by Sarah Lark
“Are you all right, miss?” she asked, concerned.
Gwyneira nodded. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be? That looks really nice with the barrette, Dorothy. You should take note, Kiri.”
Kiri was otherwise occupied at the moment. She was contemplating the bedding with a concerned air. It first occurred to Gwyneira after she had sent Dorothy from the room with a breakfast order.
“What is it, Kiri? Are you looking for something in the bed? Did Mr. Warden lose something?” Gwyneira though that perhaps she was looking for a piece of jewelry, maybe Lucas’s wedding ring, which had sat rather loosely on his slender finger.
Kiri shook her head. “No, no, miss. Is only…is no blood on sheets.” Bewildered and ashamed, she looked up at Gwyneira.
“Why should there be blood?” Gwyneira asked.
“After first night, always blood. It hurts a little at first, then blood, and then gets lovely.”
It dawned on Gwyneira that she had missed out on something. “Mr. Warden is very…tender,” she said vaguely.
Kiri nodded. “And surely tired too after party. Not be sad, so first thing blood tomorrow!”
Gwyneira decided not to worry about it until it came up again. In the meantime, she went down to breakfast, where Lucas was entertaining the guests in the most genial fashion. He joked with the ladies, took the gentlemen’s jibes in good humor, and proved as attentive as ever when Gwyneira joined him. The next few hours passed with the usual chitchat, and with the exception of the hopelessly sentimental Mrs. Brewster—who told her, “You’re so brave, child. So cheerful! But Mr. Warden is such a considerate man,” no one made any reference to the previous night.
At noon, when most of the guests were resting, Gwyneira finally found time to go to the stables to visit her horse and see her dog.
The shepherds bellowed their greetings to her.
“Oh, Mrs. Warden! Congrats. Did you have a good night?” Poker Livingston inquired.
“Obviously a better one than you, Mr. Livingston,” Gwyneira returned. The men all looked rather hungover. “But I’m pleased that you drank so copiously to my health.”
James McKenzie eyed her more reprovingly than pruriently. There even seemed to be a look of regret in his gaze—but it was difficult for Gwyneira to read the expression in his deep brown eyes, because it seemed to change constantly. A smile returned to his face as he observed Cleo greeting her mistress.
“Did you get an earful?” James asked.
Gwyneira shook her head. “Why would I? Because of the presentation? Not at all. A girl can step out of line on her wedding day.” She winked at him. “Starting tomorrow my husband will lay down the law, and our guests are keeping me on a short leash. Someone is constantly wanting something from me. So I won’t get around to riding today either.”
James looked surprised that she wanted to ride but said nothing; his penetrating gaze once more flashed a carefree spark.
“Then you’ll have to find some way of slipping past them! How about I saddle your horse tomorrow around this time? Most of the ladies will be napping then.”
Gwyneira nodded enthusiastically. “Good idea. But not around this time; I’ll have work to do in the kitchen managing the cleaning up after lunch and the preparations for tea. The cook insists—heaven knows why. But early in the morning would work. If you could have Igraine ready for me at six o’clock, I can have a ride before the first guests are up.”
James looked vexed. “But what will Mr. Warden say if you…pardon me. That’s naturally none of my business.”
“Nor Mr. Warden’s,” Gwyneira replied, unconcerned. “As long as I don’t neglect my duties as hostess, I can certainly ride whenever I want.”
It has less to do with your duties as a hostess, thought James, but he kept this observation to himself. He did not want to offend Gwyneira in any way, but it did not appear that her wedding night had been particularly passionate.
That evening Lucas visited Gwyneira again. Now that she knew what awaited her, she even enjoyed his soft caresses. She shivered when he kissed her breasts, and his touch on the tender skin below her pubic hair was even more thrilling than the first time. She even snuck a peek at his member, which was large and hard—but it once again softened quickly just as before. Gwyneira felt strangely unfulfilled in a way that she couldn’t quite account for. But perhaps that was normal. She would find out soon enough.
