Call of the Kiwi (7 page)

Jack and Charlotte married in the spring, right after the sheep had been herded into the highlands. Elizabeth had planned a romantic garden celebration on the banks of the Avon, but unfortunately it was rained out, and the guests rushed into the tents that had been set up just in case. Jack and Charlotte withdrew early from the party and drove to Kiward Station the very next day. They took over the rooms William and Kura Martyn had shared early in their marriage. William had furnished them with exceptional taste and at great cost, and Charlotte had nothing against living surrounded by such furniture. Jack only insisted on less opulent furnishing for the bedroom and asked the carpenter in Haldon for a simple bed and some wardrobes out of native wood.

“But no
kauri
,” Charlotte insisted, smiling. “You know Tane Mahuta, the god of the forest, forced Papa and Rangi apart.”

In Maori mythology, Papatuanuku, the earth, and Ranginui, the sky, had once been lovers, lying close in each other’s arms in the cosmos. Their children decided to separate the two, thus creating light, air, and vegetation on the earth. But Rangi wept almost daily over the separation.

Jack laughed and embraced his wife. “Nothing will ever separate us again.”

Although Jack and Charlotte were happy on Kiward Station, George Greenwood suggested a real honeymoon.

“It’s time you saw the world, Jack,” he insisted when Jack found a thousand reasons not to leave the farm. “The sheep are happy in the highlands, and your parents can take care of a few cattle on their own.”

“A few
thousand
cattle,” Jack noted.

George rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to tuck them into bed yourself every day,” he replied. “Your wife would love to see the Pancake Rocks.”

Charlotte had suggested a trip to the West Coast. She was less interested in the rocks themselves than in talking to the most famous Maori researcher on the South Island: Caleb Biller. After she heard that Jack’s niece Elaine and her husband not only lived in the area but knew Biller personally, she would not take no for an answer.

“As far as I know, the Lamberts and Billers aren’t exactly friends,” George said, but nothing would deter Charlotte.

“They don’t have to sit there while I talk with Mr. Biller,” she said. “They can just introduce us. Besides, it’s an easy trip by train.”

Jack could not object to that. George Greenwood had agreed to place his own salon car at their disposal. The luxury wagon was attached to the regular train, and the honeymooners could enjoy the trip in plush seats or even in bed, drinking champagne. Though Jack would have preferred riding a horse to a train and a shared camp under the starry sky to a rolling bed, Charlotte was enthusiastic, so he played along.

Tim Lambert had decided not to like Jack’s young wife, Charlotte, too much—if only because she was forcing him to meet with Florence Biller. But the young woman took his heart by storm. Charlotte succeeded in not “overlooking” Tim’s handicap but engaging with him candidly about it. She got along beautifully with Elaine and found in her an open-minded audience for her adventures as a suffragette, and the Lambert boys loved her.

“How is Lilian doing? Does she write?” Jack asked. The question had been weighing on him for some time. Although his marriage and the work on the farm fulfilled him, he still worried about Gloria. Her letters hardly put him at ease. Although she dutifully reported music lessons, reading circles in the garden, and summertime picnics on the banks of the Cam, he could detect none of Gloria’s personality in her words. It was almost as if someone else were writing them.

Elaine nodded. “Of course she writes. The girls are made to every Friday afternoon. She always has something to say, you know. Though I ask myself how she gets her letters past the censor. The teachers must check the letters randomly, don’t you think?”

She turned to Charlotte.

“Actually they respect the privacy of the letters. At least with the older forms and where I went to school,” she informed Elaine.

“What sort of subversive writing is Lilian putting to paper?” Jack asked, unsettled. “Is she not happy?”

Elaine laughed. “She is. But I’m afraid Lily’s idea of happiness and that of her teachers don’t always match up. Here, see for yourself.”

She took Lilian’s last letter out of a pocket in her dress. Elaine liked to carry Lilian’s letters with her and read them over and over until the next one arrived.

“
‘Dear Mummy, Daddy, and brothers,
’
” Jack read aloud.
“
‘I got a bad grade on the English assignment where we were supposed to retell a story of Poe’s. It was so sad that I gave it a different ending. But that was wrong. Edgar Allen Poe sometimes wrote some really sad stories and really weird ones too. But there is no such thing as ghosts, however. I know that because last weekend I was at Bloomingbridge Castle with Amanda Wolveridge. Her family has a real castle, and it is supposed to be haunted, but Amanda and I stayed up all night and did not see any ghosts. Just her stupid brother in a sheet. Other than that, we rode Amanda’s ponies, and it was very fun. My pony was the fastest. Rube, can you send me a weta? Last week we stuck a spider in the map our teacher has to unroll. She was terribly frightened and leaped up on a chair. We could see her underwear. It would be much better with a weta since they sometimes jump after you.
’
”

Charlotte giggled as though she were still a little girl playing pranks on her teacher. Jack laughed, too, though he was disheartened. The letter was delightful; you could almost hear little Lilian prattling. Gloria’s letters were almost eerie by comparison. He would have to dig deeper. Only he had no idea how to go about doing that.

