by Dorothy Eden
Fiercely she concentrated on their pools of brightness, whether they framed young envious faces or old wrinkled ones like the gnarled root from which the prolific blossom sprang.
Then they were behind her, and she was conscious instead of hands. Uncle Hubert’s long thin bony one that surreptitiously patted hers as he left her to stand alone beside Saul; the minister’s, calm and holy, white and fragile; her own which trembled ever so slightly in spite of the way she gripped Sophia’s ivory-bound prayer book, lent for the occasion; and Saul’s as he slid the gold band on her finger. Broad, strong, brown hands, these, the skin roughened from hard work, the nails cut square and very clean. A tremor ran over her at their touch. She looked at them and not into Saul’s face. She did not look up at all.
With a shock of surprise she realized that Saul was taking her arm. The service was over and she hadn’t heard a word, nor did she remember making the necessary responses. So it had been easy enough after all becoming Mrs. Saul Whitmore, by name at least. As for the rest—the triumph that flooded her at the thought of her audacious success shut out any thought of what was to follow.
XII
THERE WAS a brisk wind blowing as they headed for the open sea. Briar had been so busy getting Jemima and the children and Katie O’Toole settled in the cabin opposite the one she and Saul were to share, that she scarcely noticed when the anchor was pulled in and the encircling cliffs began slowly to move away.
It was not possible any longer to see the little knot of people on the wharf, for dusk had fallen, and all objects on land were merging into blackness.
Anyway, Aunt Charity and Uncle Hubert would have driven off in their carriage long since, the tears perhaps still flowing down Aunt Charity’s plump cheeks, for it had been such a fairytale wedding, with a handsome bridegroom and a beautiful bride. Dear little Briar, at the end like one of her own nieces, or even her own daughter.
Weddings intoxicated Aunt Charity more effectively than strong liquor. But when exercised to display magnanimity, she did it wholeheartedly, and Briar had finally embraced her with almost as much affection as she had done Uncle Hubert and Prudence.
Uncle Hubert had murmured, “Have you still got that little green devil?” And when she had nodded he had given his significant smile. “Don’t lose him. You see how he’s working for you already. Be happy, my child. It’s up to you now.”
So he, too, had known that she didn’t love Saul. She had suspected as much when he had given her that magnificent wedding present of Georgian table silver. “Some my wife and I had put by for just such an occasion,” he had murmured deprecatingly. But obviously he had guessed her ambition, and also her lack of love. He was not a man to be deceived, but neither was he one to judge.
Prudence had wept again, clinging to Briar forlornly, until Sophie had come along saying briskly, “Whatever are you crying for? It’s your turn next. I’ll warrant you’ll persuade Aunt Charity to let you marry Edmund the moment he sets foot in this country again.”
Then she had enclosed Briar in a cheerful embrace, and whispered, “Aren’t you glad I told you what to expect tonight? Now you’ll be prepared!” and had gone to cling possessively to Peter’s arm.
Peter himself had at last got his long-delayed opportunity to kiss Briar, and had done so with an expertness that had made her sway a little before she could angrily push him away. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, Briar realized. And of course this was so. His careless courtesy in the past had been only for a maidservant to whom one was kind, but did not particularly notice.
The hot blood swept into her face, and for the first time she took Saul’s arm with some willingness. Saul, at least, had noticed a maidservant. One owed that acknowledgement to him.
The last farewell had been to Saul’s mother, that tall thin broomstick of a woman standing a little apart, with her look of unalterable hostility.
“I’ll be coming to visit later,” she said in her dry grudging voice. “I’ll expect candles to light me to bed.”
“Where do you think we’re living, mother?” Saul demanded. “In the dark ages? Of course there’ll be candles. My wife will see to it.”
As in the church when Saul’s touch had sent that shivering tremor through her, now Briar felt another. “My wife will see to it.” So, if not love she had responsibility, a place in the world, a use. She straightened her narrow young shoulders and said calmly, “They’ll be very good candles, Mrs. Whitmore.”
