by Lark, Sarah
Atamarie climbed the steps and sat down on the top stair. She was in high spirits, if also a little tired after the long train ride. Still, the route was good. It was no longer an ordeal to travel back and forth between Christchurch and Dunedin.
She hummed to herself as she waited to tell her friend that their paths would now diverge for the first time in nine years. The girls had gotten to know each other when their mothers both lived in Wellington on the North Island, working for one of the organizations fighting for women’s suffrage. After that battle was won, both women had married. Matariki and Kupe had moved to Parihaka, whereas Roberta’s mother, Violet, and her husband, Sean, had taken Roberta to Sean’s hometown of Dunedin. The two friends had graduated from Otago Girls’ High School a few weeks before, and they were now looking forward to enjoying the most recent achievement of activists like their mothers: the universities on the South Island had been forced to open their doors to women.
Atamarie heard a buzzing inside the school building, and the students began pouring out. They were almost entirely young women, conservatively dressed in dark skirts and muted blouses peeking out from under prim jackets. A few wore unadorned, sacklike dresses, which were just as boring and spinsterish as the seemingly ubiquitous cloche hats. Though there were alternatives. Neither Atamarie nor Roberta wore corsets, but their fashionable, tailored clothes came from the city’s famous Gold Mine Boutique. Both girls called Kathleen Burton, one of the boutique’s proprietors, “Grandma.” Atamarie’s biological father, Colin, was Kathleen’s son, as was Roberta’s stepfather, Sean.
That day, Atamarie wore a sun-yellow, reform-style dress printed with colorful flowers, and a dark-green mantilla and cute straw hat atop her blonde hair. She noticed the lingering glances from the few male students and the women eyeing her unkindly. No doubt it was unusual, perhaps even forbidden, to sit on the steps.
Roberta finally appeared, wearing her plainest dress and a short black coat. Atamarie leaped up to hug her.
“You look like an owl,” she teased. “Do you have to dress like that?”
Roberta blushed, drawing the attention of the male students. No matter how she dressed, Roberta Fence was a beauty. Her long, wavy hair—now forced into a prim bun—was a deep chestnut. Her face was heart shaped and, despite its classical beauty, always looked soft and gentle. She had full lips and blue eyes—not quite the spectacular turquoise of her mother’s, but as deep blue and clear as the highland lakes.
“We’re supposed to look serious,” she replied, “but aren’t all students?” She raised a disapproving eyebrow at Atamarie’s outfit.
Atamarie shrugged. “I stand out no matter what I wear. And don’t tell me that owls are symbols of wisdom. If you ask me, parrots are much cleverer.”
Roberta laughed and linked arms with Atamarie. She had missed her friend in the two days she had been gone.
“So, how was Christchurch? Did they accept you into the program?” she inquired as they strolled toward a café.
Atamarie nodded. “Of course. They didn’t have a choice, you know. I had the best marks of anybody. But it was funny. Professor Dobbins thought I was a mirage at first.”
She scrunched up her nose as if wearing a pince-nez, then imitated the professor’s booming voice: “‘Mr. Turei—I mean, uh, Miss?’ The man was baffled. And here he had been so excited about having his first Maori student. He was probably expecting a giant warrior with tattoos.”
Roberta giggled. “And then you turned up.”
Far from a broad-shouldered warrior, Atamarie was willowy, and no one would have taken her for Maori at first glance. Her skin was darker than most whites’ and her eyes were a little different, but otherwise, she took after her grandmother Kathleen—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and finely carved lips.
“But hadn’t the professor seen your name?”
Atamarie shrugged. “The man’s an engineer, not a linguist. He just stood there, gaping like a fish. But I introduced myself, gave him my transcripts—”
“And then it was okay?”
Atamarie laughed. “As long as he didn’t have to look at me, everything went fine. Whenever he looked up from the papers, he seemed shocked all over again. And then he asked me if I really knew what was expected of me there and listed the required courses: fundamentals of sub- and superstructure construction, surveying, technical drafting, practical geometry, theory and practice of the construction of steam machines, et cetera—” Atamarie grinned with anticipation.
