In the Land of the Long White Cloud (20 page)

“I once got to know a youth from an orphanage in London,” Mr. McLaren said, chatting with Helen while his wife helped Rosie pack her things. “My master had asked for a fourteen-year-old who would catch on immediately, and they sent a tot who looked like he was ten. Still, he was an industrious boy. The master’s wife fed him well, and since then he’s become a well-regarded journeyman baker. If our Rosie takes to it like that, we won’t have reason to complain about the costs of bringing her up.” He laughed and placed a little bag of baked goods he had brought along for the girls into Helen’s hand.

“But distribute them properly, girl,” he exhorted her. “I knew there would certainly be more children, and our Madam Pastor is not exactly known for her generosity.”

At that, Daphne stuck her hand out hungrily for the pastries. She had clearly not eaten breakfast, at least not a sufficient one. Mary, on the other hand, remained inconsolable and only sobbed more loudly when Rosemary left too.

Helen decided to try to distract them and informed the girls that she would be holding lessons that day just as she had on the ship. Until
the girls were with their families, it was better for them to be learning than sitting around doing nothing. In consideration of the fact that they were in a pastor’s house, Helen reached for the Bible for lessons.

Daphne began to read the story of the wedding at Cana, clearly bored, and closed the book gladly when Mrs. Baldwin appeared a short time later. She was accompanied by a tall, squarely built man.

“It’s very commendable of you, Miss Davenport, to dedicate yourself to the girls’ edification,” the pastor’s wife declared. “But instead you really could have been working on quieting this child.”

She looked antagonistically over at the still-weeping Mary. “It doesn’t matter now though. This is Mr. Willard, who will be taking Mary Alliston with him to his farm.”

“She’s to live alone with a farmer?” Helen was incensed.

Mrs. Baldwin raised her eyes to heaven. “For goodness’ sake, of course not! That would be against all propriety. No, no, Mr. Willard, naturally, has a wife, and seven children.”

Mr. Willard nodded proudly. He seemed kind. His face, thoroughly creased by laugh lines, wore the traces of hard work in the open air in all weather. His hands were calloused paws, and his muscular figure was visible beneath his clothes.

“The older boys are already working hard with me in the fields,” the farmer explained. “But my wife needs help with the little ones. In the house, and in the stables too, of course. And she doesn’t like the Maori women. She says her children should only be raised by good, Christian folk. So which is our girl? She should be strong, if possible; the work is hard!”

Mr. Willard looked just as appalled as Helen when Mrs. Baldwin introduced Mary to him. “That little thing? This must be a joke, madam! That would just make eight kids in the house.”

Mrs. Baldwin looked at him sternly. “If you don’t spoil the girl, she is definitely capable of hard work. In London they assured us that every girl had turned at least thirteen and was fit for any kind of work. So, do you want the girl or not?”

Mr. Willard seemed to waver. “My wife really needs the help,” he said almost by way of excuse in Helen’s direction. “The next child’s
coming into the world around Christmas, so someone’s got to help her out. Well, come on then, little one, we’ll make this work. Come on, up, what’re you waiting on? And why are you crying? Lord above, I really don’t need any more problems.” Without giving Mary another look, Mr. Willard left the stables. Mrs. Baldwin shoved the little girl’s bundle into her hand.

“Go with him. And be an obedient maid,” she told the child. Mary obeyed without protest, crying all the while.

“Let’s hope the wife shows the girl a little sympathy,” sighed Vicar Chester. He had watched the scene as helplessly as Helen.

Daphne snorted. “You try showing sympathy with eight tykes hanging on your apron,” she said, “and every year your husband making you another. But there’s no money and he drinks the last bit away. Your sympathy’ll get caught in your throat. Then you just try not hurting anyone.”

Vicar Chester looked at the girl in shock. He was obviously asking himself how this girl was going to work out as a demure servant to one of Christchurch’s notables. Daphne’s eruptions no longer surprised Helen, however—and she found herself increasingly sympathetic toward them.

“Now, now, Daphne. Mr. Willard does not give the impression of drinking his money away,” she said, in an effort to placate the girl. She couldn’t fault Daphne; she was undoubtedly right. Mrs. Willard would not spare Mary. She had too many children of her own to be able to worry about her too. The little girl would not be anything more to her than cheap labor. The vicar had to see that too. In any event, he did not say a word regarding Daphne’s insolence, and instead only made a small gesture of blessing toward the girls before leaving the stables. No doubt he had already left his duties unattended long enough to have earned the reverend’s censure.

Though Helen felt she should open the Bible again, neither she nor her pupils had the heart for edifying texts.

“I’m anxious to see what happens to us next,” Daphne said, saying aloud what all the remaining girls were thinking. “These people must live far away if they haven’t appeared yet to pick up their slaves.
Start practicing milking cows, Dorothy.” She motioned to the pastor’s cow, which they had relieved of a few liters of milk the night before. Which is to say that Mrs. Baldwin had not let the children partake of the leftovers from dinner, and had instead sent some thin soup and old bread out to the stables. The girls certainly would not miss the reverend’s cheerful house.

“H
ow long does it take to ride from Kiward Station to Christchurch?” Gwyneira inquired. She sat with Gerald Warden and the Brewsters at a heavily laden breakfast table in the White Hart hotel. Though not especially elegant, it was clean, and after the stress of the day before, she had slept like the dead in her comfortable bed.

“Well now, that depends on the man and the horse,” Gerald remarked moodily. “It’s about fifty miles. With the sheep, we’ll need about two days. But a mail rider who’s in a hurry and changes horses a few times could make it in a few hours. The way isn’t paved, but it’s mostly flat. A good rider can gallop the whole way.”