Her sudden stimulating sense of responsibility had enabled her to see to the comfort of Jemima and Katie, as, being the mistress, she must do. But now that was done, and with the increased pitching of the ship she was glad to seek her own cabin. There was nothing left to do but unpack the articles necessary for the brief voyage, and be alone with her husband.…
The captain, a jovial, loud-voiced sailor, had invited Briar and Saul to dine with him that evening. The Seagull was a small schooner which plied up and down the two islands, carrying, apart from a handful of passengers, sheep and cattle, grain, wool and other cargo, sometimes a screeching cockerel and half a dozen Black Orpington hens, or a pair of goats, or a pedigree bull for some ambitious farmer’s herd.
It was rarely, the captain said in his jovial voice, that he carried a newly married couple.
Briar smiled valiantly, and said she and Saul would be glad to dine with him.
In the tiny cabin, where there was barely room to stand upright, and the narrow bunks, one above the other, surely could never, never be shared, she looked doubtfully at her baggage and wondered whether she could change for dinner. Would it be expected on such a small ship? She was wearing a neat gray merino traveling dress made by Miss Matthews, who had said, “In the country this will serve almost any purpose.” But this was not the country, this was on board a ship, and it was her wedding night.
Would a little festivity in her appearance help? But really, those narrow bunks—could what Sophia had told her about happen here?
She was afraid it could, for she had seen the way Saul had looked at her as he had brought her into this tiny cabin. He had said, “I’ll leave you to get straight. I’ll be back later.”
She had stayed with Jemima and Katie as long as she could, but now she was back to struggle with the straps of her baggage and decide what to do about her appearance.
If she were to change her dress, she must do so quickly before Saul returned. She would not, could not, undress with his frank unabashed gaze on her. She had yet to be kissed by him again as he had that terrible night in her bedroom.
If only the ship would be steady for a little while. … If only the bunks were a decent wide double bed, like Aunt Charity’s, with high pillows and enveloping sheets and blankets. If only, discreetly attired in one of the high-necked lawn nightgowns she had spent so many hours sewing, she could tuck herself in such a bed and wait with fortitude.
But this place was impossible! A sideways pitch of the ship sent Briar stumbling across the opened bag, and anger and dizziness brought sudden tears to her eyes. She was, she realized, overpoweringly weary, and she wanted nothing so much as to creep into the bunk and turn her face to the wall.
The ship pitched again, and a faint feeling of nausea possessed her. Surely she was not going to be seasick! She had survived the twelve-weeks’ voyage from England with scarcely a qualm. But now there was a darkness in front of her eyes, and the walls of the tiny cabin swayed dizzily.
Dragging at the things in her bag, she got out a nightgown, a wrap and slippers, her brushes and toilet articles and smelling salts. Really, she thought indignantly, Katie should be doing this for her. She was the mistress now, not the maid. She should not have to pack and unpack bags any more. She should be lying on the bunk, as Mrs. Crewe used to do, and giving commands in a faint voice. Now, at last, she sympathized with Mrs. Crewe who had always been a victim of seasickness.
There! She had found the buff-colored dress with the flounces which was intended for informal dinner parties
(if there were such things in the bush), and musical afternoons or evenings. If she could change into that, and then throw a cape over her shoulders and go up on deck she would quickly recover from this hot unpleasant faintness.
She managed to unbotton her traveling gown and step out of it, but it lay in a heap on the floor as the ship swayed again, and she fell against the bunk, bumping her forehead painfully. She was trying to steady herself when the door opened and Saul came in.
“It’s getting rough,” he said. “I hope you’re a good sailor.”
“I am,” Briar answered, gritting her teeth.
“That’s fine. I hoped you wouldn’t be one of those sick complaining females. What are you doing? Changing your gown?”
He made no apology for having burst in to find her in this state of undress. But he had no need to, for he was her husband. Now he had the right to look at her in her petticoats.