6

G
loria hated every second at Oaks Garden.

Her spiteful roommate ripped her to pieces. Perhaps she envied Gloria’s famous mother, but more likely she was just looking for a scapegoat on whom to take out all of her own frustrations. Either way, Gloria was incapable of paying the girl’s scorn back in kind. Nor, however, could she ignore it. She was also well aware that she was far from adorable and looked awkward in her school uniform. And her lack of intelligence and talent was mercilessly brought to her attention every day.

Not that the school was such a treasure trove of creative talent. Despite the school’s claim to be a bastion of the fine arts, most of the students smeared paint on their canvases with the same amateur strokes as Gloria and only managed to depict a house or garden from a halfway correct perspective with a good deal of help. Gabrielle Wentworth played the violin horrendously, and Melissa was not much better on the cello.

But choir was the worst. Everyone except Gloria enjoyed singing in the choir. Then again, none of the other students had to endure a torture comparable to that of the daughter of Kura-maro-tini Martyn.

“The daughter of the celebrated Mrs. Martyn!” Miss Wedgewood’s eyes gleamed when she called Gloria up to the podium first thing. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you so. Our alto section is a little weak, and if you have even half your mother’s voice, you should be able to hold it up. Could you sing an A for us?”

She struck the note on the piano, and Gloria attempted to repeat it. Gloria was already embarrassed at having to stand next to the piano in front of the class. The reference to her mother did the rest. Gloria could not manage a single note. Although she had a strong and dulcet singing voice, the girl did not trust herself to sing even the simplest song properly and simply stood there self-consciously, unable to overcome her nerves.

“Hmm. You don’t take after your mother at all,” Miss Wedgewood finally said, clearly disappointed, and Gloria disappeared into the last row, next to Gabrielle, who took every opportunity to blame any mistakes on her.

Lilian wasn’t any help. The girls were assigned to different courses and only saw one another in choir and during breaks. But Lilian was almost instantly surrounded by other girls. Though she did not exclude Gloria—quite the opposite, Lilian warmly welcomed her into her circle—the girl felt out of place. The lower-form girls looked at her with a mixture of bewilderment, envy, and caution, as a great rivalry reigned between the two wings at Oaks Garden; the girls did not visit each other except to play tricks. When Lilian invited her to a midnight party, Gloria snuck over and even almost enjoyed nibbling cake and drinking lemonade with the younger girls. But Gabrielle and her other roommates caught her on her return, speedily forced a confession from her, and immediately told on Lilian to the housemother. Miss Barnum caught the girls cleaning up after the party, and punishment ensued. They held Gloria responsible for the sad end of the festivities.

“Of course I believe you,” Lilian said sympathetically. The girls met while doing their punishment exercises in the garden, which consisted of being forced to walk for hours, usually in the rain. They were not really allowed to talk, but Lily was unable to keep her mouth shut. “That Gabrielle is a monster. But the others don’t want to have you around anymore. I’m so sorry!”

So Gloria remained alone. Lilian left almost every weekend to visit one or another friend’s family. Many others did the same, so weekends at school consisted largely of outcasts. This left the girls very cross, and Gabrielle and Fiona took their low spirits out on Gloria.

Gloria saw Miss Bleachum every Sunday at church, her only ray of hope all week. However, the young governess did not look particularly happy either. Gloria was astonished to see her at the organ in Sawston that first Sunday.

“I had no idea you could play,” she said when they spoke after service.

Sarah sighed. There had been some discussion with Christopher about her performance in the village church. Miss Taylor-Bennington had always played the organ—and much better than Sarah—but Christopher had insisted that Sarah “make her debut” in the parish, as he put it. Though he introduced her as his cousin, local gossip swirled about their impending marriage. Almost every woman with whom Sarah came into contact took it for granted—and already had ideas about how the future pastor’s wife could make herself useful in the parish. Sarah demurely took over bible study and Sunday school, but despite her incontestable pedagogical talents, her efforts were not warmly received.

“Sarah, my dear, the women are complaining,” Christopher explained after her second week. “You’re turning bible lessons into a scientific lecture. All these stories from the Old Testament—do you have to do it that way?”

“I thought I’d read them bible passages featuring women,” Sarah defended herself. “And the nicest are all in the Old Testament.”

“The nicest? Like the one about Deborah, who goes with the commander into battle? Or the one about Jael, who kills her foe with a tent stake?” Christopher shook his head.

“Yes, well, the women in the Old Testament were a bit, well, more active than those in the New,” Sarah admitted. “But they achieved a great deal. Esther, for example.”

Christopher frowned. “Tell me, Sarah, do you sympathize with the suffragettes? That sounds rather inflammatory.”

“It’s in the Bible,” Sarah remarked.

“But there are nicer passages too.” Christopher laid his hands on the New Testament—and demonstrated to Sarah in the very next Sunday sermon what he thought of women in the Bible.

“The price of a virtuous woman is far above rubies,” he began, only briefly touching on Eve’s failings. “The grace of a wife delighteth her husband, and her discretion will fatten his bones.”

