by Sarah Lark
Anger bubbled up in Helen, but it quickly gave way to a burning feeling of disquiet. After all, Daphne wasn’t wrong. What would she do if Howard didn’t want to marry her? What would happen if he didn’t like her? She couldn’t return to England. But were there even positions for governesses or teachers here?
Helen did not want to think about it any longer. She would have liked to crawl into some corner and cry, just as she had done as a little girl. But that had not been an option after her mother died. From that point on, she’d had to be strong. And right at this moment, that meant patiently letting herself be introduced to the old woman who had come for Elizabeth.
The reverend braced himself, but there appeared to be no drama this time. On the contrary, Elizabeth seemed elated.
“Miss Davenport, this is Mrs. Godewind,” she said, introducing them before the reverend could even say anything. “She’s from Sweden! That’s way in the north, even farther away from here than England. There’s snow there the whole winter—the whole winter! Her husband was captain of a big ship, and he would sometimes take her with him on his trips. She’s been to India! And America! And Australia!”
Mrs. Godewind laughed at Elizabeth’s excitement. She had a kind face that hardly showed her age.
She held out a friendly hand to Helen. “Hilda Godewind. So you’re Elizabeth’s teacher. She raves about you; did you know that? And about a certain Jamie O’Hara.” She winked.
Helen returned the smile and the wink, and introduced herself by her full name. “Do I understand correctly? You’ll be taking Elizabeth into your service?” she inquired.
Mrs. Godewind nodded. “If Elizabeth likes. I do not by any means want to tear her from here like those people just did with that little girl. That was reprehensible! I had somehow thought that the girls would be older.”
Helen nodded. Now on the verge of tears, she would have loved to pour out her heart to this woman. Mrs. Godewind sized her up.
“I can already tell that you’re not happy with this arrangement,” she remarked. “And you’re just as exhausted as the girls—did you come over the Bridle Path on foot? That is unacceptable! You should have had mules sent for you. And I, of course, should not have come until tomorrow. The girls would no doubt have preferred to stay together another night. But when I heard that they would be sleeping in the stables…”
“I’m happy to come with you, Mrs. Godewind.” Elizabeth beamed. “And I can read Oliver Twist to you first thing tomorrow. Can you imagine, Miss Davenport, Mrs. Godewind doesn’t know Oliver Twist! I told her that we read it together on the trip.”
Mrs. Godewind nodded amiably. “Then gather your things, child, and say good-bye to your friends. You like her too, don’t you, Jones?” She turned to her driver, who naturally nodded obligingly.
Shortly thereafter, as Elizabeth made herself comfortable with her bundle next to Mrs. Godewind and the two fell once again into excited conversation, the driver took Helen aside.
“Miss Davenport, the girl makes a good impression, but is she trustworthy? It would break my heart if Mrs. Godewind were disappointed. She’s been so looking forward to having a little English girl.”
Helen assured him that they would not find a more clever or pleasant child anywhere.
“So does she want the girl for company? I mean…one usually engages older and better-educated young women for that,” she said.
The servant nodded. “True, but first you have to find them. And Mrs. Godewind can’t afford all that much; she only has a small pension. My wife and I take care of her household, but my wife is Maori, you know…she can do Mrs. Godewind’s hair, cook for her, and care for her, but she can’t read to her or tell her stories. That’s why we thought of an English girl. She’ll live with me and my wife and help around the house a bit, but most importantly, she’ll offer Mrs. Godewind company. You can rest assured; she won’t lack for anything.”
Helen nodded, comforted. At least Elizabeth would be well taken care of. It was a little ray of light at the end of an awful day.
“Do come the day after tomorrow for tea,” Mrs. Godewind said to Helen before the chaise rode away.
Elizabeth waved happily.
Helen no longer had the strength to return the stables to comfort Mary, nor did she manage to make further conversation at Reverend Baldwin’s table. She was still hungry, but she comforted herself with the thought that her uneaten leftovers would, with any luck, do the girls some good. She excused herself politely and then collapsed into bed. Tomorrow could hardly be any worse.
