In the Land of the Long White Cloud (17 page)

“Well, all right,” Gwyneira said with composure. “The whelps really know their stuff. The big one there, we’ll start a breed with him that’ll make people back in England wish they had one. Shall we be going, Mr. Warden?”

Without waiting for his reply, she climbed up on her mare. Igraine pranced excitedly. She too was eager to be able to move again. The sailor who had been holding the young stallion handed the nervous animal over to Gerald with a sigh of relief.

Gerald vacillated between rage and amazement. Gwyneira’s performance had been impressive, but that did not give her the right to defy his commands. However, Gerald could hardly put a halt to things without losing face in front of the Brewsters and Barringtons.

He grudgingly took the small stallion’s reins. He had conquered the Bridle Path more than once and knew its dangers. Taking the path in the late afternoon was always risky. Even when you didn’t have shepherds with you and were sitting on a well-trained mule instead of on an unbacked stallion.

On the other hand, he didn’t know what to do about the sheep here in Lyttelton. His incompetent son had once again failed to make arrangements for their accommodation at the harbor, and now there was guaranteed to be no one available to set up a pen before nightfall. Gerald’s fingers clamped around the reins in rage. When would Lucas finally learn to think beyond the walls of his study?

Angrily, Gerald put a foot in the stirrup. He had naturally learned over the course of his eventful life to handle a horse reasonably well, but it was still not his favorite mode of transport. To take the Bridle Path on a young stallion felt like a test of courage to Gerald—and he nearly hated Gwyneira for forcing him into it. Her rebellious spirit, which had so pleased Gerald when it was directed against her father, was becoming a source of frustration that was hard to ignore.

Sitting on her mare, pleased with herself and entirely at ease, Gwyneira had no inkling of Gerald’s thinking. No, she was simply
delighted that her future father-in-law had not said anything about the man’s saddle she had put on Igraine. Her father would certainly have thrown a fit if she had dared to ride astride a horse with her legs apart in society. Gerald, however, did not seem to notice how unbecoming it looked, with the skirt of her riding dress riding up, exposing her ankles. Gwyneira attempted to pull the skirt down, but then forgot all about it. She had enough to do with Igraine, who would have liked to overtake the mules and take the pass at a gallop. The dogs, thankfully, did not require any attention. Cleo knew what to do and drove the sheep deftly toward the pass even when the path narrowed. The pups followed her in order from biggest to littlest, causing Mrs. Brewster to joke, “Looks a bit like Miss Davenport and her orphan girls.”

Two hours after setting out, Helen was at the end of her strength when she heard the sound of hooves behind her. The path still led upward, and now, just as before, there was nothing to see but barren, inhospitable mountains. However, one of the other immigrants had spoken a few encouraging words to them. He had spent some years at sea and had been present in 1836 for one of the first expeditions to this area. With a group belonging to Captain Rhodes, one of the first settlers, he had climbed up the Port Hills and fallen so in love with the view of the Canterbury Plains that he had now returned with his wife and child to settle here. He now told his exhausted family that after just a few more curves in the road, they would reach the top.

Still the path remained narrow and steep, and the riding mules could not overtake the hikers. Grumbling, the riders fell in line behind them. Helen wondered whether Gwyneira was among them. She had heard the altercation between Gerald and Gwyneira and was anxious to see who had won the dispute. Her sensitive nose told her that Gwyneira must have won the day. The air suddenly smelled distinctly of sheep, and she could hear
baa
s of protest behind her.

At long last, they reached the pass’s highest point. Merchants awaited the hikers on a sort of platform, on which they had built stands and now offered refreshments. This was where people traditionally rested—if only to enjoy the first vista of their new country in peace. But for the moment Helen had no interest in the view. She could only drag herself to one of the stands, where she purchased a large tankard of ginger beer. Only after she’d drunk it did she make her way to the overlook, where many of the others had already paused as though in prayer.

“It’s so pretty,” whispered Gwyneira, enraptured. Sitting on her horse, she could see out over the others. Helen had to make do with a limited view from the third row. That was enough, however, to put a damper on her enthusiasm. Far below them, the mountainous landscape gave way to tender green grassland through which wound a small river. On the opposite bank lay the Christchurch settlement, which was anything but the burgeoning city Helen had expected. True, one could make out a tiny church steeple, but hadn’t there been talk of a cathedral? Wasn’t it supposed to become a bishopric? Helen had at least expected a construction site, but no such thing was visible. Christchurch was nothing more than a cluster of brightly colored houses, mostly made of wood; only a few were built from the sandstone Mr. Warden had spoken of. It reminded her very much of Lyttelton, the port town they had just left behind. And it likely had little more to offer in social life and amenities.

Gwyneira hardly gave the town a second glance. It was tiny, yes, but she was used to that from the villages in Wales. What fascinated her was the hinterland: sheer endless grassland basking in the late afternoon sun, and beyond the plains rose majestic mountains, some of which were capped with snow. They were surely many miles away, but the air was so clear that it looked like you could touch them. A few children even stretched out their hands.

