by Sarah Lark
The journey had bored her more than worn her out. The last thing she wanted was more inactivity. So, she decided she’d go for a ride that morning—and instantly found herself in a disagreement with Gerald over that. At first Gerald didn’t say a word when she announced that she was going to have Igraine saddled. It was only when Mrs. Brewster observed with horror that one couldn’t possibly let a lady go out on horseback without accompaniment that the sheep baron made an about-face. Under no circumstances would he allow his future daughter-in-law to do anything considered unbecoming in the best circles. Unfortunately, there were no stable boys and, naturally, not yet any ladies’ maids who could accompany the girl on her ride. The request itself seemed foreign to the hotelier: in Christchurch, as he made absolutely clear to Mrs. Brewster, people did not ride for pleasure, only to get from one place to another. The man could certainly understand Gwyneira’s reasoning that she wanted to get her horse moving after the long period of immobility on the ship, but he was neither willing nor able to provide her with an escort. In the end, Lady Barrington suggested her son, who immediately declared that he was prepared to ride along on Madoc. The fourteen-year-old viscount was not the ideal chaperone, but Gerald did not seem to notice, and Mrs. Brewster held her tongue so as not to offend Lady Barrington. Gwyneira had thought young Charles rather dull on the trip, but he proved to be a spirited rider—and sufficiently discreet. Thus he did not reveal to his horrified mother that Gwyneira’s ladies’ saddle had long since arrived but instead confirmed that only men’s saddles were available. Then he pretended that he could not control Madoc and let the stallion storm off from the hotel’s yard, which gave Gwyneira the opportunity to follow him without any further discussion about propriety. They both laughed as they left Christchurch behind at a brisk trot.
“Whoever makes it to that house over there first!” Charles called, spurring Madoc to a gallop. He did not have eyes for Gwyneira’s high-riding skirts. A horse race over endless grasslands was still more intoxicating to him than a woman’s figure.
Around noon the pair of riders returned, having amused themselves terrifically. The horses snorted contentedly, Cleo seemed once more to be smiling from ear to ear, and Gwyneira even managed to adjust her skirts before they rode into town.
“In the long run I’m going to have to think of something,” she murmured, draping the right side of her skirt modestly over her ankle—at which her dress naturally rose higher on the left side. “Maybe I’ll just cut a slit into the back.”
“That would only work as long as there wasn’t any wind.” Her young chaperone grinned. “And as long as you don’t gallop. Otherwise, your skirt will fly up and people will be able to see your…ahem…well, whatever you have on underneath. My mother would probably faint!”
Gwyneira giggled. “That’s true. Ah, I wish I could just wear pants. You men don’t know just how good you have it.”
That afternoon, at teatime, Gwyneira ventured out to find Helen. Of course, in doing so, she risked crossing paths with Howard O’Keefe, which Gerald would not appreciate. But she was burning with curiosity, and Gerald really couldn’t dispute her presenting herself to the parish pastor. After all, this was the man who was supposed to preside at her wedding, so this was less a courtesy call than an obligation.
Gwyneira found the parsonage right away and was cheerfully shown in. Indeed, Mrs. Baldwin treated her guest as obsequiously as she would a member of the royal family. Gwyneira did not believe that this was due to her noble lineage—the Baldwins weren’t fawning over the Silkhams—to them, Gerald Warden was the social giant. Likewise, they seemed to know Lucas. And though they had thus far been rather reticent about Howard O’Keefe, they could not praise Gwyneira’s fiancé highly enough.
“An extremely cultivated young man,” Mrs. Baldwin lauded.
“Impeccably raised and highly educated. A very mature and serious man,” the reverend added.
“Very interested in art!” Vicar Chester declared with beaming eyes. “Well-read and intelligent. The last time he was here, we passed the whole night in such exciting conversation that I almost missed service in the morning.”
Gwyneira became increasingly nauseated at these descriptions. Where was her farmer, her cowboy? Her hero out of the penny romances? Although there weren’t any women here who needed to be rescued from the hands of the redskins, would an adventurous six-shooter hero have stayed up half the night talking with a pastor?
