by Dorothy Eden
“Oh, no, I can’t. Fred’s so proud of the first place that’s really his own. He stays awake half the night listening to see that no wild pigs come rooting up his potato patch.”
“Saul listens, too,” Briar said involuntarily.
Jemima’s eyes flickered with alarm. “Is it really for wild pigs? Or is it for the Hauhaus? We heard about those poor people murdered.”
“I know,” said Briar. “But Saul says that was an isolated incident. He’s talked with the militia, and they say they’ve searched the forests for miles around. Everything is quiet, and they think any outbreak or war will be in the Waikato or Poverty Bay area. Of course we have to be watchful all the time, but if there are any of those marauding bands they’ll attack lonely farmhouses, not villages. So you’re really quite safe, Jemima. But I must come and see the baby. She’s not really ill, is she?”
“Doctor MacTavish says not. I suppose I’ve got nervous, losing—” Jemima’s lip suddenly trembled. She groped for Briar’s hand. “Oh, Briar dear, I’m to have another baby.”
“So soon!” Briar exclaimed.
“I know. It’s always been like this. One beginning to walk, and the next arriving. Usually I’ve been pleased, but this time—” she lifted haggard eyes. “This time I’m scared. Here in the wilds, with Doctor MacTavish probably miles away. He sometimes drives his horse and buggy twenty miles in a day.”
“Now look,” said Briar, recovering from her first shock, “it can’t be as bad as it was on board the Mary Louise. Nothing can be as bad as that. If Doctor MacTavish is away you’ve got Martha and me, and other women who all know what to do. Saul’s mother told me I’d have to know what to do,” she added, “so that’s another thing I can prove to her.”
Jemima noticed her belligerence, and gave a shaky laugh. “If it’s going to help your mother-in-law to like you, then I’m glad. But she’d like you, anyway.”
“No better than I like her,” Briar retorted.
“Perhaps when you have a baby—” Jemima suggested.
But Briar shivered. It was all very well to tell Jemima to be brave. How would she herself behave in these circumstances? Jemima, after all, had already had five children, and at least knew what to expect. But supposing Doctor MacTavish were away, or ambushed on some lonely road, supposing the Hauhaus were threatening to attack, supposing there were only Saul’s dark face to bend over her …
“It’s much too soon to talk of my having a baby,” she said firmly. “We’ll get yours first. You must take care of yourself, Jemima. No more walking over here. I’ll come to see you.”
But after Jemima had gone, trudging across the fields, a child on either side, Briar had a moment of deep depression and disillusion. She had so envied Fred’s tenderness towards his wife, and their happiness together. But where did that sort of thing get a woman? Six children before she was twenty-seven, two dead and one ailing, and a dreadful damp hovel in the dangerous wilderness because her husband had a fancy to plant a potato patch and own a cow. Must a woman make so many sacrifices to gain that tenderness in a man’s eyes? She, at least, Briar decided, would not do so. Or would she, supposing it were Peter Fanshawe’s eyes which held the tenderness?
She hoped that, even to please old Mrs. Whitmore, she would not have a baby for a long time. But how did she know, she thought bitterly, that there was not one beginning to grow within her already?
She put on boots and walked the four miles to the village the next day to see Jemima’s baby. The visit to the village was pleasant. She met the Reverend Peabody, with his shock of fine white hair and lively blue eyes. He held her hand firmly and said, “Ah, my wife’s been telling me about you. Come and see my school.”
He took her into the tiny church where the forms for worshippers on Sundays had been pushed back, and a schoolmaster’s table and blackboard set up. On one of the long forms sat seven children, one of them a brown-faced, curly-headed Maori boy, grinning enchantingly, and two of the others Jimmy and Lucy Potter.
“There,” he said expansively. “The whole class. Ages five to eleven, so one needs to cover a lot of ground. I’m relying on you to help me, Mrs. Whitmore. If you read and write as charmingly as you speak you will be invaluable.”
