In the Land of the Long White Cloud (74 page)

“No, no, and again, no!”

Fleurette’s voice screeched, the sound traveling from the study where Gerald had asked her to speak with him, through the salon, and into Gwyneira’s office. She did not sound particularly ladylike—more like young Fleurette was having a full-blown temper tantrum before her grandfather. Gwyneira had preferred not to participate directly in this performance. If Gerald were to go too far while they were alone, she was ready to step in and mediate at any point. After all, Reginald Beasley had to be refused without being hurt. A little rebuff was not likely to do the old man much damage. How could he even consider a sixteen-year-old bride? Gwyneira had made certain that Gerald was not too drunk when he called Fleur in to him, and she had warned her daughter ahead of time.

“Remember, Fleur, he can’t force you. Word may already have gotten out, in which case there might be a small scandal. But I assure you that Christchurch has gotten over other such affairs. Simply remain calm and make your stance clear.”

Fleur, however, was not one for remaining calm.

“I’m supposed to submit myself?” she fired back at Gerald. “I don’t need to consider it! I’ll drown myself before I marry that old man. I’m serious, Grandfather; I’ll throw myself in the lake!”

Gwyneira had to smile. Where had Fleur even learned such dramatic language? Presumably from Helen’s books. Throwing herself in the pond near Kiward Station would hardly do her much harm. The water was flat, and thanks to her Maori friends, Fleur was an excellent swimmer.

“Or I’ll take the veil!” Fleurette went on. There was not yet a convent in New Zealand, but that seemed to have escaped her at the moment. Up until then, Gwyneira had managed to see the humor in the situation. But then she heard Gerald’s voice and became alarmed. There was something foul…the old man must have drunk considerably more than Gwyneira thought. While she had been preparing Fleur? Or right at that moment, while Fleur was issuing her childish threats?

“You absolutely will not take the veil, Fleurette! That is the last thing you will do. How do you even find pleasure rolling in the hay
with your shitty little friend? Just wait, little one; others have been cracked before you. You need a man, Fleur, you…”

Fleurette seemed to feel the threat now too. “Mother won’t allow me to marry yet anyway,” she said in a markedly quieter voice, a remark that just fueled Gerald’s rage.

“Your mother will do what I want. I’m going to change your tune; you can count on that!” Just as she opened the door to escape, Gerald yanked the girl back. “You will all finally do what I want!”

Gwyneira, who had been fearfully approaching the study, burst in when she heard that. She saw Fleurette being thrown into a chair, afraid and sobbing. Gerald moved to pounce on her, dropping a whiskey bottle that shattered on the floor. No great loss since the bottle was empty. It raced through Gwyneira’s mind that it had been three-quarters full before.

“So the little mare is stubborn, is that it?” Gerald hissed at his granddaughter. “Still untouched by bit and bridle? Well, we’ll change that now. You’ll learn to submit to your rider.”

Gwyneira tore him away from her. Her rage and fear for her daughter endowed her with incredible strength. She knew that light in Gerald’s eyes all too well; ever since Paul’s birth, it had pursued her in her darkest nightmares.

“How dare you touch her!” she railed at him. “Leave her in peace this instant!”

Gerald shook. “Get her out of my sight!” he said through his teeth. “She’s under house arrest. Until she’s considered her engagement to Beasley. I promised her to him. I won’t break my word!”

Reginald Beasley had been waiting upstairs in his room, but the scene had naturally not escaped his attention. Deeply embarrassed, he stepped to his door and met Gwyneira and her daughter on the steps.

“Miss Warden…Mrs. Warden…please, forgive me!”

Unlike the night before, Reginald Beasley was sober now, and the look on Fleurette’s distraught young face and her mother’s eyes glowing with rage told him he had no chance.

“I…I couldn’t have known that it would be such a…ahem, an imposition for you, to accept my proposal. You see, I am no longer young but I am not all that old, and I…I would cherish you…”

Gwyneira glared icily at him. “Mr. Beasley, my daughter does not want to be cherished. She wants first to grow up. And then she will probably want a man her own age—or at least a man who makes his own proposal instead of sending some other old goat to force her into his bed. Have I made myself clear?”

She had wanted to remain polite, but the look on Gerald’s face as he loomed over Fleurette in the chair had shaken her to the core. First, she had to get rid of this geriatric suitor. But that shouldn’t be difficult. Then she would have to think of what to do about Gerald. She had not even realized herself that she was living on a powder keg. But she would do whatever she must to protect Fleur.

“Mrs. Warden, I…as I said, Miss Warden, I’m sorry. Under these circumstances, I would be entirely prepared to break off the engagement.”

“I’m not engaged to you!” Fleur said with a quaking voice. “I can’t even, I…”

Gwyneira pulled the girl away. “Your decision pleases me and honors you,” she informed Reginald Beasley with a forced smile. “Perhaps you would be so good as to share this decision with my father-in-law so that we might forget this painful incident ever happened. I have always held you in high regard and would hate to lose you as a friend of this house.”

She strode regally past Reginald Beasley. Fleurette stumbled behind her. She seemed to want to say something more, but Gwyneira would not let her.

“Don’t you dare tell him anything about Ruben; otherwise, you’ll wound his pride,” she hissed to her daughter. “Now stay in your room—preferably until he’s gone. And for the love of God, don’t come out of your room while your grandfather is still drunk!”