The next morning Gwyneira stuck herself lightly in the finger with a sewing needle, squeezed out some blood, and rubbed it on her sheets. Kiri wasn’t to think she and Lucas might be doing something wrong.
6
Helen began to acclimate somewhat to life with Howard. What took place at night in their marriage bed was still rather mortifying, but she now saw it as separate from the rest of her daily life and behaved in a completely normal manner with Howard during the day.
But it was not always easy. Howard expected certain things from his wife, and his temper flared quickly when Helen did not meet those expectations. He fell into a rage whenever she voiced wishes and requests, whether for more furniture or better cookware, his pots and pans being old and so caked with leftovers that no amount of scouring could remove them.
“The next time we go to Haldon,” he said by way of consolation every time. Apparently, the town was too far away to be worth driving to for a few kitchen items, spices, and sugar. At this revelation Helen yearned desperately for some contact with civilization. Their life in the wilds still scared her, no matter how often Howard assured her that there were no dangerous animals in the Canterbury Plains. She simply missed the diversions and intellectual conversation of city life. She couldn’t speak with Howard about anything other than the work on the farm. He wasn’t even willing to share details of his earlier life in Ireland or in the whale hunting stations. The subject was off-limits—Helen knew all she needed to know, and Howard was not interested in discussing it further.
The only bright spot in her cheerless existence was the Maori children. Reti and Rongo appeared almost every day, and after Reti had shown off his new reading skills in the village—both children learned quickly and could already recite the entire alphabet in addition to reading and writing their names—new children came along.
“We also study magic,” one youth said seriously, and Helen wrote out further sheets with strange first names like Ngapini and Wiramu. Sometimes she was sorry to use her expensive letter paper, but she rarely had any other need of it. Though she wrote letters avidly to her relatives as well as to the Thornes in England and the girls right there in New Zealand, it wouldn’t be possible to post them until they went to Haldon. In Haldon she also wanted to order a Maori-language edition of the Bible. Howard had told her that the Scriptures had already been translated and she wanted to study it. If she learned a little Maori, maybe she could get to know the children’s mothers. Rongo had already taken her to the village once and everyone there had been very friendly. But only the men who worked with Howard or who hired themselves out to other farms to herd the sheep up and down to pasture spoke any English. The children had learned it from their fathers and from a missionary couple who had made a brief appearance.
“They not nice though,” Reti explained. “All the time wagging finger and saying ‘hey, hey, sins, sins!’ What’s a sin, miss?”
After that Helen expanded the curriculum and began to read the Bible aloud in English. This raised a few problems for her. The creation story, for example, profoundly confused the children.
“No, no, that different!” declared Rongo, whose grandmother was a well-esteemed storyteller. “First there was papatuanuku, the earth, and ranginui, the sky. And they loved each other so much they not want to separate. Understand?” Rongo then made a gesture whose obscenity made Helen’s blood run cold. The child, however, was completely innocent. “But children of theirs wanted world with birds and fish and clouds and moon and everything. That’s why they pull apart. And papa cries and cries and from there come river and sea and
lake. But stopped sometime. Rangi still cries, almost every day.”
Rangi’s tears, Rongo had mentioned that before, fell from the sky as rain.
“That’s a very beautiful story,” murmured Helen. “But you know, of course, that pakeha come from big foreign countries where people study and know everything. And the God of Israel told the prophets this story in the Bible, and that’s the truth.”
“Really, miss? God told it? No God ever talks to us!” Reti was fascinated.
“There you have it,” declared Helen, with a pang of conscience. After all, her prayers too were rarely answered.
The trip to Haldon, by way of example, had yet to materialize.
