by Dorothy Eden
“Yes, your sister. She must have lost her wits after the stresses and strains of yesterday. And because of that wretched faithless sailor, of course. The next thing we know, she’ll be marrying Perkins and living in utter squalor.”
Unexpectedly and maddeningly, Sophie began to giggle. “But you wanted to find her a husband, Aunt Charity. You’ve been complaining she would look at nobody.”
Aunt Charity turned a scandalized face. “Really, Sophia! To joke about this! I declare, those yelling Hauhaus alarm me less than the behavior of young women nowadays.”
It was true that Prudence had stuck to her decision to care for the three motherless children, and Honi. Jemima and Martha would help her, she said. Later, other arrangements could be made, but in the meantime Joshua Perkins was humbly grateful, and seemed overnight to be a changed man. This change, Briar thought skeptically, was not likely to last, for Joshua was a weak character. But the gentle serenity that had come into Prudence’s face would last. She was sure of that.
So there was a depleted and downcast party to go back to Lucknow. Only Aunt Charity, still managing to look impressive and queenly in her velvet gown, Mrs. Whitmore with her arm in a sling, her brilliant sunken eyes as watchful as ever, Sophie, cumbersome and irritable, the silent Katie, Mabel, puffing imperturbably at her clay pipe and Briar herself. A party of women, but a battle-tested party nevertheless, and not now so likely to panic at the slightest sound.
A party full of memories, Briar thought, the last one the sad little scene at the graveside of Amy Perkins, and the two Masefields who had been brought for burial to the churchyard, whatever mutilations they had suffered a secret of the men who had found them.
“Now the storm of battle is over,” the Reverend said in his grave gentle voice, and Briar reflected that had they remained in England, and not crossed so many thousand miles of ocean with hope and ambition in their hearts, they might still have died at this early age, of smallpox, perhaps, or childbirth, or some other ill.
One had to have some philosophy. One could not think that the crazy spinning around of Amy Perkins in the sunlight, the cherished bonnet escaping her at last, was entirely haphazard. She had been meant to die at that moment, in that year of her life, whether she were to have formal cypresses or the plumy toe toe grass waving over her grave …
Life, for the next few days, was exceedingly humdrum. Quiet as Prudence had been, they missed her in the house. But most of all they missed the men. Sophie said she could not endure to sleep alone, and moved in with Aunt Charity, who complained that the bed was too small for two such large women, but who nevertheless seemed dourly pleased. Briar kept silent about her own solitary bedroom, and how she sometimes woke thinking she heard Saul coming in, dropping his boots with a clatter, turning to survey her with his gleaming eyes, saying abruptly, “Put the candles out!” Or once long ago, “I shall make you love me, I promise.”
But Saul did not come in. She woke in the mornings to her own solitary figure in the big bed, and to her gnawing anxiety and loneliness.
Te Kooti was a wily and ferocious fighter. He would lay an ambush. The white men would be leaped on in the dark tangle of the forest, and slain. Then an immense funeral pyre would be lighted. Or worse still—but that last nightmare her mind turned away from. She could not even begin to face it.
She tried to fill in the long days. Although it still rained a great deal, as the lush growth in the bush and fields indicated, she began to plan her garden. She would have a shrubbery of rhododendrons, and native trees, such as the kowhai with its pale hanging blossoms, like yellow moths, and the native mistletoe and fuchsia. Then a wide stretch of lawn, and a rose garden, and a herbaceous border with all the English flowers, michaelmas, daisies, peonies, chrysanthemums, thrift and mignonette. It would take patience and skill. One did not make a garden, as one did not find happiness, overnight. But in ten years, fifteen years, people would begin to talk about the garden at Lucknow.
She discussed with Fred Potter the plants that would thrive best in this particular soil, for Fred was full of surprising knowledge, and already dedicated to his own small patch of garden.
Sophie said rather meanly, “I believe so long as you have your house and garden you don’t care whether Saul comes back or not. I feel very differently about my husband, I can tell you. I think of him every minute.”
To this, Briar was silent. She did not intend to speak of her private feelings to Sophie. She could not have put them into words, anyway. For the vision of Peter with his laughing, summer blue eyes, so long cherished, seemed mysteriously to escape her now. Or if it came his eyes were dark—black, impatient, scornful. Which was a very queer, disturbing thing.