Trembling, Gwyneira shut the door behind her daughter. For the time being, disaster had been averted. Gerald would drink with Reginald that evening; there was no need to fear further outbursts. And tomorrow he would be dreadfully ashamed of his attack today. But what would come next? How long would Gerald’s self-recriminations keep him away from his granddaughter? And would the safety of a door be enough to prevent him when he was drunk and had perhaps convinced himself that he needed to “break the girl in” for her future husband?

Gwyneira had made up her mind. She had to send her daughter away.

P
utting this plan into action proved difficult. Gwyneira could find neither an excuse to send the girl away nor a suitable family to take her in. Gwyneira had been thinking she might be able to take up residence in a household with children—there was a lack of governesses in Christchurch at the moment, and an au pair as attractive and educated as Fleur should have been a welcome addition to any young family. In practice, though, only the Barringtons and Greenwoods were possibilities—and Antonia Barrington, a rather nondescript young woman, rejected the idea right away when Gwyneira carefully sounded her out. Gwyneira could not hold it against her. The young lord’s first sight of Fleurette convinced her that her daughter would be stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Elizabeth Greenwood would have loved to take Fleur in. George Greenwood’s loyalty and affection for her were above reproach. Fleur saw him as an “uncle,” and moreover in his house she would learn about bookkeeping and business management. Unfortunately, the Greenwoods were about to embark on a visit to England. George’s parents wanted to finally see their grandchildren, and Elizabeth was so excited she could hardly contain herself.

“I just hope his mother doesn’t recognize me,” she confided to Gwyneira. “She has always thought I was from Sweden. If she were to realize that…”

Gwyneira shook her head, smiling. It was utterly impossible to see the bashful, half-starved orphan girl who had left London nearly twenty years earlier in the prim, lovely lady of today, whose impeccable manners had made her a pillar of Christchurch society.

“She’ll love you,” she assured the younger woman. “Don’t do anything foolish like trying to fake a Swedish accent. Just say you grew up in Christchurch, which is true anyway. And there you have it: that’s why you speak English.”

“But they will not be able to help hearing that I speak Cockney,” Elizabeth fretted.

Gwyneira laughed. “Elizabeth, compared to you, we all speak terrible English—aside from Helen, of course, from whom you get it anyway. So there’s no reason to worry.”

Elizabeth nodded, uncertain. “Well, George says I won’t need to speak all that much anyway. Apparently, his mother prefers to carry on conversations all by herself.”

Gwyneira laughed. Meeting with Elizabeth was always a breath of fresh air. She was more intelligent than the well mannered but somewhat dull Dorothy in Haldon or adorable little Rosemary, who had engaged herself to her foster father’s journeyman baker. She often wondered what had become of the other three girls who had traveled with them aboard the
Dublin
. Helen had received word from Westport from a Madame Jolanda, who had explained peevishly that Daphne, along with the twins—and a whole week’s earnings—had disappeared without a trace. The lady had had the nerve to demand the missing money from Helen, who had left her letter unanswered.

Gwyneira finally said a heartfelt good-bye to Elizabeth—after giving her the usual shopping list that every woman in New Zealand foisted on friends traveling back to the homeland. One could order practically anything for sale in London through George’s company, but there were a few intimate items that women did not like to entrust to messengers. Elizabeth promised to clean out the London merchants on Gwyneira’s behalf, and Gwyneira left in high spirits—however, still without a solution for Fleurette.

Over the course of the next few months, the situation on Kiward Station settled down. Gerald’s attack on Fleur had sobered him up
considerably. He avoided his granddaughter—and Gwyneira made sure that Fleurette kept it that way. In the meantime, the old man redoubled his efforts to introduce Paul to the family business. The two of them often disappeared early in the morning out to the pastures somewhere and didn’t return until evening. After that, Gerald indulged in his evening whiskey, but he never reached the level of intoxication that he had before, during his all-day drinking binges. Following his grandfather’s advice, Paul had begun throwing his weight around, about which Kiri and Marama expressed concern. Gwyneira overheard a conversation between her son and Marama that quite troubled her.

“Wiramu is not a bad fellow, Paul! He’s hard working, a good hunter, and a good shepherd. It’s not right, you firing him!”

Marama was cleaning the silver in the garden. Unlike her mother, she enjoyed this particular task; she loved the gleaming metal. Sometimes she sang while she worked, but Gerald could not stand Maori music. Gwyneira felt similarly, but only because it reminded her of the drumming on that fateful night. She liked Marama’s ballads, sung in that sweet voice, and surprisingly, even Paul seemed to enjoy them. Today, however, he was eager to gloat about his excursion with Gerald the day before. The two of them had been checking on the pastures in the foothills when they had come upon the Maori boy, Wiramu. Wiramu was taking the prizes of a successful fishing trip back to his tribe on Kiward Station. That in itself was no reason to punish him, but the boy belonged to one of the shepherd patrols Gerald had recently instituted to put an end to James McKenzie’s activities. Hence, Wiramu was supposed to be in the highlands, not visiting his mother in the village. Gerald had thrown a fit and given the boy a dressing down. After that he had let Paul decide on the severity of his punishment. Paul had decided to let Wiramu go, effective immediately.

“Grandfather’s not paying him to fish,” Paul explained gravely. “He needs to stay at his post.”

Marama shook her head. “But I think the patrols move around anyway. It doesn’t really matter where Wiramu is at any given moment.
And all the men fish. They have to hunt and fish. Or are you supplying them with provisions now?”