In the Land of the Long White Cloud (55 page)

“Daddy’s gone,” the little girl said.

Gwyneira shook her head. “No, Fleur. Daddy is not gone. Perhaps he went for a ride. He…we…we had a bit of a fight with Grandfather yesterday.” She admitted it unwillingly, but Fleur had so often been a witness to her confrontations with Gerald that it couldn’t possibly come as a surprise to her.

“Oh yes, maybe Daddy went for a ride,” said Fleur. “With Flyer. He’s gone too, I mean, Mr. McKenzie said. But why is Daddy going for a ride before breakfast?”

Gwyneira also wondered about that. Clearing the head at a gallop through the wilderness was more her style than Lucas’s. He also rarely saddled the horse himself. The hands joked that when it came to farm work, he let the shepherds call his horse while he sat on top of it. And why did he take the oldest workhorse? Though Lucas wasn’t an enthusiastic rider, he was a good one. Now only occasionally ridden by Fleur, Old Flyer would make for a dull ride. But maybe Fleur and James were both mistaken and Flyer’s and Lucas’s disappearances had nothing to do with each other. The horse might have broken out. Such things were always happening.

“Daddy will no doubt be back soon,” Gwyneira said. “Have you already checked his studio? But come now, eat a waffle first.”

Kiri had set the breakfast table by the window. She poured Gwyneira some coffee. Even Fleur received a spot of coffee with a lot of milk.

“In his room he isn’t, miss.” The housemaid turned to Gwyneira. “Looked in, Witi. Bed not touched. Surely somewhere on farm. Ashamed because of…” She looked at Gwyneira meaningfully.

Gwyneira began to be worried. Lucas had no reason to feel ashamed…or did he? Had Gerald not disgraced him just as he had her? And she herself…it was unforgivable how she had treated Lucas.

“We’ll go looking for him right away, Fleur. We’ll no doubt find him,” Gwyneira said, uncertain whether she meant to comfort herself or the child with those words.

They did not find Lucas, either in the house or on the farm. Flyer had not reappeared either. James reported that an ancient saddle and an often repatched bridle were also missing.

“Is there something I should know?” he asked quietly, looking at Gwyneira’s pale face and noting her difficulty walking.

Gwyneira shook her head, accepting that, having hurt Lucas, she was now hurting James too: “Nothing that has anything to do with you.”

James, she knew for a fact, would have killed Gerald.

L
ucas’s absence stretched into weeks. A circumstance that, astoundingly, contributed to somewhat normalizing Gwyneira and Gerald’s relationship—after all, they had to make arrangements for Fleur between the two of them. In the first few days after Lucas’s departure, they were brought together by their mutual concern over what might have happened to him or what he might have done to himself. Attempts to track him down proved fruitless, and after a great deal of contemplation, Gwyneira did not believe he had resorted to suicide. She had looked through Lucas’s things and established that a few simple articles of clothing were missing—to her astonishment, precisely those that her husband had liked the least. Lucas had packed work clothes, rain gear, underwear, and a very small amount of money. That fit with the old horse and the old saddle: he clearly did not want to take anything from Gerald; the separation should be a clean break. It hurt Gwyneira that he had left her without a word. As far as she could tell, he had not taken anything to remember her or their daughter by, with the exception of a pocketknife she had once given him as a gift. It appeared that she hadn’t meant anything to him; the transient friendship that had bound the couple had not even been worth a farewell letter to him.

Gerald inquired about his son in Haldon—which naturally provided fodder for the gossip mill—as well as in Christchurch, with more discretion and the help of George Greenwood. Neither provided any answers; Lucas Warden had not been seen in either place.

“God only knows where he could be,” Gwyneira said, airing her grief to Helen. “In Otago, in the gold diggers’ camps, on the West Coast, maybe even on the North Island. Gerald wants to have
inquiries made, but that’s hopeless. If he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be found.”

Helen shrugged and put the inevitable teakettle on. “Maybe it’s for the best. It certainly wasn’t good for him to be so completely dependent on Gerald. Now he can prove himself—and Gerald will no longer pester you for not having a child. But why did he disappear so suddenly? Was there really no reason? No fight?”

Gwyneira said no, reddening as she did so. She had told no one, not even her best friend, about her rape. If she kept it to herself, she hoped, the memory would eventually fade. Then it would be as though the evening had never happened, as though it had been an ugly nightmare. Gerald seemed to look at the incident the same way. He was exceptionally polite to Gwyneira, rarely looked at her, and took pains to not even touch her. They saw one another at mealtimes, so as not to give the servants reason to gossip, and managed at those times to make small talk. Gerald still drank as before, but now generally waited until after dinner when Gwyneira had already retired. Gwyneira took Helen’s favorite student, the now fifteen-year-old Rongo Rongo, for her personal lady’s maid, and insisted that the girl sleep in her room to always be at hand. She hoped to hold off any new assaults by Gerald, but her concern was unfounded. Gerald’s behavior remained irreproachable. In that sense, Gwyneira might have been able to forget that fateful summer night at some point. But there were, in fact, consequences. When she missed her period for the second time and Rongo Rongo smiled meaningfully when dressing her, stroking her stomach, Gwyneira was forced to admit that she was pregnant.