Gwyneira wondered if Lucas Warden was such a rider—and why the devil he hadn’t leaped on his horse yesterday to come and see his bride. Naturally, he might not have heard anything about the
Dublin
’s arrival yet. But his father had already informed him of the ship’s departure date, and it was well known that ships needed between 75 and 130 days to make the crossing. The
Dublin
had been underway for 104 days. So why wasn’t Lucas waiting here for her? Was he indispensable at Kiward Station? Or was he just not that eager to meet his future wife? Gwyneira would have liked to set out that day to see her new home and finally stand across from the man to whom she had blindly engaged herself. Lucas had to feel the same way.

Gerald laughed when she made a comment to this effect.

“My Lucas has patience,” he replied. “And a sense of style. He likes grand entrances. He probably couldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine meeting you for the first time in sweaty riding clothes. In that respect he’s all gentleman.”

“But I wouldn’t think anything of it!” Gwyneira objected. “And wouldn’t he be staying in this hotel? He would have been able to change clothes beforehand if he thought I cared so much about formalities.”

“I think this hotel isn’t up to his standards,” murmured Gerald. “Just be patient, Gwyneira, you’ll like him.”

Mrs. Brewster smiled and primly laid her silverware aside. “It really is very nice when a young man affects a certain restraint,” she remarked. “After all, we’re not among savages. In England you wouldn’t have met your fiancé in a hotel either, but rather at tea or at his home.”

Gwyneira had to concede that she was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to give up all her dreams of a ready-for-anything pioneer husband, a farmer and gentleman tied to the earth, driven by a need to explore. Lucas simply had to be different from all those bloodless viscounts and baronets back home.

Suddenly she felt renewed hope. Maybe this shyness of his didn’t have anything to do with Lucas and was merely the result of his overly proper upbringing. No doubt he believed Gwyneira would be just as stiff and difficult as his governesses and tutors once were. In addition to which, she was of noble rank. Surely Lucas was simply afraid of making the smallest mistake in her presence. Maybe he was even afraid of her.

Gwyneira tried to comfort herself with these thoughts, but she did not entirely succeed. For her, curiosity would have triumphed over fear. But maybe Lucas really was shy and just needed a little time to warm up. Gwyneira thought about her experiences with dogs and horses: the shiest and most reserved animals were often the best once you found the right way to approach them. Why should it be any different with men? When Gwyneira finally got to know Lucas, he would certainly come out of his shell.

In the meantime, Gwyneira’s patience was further put to the test. Gerald Warden had no intention of setting off for Kiward Station that
day. He still had a few things to accomplish in Christchurch and had to organize the transport of the many pieces of furniture and other household items he had brought in from Europe. All of that, he disclosed to a disappointed Gwyneira, would take a day or two. She should rest up in the meantime; surely the long journey had worn her out.

The journey had bored her more than worn her out. The last thing she wanted was more inactivity. So, she decided she’d go for a ride that morning—and instantly found herself in a disagreement with Gerald over that. At first Gerald didn’t say a word when she announced that she was going to have Igraine saddled. It was only when Mrs. Brewster observed with horror that one couldn’t possibly let a lady go out on horseback without accompaniment that the sheep baron made an about-face. Under no circumstances would he allow his future daughter-in-law to do anything considered unbecoming in the best circles. Unfortunately, there were no stable boys and, naturally, not yet any ladies’ maids who could accompany the girl on her ride. The request itself seemed foreign to the hotelier: in Christchurch, as he made absolutely clear to Mrs. Brewster, people did not ride for pleasure, only to get from one place to another. The man could certainly understand Gwyneira’s reasoning that she wanted to get her horse moving after the long period of immobility on the ship, but he was neither willing nor able to provide her with an escort. In the end, Lady Barrington suggested her son, who immediately declared that he was prepared to ride along on Madoc. The fourteen-year-old viscount was not the ideal chaperone, but Gerald did not seem to notice, and Mrs. Brewster held her tongue so as not to offend Lady Barrington. Gwyneira had thought young Charles rather dull on the trip, but he proved to be a spirited rider—and sufficiently discreet. Thus he did not reveal to his horrified mother that Gwyneira’s ladies’ saddle had long since arrived but instead confirmed that only men’s saddles were available. Then he pretended that he could not control Madoc and let the stallion storm off from the hotel’s yard, which gave Gwyneira the opportunity to follow him without any further discussion about propriety. They both laughed as they left Christchurch behind at a brisk trot.

“Whoever makes it to that house over there first!” Charles called, spurring Madoc to a gallop. He did not have eyes for Gwyneira’s high-riding skirts. A horse race over endless grasslands was still more intoxicating to him than a woman’s figure.

Around noon the pair of riders returned, having amused themselves terrifically. The horses snorted contentedly, Cleo seemed once more to be smiling from ear to ear, and Gwyneira even managed to adjust her skirts before they rode into town.

“In the long run I’m going to have to think of something,” she murmured, draping the right side of her skirt modestly over her ankle—at which her dress naturally rose higher on the left side. “Maybe I’ll just cut a slit into the back.”

“That would only work as long as there wasn’t any wind.” Her young chaperone grinned. “And as long as you don’t gallop. Otherwise, your skirt will fly up and people will be able to see your…ahem…well, whatever you have on underneath. My mother would probably faint!”

Gwyneira giggled. “That’s true. Ah, I wish I could just wear pants. You men don’t know just how good you have it.”