by Dorothy Eden
“Can see you’re only fit to have a needle in your hand. Now don’t drop that lot. And hurry, or mistress will be screeching her head off.”
The party in the sunshine went on serenely. The guests were relaxing and mingling more freely. There were scraps of conversation about the price of wool, the rumor of gold discoveries in the South Island, the Governor’s planned measures against the latest Maori atrocities, the difficulty of transporting building material into the bush country, over mountainous country and unbridged rivers, the expected arrival of the next ship, and, as a running background to this more serious talk, the frothy feminine chatter about new clothes and hair styles, the whispered news of someone’s pregnancy, someone else’s flirtation, the rumor of some new eligible young man come to town.
Out of the corner of her now discreetly downcast eyes Briar saw that Sophia was talking to the tall dark man who had so casually brushed past her. Sophia’s face was flushed and animated. She was glad she had worn the pink silk, one could see, although the heat was wilting it a little. She talked all the time, and the young man with the strange harsh name seemed merely to listen. Aunt Charity had turned her head to watch them with a small benevolent smile.
Prudence at last was in conversation with an earnest, rather stout, young man. Uncle Hubert was walking about drinking quantities of fruit punch and dropping an occasional dry remark here and there.
Peter Fanshawe came to take a cup of coffee from Briar’s tray, and gave her his bright personal glance. “All right now?” he whispered.
She nodded. She looked steadily into his face for a moment. The day, brilliant enough already, seemed to explode around her. She had made a decision. She would marry Peter Fanshawe. Not only was he good-looking, young and eligible but he would be able to give her the position she desired. And with his gentle manner he would be easy to manage, an important point for someone as ambitious as she. Yes, she had made up her mind. Impossible as it seemed to achieve, she would marry Peter Fanshawe.
Afterwards, there was talk, talk, talk.
Briar was forgiven the dropped tray and the broken glasses.
“Mr. Whitmore explained to me what happened,” Aunt Charity said in the benevolent manner she used only when she was pleased with life in general. “He took all the blame. He was worried about arriving a little late. Oh, and my dears,” her attention so briefly and casually on Briar had gone back to her nieces, the vehicles through which she could enjoy her present social popularity, “Saul’s mother is coming to call one day next week. In the past she has cared nothing for the conventions, but she wants to meet you girls. There can be only one reason for that,” she added significantly.
“Is Saul—Mr. Whitmore—very eligible?” Sophia asked.
“My dear, I’ve told you. He’s one of the most promising young settlers we have had, so your uncle says, and moreover he’s first cousin to the Earl of Marsham.”
“He terrifies me,” Prudence murmured. “He looks so dark and aloof and scornful.”
“Oh, that’s just a pose,” said Sophia. “He doesn’t terrify me. He doesn’t even have much to say, except about his property called Lucknow, and of course the Maoris. Something about a Major von Tempsky who is the cleverest at fighting them in the forest. I begin to find the Maoris very boring as a subject.”
“Then what did you say to him?” Prudence asked.
“Oh, this and that. I asked him if he liked my gown.”
“Sophie!”
“Why not? He obviously wasn’t going to tell me without being asked. Do you know, I’m not sure that I didn’t like Peter Fanshawe better than Saul Whitmore. He was much more amusing. He hasn’t an earl in his family, has he, Aunt Charity?”
“Not an earl, but his family’s very good, nevertheless. He’s working in your uncle’s bank at present, but I believe he means to take up land.”
“Wouldn’t it be fun,” Sophie cried irrepressibly, “if you married him, Prue, and I married Saul, and we both lived in the same district. Or if I married Peter and you married Saul?”
“I told you how he terrifies me,” Prudence said unhappily. “And anyway how can you talk of my marrying anyone but Edmund?”