Helen, too, was quiet. She wondered why Chester did not express similar praise for Howard; besides, she could not get Laurie and Mary’s crying out of her head. She was worried about the remaining girls, who were still awaiting their employers in the stables. It didn’t even help that she had already seen Rosemary again. The little girl had appeared giggling at the parsonage in the afternoon, feeling extremely important with a basketful of pastries. This commission was her first assignment from Mrs. McLaren, and she was extremely proud to carry it out to everyone’s satisfaction.
“Rosie sounds happy,” Gwyneira said happily, having heard about the girl’s visit.
“If only the others had been so well placed.”
Under the pretext of needing some fresh air, Helen accompanied her friend outside after tea. The two women went for a stroll through the town’s relatively wide streets and were finally able to talk openly. Helen almost lost her composure when, with tears in her eyes, she told Gwyneira about Mary and Laurie.
“And I don’t get the feeling that they’ll get over it,” she finished. “True, time is supposed to heal all wounds, but in this case…I think it will kill them, Gwyn! They’re just so young. And I can’t stand to look at those bigoted Baldwins anymore. The reverend could certainly have done something for the girls. They keep a waiting list of families looking for servants. Surely they could have found two houses next to each other. Instead, they’ve sent Mary to this Willard family where the little thing is certain to be overwhelmed. Seven children, Gwyneira! And an eighth on the way. Mary’s even supposed to help as a midwife.”
Gwyneira sighed. “If only I’d been there. Perhaps Mr. Warden could do something. Kiward Station no doubt needs servants. And I need a chambermaid. Just look at my hair—that’s what happens when I put it up myself.”
Gwyneira did look a little wild.
Helen smiled through her tears, steering them back toward the Baldwins’ house. “Come along,” she invited Gwyneira. “Daphne can put your hair in order. And if no one else turns up for her or Dorothy, maybe you should speak with Mr. Warden. What will you bet the Baldwins will comply if he asks for Daphne or Dorothy?”
Gwyneira nodded. “And you could take the other,” she suggested. “A proper household needs a maid; your Howard should see that. We just need to decide between ourselves who gets Dorothy and who has to put up with Daphne’s cheeky mouth.”
Before she could propose settling this question with a game of blackjack, they reached the parsonage, in front of which stood a coach. Helen realized her lovely plan could hardly become a reality. In the yard, Mrs. Baldwin was already chatting with an elderly couple while Daphne waited quietly off to the side. The girl looked like a paragon of virtue. Her dress was spotless and Helen had rarely seen her hair so primly and properly pinned up. Daphne must have done herself up especially for her meeting with her employers; apparently, she had asked about the people ahead of time. Her appearance seemed to particularly impress the woman, who was simply and neatly dressed herself. From beneath her small, unobtrusive hat decorated with a tiny veil, calm brown eyes in a bright face looked out. Her smile seemed open and friendly, and she obviously could not believe how perfectly chance had brought her and her new maid together. “We just came from Haldon the day before yesterday, and we wanted to set off again yesterday already. But then my tailor still had a few alterations to make to my order, and I said to Richard: let’s stay and spoil ourselves with a dinner at the hotel. Richard was very excited when he heard from all the interesting people who had just arrived on the Dub
lin, and we had a very stimulating evening. And how lucky that Richard had the idea to ask straightaway about our girl here!” As the lady spoke, her features lit up, and she occasionally used her hands to emphasize a point. Helen thought her very nice. Richard, her husband, appeared more sedate, but just as friendly and good-tempered.
“Miss Davenport, Lady Silkham—Mr. and Mrs. Candler.” Mrs. Baldwin introduced them, interrupting Mrs. Candler’s endless monologue. “Miss Davenport accompanied the girls during the passage. She can tell you more about Daphne than I can. So I’ll simply leave her now to your care and go look for the necessary papers for you. After that you can take the girl with you.”
Mrs. Candler turned to Helen, just as chatty as she had been with the pastor’s wife before. Helen did not have to do much to gather information about Daphne’s future employment. In fact, the two of them gave a lengthy synopsis of their life thus far in New Zealand. Mr. Candler told Helen crankily about their first years in Lyttelton, which was still called Port Cooper at the time. Gwyneira, Helen, and the girls listened, raptly, to his stories of whale and seal hunting. Mr. Candler had not, however, braved the seas himself.