The next morning the sun rose beaming over Christchurch and bathed everything in warm and gentle light. The window in Helen’s room offered a breathtaking view of the mountain chain that overlooked the Canterbury Plains, and the streets of the little town looked clean and inviting. The scent of fresh bread and tea drifted up from the Baldwins’ breakfast room. Helen’s mouth watered. She hoped this promising start to the day could be taken as a good omen. Surely she had only imagined yesterday that Mrs. Baldwin was unfriendly and coldhearted, her daughter mean and ill mannered, and Reverend Baldwin bigoted and wholly uninterested in the happiness of his parishioners. In the light of this new morning, she planned to judge the pastor and his family more favorably. First, however, she needed to check on the girls.
In the stables, she found Vicar Chester trying to console Mary, who was still in tears, to no avail. The little girl cried, asking for her sister between sobs. She did not even take the pastry that the young pastor held out to her, as though a little sugar could alleviate all the suffering in the world. The child looked totally exhausted; she had clearly not gotten a wink of sleep. Helen could not bring herself to think about handing the girl over to total strangers.
“If Laurie is crying like this and not eating like this, the Lavenders will definitely send her back,” Dorothy speculated hopefully.
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You don’t even believe that yourself. The old lady’ll beat her first, or lock her in the cleaning cupboard. And if she doesn’t eat, she’ll be happy she’s saved on a meal. She’s cold as a dog’s nose, the piece of shit…oh, good morning, Miss Davenport. I hope you slept well at least.” Daphne glowered disrespectfully at her teacher and made no attempt to apologize for her unsuitable language.
“As you yourself noted yesterday,” Helen replied icily, “there was nothing I could do for Laurie. However, I will try to reestablish contact with the family. Yes, I slept very well, as I’m sure you did. No doubt that was the first time you let yourself be moved by your feelings for others.”
Daphne lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Davenport.”
Helen was astonished. Had she really achieved such an improvement in the girl’s behavior?
Later that morning, little Rosemary’s future employers appeared. Helen had been apprehensive about this handoff, but was pleasantly surprised. The McLarens, a short rotund man with a soft, chubby face and his no less well-fed wife, who looked like a doll with her apple-red cheeks and round blue eyes, arrived on foot around eleven o’clock. As it turned out, they owned the Christchurch bakery—the fresh rolls and pastries whose aroma had woken Helen that morning were their doing. Because Mr. McLaren began work before the sun came up and went to bed correspondingly early, Mrs. Baldwin had not wanted to bother the family the day before, informing them instead first thing that morning of the girl’s arrival. They’d closed the shop to come pick Rosemary up.
“God, she’s still just a child!” Mrs. McLaren marveled when Rosemary curtsied anxiously before her. “And we’ve got to fatten you up, you little bean pole. What’s your name, dear?”
Mrs. McLaren then turned accusingly to Mrs. Baldwin, who received these complaints without comment. As she began talking to Rosemary, she hunched over amiably and smiled at her.
“Rosie,” the little girl whispered.
Mrs. McLaren ruffled her hair. “Now what a pretty name. Rosie, we thought you might like to come live with us and help out a little in the house an
d kitchen. In the bakery too, of course. Do you like baking cakes, Rosemary?”
Rosie considered. “I like to eat cake,” she said.
The McLarens laughed, making a chortling sound while Rosemary responded with a happy twittering.
“That’s the best place to start!” Mr. McLaren explained seriously. “Only someone who likes to eat can bake well. What do you think, Rosie, will you come with us?”
Helen breathed a sigh of relief when Rosemary nodded gravely. The McLarens did not seem at all surprised to be welcoming more of a foster child than a servant into their home.
“I once got to know a youth from an orphanage in London,” Mr. McLaren said, chatting with Helen while his wife helped Rosie pack her things. “My master had asked for a fourteen-year-old who would catch on immediately, and they sent a tot who looked like he was ten. Still, he was an industrious boy. The master’s wife fed him well, and since then he’s become a well-regarded journeyman baker. If our Rosie takes to it like that, we won’t have reason to complain about the costs of bringing her up.” He laughed and placed a little bag of baked goods he had brought along for the girls into Helen’s hand.