The wedding guests finally departed, and life at Kiward Station returned to normal. Gwyneira hoped to return to the relative freedom she had enjoyed when she had first arrived at the farm. And to a certain extent she did: Lucas did not forbid her anything. He did not find fault with Cleo once again sleeping in Gwyneira’s chambers, even when he visited his wife. The little dog had been an annoyance the first few nights, though, protesting his presence with loud barking. She’d had to be scolded and sent back to her bed. Lucas had accepted it all without a peep. Gwyneira wondered why, unable to shake the feeling that Lucas felt guilty toward her for some reason. She still had never felt pain or shed blood during their time together. On the contrary—as time went on she came to enjoy the caresses and occasionally caught herself caressing herself after Lucas left, enjoying the feeling of rubbing and tickling herself and becoming appreciably wet. Only no blood appeared. Over time she became braver and probed further with her fingers, which made the feeling even more intense. Surely it would be just as nice when Lucas inserted his member—which he was obviously trying to do, but it never stayed hard long enough. Gwyneira wondered why he didn’t use his hand to help as well.
At first Lucas visited her every evening after they went to bed, but he gradually appeared less and less. He always prefaced his visits with the polite question: “And do we want to try it again tonight, my love?” and never protested when Gwyneira occasionally declined. So far Gwyneira had no problems with married life.
That said, Gerald made her life difficult. He insisted seriously that she take over the duties of a housewife—Kiward Station should be run like the households of Europe’s highest nobility. Witi was to be transformed into a discreet butler, Moana into a perfect cook, and Kiri into the very model of a housemaid. The Maori employees were entirely willing and earnest and loved their new mistress, and they worked hard to anticipate her every wish. However, Gwyneira thought everything should remain as it had been before, even if a few things took some getting used to. For example, the girls refused to wear shoes in the house, as their feet felt cramped in them. Kiri showed Gwyneira the calluses and blisters she had developed on her feet after a long workday in leather shoes she was not accustomed to. They found the uniforms impractical as well, and again Gwyneira could only agree with them. In the summer their clothing was too warm; she herself was perspiring in her voluminous skirts. But she was used to suffering for propriety’s sake. The Maori girls could not accept it, however. It was hardest when Gerald expressed specific wishes, usually having to do with the cooking, which so far had proved unimpressive, as Gwyneira herself agreed. Maori cuisine was not especially varied. Moana either cooked sweet potatoes and other vegetables in the oven or roasted meat or fish with exotic spices. Occasionally it did taste unusual but was thoroughly enjoyable. Gwyneira, who couldn’t cook herself, ate whatever was served without complaint. Gerald, however, wanted an expanded menu.
“Gwyneira, I’d like you to pay more attention to the cooking in the future,” he said one morning at breakfast. “I’m tired of this Maori food and would love to have some Irish stew again. Could you please tell the cook?”
Gwyneira nodded, her thoughts already on herding the sheep, which she had planned for that day with James and the young dogs. A few lambs had wandered from the pastures in the highland and were roaming in the pastures closer to the yard, where the young rams were upsetting the flocks. Gerald had ordered the shepherds to collect the animals and herd them back, which had been a laborious business in the past. With the new sheepdogs, however, it should be possible to accomplish the task in a day, and Gwyneira wanted to watch the first attempts herself. A short talk with Moana about the lunch menu shouldn’t hold her up.
“Irish stew is with cabbage and mutton, right?” she asked.
“What else?” grumbled Gerald.
Gwyneira had the vague impression that you layered them one atop the other and then cooked them.
“Mutton we have, and cabbage…is there cabbage in the garden, Lucas?” she asked uncertainly.
“What do you think the big green leaves are in the shape of a head?” Gerald grilled her.
“I, uh…” Gwyneira had long since discovered that she was no better at gardening edible plants. She simply did not have the patience to wait until the seeds turned into cabbage heads or cucumbers or to spend endless hours in between pulling weeds. She only rarely paid the vegetable garden any attention—Hoturapa would see to it.
Moana looked confused when Gwyn gave her the task of cooking the cabbage and mutton together.
“I made never,” she explained. Cabbage was completely new to the girl. “How it should taste?”
“Like…well, just like Irish stew. Just cook it, and you’ll see,” Gwyneira said and happily fled to the stables, where James had already saddled Madoc for her. Gwyneira now alternated between the two cobs.