Mrs. Whitmore had refused to stay in bed. But the wound in her arm did not heal as quickly as it should have, and the gray tinge remained in her face. Nevertheless, she remained active, and it seemed to Briar that the burning dark eyes were on her all the time, silently assessing, criticizing, making secret judgment. She hated and despised the old woman. No, not despised. One could not despise someone of her character and fortitude. But how could one live up to it? And did one want to? Having her about was rather like giving houseroom to an untamed elderly crow, who had to be treated with respect if one did not want a sharp and vicious peck.
Nevertheless, the test came a few days later, and it was brought about by Aunt Charity, or more indirectly by Katie.
Katie had not seemed to recover from the shock of the Hauhau attack. She had remained wan and listless and half dazed, bursting into tears frequently, and nearly jumping out of her skin at the slightest noise.
At last Mabel Kingi pronounced, “That Katie no good any more, missus. The spirits talk to her and she gone queer.”
“It’s been the shock,” Briar said. “Be patient with her for a while, Mabel. She’ll recover. She’d never seen fighting before.”
Mabel shook her head, and said it would take more than bad Maoris to have such a devastating effect. It was the spirits, there was no doubt about that.
But Aunt Charity, coming in at the end of the conversation, said firmly, “Spirits, indeed! There’s a simpler answer than that to Katie’s trouble. Briar, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this. You’ll have to get rid of Katie. If I’m not mistaken, she’s—” Aunt Charity hesitated, looking at Mabel and searching for suitable delicate words—“in a certain condition.”
“The spirits have flown off with her wits,” said Mabel stubbornly.
“Very well, Mabel. Go and attend to your work.” Briar turned to Aunt Charity. “Come into the drawing room and explain exactly what you mean.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” said Aunt Charity, “except that my eyes do not deceive me in these matters. And if you ask me, it’s entirely what might have been expected. I noticed from the very beginning that she was a loose type and had eyes for nothing but men.”
“I didn’t ask you, Aunt Charity,” said Briar politely, “and I still hope you’re wrong. But before we discuss this further, I’ll see Katie herself.”
It was not an easy interview, and Briar came away from it feeling very young and uncertain. How did one handle this kind of situation? She was too newly mistress of a house to know what to do. All she could think of was Katie lying there sobbing on her bed, and admitting that if certain symptoms were correct then what Briar told her must be true. She must be having a baby. She had wondered why she felt so sick and tired, but she hadn’t known what those things meant. No one had ever told her. But if she was having a baby and was to be turned out, she would be better dead, wouldn’t she?
Then, seeing that Briar’s distressed face bending over her was little older than her own, and just as perplexed, she burst out with the whole story.
“I couldn’t help it!” she sobbed. “Rangi was so sweet while I looked after his wounded leg. He was so gentle, like a little boy. And then afterwards—I know it was wrong—I just couldn’t help it. And I’m not sorry because it was so wonderful.”
Her defiant eyes challenged Briar. “I don’t mind if I have a brown baby. I’ll love it just as much. But if you turn me out, ma’am—and Rangi probably dead by now—”
“But, Katie, a Hauhau!” Briar exclaimed incredulously. “Weren’t you terrified?”
“Not of Rangi,” Katie said stubbornly. “He was just a man. Oh, I know they go mad when they’re in battle. That’s their way. And their priests, those horrible old tohungas, make them take awful oaths around the niu pole. Rangi told me. But when the war’s over he’ll come back. If he isn’t dead …”
Helplessly Briar squeezed the girl’s damp hand. “Perhaps he’ll come back. If he doesn’t—you’ll have the little brown baby. Like Honi, in the village. Honi’s sweet. Oh, dear, Katie! What are we to do?”
For a moment they were just two girls, innocent, bewildered, caught up in the inevitable pattern of their lives.
But when Briar returned to the drawing room, where not only Aunt Charity, but Mrs. Whitmore waited, she was no longer a girl. She was old, old.
“Well?” said Aunt Charity uncompromisingly.
Briar nodded. “It’s true, Aunt Charity.”