“But distribute them properly, girl,” he exhorted her. “I knew there would certainly be more children, and our Madam Pastor is not exactly known for her generosity.”
At that, Daphne stuck her hand out hungrily for the pastries. She had clearly not eaten breakfast, at least not a sufficient one. Mary, on the other hand, remained inconsolable and only sobbed more loudly when Rosemary left too.
Helen decided to try to distract them and informed the girls that she would be holding lessons that day just as she had on the ship. Until the girls were with their families, it was better for them to be learning than sitting around doing nothing. In consideration of the fact that they were in a pastor’s house, Helen reached for the Bible for lessons.
Daphne began to read the story of the wedding at Cana, clearly bored, and closed the book gladly when Mrs. Baldwin appeared a short time later. She was accompanied by a tall, squarely built man.
“It’s very commendable of you, Miss Davenport, to dedicate yourself to the girls’ edification,” the pastor’s wife declared. “But instead you really could have been working on quieting this child.”
She looked antagonistically over at the still-weeping Mary. “It doesn’t matter now though. This is Mr. Willard, who will be taking Mary Alliston with him to his farm.”
“She’s to live alone with a farmer?” Helen was incensed.
Mrs. Baldwin raised her eyes to heaven. “For goodness’ sake, of course not! That would be against all propriety. No, no, Mr. Willard, naturally, has a wife, and seven children.”
Mr. Willard nodded proudly. He seemed kind. His face, thoroughly creased by laugh lines, wore the traces of hard work in the open air in all weather. His hands were calloused paws, and his muscular figure was visible beneath his clothes.
“The older boys are already working hard with me in the fields,” the farmer explained. “But my wife needs help with the little ones. In the house, and in the stables too, of course. And she doesn’t like the Maori women. She says her children should only be raised by good, Christian folk. So which is our girl? She should be strong, if possible; the work is hard!”
Mr. Willard looked just as appalled as Helen when Mrs. Baldwin introduced Mary to him. “That little thing? This must be a joke, madam! That would just make eight kids in the house.”
Mrs. Baldwin looked at him sternly. “If you don’t spoil the girl, she is definitely capable of hard work. In London they assured us that every girl had turned at least thirteen and was fit for any kind of work. So, do you want the girl or not?”
Mr. Willard seemed to waver. “My wife really needs the help,” he said almost by way of excuse in Helen’s direction. “The next child’s coming into the world around Christmas, so someone’s got to help her out. Well, come on then, little one, we’ll make this work. Come on, up, what’re you waiting on? And why are you crying? Lord above, I really don’t need any more problems.” Without giving Mary another look, Mr. Willard left the stables. Mrs. Baldwin shoved the little girl’s bundle into her hand.
“Go with him. And be an obedient maid,” she told the child. Mary obeyed without protest, crying all the while.
“Let’s hope the wife shows the girl a little sympathy,” sighed Vicar Chester. He had watched the scene as helplessly as Helen.
Daphne snorted. “You try showing sympathy with eight tykes hanging on your apron,” she said, “and every year your husband making you another. But there’s no money and he drinks the last bit away. Your sympathy’ll get caught in your throat. Then you just try not hurting anyone.”
Vicar Chester looked at the girl in shock. He was obviously asking himself how this girl was going to work out as a demure servant to one of Christchurch’s notables. Daphne’s eruptions no longer surprised Helen, however—and she found herself increasingly sympathetic toward them.
“Now, now, Daphne. Mr. Willard does not give the impression of drinking his money away,” she said, in an effort to placate the girl. She couldn’t fault Daphne; she was undoubtedly right. Mrs. Willard would not spare Mary. She had too many children of her own to be able to worry about her too. The little girl would not be anything more to her than cheap labor. The vicar had to see that too. In any event, he did not say a word regarding Daphne’s insolence, and instead only made a small gesture of blessing toward the girls before leaving the stables. No doubt he had already left his duties unattended long enough to have earned the reverend’s censure.
