Sleep in the Woods

by Dorothy Eden

  So Edmund had declared that he had eyes for no one but Prudence, and one had believed him because one had so longed to. And certainly his conversation had retained its ardent quality even up until this last day, even if now and then his eyes had seemed to wander. Once Prudence had realized he was staring at Briar, who had just come up the companionway and was ruffling her hair in the wind in a rather bold and languorous way. Briar, a maidservant! A little plain thing in her gray dress.

  She must have imagined the flash of interest in Edmund’s eyes on that occasion.

  Certainly now, as the encircling hills grew closer, one could not complain about his undivided attention.

  “Prue, my love! I may call on you at your aunt’s?”

  Prudence hesitated, then burst out boldly as Sophie would have done, “I’m afraid that will depend on your intentions. Aunt Charity is, I believe, very strict. At least, Mamma said—”

  A strong hand came over hers, sending delightful tremors through her. “But, my dear Prue! You must know what I would like my intentions to be. The devil of it is, I have no money. I shall have to do several more voyages until I can save enough to buy land. Once one can buy land, fortunes are to be made.”

  “Fortunes!”

  “Of course. All pioneers make their fortunes. Especially if they’re lucky enough to buy land with gold on it.”

  “Oh, Edmund! If only you could!”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” His bright eyes rested on her. “Prue—I know I should speak to your aunt or your uncle first, but will you wait for me?”

  “How old are you?” she asked, the enormous significance of his question suddenly reducing her to a strange calm.

  “I’m nineteen. Old enough, goodness knows.”

  “So am I. Sophie’s twenty, and no one has asked her yet to be his wife. So I’m the first,” she finished breathlessly. “Oh, I don’t mean I’m just gloating over Sophie. Edmund, we wouldn’t be too old if we had to wait three years, say. Or even four. You’d have saved enough money by then, wouldn’t you? And the time would go by. I could be making my trousseau, twelve of everything. Oh, Edmund, do you really mean it?”

  “At the moment,” he said recklessly, “there’s nothing I want more than to kiss you. Oh, the devil!”

  “Here’s Sophie,” said Prudence, trying to compose her face. “Sophie, Edmund and I are just saying goodbye.”

  “So I can see,” returned her sister tartly. “Do you need to take quite so long about it? I should think Edmund had other duties. Briar’s disappeared, and Mrs. Crewe is putting on her cloak and bonnet. She says we must do the same. We’re going ashore at any moment, thank heaven for that. I, for one, shan’t be sorry to see the last of this ship. Indeed,” she added, her habitual good humor returning, “when I get on dry land I shall kick up my heels just as poor old Daisy will when she gets to pasture. If Aunt Charity hasn’t made plans for our amusement, we shall make our own!”

  II

  THE LACE CURTAIN billowed inwards in a sudden gust of wind, and Aunt Charity’s large, fretted face appeared at the window.

  “Drat this wind! Will it never stop!” She looked across the bay, and suddenly cried in great excitement, “Hubert! The Mary Louise is in! Hubert, come at once!”

  When no voice answered her, she lumbered with more speed than grace to the door. She was small in stature, but definitely plump. Indeed, she strangely resembled the furnishings in her large draughty wood-framed house, where all the chairs were solidly padded and curved in shape, and all the cushions stuffed to bursting point. She was an animated cushion herself, tucked in at the waist, and swelling in rich curves above and below. Her little puffed hands were ornamented with several heavy gold rings, and her feet encased in elegant high-heeled boots, seldom visible beneath her flowing skirts. She wore a white lace cap threaded with black velvet ribbon which tied under her chin. Her mouth was too small in her large round face, and tucked in in a self-willed manner, her eyes darted busily all the time, and her forehead was constantly knitted into anxiety of some kind.

  It was obvious from the way she moved, and the restlessness of her face, that her tongue, too, was seldom still.

  “Hubert, where are you? Don’t you hear me? The Mary Louise is in. The dear girls will be here any moment.”

  She clattered down the stairs, not fast because of her bulk, but noisily, causing her husband at his desk to brace himself slightly.