The women of the parish reddened as if at a secret command but enjoyed the praise and were enthused by Mary’s surrender to the will of the Lord and her motherly qualities. In the end Christopher reaped accolades from all sides.

“Read the ‘Magnificat’ with them in the next bible study and talk about the ways in which Mary was blessed,” he directed Sarah. “That’s not as long as all those bible stories, and the women do want to chat about other things too, you know.”

Indeed there was more gossiping than praying in bible study, and the reverend was a favorite subject. All the women raved about him, endlessly praising his many good deeds for the parish.

Serious differences between Sarah and the parish only emerged when Christopher entrusted the Sunday school to her. Sarah loved the natural sciences, and answering students’ questions truthfully was among her deepest pedagogical convictions.

“What could you possibly have been thinking?” Christopher asked when Sarah’s first lesson with the children resulted in a deluge of angry protests from parents. “You’re telling the children that we descend from apes?”

Sarah shrugged. “Billy Grant wanted to know if God really made all the animals in six days. And Charles Darwin has since disproved that theory. So I explained to him that the Bible tells us a very beautiful story that helps us to better comprehend the wonder of creation. But then I explained to the children what actually happened.”

Christopher tore his hair out. “That has in no way been proven,” he said indignantly. “And regardless, it doesn’t belong in a Christian Sunday school. Be more careful what you tell the children in the future. We’re not at the ends of the earth where such nihilistic ideas are perhaps tolerated.”

Sarah did not want to admit it, but the longer she sampled the life of the future wife of a pastor, the more she longed to return to those ends of the earth. Until then she had always believed herself a good Christian, but she began to fear that that would not be enough here. She had felt more gratified working with children. And little Gloria seemed to be struggling too.

Despite Christopher’s visible impatience—he and Sarah were often invited to luncheon at a parishioner’s after service, and he did not want to be late—she always withdrew, however briefly, with the girl and let Gloria talk.

“I’m getting bad grades, Miss Bleachum,” Gloria complained, certain that this would interest the teacher more than Gabrielle’s daily tortures. “I can’t sing or read music or draw. But a few days ago I did see a frog, one as green as grass, Miss Bleachum, with tiny suction cups on its feet, and I sketched it. First a big picture of the frog and then a little one of its feet. Have a look, Miss Bleachum.” Gloria proudly proffered a slightly smeared charcoal sketch, and Sarah was impressed.

“But Miss Blake-Sutherland thinks it’s disgusting. I’m not supposed to be drawing disgusting things. Art is supposed to depict pretty things. Gabrielle got a B because she drew a flower. It didn’t even look like a real flower. Geography is dull, they don’t teach any science, and we don’t have Latin, only French.”

“But we did French too,” Sarah said, feeling suddenly guilty that she had not better prepared the girl. They had only begun the year before, and she knew that the other girls had probably been studying it for ages.

Gloria confirmed that she was hopelessly behind. That gave Sarah Bleachum an idea.

“Perhaps I could tutor you,” she suggested. “On Saturday or Sunday afternoon. Would you like that?”

Gloria beamed. “That would be wonderful. You can write to Grandmum Gwyn about payment.”

Sarah shook her head. “I
want
to do it, Glory. I’ll speak to Miss Arrowstone. We’ll find a way to convince her.”

Although Christopher advised against it, Sarah took up the matter with Miss Arrowstone the very next day. The headmistress was initially not enthusiastic.

“Miss Bleachum, we agreed that the girl must cut the apron strings. Gloria comes across as strange here; she doesn’t get along with her classmates, and she rejects the subject matter. The bible history teacher recently brought her to me because she put forward Darwinian ideas in an essay. Instead of writing about original sin, she wrote something about the origin of species. I had to rebuke her sharply.”

Sarah turned red.

“The girl has grown up a total stranger to the world,” Miss Arrowstone declared with outrage. “And you are undoubtedly not entirely without fault. But so be it, the girl ran wild on that sheep farm. A little bit of homeschooling probably stood no chance against that. What’s more, is it true what Lilian says? That her grandfather was really a livestock thief?”

Sarah Bleachum had to smile. “Lilian’s great-grandfather,” she corrected her. “Gloria is not related to James McKenzie.”

“But she did grow up in the household of this dubious folk hero, did she not? It’s all very opaque. And who is this Jack?” While she spoke, Miss Arrowstone drew a piece of paper out of her desk drawer.

Sarah recognized Gloria’s large sloping handwriting.

“Do you read the girls’ letters?” she asked, outraged.

“Not usually, Miss Bleachum. But this on
e . . .
”

The students at Oaks Garden were forced to write home on Friday afternoons. Few of them had much to say, but they had learned to inflate small events—a good grade for a drawing, for example, or a new étude in their violin lessons—into the highlights of the week.

Gloria invariably sat mutely in front of her piece of paper. She simply couldn’t bring herself to describe her misery. It was just a chance to revisit all the indignities she’d suffered that week: the Monday morning when she had once again found the school blouse she had assiduously ironed the night before wrinkled under all the clothes Gabrielle had taken out on Sunday evening.