The pups performed superbly, and even Gerald was full of praise when half of the shepherds returned with Gwyneira that afternoon. The sheep had been gathered successfully, and Livingston and Kennon were herding them back into the highland with the dogs’ help. Cleo loped happily alongside her mistress and Daimon trotted next to James. Now and then the riders smiled at each other. They enjoyed their work together, and sometimes Gwyneira felt she could communicate as wordlessly and naturally with the brown-haired farmworker as she otherwise only could with Cleo. James always knew exactly which sheep she had her eye on, whether for separating or bringing back into the fold. He seemed to anticipate her every move and often whistled for Daimon at the very moment she was about to request help.
Now he took the stallion from her in front of the stables.
“Get going, miss, or you won’t manage to change before lunch. Which Mr. Warden is so looking forward to…he ordered a dish from the old country, isn’t that right?”
Gwyneira nodded, though she started to feel a bit sick. Was Gerald really so obsessed with this Irish stew that he was telling the farmhands about it? She hoped he would like it.
Gwyneira would have liked to check on the stew beforehand, but she was running late and only just managed to swap her riding clothes for a house dress before the family gathered for dinner. In principle, Gwyneira considered all this changing of clothes wholly unnecessary. Gerald always wore the same clothes to lunch that he wore when supervising the work in the stables and pastures. Lucas, however, preferred a stylish atmosphere at mealtime, and Gwyneira did not wish to fight. Today, she wore a lovely bright blue dress with a gold border on the skirt and sleeves. She had halfway straightened her hair and put it up with a comb into some sort of decent hairstyle.
“You look charming today as always, my love,” Lucas remarked. Gwyneira smiled at him.
Gerald eyed her hair, pleased. “Like the purest turtledove!” he said happily. “So, we’ll soon be looking forward to some little ones, eh, Gwyneira?”
Gwyneira did not know how to respond to that. They wouldn’t fail for lack of effort. If what they did in her room at night was how you became pregnant, then all should be well.
Lucas, however, blushed. “We’ve only been married a month, Father.”
“Well, one shot’s enough, isn’t it?” Gerald said, booming with laughter. Lucas seemed embarrassed, and once again Gwyneira did not understand what was going on. What did shooting have to
do with pregnancy?
Kiri now appeared with the serving bowls, putting an end to the embarrassing conversation. As Gwyneira had taught her, the girl placed herself properly to the right of Mr. Warden’s plate and served the master of the house first, then Lucas and Gwyneira. She performed capably; Gwyneira found nothing to criticize and returned Kiri’s imploring smile when the girl finally took up her position dutifully next to the table, ready if called.
Gerald cast a disbelieving eye over the thin yellowy-red soup, in which were floating cabbage and hunks of meat, before exploding: “What the devil, Gwyn? That was first-class cabbage and the best mutton on this side of the globe! It cannot be so damned hard to make a decent stew out of that. But no—you leave everything to this Maori brat, and she makes the same thing out of it that we have to gulp down every day. Teach her how to do it, if you please, Gwyneira.”
Kiri looked hurt, Gwyneira insulted. She thought the soup tasted quite good—if, admittedly, a bit exotic. What spices Moana had used to achieve that flavor were a complete mystery to her. As was the original recipe for mutton cabbage stew that Gerald so obviously cherished.
Lucas shrugged. “You should have looked for an Irish cook instead of a Welsh princess, Father,” Lucas said mockingly. “It’s obvious that Gwyneira did not grow up in a kitchen.”
The young man coolly took another spoonful of stew, whose flavor did not seem to bother him either, but Lucas was not much of an eater anyway. He only looked truly happy when he could return to his books or his studio after meals.
Gwyneira tried the dish again and attempted to remember the taste of Irish stew. Her cook at home had rarely made it.
“I believe it’s made without sweet potatoes,” she told Kiri.
The Maori girl frowned. Apparently, she could not imagine any dish without sweet potatoes.
Gerald roared irritably. “Of course it’s made without sweet potatoes. And you don’t bury it to cook it or wrap it in leaves or whatever else these tribal women do to poison their masters. Make that clear, if you don’t mind, Gwyn! There must be a cookbook around here somewhere. Maybe someone could translate that. They were pretty quick about doing it for the Bible.”