“No, no, that’s for crazies who have nothing to lose. And back then I already had Olivia and the boys—so I wasn’t about to slug it out with giant fish that would have just wanted to get me by the throat! It makes me a little sorry for the critters. The seals especially, they look at you so trustingly.”
Instead, Mr. Candler had run a general store that was so successful that later, when the first settlers in the Canterbury Plains were beginning to build, he was able to afford a nice piece of farmland.
“But I realized quickly that I’m completely lost when it comes to sheep,” he admitted freely. “Animal breeding is just not for me, or my Olivia either.” He cast a loving gaze over his wife. “So we sold everything again and opened a store in Haldon. That’s what we like—that’s a life; there’s enough to eat, and the area is growing. It’s the best prospect for our boys.”
The “boys”—the Candlers’ three sons—ranged in age from sixteen to twenty-three. Helen noticed how Daphne’s eyes lit up when Mr. Candler mentioned them. As long as the girl was clever about it and let her charms work, her allure couldn’t fail to attract one of them. And though Helen could never picture her willful charge as a maid, she would be right where she belonged as a well-esteemed merchant, no doubt adored by the male clientele.
Helen’s heart was beginning to brim with happiness for Daphne when Mrs. Baldwin returned to the yard from the stables, accompanied this time by a tall, broad-shouldered man with an angular face and inquisitive bright blue eyes. Those eyes took in the scene in the yard quick as a fox, glancing at the Candlers, during which his gaze remained markedly longer on Mrs. Candler than on her husband; then it passed over Gwyneira, Helen, and the girls. It was clear to Helen that she could not hold his attention. He seemed to find Gwyneira, Daphne, and Dorothy far more captivating. Nevertheless, his passing glance was enough to make Helen flush with embarrassment. Maybe it was because he did not look her in the face like a gentleman but rather seemed to be conducting an examination of her figure. But that could be a delusion or just her imagination…Helen sized up the man suspiciously, but could not accuse him of anything else. He even smiled disarmingly, even if it looked a bit masklike.
Helen, however, was not the only one who seemed ill at ease. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gwyneira instinctively retreat before the man, and Mrs. Candler’s distaste was written all over her face. Her husband put his arm around her as though he wanted to clearly establish his right of ownership. The man leered when he noticed the gesture.
As Helen turned to the girls, she saw that Daphne looked alarmed and Dorothy appeared fearful. Mrs. Baldwin alone seemed not to sense that anything was amiss.
“And here we have Mr. Morrison,” she said, introducing him placidly. “The future employer of Dorothy Carter. Say hello, Dorothy. Mr. Morrison will be taking you along right away.”
Dorothy did not budge. She seemed to be paralyzed with fear. Her face turned pale, and her pupils widened.
“I…” the girl choked when she began to speak, but Mr. Morrison interrupted her with a booming laugh.
“Not so fast, Mrs. Baldwin, I want to look the little minx over first. After all, I can’t bring just any girl home to my wife. So you’re Dorothy.”
The man approached the girl, who still did not budge—not even when he brushed a strand of hair from her face, stroking the tender flesh on her neck as if by accident in the process.
“A pretty little thing. My wife will be delighted. Tell me, are you good with your hands, little Dorothy?” The question seemed harmless enough, but even to Helen, who was completely ignorant in all things sexual, it was clear that she was being asked about more than her domestic skills. Gwyneira, who had read the word “lust” at least once before, caught the hungry expression in Morrison’s eyes.
“Show me your hands now, Dorothy.”
The man opened Dorothy’s tightly closed fingers and gently ran his fingers over her right hand. It was more of a caress than an examination of her calluses. He held the hand tightly, definitely for longer than was socially acceptable. At some point Dorothy broke out of her frozen state. She withdrew her hand abruptly and took a step backward.
“No!” she said. “No, I…I won’t go with you…I don’t like you!” Terrified by her own audacity, she lowered her gaze.