Once, so long ago now, Andrew Gaunt had looked at her, an ignorant waif, and decided that whether she had a brain or not it was his duty to teach her to read and write. He had discovered that she had a rewarding intelligence, but that had been beside the point. She had been material to be shaped. Now she had the opportunity to follow in his footsteps. The knowledge was curiously moving and satisfying.
“But don’t other people here read and write?”
“My wife is too busy, and Elisha Trott only knows how to add up figures. The others—yes, they can spell their names, not much more. Though through no fault of their own. They’ve had no opportunity.”
Briar suddenly knew that she could not lie to this man.
“I have only been a servant all my life,” she said.
“My dear child, it’s not your position in life but what’s in yourself that counts.” He twinkled, suddenly. “And not only that. Children like a pretty face. You’ll be immensely popular.”
A quick glance at the children confirmed that. Jimmy and Lucy were beaming, the Maori child’s face was split from ear to ear with his grin, and the others were eyeing her with the candid appreciation of the young.
Abruptly her eyes filled with tears. The Reverend did not appear to notice. He said in his gentle absent voice, “Twice a week in the afternoons. We have school primers arrived from England. I can see you looking at Honi. His mother works in the public house. It keeps him out of mischief coming to school. You’ll find him a charming scamp. We hope to have more of his kind before long. That’s the best way to end the war.”
Today Jemima was happier about Rose, and about herself. She apologized for being so weak and cowardly yesterday, and said that now she was beginning to look forward to the new baby. And Rose was much better.
Briar, looking down at the baby in her wooden cradle, was not very reassured. For although the little creature smiled and waved her tiny hands, she looked almost transparent.
“Is she really better, Jemima?”
“Oh, yes, her breathing’s a lot easier. And she’s taking her food again. Doctor says that with some sunshine you won’t know her in a week. And see how nice I’ve made the house.”
It was true that the dark little room was much more cheerful. Jemima had hung cretonne curtains at the window, and pinned colorful pictures cut out of a child’s picture book on the walls. The patchwork quilt that covered the bed was a gay spot of color. The earth floor had been covered with dry rushes, and Jemima’s precious pots and pans were hung around the crude fireplace Fred had built. There was even a rocking chair that Martha Peabody had given her.
“We’re as cozy as can be for the winter,” said Jemima cheerfully. “The next time you come you’ll see the baby much better.”
It had been a pleasant visit, and there would be things to talk to Saul about over the dinner table this evening. For they had not found it easy to converse, and did so only to keep up appearances in front of the servants. The worst of it was that every sentence they uttered seemed to have undercurrents. Even the simple announcement that she was to teach the children would make suspicion flare in Saul’s face. Why was she doing it? To escape his company? Could she endure him as little as that?
He would have liked to explore her mind as well as her body, but that at least was a part of herself she intended to keep secret. So uneasy trivial remarks were exchanged across the dinner table, and each longed for the meal to end.
However, this evening they had an unexpected guest, Tom Galloway who owned an adjoining farm, and had ridden in with mail. He had just returned from a trip to Wellington, and had been entrusted not only with letters from Sophie and Aunt Charity, but also with mail newly arrived from England by the ship Dauntless.
He stayed to dinner, and
talked late about local affairs, chiefly as to what significance the death of Major von Tempsky would have. He predicted a redoubled attack on the part of the enemy; they were superstitious beggars, and since von Tempsky was not, as they had thought, immortal, others of the white men could be killed even more easily.
Suddenly remembering Briar’s presence, Tom apologized and attempted to reassure her. “They’re not likely to come this way, Mrs. Whitmore. But your husband might be called off to join the militia at some time. We local settlers have to do a spot of fighting now and then. You must come and visit us, Mrs. Whitmore. My wife will go crazy seeing a new face. And a very charming one,” he added gallantly. “Where did you find her, Saul?”
Before Saul could reply, Briar said flippantly, “He discovered me on an emigrant ship. He’s convinced I sailed all the way from England to fall into his arms.”