“I thought for dinner with the captain—” Briar bit her lips, hoping that her cheeks were not as white as they seemed to be—“this gown?”
“It looks very well.”
He stood within the doorway, immensely tall, adjusting himself easily to the tilting floor, looking at her with his unashamedly assessing gaze.
“This isn’t a particularly elegant bridal chamber,” he went on. “I’m sorry it’s so cramped. But,” his thin dark face, his eyes smouldering with anticipation, seemed too near to her, as if already it were leaning over her on the pillow, stopping her breath, “we shall contrive very well. My love, what is it? Are you ill?”
The astonished disappointment and contempt in his voice was unendurable. Briar clutched at the bunk. “I’m a little tired. If I could lie down—oh, go away, will you, please!”
He did not go away. He swiftly and expertly unbuttoned her petticoats and slipped them off, then lifted her on to the bunk and matter-of-factly announced that he was going to fetch a basin.
Briar shivered miserably, and felt the tears of humiliation on her cheeks. Of all the things she had imagined on her wedding night, to be seasick was the worst. She would not allow it to happen. She would somehow overcome it, and yet get up to put on the buff-colored gown and dine with the captain.
Or if she could not do that, at least she must insist that Saul leave her alone to endure her humiliation privately.
He did not, of course. He was back almost immediately with an enamel basin and a damp cloth to wipe her face.
He had even hidden his momentary and overpowering disappointment, and said politely, “I’m afraid I was too optimistic. All the other ladies are in their bunks, too. In this choppy sea, one couldn’t expect you to be a good sailor.”
“I am a good sailor!” Briar insisted weakly. “Never before—”
Then, after all, she was glad to have him to support her, and when she lay back again she gasped indignantly, “It’s this ship. It’s nothing but a tub. I’d like you to tell the captain—when you apologize for me—” she looked up to see him grinning at her, that impudent grin that seemed to take pleasure in her discomfort. “And don’t stand there gloating over me.” she said tartly. “You don’t have a wife tonight, that’s certain.”
“Don’t fret! There are other nights.”
Don’t fret! He had the impudence to say that, as if she were longing for this ordeal! Did he have no imagination, no knowledge of a woman’s sensitive feelings? Didn’t he realize that she could scarcely endure the sight of him? Briar lay miserably on the hard bunk, enduring the sickening pitching of the ship, and thinking that perhaps she had been mistaken in wanting to live, and that this would be a welcome time to die.
She had hoped her indisposition would be only temporary, since it was true that she had never felt like this before, but either the Seagull was too uncomfortable and erratic a vessel, or else her tense state of mind had induced physical sickness. For two days went by before she could do more than raise her head from the pillow, and by that time they were in sight of the coast and their destination.
Jemima and her children were in similar case, but young Katie O’Toole had quickly recovered from her seasickness, and, when not flirting with the deckhands, had performed some haphazard nursing. She was clumsy and thoughtless and inexpert, but her cheerful freckled face and wide grin Briar found immensely comforting. Katie would have to be kept in hand, but she had the free enterprising spirit that Briar recognized as similar to her own, and she was very happy to have the girl with her.
When at last she could put her clothes on again, it was Katie who helped her, and she was standing, weak and wan but erect, when Saul came down to tell her that they were presently to disembark.
“Come up on the deck, my love. I must warn you that there’s a heavy swell and it isn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped to get into the surf boat. One has to choose the right moment to jump.”
“To jump!”
“It’s really quite simple. Come and I’ll show you.”
The fresh wind and the sunshine were wonderfully stimulating, putting life and energy back into her after her long imprisonment in the stuffy cabin. But what she was next expected to do was horrifying.
The surf-boat, absurdly small as it lifted and dropped on the glassy billows, was surely impossible to jump into. Briar looked at it in complete dismay.
“But I am not a circus performer!” she exclaimed. “I do not dive into tanks, or anything like that.”