  “Oh, there you are, Hubert. Didn’t you hear me telling you the ship’s in. She’s dropped anchor already. Oh, how can you be so unmoved?”

  In comparison with her restlessness, her husband was ponderously calm. He was also almost always preoccupied with affairs of the country, and even now, with the broad windows of his study framing the blue bay, and the little ship lying at anchor, his manner remained tolerantly withdrawn.

  “They’re your nieces, my love. As I told you at the beginning, they’re entirely your affair. I can see weddings in your face already,” unconsciously he sagged a little, “and all this endless feminine fuss and flurry.”

  “Now, Hubert, you’re not to look so far ahead. There’ll be plenty of parties and fun before there are weddings. We have to show the dear girls what colonial life can be. I expect they think they’ve come to the wilds!”

  “So they have,” said Hubert gloomily. “I’ve just had word from up north. The Maoris mean serious trouble again. They’ve embarked on a religious war now, and you know what that can mean.” He looked briefly at his wife’s face and added, “Or perhaps you don’t.”

  “All I know is they can be a lot of howling savages, but that’s in the bush country and doesn’t need to concern us. We’re perfectly safe.”

  “We’re in New Zealand, my love. We’ve made it our country. We’ve got to be concerned about its troubles whether they’re on our own doorstep or not. This Te Kooti is a fanatic. He’s reverted to cannibalism, you know. I’ve a description here of a white soldier, one of your boys, my dear, being prepared for cooking.”

  “Cooking!” Aunt Charity echoed faintly.

  Hubert Carruthers shot a glance at his wife’s outraged face. Suddenly he was filled with anger that she should be so stupid, and have her head filled with nothing but frivolous parties and match-makings, when such terrible things were going on in this country which already he loved. He was no match for her domineering nature. He would dearly have liked children of his own, sons to give to this wild fertile country teeming with opportunities, and that Charity, despite her abundant body, had not been able to do this for him disappointed him deeply. But that she could derive such satisfaction from the arrival of two unknown nieces, and the opportunity to give vent to her match-making talents, filled him with obscure resentment.

  He indulged in one of his few small revenges. “Listen to this,” he said, almost with relish. “‘I watched the preparation of the body of the white soldier for the warrior’s feast. The head was first cut off with a tomahawk, and then the body was cut open and prepared as a butcher prepares a beast he has killed. The body was laid on red-hot stones in the bottom of the earth-oven so that the outer skin could be scraped off easily—’”

  “Hubert, stop! This is barbarous. You’re making me ill.”

  “Listen!” he commanded. “This is your country. You must be concerned with what goes on in it. ‘Water was then poured over the hot stones to create the steam which was to cook the meal, and green leaves were spread on top of the stones. The body was cut up into convenient portions so as to cook thoroughly. The thickest pieces of meat were cut from the thighs. The hands were laid with the palms uppermost, because when they were cooked they curled up, and the hollow palm was full of gravy which was a great delicacy to the Maori …’”

  Aunt Charity’s face, by now, was filled with a terrible fascination. Her mouth had fallen open a little, and her eyes at last were still.

  “‘The body of the pakeha or white man took between two and three hours to cook. Then the oven was uncovered and the contents carrie
d in small flax baskets, with kumara and fernroot. It was usual also to cook some of the young curly fronds of ground fern with the meat. It added to its flavor.’”

  “Hubert! I must sit down.”

  Hubert, a little remorseful now, sprang to lead her to a chair.

  “I’m sorry, my love. But these things are going on now, perhaps at this very moment, while you have your head full of nothing but social activities.”

  Aunt Charity, although still pretending faintness, for a gently-bred woman should never never have to listen to, much less witness such ghastly happenings, was possessed of a secretly tough nature. It would be unwomanly not to faint at such descriptions, but had she been brought face to face with these savages she would have showed a commendable amount of courage and resilience.

  Besides, she hadn’t an acute imagination. Her mind was still almost fully occupied with the bedroom upstairs awaiting her guests, with the anxiety as to whether the girls would be attractive and vivacious and worthy of her efforts on their behalf, and what new fashions from London they would have brought to this sadly benighted and isolated country.