Saul bowed slightly, his eyes smoldering. “The advantages on both sides were equal. A happy coincidence, don’t you agree, Tom?”
Tom’s open face was bewildered. He had always been a little over-awed by Saul Whitmore, and now there was a wife to match him. This must be some joke they were having, to deride one another publicly, but in private—well, one had only to look at them.… Tom sighed a little, thinking of his own marriage from which hardship and drudgery had long taken the romantic edge. He said his farewells, planning to wake his wife when he arrived home to tell her about this new woman with the diamond-bright eyes who was more than a match for Saul Whitmore.
Saul himself, when Tom had gone, said in a controlled voice, “Let’s not air our differences in front of the neighbors, my love.”
Briar, who could not have explained the reason for her sudden perversity, looked up from Sophie’s letter which she had seized greedily as soon as Tom had gone. “Are you afraid of scandal, Saul?” she asked coolly. “You should have thought of that before you married so impulsively. You do not even begin to know me yet.”
“On the contrary! I can read every thought in that calculating little head. And think again. You can afford scandal less than me. But don’t worry. Tom Galloway is going home to tell his wife how charming you are, and I’m sure you’ll never give him reason to think anything else.” His knowledgeable eyes, boring into her, left her infuriatingly without an answer.
She pointedly turned her attention back to Sophie’s letter, though she could not, just then, take in its contents. She would not always come off worst in an encounter with Saul. She would get her revenge.
Sophie’s letter was as garrulous as her chatter.
Peter is mad to get a farm. He thinks Saul is making a fortune while he is slaving in Uncle Hubert’s bank. He wants us to come to visit you while he looks about and has Saul advise him. What fun if we can come, only I don’t know how I shall survive the journey, as I am to have a baby. Isn’t it exciting! And I should not be at all surprised if you are in like case. You have no idea how we have all missed you, particularly, if you can believe it, Aunt Charity. She has been so despondent and dolorous and says she is bored to death with Wellington society. Prue still frets for Edmund, who I don’t believe will be faithful to her. If Peter and I come to Lucknow, perhaps we may bring Prue with us to cheer her up.… Do write and tell me if you have any balls in Taranaki and what clothes I should bring. Though soon enough I won’t look decent in anything…
“Well, are your letters so absorbing?”
She had forgotten for a moment that Saul was still there. She looked up to meet his narrowed gaze, and suddenly, for a reason she could not name, she didn’t want to talk about Sophie’s letter and the news it contained.
She resisted an impulse to tear it into pieces and throw it on the fire, as if by doing so she could deny its news.
Sophie to have Peter’s child! And to come to this house swelling with it, looking smug and complacent and languishing.
“My mother is coming to visit us,” Saul announced.
“Oh, no!”
His eyebrows rose. “Are you alarmed at the thought?”
“Of course I’m not alarmed. But Sophie and Peter want to come, and probably Prudence. Peter wishes to become a farmer.”
“Does he?” commented Saul, with a note of skepticism that put her instantly on the defensive.
“And why shouldn’t he, if you and others can?”
“This country needs workers, not dilettantes.”
“You would call Sophie’s husband a dilettante?”
He looked interestedly at her heightened color. But all he said was, “Oh, I realize well enough he’s the type of man women like. Then it seems as if we’re to have a house party. You’ll be glad to see Sophie again, won’t you? You’ll be able to show off your housekeeping.”
He was talking politely as if the servants, or the neighbors, perhaps, were listening. Briar tried to answer in the same way.
“On the contrary, it will be Sophie showing off.” And then, to her horror, her voice trembled and her eyes filled with tears.
Saul looked at her in surprise. “What is it? Was there bad news in your letters? Does the thought of guests coming worry you? And why will Sophie be showing off. Oh, I believe I can guess easily enough. She’s to have a baby. Is that it?”
He had come to take her face in his hands and tilt it towards the light. She blinked angrily at her revealing tears. What was he reading into them?
To her amazement, it was entirely the wrong thing.
“My love, I believe you’re jealous. Then we must do something to remedy that. At once.”
