In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

Everything seemed as though it were out of a dream. Surely she would wake up anytime now and realize that peculiar game of blackjack had never happened. Instead, her father had married her off with a dowry from the sale of the sheep to some Welsh nobleman and now she was to take possession of some manor house near Cardiff.

  Only the help, who were lined up before the front door to receive their master just as in England, didn’t fit the picture. Though the male servants were wearing livery and the housemaids wore aprons and little bonnets, their skin was dark, and many of their faces were emblazoned with tattoos.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Warden!” A short, compact man greeted his master, smiling across his broad face, which made the perfect canvas for his tattoo designs. He gestured to the sky, which remained blue despite the hour, and the sunny landscape. “And welcome, miss! As you see—the rangi, the sky, beams with joy at your arrival, and papa, the earth, smiles because you wander over it.”

  Gwyneira was touched by his hearty welcome. She impulsively extended her hand to the short man.

  “This is Witi, our butler,” Gerald said. “And that’s our gardener, Hoturapa, and the housemaid and cook, Moana and Kiri.”

  “Miss…Sil…ha…” Moana wanted to greet Gwyneira properly as she curtsied, but apparently, she found the British name unpronounceable.

  “Miss,” Gwyneira shortened it. “Just call me miss.”

  She herself did not find it difficult to note the Maori’s names, and she decided to learn a few polite phrases in their language as soon as possible.

  So that was the staff. It struck Gwyneira as rather small for such a big house. And where was Lucas? Why wasn’t he standing here to greet her and make her feel welcome?

  “Now, where is…” Gwyneira launched into the pressing question of her fiancé’s whereabouts, but Gerald beat her to it. He seemed just as vexed by his son’s absence as Gwyneira.

  “Where is that son of mine, Witi? He ought to be dragging his hide out here to meet his fiancée…ahem, I mean to say…Lady Silkham is naturally awaiting his appearance with great anticipation.”

  The butler smiled. “Young master rode out, checking on pastures. Mr. James say, someone from house must authorize buying material for horse pen. As it is now, horses not staying in. Mr. James very angry. That why young master rode away.”

  “Instead of receiving his father and bride? Now what a great way to start things!” roared Gerald.

  Gwyneira, however, found it excusable. She would not have had a moment’s peace if Igraine had been put in a stall that wasn’t secure. And a ride to check up on the pastures was more fitting for her dream man than reading or playing the piano.

  “Well, Gwyneira, it looks like there’s nothing to do but have patience,” Gerald said, finally calming down himself. “But maybe it’s not as bad as all that. In England you wouldn’t have met your fiancé for the first time in riding clothes and with your hair down.”

  He thought that Gwyneira, with her hair only half up and her face slightly pink from riding in the sun, looked ravishing himself, but Lucas might not see it that way.

  “Kiri will show you your room now and help you freshen up and do your hair. In an hour we’ll all meet for tea. My son should be back by five—he doesn’t generally prolong his rides. Then your first encounter will go as properly as anyone could ask for.”

  Gwyneira could indeed have asked for something else, but she gave in to the inevitable.

  “Can someone take my bag?” she asked, looking at the help. “Oh, no, that is too heavy for you Moana. Thank you, Hotaropa…Hoturapa? Pardon, but I’ll remember it now. Now how do you say ‘thank you’ in Maori, Kiri?”

  Helen had settled in at the Baldwins’ against her will. As abhorrent as the family was to her, there was no alternative until Howard arrived. So she did her best to be friendly. She asked Reverend Baldwin to write down the texts for the church newsletters and then took them to the printer. She ran errands for Mrs. Baldwin and tried to make herself useful around the house, taking on small sewing projects and checking Belinda’s homework. This last task soon made her the most hated person in the house. The girl did not like having her work checked and complained to her mother at every opportunity. This was how it became clear to Helen how weak the teachers in the newly opened school in Christchurch must be. She considered applying for a position there if things did not work out with Howard. Vicar Chester persisted in his encouragement: it could still be a while before O’Keefe learned of her arrival.

  “After all, the Candlers were hardly going to send a messenger to his farm. They were probably waiting for him to come shopping in Haldon, and that could take a few days. But when he hears that you’re here, he’ll come. I’m sure of it.”

