In the Land of the Long White Cloud (53 page)

Three months later, George Greenwood married Elizabeth Godewind. The groom’s parents were not present; Robert Greenwood had to
forgo the journey due to business obligations. He sent the couple his blessing and best wishes, and he signed over all the branch offices in New Zealand and Australia to George as a wedding present. His mother told all her friends that her son had married a Swedish captain’s daughter and dropped hints of ties to the Swedish royal family. She was never to know that Elizabeth had been born in Queens and exiled to the New Country by her own orphanage committee. Nothing in her demeanor gave away the young bride’s true heritage either. She looked ravishing in her white lace dress, whose train a well-behaved Robert and Nancy carried behind her. Helen watched the boy with eagle eyes the entire time, so George was certain he wouldn’t get up to any mischief. Since George had recently made a name for himself as a wool trader and Mrs. Godewind had been regarded as a pillar of the community, the bishop insisted on marrying the couple himself. After the ceremony, the marriage was celebrated in grand style in the salon of the White Hart Hotel, where Gerald Warden and Howard O’Keefe got drunk in opposite corners of the room. Helen and Gwyneira did not let themselves get upset by this and saw to it that, despite all the bad blood, Ruben and Fleur strewed flower petals together. Observing them together, Gerald Warden seemed to realize for the first time that Howard O’Keefe’s marriage had been blessed with a hale and hardy son, which only worsened his mood. So there was an heir for that ramshackle O’Keefe farm. Gwyneira, however, remained as skinny as a pole. Seeing Gerald sink deep into his whiskey bottle, Lucas was happy to retire with Gwyneira to their hotel room before his father’s anger exploded at high volume. That night he attempted once again to approach Gwyneira. As always she showed herself willing and did her best to encourage him. Yet Lucas failed again.

I
t took a long time for James McKenzie and Gwyneira’s relationship to return to normal after George’s visit. Gwyneira was angry, and James was vexed as well. Above all, it became clear to both of them that it wasn’t truly over between them. Gwyneira’s heart still ached when she saw how desperately James looked at her, and James could not bear to picture Gwyneira in the arms of another. Yet a fresh start for their relationship was impossible—Gwyneira knew that she would never let go of James again if she touched him even once more.

Life on Kiward Station was gradually becoming unbearable. Gerald got drunk every day and did not give Lucas and Gwyneira a moment’s peace. He did not even rein in his attacks when guests were present. Gwyneira became so distraught that she worked up the nerve to talk to Lucas about his sexual difficulties.

“Look, dearest,” she said one evening in a low voice as Lucas lay beside her once again, exhausted by his efforts and sick with shame. Gwyneira shyly suggested that she try arousing him by touching his member—just about the least proper thing a lady and gentleman could do together, but Gwyneira’s experiences with James gave her hope in this regard. However, Lucas was hardly aroused, even when she stoked the smooth, tender skin and massaged it gently. She had to do something. Gwyneira decided to appeal to Lucas’s imagination. “If you don’t like how I look…because I have red hair or because you prefer more full-bodied women…why not picture someone else? I wouldn’t be upset.”

Lucas kissed her gently on the cheek. “You’re so sweet.” He sighed. “So understanding. I don’t deserve you. I’m horribly sorry about everything.” He wanted to turn away, ashamed.

“Being sorry won’t get me pregnant,” Gwyneira said curtly. “Just picture something that excites you.”

Lucas tried it. But he was so horrified by the arousing image that popped into his head that the shock sobered him up straightaway. It couldn’t be! He could not be sleeping with a woman and thinking about the slender, well-cut George Greenwood.

The situation escalated one evening in December, a scorching summer day without even the smallest breeze. That was a rare thing in the Canterbury Plains, and the heat had frayed the nerves of all the residents of Kiward Station. Fleur whined, and Gerald had been insufferable all day. In the morning he had blown up at the workers because the ewes weren’t in the mountains yet—and that after having already directed James to herd the flock into the highlands only after the last lamb was born. That afternoon he cursed Lucas for sitting in the garden with Fleur drawing instead of making himself useful in the stables—and thereafter fought with Gwyneira, who explained that nothing could be done with the sheep at the moment. In the afternoon heat, it was best to leave the animals in peace.

Everyone longed for rain, and there was no doubt that a storm was coming. But as the sun went down and dinner was called, there was still not a cloud in the sky. Gwyneira sighed as she entered her overheated room to change. She was not the least bit hungry; she would have preferred to sit on the veranda in the garden and wait for the evening to bring a little relief. Perhaps she would have felt the first storm winds—or conjured them herself, since the Maori believed in weather magic—and Gwyneira had walked around all day with the strange feeling of being part of heaven and earth, mistress of life and death. An exaltation always seized her when she was present for and helped with the arrival of new life. She remembered precisely that she had felt it for the first time during Ruben’s birth. Today Cleo was the reason for it. The little dog had given birth to five beautiful, healthy puppies. Now she lay in her basket on the terrace suckling the
puppies. No doubt she would have welcomed Gwyneira’s company and admiration, but Gerald insisted on her presence at the table—three long courses in a tense atmosphere of constant uncertainty as to what Gerald would say or do. Gwyneira and Lucas had learned long ago to weigh their words carefully when dealing with Gerald; thus, Gwyneira knew that it was better not to speak of Cleo’s puppies, and Lucas knew not to mention the watercolors he had sent to Christchurch the day before. George Greenwood wanted to send them to a gallery in London; he was sure that Lucas’s talent would be recognized there. However, they had to have something to discuss at the table—otherwise, Gerald would select his own subjects, and those were certain to be unpleasant.