  “Hubert, I forbid you to talk to Prudence and Sophia like this, and scare them out of their wits.”

  “They must know what to expect.”

  “But nothing like that will happen to them! They’re going to live safely here with us.”

  “You’re determined to find husbands for these young ladies, my dear. Isn’t it conceivable they may marry young settlers who are moving into the bush country?”

  “Oh, no, Hubert, that isn’t at all likely.” Aunt Charity, embarked on her favorite subject, became garrulous. “I’ve already decided that Peter Fanshawe will be ideally suitable for one of them. Such a nice boy, and of very good family. And he is settling down nicely in your bank, isn’t he?”

  “He hasn’t a brain in his pretty head,” Hubert grumbled. “Oh, yes, he’ll make a good enough bank clerk. Nothing more.”

  “He’s a very handsome young man!” Aunt Charity declared indignantly. “And if he isn’t too devoted to his work—well, what young man is at his age? Besides, it isn’t too important, is it? He has a very nice inheritance, I understand. I thought if he were to build on that piece of land overlooking the harbor, when it has been cleared of flax and tussocks—I predict it will be one of the best areas.”

  Hubert’s heavy brows were raised in their tolerant whimsical line. His account of the cannibal feast had temporarily eased him of his vague resentment and dissatisfaction with his wife. “And having built Fanshawe’s house for him, and installed in it Prudence or Sophia, what do you propose doing with Sophia or Prudence?”

  “Well, do you know, I can’t make up my mind about Desmond Burke or Allan Greaves, or perhaps Gabriel Brown.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t mentioned Saul Whitmore.”

  “I almost don’t dare to,” Aunt Charity declared, with sudden vivacity. “He’s so elusive. Martha Burke declares he will never marry, he’s too much of the lone wolf type. And then there’s his mother who terrifies young girls. Susan Chittaway was reduced to tears after only five minutes’ conversation. But I must say Susan is a mouse if ever there was one. One must admit, however,” her eyes grew dreamy, “that Saul is a tremendous catch. First cousin to an earl, and only second in the line of succession. Mrs. Cooper would give her diamonds to see her daughter married to him, but then she’d not hesitate to throw poor Amanda to the wolves. And I never did think much of her diamonds, anyway. They’re out of place in this simple community.”

  “Saul,” said Hubert mildly, “is, I understand, only a single wolf, not a whole pack. And he might, at that, be preferable to Te Kooti and his Hauhaus. Besides, my dear, didn’t I see you wearing your diamond and ruby brooch last evening?”

  “That was for dinner at the Government House. One has to wear something! One isn’t entirely reduced to savagery, as we will show these two dear creatures arriving today.”

  “And Saul Whitmore, I might point out, has bought land in the Taranaki district.”

  “I know. He’s built a very fine house, I’m told. That does seem to give the lie to his intended bachelorhood, doesn’t it?”

  “Oh, indeed, indeed. Young Saul doesn’t look the celibate type to me. But if you’re planning to marry Prudence or Sophia to him, let’s hope they’re not timid creatures, scared of mice.”

  “Oh, I never thought Saul was that terrifying,” Aunt Charity said comfortably.

  “I wasn’t referring to Saul, my love. I was pointing out that he has built his house in the Taranaki district. If I’m not wrong in my predictions it will be right in the heart of the Hauhau country. So let’s hope your little nieces, or one of them, can stand up against a Hauhau attack. It’s quite blood-chilling, I believe. Their war cry is like the bark of a savage dog, and their bare brown bodies and tattooed faces—”

  “Hubert! Stop that indecency at once! I won’t listen to another word. If Saul Whitmore takes a bride into the Taranaki country he will be well able to look after her. Anyway, I haven’t time to stand here gossiping. I must go up and see that the girls’ room is quite ready. That new girl, Polly, she’s a lazy female if ever there was one. I wonder if Prudence and Sophia would have preferred a room each? I did think they might be happier together at first. And that best bedroom really is a large airy one. Besides, there’s the maid to be accommodated, too. That’s if she stays. From what I know of girls nowadays she’ll leave the moment she sets foot ashore. She’ll have her eyes open for the nearest man. Marriage! That’s all they think of.”