“Now, now, Dorothy. You don’t even know me.” Mr. Morrison moved closer to the girl, who shrank under his penetrating gaze—or rather at Mrs. Baldwin’s subsequent admonition:
“What sort of way to behave is that, Dorothy? You will apologize immediately!”
Dorothy shook her head forcefully. She would rather die than go with this man; she could not express in words the images that sprang to mind when his lustful eyes looked at her. Images from the poorhouse, of her mother in the arms of a man she was supposed to call “uncle.” She vaguely recalled the hard, sinewy hands that reached for her one day, sliding under her skirt…Dorothy had cried and tried to defend herself. But the man had continued, stroking her and feeling his way to that unspeakable part of her body that you didn’t even completely uncover when you washed. Dorothy had thought she would die of shame—but her mother had returned just in time, before the pain and fear became unbearable. She pushed the man away and came to her daughter’s defense. Later she had held Dorothy in her arms, rocking, comforting, and warning her.
“You can never let that happen, Dottie! Don’t let anyone touch you, whatever they promise beforehand. Don’t even let them look at you like they’d do that. But that was my fault. I should have seen how he was looking at you. Never let the men here catch you alone, Dottie. Never! Will you promise me?”
Dorothy had promised and stayed true to her promise until her mother died shortly thereafter. Afterward she had been taken to the orphanage where she was safe. But now this man was staring at her—even more lustfully than her “uncle” had before. And she couldn’t say no. She wasn’t allowed. She belonged to him; the reverend himself would beat her if she refused. In a moment she would have to leave with this Morrison. On his horse, to his house…
Dorothy swallowed. “No! No, I’m not going. Miss Davenport! Please, Miss Davenport, you have to help me! Don’t send me with him. Mrs. Baldwin, please…please!”
The girl sought refuge, leaning on Helen, then fled to Mrs. Baldwin when Mr. Morrison approached her, laughing.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked, appearing genuinely astonished when the pastor’s wife rudely rebuffed him. “Is she perhaps sick? We’ll put her straight to bed.”
Dorothy looked with an almost mad gaze around the circle.
“He’s the devil! Doesn’t anyone else see it? Miss Silkham, please, Miss Silkham! Take me with you. You need a chambermaid. Please, I’ll do anything! I don’t want any money, I…”
In her desperation the girl fell to her knees in front of Gwyneir
a.
“Dorothy, calm yourself,” Gwyneira said uncertainly. “Of course I’ll ask Mr. Warden…”
Morrison seemed annoyed. “Can we put an end to this now?” he asked brusquely. Helen and Gwyneira ignored him, so he turned instead to Mrs. Baldwin. “The girl is out of her mind! But my wife needs the help, so I’ll take her anyway. Don’t try and pawn a different one off on me. I rode here well out of my way from the plains.”
“You rode here?” Helen asked. “Then how did you expect to take the girl with you?”
“Behind me on my horse, of course. It’ll be fun for her. You just have to hold on tight, little one.”
“I…I won’t do it,” Dorothy stammered. “Please, please, don’t ask me to.” She knelt down before Mrs. Baldwin while Helen and Gwyneira looked on appalled and Mr. and Mrs. Candler looked disgusted.
“That’s horrible,” Mr. Candler said finally. “Say something, Mrs. Baldwin! If the girl won’t go, you must find her a different placement. We’d be happy to take her along. In Haldon there are two or three families who could certainly use the help.”
His wife nodded energetically.
Mr. Morrison inhaled sharply. “You don’t want to indulge this little girl’s whims, do you?” he asked Mrs. Baldwin with an incredulous expression on his face.
Dorothy whimpered.
Daphne had thus far observed the scene with an almost indifferent mien. She knew exactly what lay ahead for Dorothy, for she had lived—and survived—on the street long enough to comprehend Morrison’s gaze better than Helen or Gwyneira. Men like him couldn’t afford a maid in London. But there were enough children for them on the banks of the Thames who would do anything for a piece of bread. Children like Daphne. She knew precisely how you buried the fear, the pain, and the shame, how you separated your body from your mind when a shithead like that wanted “to play” again. She was strong. But it would crush Dorothy.