“Quite simple, Mrs. Whitmore. Quite simple,” boomed the captain behind her. “Just jump when we say so. I trust you are quite recovered,” he added belatedly.
“I was until now.” Briar took another horrified glance at the boat heaving up and down. “Saul, I just can’t do this. You will have to take me back to Wellington.”
Saul’s fingers were on her arm, iron-hard. “You can do it, my love. You must, because none of the other women will until you do.”
His implacable voice reminded her. She was the mistress now. She might have all menial tasks done for her, but hers was always to be the example, the leadership. And if she failed he would despise her more than he did already.
“I’m going first,” he said calmly. “Then the sailors will help you, and I’ll be in the boat to catch you. There’s nothing to it. See!”
He left her to climb down the swaying rope ladder to the water line, then clung poised, waiting his moment to spring into the restless boat.
The sailors, it was true, were very skillful. They gave the signal at the precise moment, and Saul’s spring was as light and easy as a cat leaping on to a bough.
“Now, Mrs. Whitmore,” said the captain. “Your husband’s waiting for you.”
Jemima, holding the baby, and with the two older children clinging to her, was gazing round-eyed. “Oh, Miss Briar, I can’t do that!” she gasped. And Katie behind her was screeching, “Save us, I didn’t come all this way to drown!”
Briar felt her back stiffening. She turned with haughtiness to the little group. “What nonsense! It’s as simple as can be. Jemima, I’m ashamed of you, with Fred waiting over there for you, most likely watching now. And Katie, if you won’t save yourself, then you must drown. Now I’m going.”
Halfway down the slippery swaying ladder she had to close her eyes a moment, nausea sweeping over her again. One of the sailors gripped her, and the long black moment was over. She turned to the bobbing boat, and called in her clear voice, “I’m coming now. Are you ready?”
A moment later, wet and trembling, and consumed with hysterical laughter, she was supported by Saul and he was saying briskly, as if it were an everyday happening, “Sit there. Make room for the others. Now, who’s next?”
In the distance, over the stretch of turbulent water, stood a horse harnessed to a dray, and up to its stomach in water. It stood very steadily and solidly, not heaving dizzily up and down, a large dapple gray draught horse born and bred on the banks of the Clyde in Scotland.
“This is where we change carriages again,” Saul said as the surf-boat, rowed vigorously
by the sailors, approached the stout little equipage. “Into the dray with you, and you’ll all be ashore in less than ten minutes.”
Katie began to giggle, and Jemima’s children, Jimmy and Lucy, lost a little of their peaked look and timidly began to sparkle. Jemima, clutching the baby, had her eyes fixed on the shore, trying to pick out among the handful of people waiting the stout form of her husband.
Briar, sitting in the stern of the boat beside Saul, had a moment of proud ownership. She, who had had nothing, suddenly had all these people dependent on her. It was almost like creation, the beginning of a race. She looked inland to the cloud-scattered sky that arched above the green of the bush and forest. Then she encountered Saul’s hard intent gaze.
“Ao-tea-roa,” he said softly. “The land of the long white cloud. Well, there it is, my love. Our country.”
XIII
THIS TIME the floor was steady, the walls did not lurch, and she did not even have to unpack her bags, for Katie had done that for her. Katie had brushed her hair, too, twisting it into glossy ringlets and tying them back with red ribbon.
After that, it was obvious that Katie was eager to be gone, for although it was after ten o’clock and time she retired discreetly to her room, she was determined to slip into the bar where she had already made friends with the barmaid. On the pretense of helping to wash glasses she would listen to the men talking as they drank their ale, and be shaken to the core with fear and excitement for what was ahead. For Katie didn’t think there was much to life unless there were men about, and if, in the bush, there were few white men, there were those magnificent, handsome savage Maoris who were reputed to cover their bodies with nothing at all! But her guilty stirring of interest in this particular type of male she kept as a deep and rather shameful secret.