His eyes were so close, so bright, so mistakenly knowing. She began to laugh softly, in derision. “Why, I believe you think I want a baby! Oh, no. That’s the last thing I want. Quite the last thing. And don’t look at me like that. I’m not jealous of Sophie. I’m merely rather tired—perhaps a little homesick for Wellington. That’s all.”
He drew back. His voice came, distant and cold. “My mother will be extremely disappointed to know how you feel.”
He should not have mentioned his mother. “What has it to do with her?” Briar flared. “This isn’t her life. It’s mine.”
“And mine.” He continued to regard her with critical appraisal. His eyes were stone. “I had hoped for children. But not immediately. There’s plenty of time. If you’re tired, why don’t you go to bed?”
He spoke as if the bed and the bedroom were entirely hers, as if she could close the door and be alone.
But she couldn’t. She was married. It was her duty to have her husband with her every night for the rest of her life. The moonlit darkness seemed to stretch ahead forever.
In any case, she refused to be dismissed like a disobedient child. She met his gaze challengingly. “Then I may write and ask Sophie and Peter to come?”
“They will be very welcome.”
“You think I will make an efficient hostess?”
“There’s no need to speak so meekly. You know that you are capable of doing that excellently.”
“Meaning there are other things I do less well?” The same perverse impulse was driving her to speak.
“Need you ask?”
“I am asking.”
“Then why do you deliberately hold yourself from me? Or do you deny that, too?”
“I do my duty,” she flashed.
“Oh, God! That deadly word. I thought—I hoped—I was marrying a woman with blood in her veins. Instead, I find myself with a lump of tallow, an unlit candle, to hold in my arms all night.”
She had gone very pale. “If you can talk in riddles, so can I. Perhaps you do not have the match to strike.”
“No!” he declared savagely. “I don’t believe that. I believe you’re hiding yourself from me. Where are you, Briar? Tell me about yourself. Those are your parents—” he pointed to the pink and white faces of the two strangers hanging over the fireplace—“you came from England as a lady’s maid to get a passage out. For some reason you wanted to leave home. But you’ve never told me why. And why, incidentally, w
ere there no English letters for you today? Didn’t your parents write? I had letters from London and Devonshire. Why weren’t there any for you?”
For the first time her voice faltered. “They—must have missed the ship.”
“Are you telling me the truth? Have you run away from home? Is that why you’ve refused to write to your parents? Then why do you insist on them hanging there? Why did they have to share our wedding night?”
His voice was hammering at her. She might have known he would guess soon enough. She couldn’t keep up the pretense forever. Anyway, it had been only meant to impress him at the time, and to give herself courage. Now she cared no longer. She let her strange mood of perversity possess her completely.
“I got no letters from England because I have no one to write to me.” Now that it was made, it seemed so bald, so sad, an admission to make. The tears ached in her throat. But if it cost her her life she would not weep while his incredulous gaze was on her. Her chin went up. She would match his arrogance. She was not like him the kin of an earl, she was a waif, a nameless orphan. But she would not be despised.
“You mean those are not your parents?”
Briar looked up at the smug faces and realized how she disliked them. “I haven’t the slightest idea who they are. I bought them for a guinea from an immigrant. If you don’t care for them you may put them on the fire. And if you are angry that I lied to you you may beat me if you wish. I am your wife, and as I have reminded you, I do my duty.”
“I shall not beat you,” he said slowly. “I don’t believe you’re worth it. You seem to be nothing but a little cheat. You schemed to get a husband—I don’t blame you for that. In your position I’d probably have done the same. But at least, having done so, having thrown yourself at me in that infernal marriage dance, you might put your heart into the rest of the game and play fair.”
“I didn’t throw myself at you,” she flared. “You tripped me. You ruined the whole thing.”
“I did, too. Because I thought you were Sophie. You were wearing her dress. If it comes to that, I didn’t mean to get you.” Suddenly he saw the ironic humor of it and threw back his head, roaring with laughter.