“And who is the man? One of the shepherds, I’ll be bound.”
Mrs. Whitmore did not speak, but Briar was overwhelmingly conscious of her sitting there watching, withholding her judgment.
“No, not one of the shepherds, Aunt Charity. A half-caste Maori, called Rangi. Rangi, Katie explained, means the sun, and for a little while I believe he was the sun to her. Her baby will be a quarter-caste. Usually they’re quite beautiful, as you’ve probably noticed yourself.”
Aunt Charity was opening and shutting her mouth in scandalized speechlessness. At last she managed to say, “You speak of this calmly, Briar, as if it were a perfectly ordinary happening.”
“I should think it isn’t too uncommon. Mabel herself is a half-caste. After all, there were very few white women here for some years after the first settlers came. It’s only natural.”
“Briar! We’re not speaking of the country’s morals as a whole, but of your servant’s. You’ve given her notice, of course.”
Briar’s chin lifted. “No, Aunt Charity.”
“Then for goodness’ sake do so at once, or I will do it for you. She must be sent packing.”
It was clear that Aunt Charity had not yet encountered the dangerous tilt of Briar’s chin, nor realized its import.
“Not from my house, Aunt Charity.”
“What! You mean—but good heavens, child, don’t you realize—condoning this kind of thing—setting this sort of example—” Aunt Charity, beginning to purple, was rapidly growing incoherent. “The neighbors—”
“None of the neighbors here will care in the least that my maid is to have an illegitimate child,” Briar said serenely. “Martha and Jemima and the others will stand by her, and when the baby is born the Reverend will christen it in his church. Along with Sophia’s,” she couldn’t resist adding wickedly.
Aunt Charity puffed her cheeks and exhaled loudly. “Of all the—Mrs. Whitmore! Can you tolerate such a thing? In your son’s house, in his absence!”
The old lady spoke slowly, “It is Briar’s house, too. In fact, she is the mistress of it.”
Silly old fool, in her dotage! Aunt Charity thought furiously.
“But Briar is quite inexperienced. She needs the guidance of older women like ourselves. She mustn’t be allowed to make such a serious mistake. After all—”
“After all,” Briar interrupted, in her high clear voice, flags of color flying in her cheeks, “I was a servant like Katie, too. I did not, to be exact, have this thing happen to myself, but my own mother did. Neither of you know that I also am illegitimate. I know neither my mother nor my father. My mother, indeed, was found dying in a ditch, and I was rescued from her arms by a passing laborer who took me home and gave me his name. Johnson. Briar Rose Johnson. But who I am really, no one knows. I’m a waif and stray. I wish I had at least known my mother before she died, but I didn’t. And therefore I don’t intend that that shall happen to Katie’s baby, brown, black or white, fatherless or not. So you can talk to me as much as you please—” Tears were in her eyes, but her chin had not descended the fraction of an inch, her voice did not tremble. “You can tell Saul this story if you wish—he knows a little of it, but not all. You can tell the whole world. But Katie stays.”
“Well!” gasped Aunt Charity. She turned helplessly to the silent old woman in the corner. “Oriane!” She had never called Mrs. Whitmore by her first name to her face before, but this situation demanded some closer intimacy. “What are we to do about this?”
The old lady gave her shoulders a shrug, as if she were shaking out her feathers. “I can’t see what you are worrying about, Charity Carruthers. Briar has made her decision. It will stand. If I know my daughter-in-law, as indeed I am just beginning to. But if all this about yourself is true, Briar, what on earth are you doing with those preposterous portraits? Take them down and burn them. That’s the best place for them.”
So Katie stayed. And although Aunt Charity made no secret of her shocked disapproval, Briar could not tell what Saul’s mother was thinking. Indeed, the old lady’s enigmatic silence was becoming aggravating to a point beyond endurance. Briar realized that her ardent championship of Katie had been mixed with a desire to sting Mrs. Whitmore into some kind of admission, but none except that sardonic remark about the portraits had been forthcoming. She kept her lips severely closed, but one felt that she was a little like Mabel Kingi’s ancestor dwelling in the mountain, and that at some time there would be a devastating eruption.