“And what did you say?” Roberta already feared the worst.
“What do you think? I told him I’m interested in aircraft. Then I talked a bit about Cayley and Lilienthal, so he wouldn’t think I just have my head, well, in the clouds.”
Roberta opened the door to the café. “It’s a wonder they didn’t send you packing.”
Atamarie laughed again. “Then your father would have sued the college. But Professor Dobbins actually smiled. He said he liked it when students aimed high. Then the interview was over, and the only thing left was a tour. The student who was supposed to show the freshmen around nearly fainted when he saw me.”
The Canterbury College of Engineering had existed for twelve years and was still quite small. Atamarie would be its first female student.
“And how’d you like Christchurch?” asked Roberta. “What did you and Heather get up to?”
“First we had to find a room for me to rent. But that was simple. Heather and Chloe’s friends live together in a big house with spare rooms right near the university, and they own a bookshop. I can get my textbooks there. My room’s really big—I just need to inform them of any gentlemen callers.”
She giggled. Usually it was forbidden for female students to have men in their rooms. Heather and Chloe, however, were open-minded and modern—and apparently, their friends were too.
“Two days there and you’re already looking for a boyfriend?”
“Robbie, I’m the only feminine being in the whole engineering school. I’ll have to make friends with the boys. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll be sharing my bed with them!”
Roberta turned red at once. She’d also spent vacations in Parihaka and had been exposed to the Maori culture’s more relaxed views on love relations. Nevertheless, she hadn’t had any experience with such things, whereas Atamarie had already kissed some handsome Maori boys. Roberta’s nature was more romantic—and private.
“Aside from that, we went to the racetrack in Addington. Rosie had her heart set on it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a harness race just then. But it was still fun. Lord Barrington invited us to the owner’s box. We drank champagne—and they let us bet on horses.”
“Atamie!”
Roberta had grown up around racetracks and hated them. Her mother had taught her that whiskey and gambling could ruin a family; Roberta’s birth father had fallen to both.
“Oh, don’t be like that. Lord Barrington insisted. And Heather lost, but I won. Twice! It was easy. I just bet on the horse with the longest legs and most aerodynamic body. It’s simple physics. Well, the third time, it didn’t work. The horse didn’t find its gate. I think it was just lazy. But I’ve got enough money left to treat you to coffee—and cake!
“We also went to a gallery, but I forget the artist’s name. Heather was really excited about it. Are you coming tonight, by the way? Or is it not enough to look like an owl? To be a teacher, do you have to go to bed with the chickens?”
Roberta looked at her friend chidingly. “Owls are nocturnal. And of course I’m coming. It’s an art opening, after all, not a nightclub. What’s the artist’s name again?”
Atamarie shrugged. Though plenty of people in Dunedin could afford art, few could summon true enthusiasm for it. Still, the previews at Heather and Chloe Coltrane’s gallery were among the most important social events in the city, and invitations were hotly sought after. Chloe was an exceptionally talented hostess, and Heather’s artwork had made her famous well beyond New Zealand. Th
e two women had lived together for years, and many assumed they were sisters. That was not true, however. Chloe owed her last name to an unhappy marriage to Heather’s brother.
The coffee and cake arrived. Roberta poured sugar into her cup while Atamarie dreamily watched the steam rise. She was already thinking about what she would wear that evening; no doubt Kathleen would have something new for both granddaughters. She always claimed the girls were doing her a favor by accepting the expensive dresses. After all, they were advertising the boutique.
Roberta swallowed hard and forced herself to ask the question that had been eating at her for days.
“Do you know by chance if, if your, um, uncle is coming too?”
Atamarie grinned. “Which uncle?” she asked coyly.
“Oh, um, Kevin?”
She tried to sound casual, but they both knew better. For months, Roberta had been pining after Kevin, named for the same Irish saint as his grandfather. While she was in high school, it was folly even to hope that the young doctor would notice his niece’s friend, let alone make advances. But now she was a college student. Plus, Roberta’s parents belonged to Dunedin high society. The young woman would surely be invited to concerts and balls, art shows and plays. And Kevin Drury, with his curly black hair and bright blue eyes, was a fixture at such events. On top of being a successful doctor and terribly handsome, he was a keen rider who never missed a steeplechase. Men and women alike thronged to him.