Though Helen felt she should open the Bible again, neither she nor her pupils had the heart for edifying texts.
“I’m anxious to see what happens to us next,” Daphne said, saying aloud what all the remaining girls were thinking. “These people must live far away if they haven’t appeared yet to pick up their slaves. Start practicing milking cows, Dorothy.” She motioned to the pastor’s cow, which they had relieved of a few liters of milk the night before. Which is to say that Mrs. Baldwin had not let the children partake of the leftovers from dinner, and had instead sent some thin soup and old bread out to the stables. The girls certainly would not miss the reverend’s cheerful house.
9
“How long does it take to ride from Kiward Station to Christchurch?” Gwyneira inquired. She sat with Gerald Warden and the Brewsters at a heavily laden breakfast table in the White Hart hotel. Though not especially elegant, it was clean, and after the stress of the day before, she had slept like the dead in her comfortable bed.
“Well now, that depends on the man and the horse,” Gerald remarked moodily. “It’s about fifty miles. With the sheep, we’ll need about two days. But a mail rider who’s in a hurry and changes horses a few times could make it in a few hours. The way isn’t paved, but it’s mostly flat. A good rider can gallop the whole way.”
Gwyneira wondered if Lucas Warden was such a rider—and why the devil he hadn’t leaped on his horse yesterday to come and see his bride. Naturally, he might not have heard anything about the Dublin’s arrival yet. But his father had already informed him of the ship’s departure date, and it was well known that ships needed between 75 and 130 days to make the crossing. The Dublin had been underway for 104 days. So why wasn’t Lucas waiting here for her? Was he indispensable at Kiward Station? Or was he just not that eager to meet his future wife? Gwyneira would have liked to set out that day to see her new home and finally stand across from the man to whom she had blindly engaged herself. Lucas had to feel the same way.
Gerald laughed when she made a comment to this effect.
“My Lucas has patience,” he replied. “And a sense of style. He likes grand entrances. He probably couldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine meeting you for the first time in sweaty riding clothes. In that respect he’s all gentleman.”
“But I wouldn’t think anything of it!” Gwyneira objected. “And wouldn’t he be staying in this hotel? He would have been a
ble to change clothes beforehand if he thought I cared so much about formalities.”
“I think this hotel isn’t up to his standards,” murmured Gerald. “Just be patient, Gwyneira, you’ll like him.”
Mrs. Brewster smiled and primly laid her silverware aside. “It really is very nice when a young man affects a certain restraint,” she remarked. “After all, we’re not among savages. In England you wouldn’t have met your fiancé in a hotel either, but rather at tea or at his home.”
Gwyneira had to concede that she was right, but she couldn’t bring herself to give up all her dreams of a ready-for-anything pioneer husband, a farmer and gentleman tied to the earth, driven by a need to explore. Lucas simply had to be different from all those bloodless viscounts and baronets back home.
Suddenly she felt renewed hope. Maybe this shyness of his didn’t have anything to do with Lucas and was merely the result of his overly proper upbringing. No doubt he believed Gwyneira would be just as stiff and difficult as his governesses and tutors once were. In addition to which, she was of noble rank. Surely Lucas was simply afraid of making the smallest mistake in her presence. Maybe he was even afraid of her.
Gwyneira tried to comfort herself with these thoughts, but she did not entirely succeed. For her, curiosity would have triumphed over fear. But maybe Lucas really was shy and just needed a little time to warm up. Gwyneira thought about her experiences with dogs and horses: the shiest and most reserved animals were often the best once you found the right way to approach them. Why should it be any different with men? When Gwyneira finally got to know Lucas, he would certainly come out of his shell.
In the meantime, Gwyneira’s patience was further put to the test. Gerald Warden had no intention of setting off for Kiward Station that day. He still had a few things to accomplish in Christchurch and had to organize the transport of the many pieces of furniture and other household items he had brought in from Europe. All of that, he disclosed to a disappointed Gwyneira, would take a day or two. She should rest up in the meantime; surely the long journey had worn her out.