“It does no harm at all to meet other young men,” Aunt Charity said firmly. “It’s a healthy attitude. You must neither of you make hasty decisions. But I do think we have begun very nicely. Now let me see, we go to Mrs. Hunt’s dinner party tomorrow. And on Friday there’s the ball at Government House. You will make a grand toilette for that, my dears. And next week there’s Sarah Jane Maxwell’s coming out ball, which won’t be on the same scale as Government House, but very nice, nevertheless. Her father owns several cargo ships, that carry stock and supplies to the different ports. By the way, I must tell you that there’s always a shortage of young women at these balls. So it’s expected that you dance all the time. You mustn’t refuse anybody, or go wandering in the garden, for instance. It really becomes quite strenuous, I can assure you, but you’re young. I expect you’ll survive.”
“Aunt Charity, if we’re to go to all these balls we simply haven’t enough gowns!”
“Then we must call on my clever Miss Matthews. And Briar sews very neatly, I’ve noticed. I’m sure she can be of great assistance.”
“I’ll wear my white brocade to Government House,” Sophia decided.
“Oh, you think of nothing but clothes!” Prudence cried in sudden exasperation. “Clothes and men!”
Sophia opened her pale blue eyes wide. “But what else is there to think of?”
In the small house at the top of the steep track, with its ineffective screening of manuka trees, Mrs. Whitmore looked at her son.
“But wasn’t there anyone there at all of any interest?” she insisted.
“No, I told you so. They’re all too soft and silly. I want a woman who can live hard.”
“That would come.”
“What! You believe that when all the clothes and silly chatter is stripped off there’s still something there?”
“It depends whom you’re contemplating stripping,” his mother said dryly. “Come now, tell me what the nieces from England were like.”
“One hadn’t a word to say for herself, and the other talked all the time.”
“Could be nerves in both cases. But they were attractive young women?”
“Fair enough. Over-dressed.”
The old lady’s eyelids fell and lifted again, with a slow movement like a parrot’s. She had a hooded secret look today. She was trying to control her impatience with her dark-browed son, and to move cautiously and with tact. He had the quick flaring nature that could make him saddle his horse and set off for Lucknow in the next hour if he so pleased.
“Perhaps you’re making unfair comparisons, Saul.”
He flung around, his face suddenly alight with humor and appreciation. “How right you are, mother.” For those carefully tended doll-like faces of today’s party had had none of the lively vitality and warmth and unashamed tenderness of the company he had recently kept. Bawdy and not too young and not always over-clean, but alive, alive!
“Though there was one,” he began, then stopped. Where had he caught a glimpse of a flushed angry brilliant face, with tumbled hair and a bitten back imprecation on her lips. Not at Charity Carruthers, that was certain. It must have been at Cooper’s last night.
He sensed his mother’s carefully concealed disappointment, and his very great and unselfish love for this strong, wise, courageous woman who had borne him, her only child, when she was nearly forty years of age, and was now growing old, uncomplainingly but with hunger for grandchildren gnawing at her, made him say, “I’m not much good at these social things, mother. I’d rather talk to Hubert Carruthers about my wool clip, or Te Kooti’s latest move, but I’ll stick to it. Actually, the older one, Sophia, was attractive enough. And she didn’t behave as if she was scared I’d seduce her on the spot. I’d like you to meet her.”
“I will. I plan to call on Charity Carruther
s next week.”
In the long wooden barracks situated at the foot of the hill near the wharf, where immigrant families newly arrived were temporarily accommodated, Briar at last was able to visit Jemima and Fred Potter.
Jemima ran forward to hug her and exclaim delightedly, and Fred, who was almost inarticulate, said with pleasure, “Here’s a face we know at last!”
The two thin children, Jimmy aged seven and Lucy, aged five, grinned shyly. Always silent children, they had grown preternaturally silent as a consequence of the long ship journey, and the deaths of their two younger brothers.
“How’s the baby?” Briar demanded.
“Oh, she’s thriving now. We can get good milk for her, and you’d hardly know her. Look.”
Jemima led the way to the wicker basket, and turned back the shawl from the tiny face.
Briar felt her heart stir at the sight of the miniature creature. “Why, she’s bonny. She has color in her cheeks. You’ll be glad now that you’ve come, Jemima?”
Jemima’s lips twisted. But she nodded vigorously. “Aye. It will be all right, as soon as Fred gets work and a place to live.”
“Hasn’t Fred got work yet?”