Gwyneira slipped out of her tea gown in low spirits. She was tired of always changing for dinner, and her corset pinched in the heat. But she could dispense with that for today, as she was slender enough to fit into the loose-hanging summer dress she had chosen without it. Without her fish-bone armor, she felt instantly better. She quickly fixed her hair and ran down the steps. Lucas and Gerald stood waiting in front of the fireplace, each with a glass of whiskey in his hand. The mood seemed peaceful, and Gwyneira smiled at both of them.

“Is Fleur already in bed?” Lucas inquired. “I haven’t even said good night to her yet.”

This was without a doubt the wrong thing to say. Gwyneira had to change the subject quickly.

“She was half-dead from exhaustion. Your painting lesson in the garden was certainly stimulating, but also taxing in the heat. And she couldn’t sleep this afternoon because it was so hot. Oh, and there was the excitement over the puppies, of course.”

Gwyneira bit her lip. She was making it worse. As expected, Gerald pounced at once.

“So that dog’s had another litter, then?” he grumbled. “And once again without complications, right? If only her mistress could learn a thing or two from her. It always goes so quickly with the animals. In heat, mate, pregnant. What’s wrong with the two of you, my little princess? Are you never in heat, or—”

“Father, it’s time to eat,” Lucas interrupted him in measured tones as always. “Please calm yourself and don’t insult Gwyneira. There’s nothing she can do about it.”

“So, the problem lies with you, you…perfect gentleman!” Gerald spat the words out. “Have you completely forgotten the genteel upbringing your mother gave you, eh?”

“Gerald, not in front of the help,” said Gwyneira with a side-glance at Kiri, who had just entered the room and was about to serve the first course. It was something light, a salad, and she knew that Gerald would eat little of it. She hoped that the evening would be over all the more quickly for that. She could withdraw as soon as dinner was over.

But this time the otherwise affable and reliable Kiri provoked an incident. The girl had worked herself to the bone all day and now looked tired as she served her employers. Gwyneira wanted to talk to her about it but let it go. Intimate conversations with the help were among the things that always set Gerald off. So she did not say a word about Kiri’s inept serving. After all, everyone had had a bad day.

Moana, who had become a rather skillful cook by this time, knew exactly what her employers wanted. She knew Gwyneira and Lucas’s preference for light summertime fare, but was also aware that Gerald insisted on at least one meat course. Lamb was served as the main course, and Kiri seemed even more exhausted and inattentive than earlier as she brought out the food. The aroma of the roast mixed with the heavy scent of the roses Lucas had cut in the garden earlier. Gwyneira found the combination obtrusive, almost nauseating, and it seemed that Kiri felt the same way. When she moved to place a slice of lamb in front of Gerald, she suddenly began to sway. Gwyneira leaped up in shock as the girl collapsed beside Gerald’s chair.

Without stopping to consider whether it was appropriate to do so, she knelt beside Kiri, shaking the girl as Lucas attempted to clear the plate shards and to provisionally clean the meat juice off the carpet. Witi, who had seen the whole thing, helped his master and called Moana. The cook hurried out to cool Kiri’s forehead with a rag soaked in ice water.

Gerald Warden observed the scene with a scowl. The incident further darkened his already bad mood. Damn it, Kiward Station was supposed to be a household worthy of the high nobility. Had anyone ever heard of a serving girl fainting in a London manor and then half the household, young master and mistress included, scurrying about her like domestics?

It was evidently not a grave situation, as Kiri seemed to be coming to already. She looked around, horrified, at the mess she’d made.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Warden! It won’t happen again, I promise!” Fearfully, she turned toward the master of the house, who looked her over mercilessly. Witi was wiping at Gerald’s sauce-splattered suit.

“That wasn’t your fault, Kiri,” Gwyneira said gently. “It can happen in weather such as this.”

“It’s not the weather, miss. Is baby,” Moana explained. “Kiri having baby in winter. That why she feels bad today all day and can’t smell meat. I tell her, she not to serve, but…”

“So sorry, miss,” Kiri moaned.

Gwyneira thought with a silent sigh that they had just hit the lowest point of this botched evening. Did the unfortunate creature have to blurt out that news—of all things—in front of Gerald? However, there was nothing Kiri could do about feeling sick, and Gwyneira forced herself to smile reassuringly.

“But that’s no reason to apologize, Kiri,” she said kindly. “On the contrary, it’s a reason to feel happy. But you must take it easy the next few weeks. For the moment, go home and lie down. Witi and Moana will clean up here.”

Kiri curtsied at least three times before Gerald, then disappeared amid more apologies. Gwyneira hoped that would appease him, but his countenance did not change, and he made no move to reassure the girl.

Moana attempted to rescue a portion of the main course, but Gerald shooed her away impatiently.

“Leave it, girl! I’ve lost my appetite anyway. Get out of here, go to your friend…or get pregnant yourself. But just leave me in peace!”

The old man stood up and went to his liquor cabinet. Another whiskey double. Gwyneira could sense what awaited Lucas and herself. The servants, however, must not have realized it.

“You heard him, Moana…and you too, Witi. The master’s giving you the evening off. Don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll fetch the dessert myself if we’d like it later. You can clean the carpet tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.”

“In village they’re doing rain dance, miss,” explained Witi as though to justify his departure. “That useful.” As though to prove it, he opened the top half of the Dutch door that led to the terrace. Gwyneira hoped a breeze would blow through, but the hot air outside did not stir. Drumbeats and song could be heard from the direction of the Maori village.