  “But aren’t you planning her marriage, my dear?” Her husband asked suavely.

  Aunt Charity glared at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Hubert! She’s a servant. Although I’ll do my best to see she doesn’t get into trouble. One has that duty at least.”

  “Don’t let it fret you, Charity. New Zealand needs sons and daughters.”

  “But not outside matrimony!” his wife snapped.

  “Which room are you allotting?”

  “I’ve told you, the big north bedroom. It gets all the sun, and has a beautiful view.”

  “I was speaking of the maid.”

  “Oh, her! Really, why do you ask? She’ll go in the servant’s quarters, of course. The little room next to the kitchen. She’ll have it entirely to herself. Surely you can’t accuse me of not treating my servants well!”

  Before ordering the carriage (the Carruthers were one of the few families in Wellington who could boast a carriage), Aunt Charity had time to go upstairs and cast a last critical eye over the bedroom in which presently her nieces would be installed.

  Away from her husband’s irritating determination to spoil her pleasure, she allowed her excitement to rise in her again. She was so full of plans for the next few weeks, tennis parties, excursions to the beach for picnics, balls, and, if they were fortunate, invitations to week-end parties in one or more of the sparsely situated country houses. That, of course, was if the girls rode horseback. If they didn’t, they would have to learn.

  But that was a minor detail. Their mother would have brought them up properly, in every other way, and they would be able to dance well, to talk gracefully, to be gay and vivacious, to play the piano and sing a little, to embroider, of course, and perhaps to paint. They would be ornaments to society. That was what this raw little community, bursting with life but sadly lacking in the more important refinements of life, needed.

  Bringing out these two gently-bred girls was her contribution to the community. Hubert, in his coarser moments, had said it was equivalent to introducing a good strain of horseflesh or a pedigree cow. Hubert sometimes was quite intolerable, but when dear Sophia and Prudence were married and producing attractive babies, he would drop his sarcastic attitude and be as delighted as she.

  Though that was leaping ahead. One had all the excitement of the courtship and wedding first. Perhaps a double wedding. No, that would be swallowing her cake all in one mouthful. Sophia, as the el
dest, must come first. One could decorate the church with arum lilies that grew wild on the hillside.

  But they simply must be pretty. If their mother had lied to her about that she would never forgive her.

  Yes, the room looked very clean and attractive. Polly had done her best here. Opossum and sheepskin rugs, much washed and whitened and fluffed out, lay on the bare scrubbed floor. The wide iron bedstead with brass knobs and high pillows was covered with a snowy cotton bedspread, and surrounded with a starched lace-trimmed valance. The dressing table, also draped in starched runners and frills, held sundry articles of toilet, a gay pincushion, a hair tidy, and two floral china candlesticks, complete with tall white candles and match-boxes, ready for use. The washstand was occupied by Aunt Charity’s best set of basin and jug, soap dish and other necessary bedroom equipment all in a delightful pattern of leaves and pink blossom. The high windows which rattled slightly in the wind and emitted faint eddies of cool air (for no one had yet been able to build an entirely draught-proof house in this windy town), were attractively curtained in white Nottingham lace as snowy as the bedspread. The room was high-ceilinged and light, and looked over the hillside and the bay.

  Soon, Aunt Charity reflected ecstatically, the girls’ trunks would stand on this floor, and the little strange maid, whom one hoped would be reliable and sober, as good maids really were at a premium, would be hanging away the fashionable English dresses in the enormous wardrobe. There was even a long gilt-framed mirror, sacrificed from her own room, hanging on the wall so that the girls would be able to look at themselves in their ball gowns.

  She was so sure they would be happy at once. How could they be anything else, with herself, like a fairy godmother, ready to wave her wand and produce out of this crisp bright air their future happiness?

  Yes, the bedroom couldn’t be more ready to receive her guests. Now for a final look in the kitchen to see that her orders for dinner that evening had been completely understood, as cook was scarcely more trustworthy than the slow, lazy Polly.