Jemima looked towards her silent husband. “He could get a job as a baker’s help, but he doesn’t fancy the flour all the time. He wants the land, Briar, and that’s the truth.” She was very loyal to the small, rather stout, not particularly intelligent man who was her husband. He had simple desires, and she loved him enough to want him to achieve them. She didn’t mind this uncomfortable and uprooted way of living for a little while.
“He’s waiting to get a place on a farm,” she went on. “Then we’ll all be moving into the country. It’ll be fine for the children. And now, Briar, tell us what you’ve been doing. Have there been all kinds of exciting goings on? You’ve changed, somehow. You’ve got a look about you. You haven’t fallen in love?”
Briar shook her head. “No, and I don’t mean to. It’s silly. But I’ve found the man I’m going to marry.” She laughed a little. “He only spoke to me once. I’d cut my finger and he wrapped it up. But he was kind and gentle. As if he cared what happened to me.” In spite of herself, wonder was in her voice. It was still so intoxicating a sensation to know that someone, even fleetingly, cared about her pain. “He’d make a very good husband, and give me what I want,” she added more practically.
“But who is he, Briar dear?” Jemima asked anxiously.
“His name is Peter Fanshawe. He came to the party the other day.”
“You mean your young ladies’ party? But then he’s—”
“One of the gentry,” Briar flashed scornfully. “Why not?”
“But Briar dear, even in this new country there’ll be conventions.”
“Oh yes, there are plenty of them. More, perhaps. But they’re made by silly snobbish women like Mrs. Carruthers, and one can fight her sort.” Briar’s head went up with its familiar proud lift. “I don’t intend to be a servant all my life. And you’ll see, I won’t be.”
“No, of course you won’t. You’re not the sort. You’ll marry some nice man with his own little business, perhaps.”
“I’ll marry the man I want,” Briar declared. “And then maybe I’ll have—” her gaze went to the cradle. She touched the baby’s soft cheek. “I feel she’s part mine, Jemima. I did help to keep her alive, didn’t I? Look after her for me.”
“We will, lovey. And you look after yourself. Don’t get too high-flown. We understand, Fred and me, but other people might not.”
“I’m not high-flown, Jemima dear,” Briar said simply. “I just know what I want, and I intend to get it.”
So Jemima and Fred thought she was getting ideas above herself. What would they have thought had they known the wild idea that came into her head later, which she meant to carry out?
It had been a week of social activities for Sophia and Prudence. There had been dinner parties, picnics, and then the ball at Government House to which they had gone dressed in their very best finery, Sophia in white brocade, Prudence in pink, and Aunt Charity looking enormously impressive in black satin trimmed with a great many jet beads.
As usual, Briar had to sit up until they came home, to unbutton the young ladies, help them out of their stiff dresses and into night attire.
Sitting in the lamplight sewing (Sophie was always ripping flounces or splitting seams), she wondered how much longer she would be able to bring herself to do this task meekly, saying, “Yes, ma’am,” and, “No, ma’am,” fetching and carrying, laundering and ironing, always looking cheerful and obedient, crushing down her own personality until it was not noticed. At the very beginning she had not minded. She had listened with slightly amused contempt to Sophia’s endless chatter about marriage, and to Aunt Charity’s snobbish plotting.
But now everything had changed. For everywhere the girls went they met Peter Fanshawe, Saul Whitmore and others. One could not help meeting the same people all the time in such a small community. Sophia chattered freely about them all, but obviously her favor wavered between Peter and Saul.
And she, Briar, had to sit at home and mend gowns, and help to make Sophia beautiful for these occasions! Every day the fury inside herself grew.
Was she herself never to meet Peter again? Or never on his own ground. Always, just as the rather pitiable figure of a parlor maid in trouble, to whom he extended his careless comfort.
Before she knew what had happened one of those stupid, simpering but socially elect young women would have got him and he would never know that she existed as a woman, warmhearted, tender and loving.
She had to make a plan that would give her the opportunity of seeing him again. And this time not in a maid’s cap and apron, but as a well-dressed and attractive young woman.