  For Helen that was further cause for concern. She had gotten over the fact that Howard did not live right next to Christchurch. Haldon was obviously not a suburb but its own independent and growing town. Helen could get used to that too. But now the vicar was telling her that Howard’s farm lay outside of Haldon. Where exactly was she going to be living? She would have loved to talk it over with Gwyneira; perhaps Gwyneira could even have unobtrusively sounded Gerald out on the subject. But Gwyneira had left for Kiward Station the day before, and Helen had no idea when or even if she would see her friend again.

  At least she had something pleasant planned for the afternoon. Mrs. Godewind had formally reissued her invitation, and right at teatime her chaise arrived to pick Helen up, with Jones, her driver, on the coach box. Jones beamed at her and helped her into the coach with perfect form. He even complimented her on her smart appearance in her new lilac-colored afternoon dress. Then he sang Elizabeth’s praises the entire way.

  “Our missus is a whole other person, Miss Davenport; you won’t believe it. She seems to be getting younger every day, laughing and joking with the girl. And Elizabeth is such a charming child, constantly looking to help out my wife and always in a good mood. And can the girl ever read! My word, if I can find any, I always find some work in the house whenever the girl reads to Mrs. Godewind. She does it with such a sweet voice and emphasis—you’d think you were right there in the story.”

  Nor had Elizabeth forgotten Helen’s lessons on serving and behaving at the table. She poured the tea and passed the pastries around skillfully and with care; moreover, she looked adorable in her new blue dress and neat white bonnet.

  She cried, however, when she heard about Laurie and Mary and also seemed to better grasp Helen’s watered-down version of Daphne and Dorothy’s story than Helen had supposed she would. True, Elizabeth was a dreamer, but she had been found as a London street urchin. She shed hot tears for Daphne and demonstrated great faith in her new mistress, to whom she immediately turned for help.

  “Couldn’t we send Mr. Jones and take Daphne away? And the twins? Please, Mrs. Godewind, we’ll surely find work for them here. There has to be something we can do.”

  Mrs. Godewind shook her head. “I’m afraid not, child. These people have signed work contracts with the orphanage, just as I did. The girls cannot simply walk away from those. And we’d be in hot water if we then gave them jobs ourselves! I’m sorry, love, but the girls have to find their own way to survive. Though after everything you’ve told me,” Mrs. Godewind turned to Helen, “I wouldn’t worry too much about little Daphne. She’ll slog her way through. But the twins…oh, it’s so sad. Pour us another cup of tea, Elizabeth. Then let’s say a prayer for them; perhaps God will take up their cause.”

  But God was shuffling the cards for Helen as she sat in Mrs. Godewind’s cozy salon, enjoying cookies from Mr. and Mrs. McLaren’s bakery. Vicar Chester was waiting for her with great anticipation in front of the Baldwins’ house when Jones held the door open for Helen to get out.

  “Now where were you, Miss Davenport? I had almost given up hope of being able to introduce you today. You look beautiful—as if you’d sensed it! Now come in quickly. Mr. O’Keefe is waiting for you in the salon.”

  The front door of Kiward
Station led into a spacious entrance hall where guests could set down their things and ladies could fix their hair. Gwyneira was amused when she noticed a mirrored cabinet with the requisite silver tray for calling cards. Who announced their presence here so formally? No guests would ever come here without notice, and certainly no strangers. And if a stranger did happen to wander in here, did Lucas and his father really wait until the housemaid had told Witi, who would then inform the masters of the house? Gwyneira thought of the farming families who had rushed out of their homes just to watch strangers ride past and the Beasleys’ obvious excitement at their visit. Nobody had asked for their cards there. The exchange of calling cards might even have been unknown to the Maori. Gwyneira wondered how Gerald had explained it to Witi.

  Beyond the entrance hall was a still sparsely furnished parlor—this too had without question been modeled after British manor houses. Guests could wait here in comfort until the lord of the manor found time for them. A fireplace and a buffet with a covered tea set were at hand; Gerald had suitable chairs and sofas among his luggage. It would look lovely, but what purpose it would serve remained a mystery to Gwyneira.