XXVI
PRUDENCE SENT Joshua Perkins over to Lucknow for a trunk of her clothes. She had no time to come herself, the children more than occupied her time, but would Briar put in only her two plainest gowns and underclothing, and would she also send her recipe for making hot batter biscuits which she could cook over the open fire, and which the children would enjoy.
Aunt Charity could not be left out of this interview. She put Joshua Perkins through an acid questioning, but unexpectedly the man stood it with some dignity.
“How long do you imagine you are keeping my niece in this most unsuitable position?”
“I’m not keeping her, ma’am. She says she wants to stay.”
“Oh, she says it, of course. She’s got her head full of ideas about duties as a pioneer woman. But I imagine you will make other arrangements as soon as possible?”
“If I can, ma’am. It isn’t easy—”
“I shouldn’t think it is, the way you’ve been living,” Aunt Charity said in her outspoken manner. “Not many women would take on that sort of position.”
“I have a regular job now, ma’am, working for Mr. Galloway. And I’ve stopped drinking.”
“Ha! It’s a pity you didn’t do that while your wife was alive.”
Joshua bent his head, saying nothing.
“Well, then, man,” Aunt Charity’s voice was gruff with belated sympathy, “find a reliable woman to look after your family, and let my niece come home, since she seems too stubborn to come until then.”
“She’s a wonderful young woman, ma’am.”
Aunt Charity shot him a suspicious glance. Surely this creature was not getting ideas! She’d very soon put a stop to that. What could he possibly see that was wonderful about Prudence, with her long meek face, except that she was a gentlewoman? Although that last, no doubt, was an irresistible qualification to a man of this kind.
Really, it was too bad of Prudence, first a foolish love affair and now this ridiculous self-sacrificing behavior. It was all extraordinarily unsuitable, and would have to be hushed up when they went back to Wellington, or what faint chance she had left of getting a husband would vanish. Aunt Charity was beginning to wish she had never set eyes on the girl.
“Did you get the things?” Prudence asked, when Joshua returned. She was bending over the open fire, cooking something on a skillet, an
d only half turned to see Joshua’s arrival. It was dark in the little earth-floored room, and he could not see her face.
“Yes, ma’am. Where shall I put them?”
“In the attic. Where else? If you can find room.”
Her voice was sharp. Really, he was so slow and stupid. Where else would he put her things, but in the tiny cramped room she shared with the two girls, Amelia and Mary. Joshua and his three-year-old son, and Honi, slept in this room downstairs. And that was another thing, she could not stir in the morning until he was up, for she couldn’t come down the ladder while he lay in bed.
It was so difficult to dress in the attic, with her head bumping the sloping ceiling, and nowhere to hang her clothes. And then they all had to come down to wash in the back yard, only once a week heating sufficient water to wash all over by the fire inside, and then doing so in nervous haste, afraid that the latch on the door would not be sufficient to keep out a sudden intruder.
Prudence had never imagined living like this. At first she had thought that for all her noble feelings of sacrifice, and for all the pleasure it gave her to see the children timidly turning to her, she could not stand it. But if she ran away it would be just one more failure and she would despise herself forever. She would make herself stay, even though the roof leaked, and the children caught colds, and were constantly damp and dirty, and everything she cooked was either burned or half raw. Besides, Joshua was behaving very well. He had not been inside the public house since the night he had carried Honi home with them, and he was being gentle and quiet, not complaining when the food she prepared was badly cooked, or when she couldn’t manage the children.
“You let me catch him complaining, seeing what you’re doing for him!” Jemima Potter said fiercely.
“He has a right,” said Prudence, but she was too tired to argue. It seemed that she never sat down, and that had she wanted to there was no comfortable place to sit.
When Joshua came in with her clothes, the room was full of smoke and the smell of scorched mutton, her eyes were smarting and her back aching. She did not care what he had brought or where he put the things. All she could do, in that moment, was think of the comfort of Lucknow, and the inestimable pleasure of time to sit with needlework or a book. Amelia was getting another cold, and Honi had eaten something that had made him sick. It was going to rain again, one could tell by the way smoke billowed down the tin chimney, and she would have given a great deal for a real bath or a meal she had not cooked, or tried to cook, herself.