It seemed impossible. Even to within ten minutes of her mistresses arriving home from the Government House ball it seemed impossible. But suddenly the opportunity was tossed to her by the prattling Sophie. And her mind was made up.
As usual Sophie arrived home hot and disheveled, her gown trodden on, her gloves rumpled and dirty, her hair tumbling askew. “But it was a wonderful ball! Wasn’t it, Prue? Oh, don’t say you didn’t enjoy it. I noticed James French never took his eyes off you.”
“I wish he’d kept his feet off mine, too,” Prudence retorted.
“He was too enraptured with you, I dare say. We really were by far the best dressed there, Briar. Everyone looked at us. Even Saul Whitmore brought himself to compliment me, without my prodding him into it. And dearest Peter was full of admiration. He says the most extravagant things.”
“I expect he’s been saying them for years,” Prue said waspishly.
“Don’t be absurd! I haven’t been here for years. I must say even Saul looked a little put out tonight. He wanted me for the supper dance, but I’d already given it to Peter. Though I must say there’s something ruthless and dangerous about Saul that I find very exciting. The way he looks at me with those deep eyes. I don’t think I’d ever dare to deceive him. Briar, must you be so clumsy?”
“Sorry, Miss Sophie,” Briar murmured automatically.
“Have we kept you up too late? It’s only two o’clock. You wouldn’t think it was late if you’d been at the ball. Saul asked me to walk in the garden. I refused, of course. Do you know, that pretty little Mrs. Morgan has eight children. And all living! She’s only twenty-seven. No chance for me to do that, but I vow I’ll have three at least by the time I’m twenty-seven. And what do you think about that Sarah Jane Maxwell?”
“What?” Prudence asked indifferently. She was already in her nightgown and brushing her own hair, since Sophia monopolized the attentions of Briar.
“She’s going to have the marriage dance at her ball next week.”
“The marriage dance?”
“But didn’t you hear? Really, Prue, you must live with your head in the clouds. Or in the Mary Louise. All the ladies are blindfolded, and when the music stops the man they’
re in front of is their chosen mate.”
“You mean truly?”
“Well, I suppose you don’t have to stick with it. But Sarah Jane says most people do. Certainly I’m sure people like Saul and Peter would because of their honor. You see, there are far more young men than young women in this country, and that’s sometimes the fairest way of getting a wife. Of course Sarah Jane’s only having the dance because she hasn’t been asked yet. She’s driven to it, poor creature. She’s twenty-two! I should think she’s planning to get Saul Whitmore.”
“But how can she plan to get anyone if she can’t see?”
Even Sophia had to look baffled at that. “Yes, they say there’s no cheating. You really can’t see. But I expect the men, if they recognize one, can do a little plotting. They’re not supposed to recognize us, of course. The masks cover our faces. Don’t you think it’s terribly exciting?”
“I don’t think I shall do it,” said Prudence nervously.
“Oh, Prue, you are a little fool, falling in love with that penniless Edmund and spoiling all your fun. Don’t you agree, Briar? Wouldn’t you like to dance in the marriage dance?”
Briar drew a deep breath. “Yes, Miss Sophia,” she said coolly. “I would.”
VI
ORIANE WHITMORE sat on one of Aunt Charity’s upright chairs, clasping her black umbrella. She looked like a thin, elderly, alert crane nursing a broken wing. Her skin was yellowed and dried from years spent in the parching Indian sun, and her tall body seemed fleshless. But her magnificent eyes, hooded and brilliant, missed nothing.
Aunt Charity fluttered about as nervously as a schoolgirl, fussing as to whether her visitor would take tea, or perhaps a cool drink after her long walk. Perhaps she would like to sit in the garden in the shade, although it was rather windy.
“I always hope that in summer the winds will stop, but they never do,” Aunt Charity chattered. “I wonder if the Taranaki district is less disturbed in this way. Though my husband talks a great deal about the Maori problem there. They’re such fearsome fighters when aroused, one hears. It seems hard to believe when one sees them sitting about their villages so lazily, selling fruit and kumaras. Do you care for the kumara, Mrs. Whitmore?”