  The Maori girl, Kiri, led her rapidly through to the salon, which was already amply furnished with old, heavy English furniture. Were it not for the Dutch door that led to a large terrace, it would have looked almost gloomy. It was not modeled on the latest fashion; the furnishings and carpets in here were antiques. Perhaps part of Lucas’s mother’s trousseau? If so, her family must have had a fortune. But that stood to reason too. Gerald might be a successful sheep breeder now, but before that he was just a swashbuckling sailor and the canniest card player ever to come out of the whale hunting colonies. But to build a house like Kiward Station in the middle of the wilderness, you needed more money than what could be earned from whales or sheep. Mrs. Warden’s inheritance had undoubtedly contributed.

  “Are you coming, miss?” Kiri asked amiably, but somewhat concerned. “I should you help but make tea too and serve. Moana no good with tea. Is better, we done before drops she cup.”

  Gwyneira laughed. She couldn’t hold that against Moana.

  “I’ll be pouring the tea today,” she explained to the astonished girl. “It’s an old English custom. I’ve been practicing for years. It’s one of the skills that’s absolutely necessary to find a husband.”

  Kiri looked at her frowning. “You ready for husband when make tea? For us is important first bleeding.”

  Gwyneira reddened at once. How could Kiri talk so openly about something so unspeakable? Then again, Gwyneira was thankful for any information she could get. The monthly bleeding was a precondition for a marriage—it was no different in her culture. Gwyneira still remembered distinctly how her mother had sighed when it had happened to her. “Oh, dearie,” she had said, “now the curse has struck you too. We’ll have to start looking for a husband for you.”

  No one had ever explained to the girl how it was all connected. Gwyneira suppressed the urge to giggle when she thought of the face her mother would make at such a question. When Gwyneira had brought up possible parallels to dogs in heat, Lady Silkham had asked for her smelling salts and retired to her room for the rest of the day.

  Gwyneira looked around for Cleo, who naturally had been following her. Kiri seemed to find that strange but said nothing.

  A wide, winding staircase led up to the family’s living quarters. To Gwyneira’s surprise, her rooms were already completely furnished.

  “Room supposed to be for wife of Mr. Warden,” Kiri enlightened her. “But then died. Room always empty. But now young master make ready for you!”

  “Lucas prepared these rooms for me?” Gwyneira asked, amazed.

  Kiri nodded. “Yes. Picked out furniture from storage and sent for…how you say? Linen for window…?”

  “Drapes, Kiri,” Gwyneira helped her, unable to shake her astonishment. The late Mrs. Warden’s furniture was made of light-colored wood, and the rugs had retained their colors of old rose, beige, and blue. To go with them, Lucas or someone else had chosen old rose silk curtains with a blue-beige border and tastefully hung them in front of her windows and around her bed. The bedsheets were made of snow-white linen, and a blue bedspread made the bed look cozy. Next to the bedroom were a dressing room and a small salon; this too had been tastefully furnished with small chairs, a tea table, and a small sewing cabinet. The usual little silver frames, candleholders, and bowls adorned the mantelpiece. A daguerreotype of a thin, light-haired woman had been placed in one of the frames. Gwyneira took the picture in her hands and looked at it more closely. Gerald hadn’t been exaggerating. His late wife had been a perfect beauty.

  “You change now, miss?” Kiri pressed.

  Gwyneira nodded and set about unpacking her suitcase with the Maori girl. Kiri took out Gwyneira’s holiday and afternoon dresses, full of reverence for the fine material.

  “So beautiful, miss! So smooth and soft. But you thin, miss. Not good for having babies!”

  Kiri didn’t mince words. Gwyneira explained to her with a smile that she wasn’t really so thin but owed her appearance to her corset. For the silk dress that she picked out, the corset would have to be tied even more tightly. Kiri worked diligently as Gwyneira showed her the grips but was clearly afraid of hurting her new mistress.

  “Don’t worry about that, Kiri, I’m used to it,” Gwyn groaned. “My mother liked to say: you have to suffer for beauty.”

  Kiri seemed to understand for the first time. With a bashful laugh, she touched her tattooed face. “I see. Is like moku, yes? But every day again!”