The vista was reminiscent of Wales or other parts of Great Britain where grasslands bordered on hilly regions; for that reason this landscape felt familiar to Gwyneira and many of the other settlers.
But everything was clearer, larger, and more expansive. No pens or walls divided the landscape, and only the occasional house could be seen. Gwyneira experienced a sensation of freedom. She would be able to ride endlessly here, and the sheep could spread themselves out over a gigantic area. Never again would she have to discuss whether there was enough grass or if the herd needed to be thinned. Here there seemed to be an infinite amount of land.

Gerald’s anger at Gwyneira dissolved when he saw her beaming face. It reflected the joy he felt anew each time he looked out over his homeland. Gwyneira would feel at home here. She might not love Lucas, but she would definitely love the land.

Helen resolved to have a positive attitude. This was not what she’d pictured, but to be fair, she’d been assured on all sides that Christchurch was a blossoming community. The town would grow. Eventually there would be schools and libraries—perhaps she could even take part in building it up. Howard seemed to be a man interested in culture; no doubt he would support her. And moreover, she didn’t have to love the land but rather her husband. With renewed determination, she swallowed her disappointment and turned to the girls.

“On your feet, children. You’ve had your refreshment; now we have to get going. But it won’t be as bad going downhill. Come, let’s have the little ones race. Whoever makes it to the next inn first gets an extra lemonade!”

The next inn was not far. The first houses were already visible in the foothills of the mountains. The path widened, and the riders could pass those who were on foot. Cleo drove the sheep ably past the settlers, and Gwyneira followed on the still-prancing Igraine. Earlier, on the more precarious narrow paths, the cobs had remained remarkably calm. Even little Madoc had scrambled nimbly over the stony paths, and Gerald had soon felt quite safe. He had decided to put the upsetting interlude with Gwyneira behind him. Fine, the girl had prevailed against his will, but he wouldn’t let that happen again. This wild little Welsh princess needed to be reined in. Gerald was optimistic in that regard: Lucas would demand impeccable behavior of his wife, and Gwyneira had been raised to live at a gentleman’s
side. She might like hunting and training dogs better, but in the long run, she would acquiesce to fate.

The travelers reached the Avon River as daylight was fading, and the riders were ferried across the river. There was even enough time to load the sheep onto the ferry before the hikers arrived, so Helen’s companions could only curse about a ferry soiled with sheep dung, but not about delays.

The London girls stared enchanted into the river’s crystal clear water; until that moment, they had only ever known the dirty, foul-smelling Thames. Helen didn’t care about anything anymore; she longed only for a bed. She hoped the reverend would take her in like a proper host. And he must have prepared something for the girls; he couldn’t possibly be sending them off to their respective homes that day.

Exhausted, Helen stood in front of the hotel and the stable with stalls for rent and asked for directions to the parsonage. She saw Gwyneira and Mr. Warden as they were emerging from the stables. They had left the animals in good hands and were now looking forward to a banquet. Helen felt a profound pang of envy for her friend. How she would have liked to freshen up in a clean hotel room and sit at a set table. But she still had to march through the streets of Christchurch and make arrangements with the pastor. The girls behind her muttered quietly among themselves, and the little ones wept from exhaustion.

Fortunately, it was not far to the church; in those days nothing was far in all of Christchurch. Helen had only to lead her girls around three street corners before they were standing in front of the parsonage. Compared to Helen’s father’s home and the Thornes’ house, the yellow-painted building made a meager impression, and the church next door hardly made a better one. Nevertheless, the house door was adorned with a beautiful brass door-knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Daphne boldly made use of it.

At first nothing happened. Then a grumpy, broad-faced girl appeared in the doorframe.

“What do you all want, then?” she asked inhospitably.

All the girls except Daphne stepped back in fear. Helen stepped forward.

“First, miss, we would like to wish you a good evening,” Helen declared resolutely. “And then I would like to speak with Reverend Baldwin. My name is Helen Davenport. Lady Brennan must have mentioned me in a letter. And these are the girls the reverend wrote to London for in order to find them positions here.”

The young woman nodded and assumed a somewhat friendlier expression. Still she could not bring herself greet the group properly, and instead cast deprecatory glances at the orphans. “I believe my mother did not expect you until tomorrow. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

The young girl turned to go, but Helen called her back.

“Miss Baldwin, the children and I have just made a journey of eighteen thousand miles. Do you not think that common courtesy requires that you ask us to come in and offer us a place to sit?”

The girl made a face. “You can come in, if you want,” she said. “But not them brats. Who knows what sort of vermin they’ll bring in after their passage in steerage. My mother definitely won’t want that in her house.”

Helen boiled with rage, but restrained herself.

“Then I’ll wait out here as well. I shared a cabin with these girls, so if they have vermin, so have I.”

“Suit yourself,” the girl said, unconcerned, as she shuffled back into her house and shut the door behind her.

“A proper lady!” Daphne said with a smirk. “I must not have quite understood what you were trying to teach us, Miss Davenport.”

Helen should have reprimanded her, but she lacked the energy. Besides, if the mother acted in as un-Christian a manner as her daughter, she would still need to have a little fight left in her.

Mrs. Baldwin appeared very quickly and made an effort to be friendly. She was shorter and less plump than her daughter and lacked her frying-pan face. Her features were instead rather hawkish; she had small, narrowly spaced eyes and a mouth that had to force itself to smile.