Kevin’s younger brother, Patrick, was much less flashy. He had studied agriculture and planned to take over his parents’ farm someday. For the time being, he worked as an adviser for the Ministry of Agriculture. Otago was slowly shifting back from gold mining to agriculture, and the new landowners knew far less about sheep breeding and pasture management than they did about panning for gold.
“Kevin’s coming for sure,” said Atamarie. “Heather says he’s got a new girlfriend already. She’s supposed to be stunning. Heather might ask her to sit for a portrait.”
Women were among Heather’s favorite subjects for portraits, and she’d had great success with them. Heather knew how to capture a woman’s essence, her character, and her life experience on canvas.
Roberta sighed. “Kevin is very handsome, I suppose.”
Atamarie laughed, laid her hand on her friend’s arm, and made as if to shake Roberta. “He may be the prince, Robbie, but you’re a queen. If you fix yourself up a bit and don’t stare at the floor or completely choke on your words when you see him, you’ll outshine them all.”
Roberta stirred her coffee mournfully. “He’d have to look at me first.”
“If he won’t look, try fainting!” Atamarie joked. “You let yourself fall, and I scream, ‘We need a doctor.’ Then he won’t have a choice.”
“You’re not taking me seriously.”
Atamarie groaned. “Maybe you’re taking Kevin too seriously. And that’s not good. I mean, you don’t just want a kiss or two, right? You’re looking for a man who’ll really love you. And for that, Kevin’s the wrong guy. He’s nice, and he’s funny—I do like him, Robbie. But he’s not looking for a wife, at least not now. He even said so when Grandma Lizzie talked to him about it recently. As a family doctor, he’ll have to get married someday. But for now, Grandma Lizzie says he’s like Grandpa Michael. He had ‘to sew his wild oats’ before he got serious about her. Not sure what that means, but one thing’s certain: Kevin doesn’t want what you want. He’s looking for adventure.”
Chapter 2
Heather Coltrane hadn’t been exaggerating about Kevin Drury’s new girlfriend. Juliet, as Kevin introduced her, not bothering to give a last name, was an extraordinary beauty. She certainly wasn’t white, but she lacked the hallmarks of Maori ancestry. Juliet had black hair that tumbled over her shoulders, delicate golden-brown skin, and full lips, as well as astoundingly blue eyes beneath heavy eyelids.
“She looks rather Creole,” Heather said to Roberta’s mother, Violet. “Where would he have met her?”
On arriving at the gallery, Atamarie had marched straight over to Kevin and his new friend, dragging a mortified Roberta behind her. Roberta hardly managed a word during the introductions, but Juliet didn’t look like she intended to remember anyone’s name anyway. She spoke distractedly to a few gentlemen who swarmed around her, falling over themselves to ply her with champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
“Because it’s the birthplace of champagne, the lady favors France,” Chloe observed, and kissed Violet’s cheek in greeting. “That’s her third glass of the most expensive bottle we have. If she keeps this up, she’ll be dancing on the tables by the end of the night.”
“Our own little demimonde, then?” Violet remarked.
Her husband, Sean, smiled.
As a young girl, Violet had received a dictionary and, over the years, had read it again and again. Even as an adult, she relished opportunities to try out new words. Of course, those were few and far between in Dunedin.
Heather laughed. “Hardly a good candidate for sheep farming, anyway. Lizzie and Michael will not be enthused.”
Kevin and Patrick’s parents ran a sheep farm in Otago, and they hoped their sons would marry women who could help them tend the flocks. Kevin, however, was uninterested in farm work and even less interested in rich livestock breeders’ daughters.