  Gwyneira nodded. In principle, she was right. Her wasp waist was just as painful and unnatural as Kiri’s permanent face art. Here in New Zealand Gwyneira meant to relax the custom a bit. One of the girls would have to learn to let her clothing out, but then she wouldn’t need to punish herself by tightening the cords so much to get into them. And after she was pregnant…

  Kiri was an able help in getting her into her dress but had some difficulties with her hair. Untangling Gwyneira’s curls was a difficult task and putting them up even more so. Kiri had obviously never done it before. Gwyneira ended up lending an energetic hand, and while the result didn’t exactly meet the art of the coiffure’s strict standards and Helen would no doubt have found it horrifying, Gwyneira thought it charming. They had managed to tie up most of her red-golden tresses; the few strands that escaped on their own despite their efforts played around her face, making her features appear softer and more girlish. Gwyneira’s skin shone after the ride in the sun, and her eyes flashed with anticipation.

  “Has Lucas returned?” she asked Kiri.

  The girl shrugged. How should she know? After all, she had been with Gwyneira the whole time.

  “So what is Lucas like, Kiri?” Gwyneira knew her mother would have upbraided her sharply for this question: one didn’t ask the help to gossip about their employers. But Gwyneira couldn’t help herself.

  Kiri raised her shoulders and eyebrows, which looked humorous.

  “The young master? Don’t know. Is pakeha. For me all the same.” The Maori girl had apparently never considered her employers’ defining characteristics. She thought about it a little harder when she noticed Gwyneira’s disappointed expression. “The young master…is nice. Never scream, never angry. Nice. Only little thin.”

  2

  Helen hardly grasped what was going on, but she couldn’t put off her first meeting with Howard O’Keefe any longer. Nervously she smoothed her dress and ran a hand over her hair. Should she take off her little hat or keep it on? There was a mirror in Mrs. Baldwin’s parlor, and Helen cast an uncertain glance at her reflection before looking at the man on the sofa. He had his back turned to her, since Mrs. Baldwin’s furniture set was turned toward the fireplace. So Helen had a chance to steal a peek at his figure before making her presence known. Howard O’Keefe looked bulky and tense. Clearly self-conscious, he balanced a thin-rimmed cup from Mrs. Baldwin’s tea set in
his large, calloused hands.

  Helen was about to clear her throat to make herself known to the pastor’s wife and her visitor. But just then Mrs. Baldwin caught a glimpse of her. The pastor’s wife smiled coolly as always but feigned warmth.

  “Oh there she is now, Mr. O’Keefe! You see, I knew she wouldn’t stay out long. Come in, Miss Davenport. I’d like to introduce you to someone.” Mrs. Baldwin’s tone was almost whimsical.

  Helen stepped nearer. The man stood up from the couch so quickly that he almost knocked the tea service from the table.

  “Miss…ahem, Helen?”

  Helen raised her gaze to look her future husband in the eye. Howard O’Keefe was tall and heavy—not fat but built with a sturdy bone structure. The cast of his face was earthy, but not unattractive. His bronzed, leathery skin spoke of long years of hard work in the open air. It was marked by deep lines that indicated a rich range of expressions; at the moment, however, he could only manage a look of astonishment—even awe. There was recognition in his steely blue eyes—Helen seemed to please him. His hair caught her attention above all else: it was dark, full, and neatly cut—she assumed he had squeezed in a visit to the barber’s before this first meeting with his fiancée. However, his hair was already graying at the temples. Howard was considerably older than Helen had pictured him.

  “Mr.…Mr. O’Keefe…” she said tonelessly and could have hit herself. After all, he had called her “Helen,” so she could have called him “Howard.”

  “I…eh, well, you’re here now!” Howard remarked, in a sort of non sequitur. “That…eh, was something of a surprise.”

  Helen wondered if that was meant as censure. She blushed.

  “Yes. The…ahem, circumstances. But I…I’m happy to finally meet you.”

  She held her hand out to Howard. He took it and gave it a firm handshake.

  “I’m happy too. I’m only sorry you had to wait.”

  Ah, that’s what he meant. Helen smiled, relieved.