“I don’t want to have it!” she said, sobbing after riding at full speed to Helen. She had not been able to wait for school to end to speak to her friend. Helen could tell by her horrified countenance that something terrible must have happened. She let the children go early, sent Fleur and Ruben to play outside, and took Gwyneira into her arms.

“Did they find Lucas?” she asked quietly.

Gwyneira looked at her as though she were crazy. “Lucas? What about Lucas…oh, it’s much worse, Helen; I’m pregnant! And I don’t want to have the baby!”

“You’re a mess,” Helen murmured, leading her friend into the house. “Come now, I’ll make some tea, and then we’ll talk about it. Why in heaven’s name aren’t you happy about the baby? You’ve been trying for years to have one after all, and now…or are you afraid that the baby might come too late? Is it not Lucas’s?” Helen looked searchingly at Gwyneira. She had sometimes suspected that there was a secret behind Fleur’s birth—no woman could miss the way Gwyneira’s eyes lit up at the sight of James McKenzie. But she hadn’t seen the two of them together for a long time. And Gwyneira would never be so stupid as to take a lover right after her husband left. Or did Lucas leave because there already was a lover? Helen could not imagine that. Gwyneira was a lady. Certainly not faultless, but faultlessly discreet.

“The baby is a Warden,” Gwyneira answered firmly. “There can be no doubt about it. But I still don’t want it!”

“But it’s not something that requires your approval,” Helen said helplessly. She could not follow Gwyneira’s thoughts. “When you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant.”

“Nonsense! There has to be some way to get rid of the baby. Miscarriages happen all the time.”

“Yes, but not to healthy young women like you.” Helen shook her head. “Why don’t you go to Matahorua? She can surely tell you whether the baby is healthy.”

“Maybe she can help me,” Gwyneira said hopefully. “Maybe she knows a potion or something. Back on the ship, Daphne said something to Dorothy about ‘abortives’…”

“Gwyneira, you can’t even think of such a thing!” Helen had heard rumors of “abortives” in Liverpool; her father had buried some of their victims. “That’s ungodly! And dangerous. You could die from that. And why, in heaven’s name…”

“I’m going to Matahorua!” Gwyneira declared. “Don’t try to stop me. I don’t want this baby!”

Matahorua motioned Gwyneira to a row of stones behind the communal houses where the two could be alone. She too must have seen from Gwyneira’s face that something serious had happened. But this time, she would have to sort it out without a translator—Gwyneira had left Rongo Rongo at home. The last thing she needed was another conspirator.

Matahorua made a noncommittal face as she offered Gwyneira a seat on one of the stones. Her expression was no doubt meant to be friendly, perhaps it was even a smile, but it looked threatening to Gwyneira. The tattoos on the face of the old witch doctor seemed to alter every facial expression, and her figure cast strange shadows in the sunlight. “Baby. I already know from Rongo Rongo. Strong baby…much power. But also much anger.”

“I don’t want the baby!” Gwyneira cried out without looking at the witch doctor. “Is there anything you can do?”

Matahorua sought eye contact with the young woman. “What should I do? Kill baby?”

Gwyneira winced. She had not yet dared to phrase it so explicitly. But that’s what it came down to. Feelings of guilt rose up within her.

Matahorua looked her over attentively, studying both her face and her body. As always she seemed to be looking through the person and into some distant place known only to herself.

“Is important to you baby die?” she asked quietly.

Gwyneira suddenly felt anger welling up inside her. “Would I be here otherwise?” she burst out.

Matahorua shrugged. “Strong baby. If baby die, you die too. Important enough?”

Gwyneira shuddered. What made Matahorua so sure? Why did no one ever doubt her words, no matter how nonsensical they might be? Could she really see into the future? Gwyneira considered. She felt nothing for the baby in her womb, at most repugnance and hatred, just as she felt for its father. But the hatred was not so violent as to be worth dying for. Gwyneira was young and enjoyed life. Besides, she
was needed. What would become of Fleurette if she lost her second parent as well? Gwyneira decided to let the matter rest. Perhaps she could give birth to this unfortunate child and then forget about it? Gerald should be the one to care for it.

Matahorua laughed. “I see you not die. You live, baby live…not happy. But live. And will someone be who want…”

Gwyneira frowned. “Who wants what?”

“There will be someone who want baby. In the end. Makes…rounds…” Matahorua outlined a circle with her finger, then rummaged around in her bag. Finally she dug out an almost round piece of jade and handed it to Gwyneira. “There, for the baby.”

Gwyneira took the small stone and thanked her. She did not know why, but she felt better.