The mysterious Juliet dominated the evening’s conversation—the somewhat gloomy paintings on display that day dimmed considerably in her presence. While the women busied themselves trying to guess Juliet’s ancestry, the men seemed content just to admire her: Juliet’s figure was as fascinating as her foreign-seeming face. Kevin flaunted the young woman like a trophy but was careful not to neglect his many admirers. With Juliet in tow, he wandered from each of Dunedin’s ladies to the next, making charming small talk while Juliet smiled coolly and resisted any attempt to draw her out.
“Corsets just make dresses look better,” Roberta sighed as Juliet floated by.
In fact, she looked quite charming herself. Roberta wore an aquamarine dress, elegantly tailored to emphasize her figure. A corset would have added emphasis, but without that fishbone armor, Roberta could breathe easily and move with natural grace. On the other hand, Juliet, who, on top of everything, wore a very tight, modern skirt, could only tiptoe forward. Which, Roberta noted, made her look touchingly helpless.
“Corsets also make you more likely to faint,” Atamarie teased. “Of course, you could still try that. Check out this painting over here, Robbie. You can’t help feeling dizzy just looking at it. Stop in front of it and then swoon. I’ll call for the doctor.”
Roberta glared at her friend, then went back to watching Kevin and his conquest. Finally, Atamarie pulled her away.
“Come on, smile, Roberta! Look, there’s Patrick.”
Patrick Drury was an open, friendly man. His profession, after all, forced him to make polite conversation with the most varied people. On the farms, he encountered everyone from British nobility to cloddish gold miners. Roberta was often assigned as his partner at society dinners, and Atamarie had gotten the feeling he liked to be around her. Recently, his eyes had even begun to light up when she walked into the room, recognizing that the sweet young girl had grown into a beautiful woman.
This evening, though, everything was off. Although Patrick dutifully fetched them champagne and chatted amiably enough, he was deeply distracted. Atamarie realized that Patrick shared Roberta’s fixation: he couldn’t take his eyes off Kevin and Juliet. The young farmer was captivated by the black-haired beauty, but surely, he had no chance.
Patrick wasn’t nearly as handsome as Kevin. Instead of his father Michael’s full, black hair, he had inherited his mother Lizzie’s dark-blonde locks and soft blue eyes. He was also shorter and less imposing than Kevin—not the sort a woman like Juliet would notice.
Atamarie eventually gave up trying to prompt conversation between Roberta and Patrick, and she steered Roberta onward while looking for a waiter. Perhaps Roberta’s m
ood would improve with another glass of champagne. Patrick resumed following his brother and Juliet around like a little dog.
In the middle of the gallery, Roberta and Atamarie spotted Rosie, who was Roberta’s aunt as well as Heather and Chloe’s maid. The towheaded woman stood stock-still, limply holding a tray of champagne glasses. She looked so bored, it was as if she were trying to imitate a table.
Atamarie took two glasses of champagne and smiled at her.
“How’s the foal, Rosie?” she inquired, and Rosie’s face opened like the sun bursting through the clouds.
Rosie was a tolerable maid, but only truly happy and exceedingly skillful when it came to racehorses. Chloe had taught her all about them back when she ran a stud farm in the fjord lands with her former husband. Of all the racehorses, only the mare Dancing Rose remained, now relegated to pulling Chloe and Heather’s chaise. Last year, however, Chloe had allowed Dancing Rose to be bred, and now a mare foal whinnied in the stables. To Rosie’s delight, Chloe was even considering letting the young horse race. After all, she had not seen her former husband in years. Colin Coltrane’s name no longer rang out on the racetracks of the South Island. So, why shouldn’t little Trotting Diamond be given the chance to shine?
After listening to Rosie raving about the foal, Roberta led Atamarie over to Kathleen Burton and her husband, Peter. Reverend Burton, as always, had a soothing effect on Roberta. She would never forget how safe she had felt in his and Kathleen’s house after her mother finally escaped her violent husband. Moreover, she noticed that the reverend was among the few men present who did not deem Kevin and Juliet worth a second glance. Instead, he asked Roberta and then Atamarie about their studies. He was delighted that Atamarie intended to pursue engineering, and he entreated Roberta to teach in his parish after graduation.
“We’re building a school, you know. The newcomers are finally settling down and having children.”
