruel Brendan Louis, she ends up on the West Coast—an unforgiving place for an innocent girl. But Joana remains true to herself. She finds a meager income as a piano player in a bar—as well as new love in Lloyd Carpinter, who owns shares in a railway line. But will he stay with her when he learns of her past?
’
”

Elaine went pale. “I will kill whoever wrote this.”

“You no longer believe it’s a coincidence, do you? In any case, I’ve made inquiries.”

“I sense something is afoot.”

“The books are published by a press in Wellington, and there’s some connection between it and the newspaper Ben Biller has occasionally written for over the last few years.”

“Abbreviated BB, right? I saw it in the detective’s dossier. But he can’t have made much from that. The boy has no talent. The last thing I read of his was some doggerel about flowing hearts.”

“I’ve started having the newspaper sent to me. BB writes very moving short stories. In the same style as Brenda Boleyn.”

Elaine shook her head. “I can’t picture it. The boy was completely incapable of writing such a thing, and this book”—she indicated
The Mistress of Kenway Station
—“may not be great literature, but it’s still very polished.”

Elizabeth grinned. “And it’s not about the Biller family. Not to mention that this person masquerading as Brenda is likely a woman.”

Elaine stared at her. “You mean, he’s not the one doing the writing? You mea
n . . .
Lily?” She stood up and began pacing the room. Elizabeth could only just save a costly Chinese vase from being knocked over. “Damn it, I’m going to bend her over my knee. Or I’ll hold her so Tim can. He’s wanted to do that for some time now. How could she?”

“Now don’t get so worked up. One would have to know your family story quite well to pick up on the similarities. I wouldn’t even have figured it out after the first two books if the hero of the first hadn’t been named Galahad.”

“She named her son after him?” Elaine had to smile.

“Galahad represents her dream man,” Elizabeth remarked drily. “I don’t know Ben Biller, but he would have to be a rare beam of light to come close to the hero in the book. So, what should we do now? Any ideas?”

“First, I’m going to write an admiring letter to Brenda Boleyn. And ask carefully about the details of my family history. Perhaps she’s some long-lost cousin making a proper mess of the Kiward Station line of succession. We’ll see how Lily responds.”

“A very diplomatic solution—and one that flies elegantly over Tim’s head. Then you’ll probably tell him that Brenda is an old friend from school, right? But you’re going to have to work this out, Elaine. It really is a farce to have two families at war over nothing.”

“But an original one,” remarked Elaine, “the Montagues and Capulets thumping each other on the head while Romeo studies Polynesian and Julia makes money off her family history. Not even Shakespeare would have thought of that.”

Dear Brenda Boleyn,

Having just had the opportunity to read your third literary work, I’d like to express the greatest admiration and esteem for your talent as an author. Rarely does a writer succeed in enthralling me with her imagination the way you have.

Yet, a question if I may: to my astonishment I’ve found remarkable parallels in all of your books to the history of my family. At first I thought it to be a coincidence, then perhaps a spiritual affinity. A person as sensitive as you undoubtedly are may well possess medium-like abilities. But why is it my family of all families that your presumptive familiar spirit describes to you? These thoughts have led me to the conclusion that perhaps you might be a hitherto unknown or lost family member who has knowledge of my family history through a much more mundane channel. Should that be the case, I would be very happy to make your acquaintance. Until then, I remain, with admiration,

Yours,

Elaine Lambert

Lily startled at first when she saw the handwriting on the envelope, but she received so much reader mail that she didn’t think much of it. As she read the first lines, however, she turned red, only to begin giggling.

She reached for her typewriter, but then changed her mind. On some perfumed stationery she treasured, she wrote these words:
Dearest Mummy.