by Sarah Lark
Gwyneira wanted to hint that it was best not to ask a Warden the way to an O’Keefe, but Helen used the opportunity to change the subject.
“How is he anyway, your Lucas? Is he really the gentleman he was said to be?”
Gwyneira looked out the window, momentarily distracted. James had just finished loading up the wood and was pulling the wagon out of the yard. Helen noticed that Gwyneira’s eyes brightened as she watched the man on the driver’s box.
“Is that him? The sharp-looking fellow on the wagon?” Helen asked with a smile.
Gwyneira hardly seemed able to tear her gaze away, but then she collected herself. “What’s that? Sorry, I was checking on our loading. The man on the reins is Mr. McKenzie, our shepherd foreman. Lucas is…Lucas would…well, even the idea of his driving a team over these paths and loading wood without help…”
Helen looked hurt. Naturally, Howard would be loading his fencing materials alone.
Gwyneira amended her words when she noticed Helen’s expression. “Oh, Helen, it’s not as though there’s anything wrong with that…I’m sure Gerald Warden would take care of it himself. But Lucas is something of an aesthete; do you know what I mean? He writes, he paints, he plays piano. You hardly ever catch him out on the farm.”
Helen frowned. “And when he inherits it?”
Gwyneira was astonished. The Helen she had gotten to know two months before would never have asked such a question.
“I believe that Gerald is hoping for another heir,” she sighed.
Mrs. Candler looked searchingly at Gwyneira. “So far nothing’s visible,” she said, laughing. “But of course you’ve only been married a couple of weeks. He has to let you have a little time. Oh the two of them made such a pretty picture at the wedding!”
With that, Mrs. Candler launched into a long panegyric praising Gwyneira’s wedding celebration. Helen listened in silence, though Gwyneira would have liked to ask her about her own wedding. There was so much that she urgently needed to talk to her friend about. Tête-à-tête, if possible. Mrs. Candler was very nice, but she was doubtless the town’s gossip hub.
Nevertheless, she showed herself more than willing to help the two young women with recipes and advice for housekeeping: “Without leavening, you can’t bake bread,” Mrs. Candler told Helen. “Here, I’ll give you some to take home. And I have something that will clean your dress. You have to let the hem steep; otherwise, it will be ruined. And you, Mrs. Warden, need muffin trays; otherwise, there will be no getting Mr. Warden his proper English tea cakes.”
Helen purchased a Maori Bible as well. Mrs. Candler had a few copies in stock; the missionaries had ordered the Bibles some time before, but the Maori had shown little interest.
“Most of them can’t read,” Mrs. Candler said. “Besides, they have their own gods.”
While Howard was loading up, Gwyneira and Helen managed to find a few moments to talk privately.
“I think Mr. O’Keefe is good looking,” Gwyneira remarked. She had watched him speaking with Helen from inside the store. This man fit her image of the hardworking pioneer more than the genteel Lucas. “Do you like being married?”
Helen blushed. “I don’t think it’s a matter of liking it. But it’s…tolerable. Oh, Gwyn, we won’t see each other for months. Who knows if you’ll come to Haldon on the same day as I will and…”
“Can’t you come alone?” Gwyneira asked.
“Without Howard?”
“It’s easy for me. On Igraine I could be here in less than two hours.”
Helen sighed and told Gwyneira about her mule. “If I could ride it…”
Gwyneira lit up. “Of course you can ride it! I’ll teach you how. I’ll visit you as soon as I can, Helen. I’ll figure out a way.”
Helen wanted to tell her that Howard did not want any Wardens in the house, but she held back. If Howard and Gwyneira ran into each other, she would have to think of something. But he usually spent the whole day taking care of the sheep and often rode into the mountains looking for strays and working on his fence. He usually didn’t come home until it was getting dark.
“I’ll wait for you,” Helen said, full of hope.
The friends kissed each other on both cheeks before Helen ran outside.
“Ah, the small farmers’ wives don’t have it easy,” Mrs. Candler said sadly. “Hard work and lots of children. Mrs. O’Keefe is lucky that her husband is a little older. He won’t be giving her eight or nine little ones. She’s no spring chicken herself. I just hope it all works out well. No midwife goes out to those isolated farms.”
James McKenzie appeared a short while later to pick up Gwyneira. Appearing pleased, he loaded her purchases into the wagon and helped her onto the coach box.
“Did you have a nice day, miss? Mr. Candler said you ran into an old friend.”
To Gwyneira’s delight, James knew the way to Helen’s farm. He whistled through his teeth though when she asked about it.
“You want to go to O’Keefe’s? Into the lion’s den? Just don’t tell Mr. Warden. He’d shoot me if he found out I told you how to get there.”
“I could have asked elsewhere for directions,” Gwyneira said coolly. “But what is it with those two? To Gerald, Mr. O’Keefe is nothing short of the devil, and Mr. O’Keefe seems to feel likewise about Gerald.”
James laughed. “No one knows exactly. Rumor has it that they used to be partners. But then they went their separate ways. Some say because of money, others because of a woman. Their lands border each other, but Mr. Warden got the lion’s share. It’s very mountainous around O’Keefe’s property. And he’s no born shepherd, though he’s supposedly from Australia. Everything is very murky. Only those two know the details, but could anyone ever get them to talk? Ah, here’s the fork.”
James stopped the team at a path that led to the left into the mountains. “Here you ride straight. You can orient yourself by the rocks. And then just follow the path; there’s only one. But sometimes it’s hard to find, especially in the summer when you can’t see the wagon marks as easily. There are also a few streams to cross, one of which is almost a river. Once you’ve oriented yourself, there are no doubt more direct paths between the farms. But at first it’d be better to take this one so that you don’t get lost.”
Gwyneira did not get lost easily. Besides, Cleo and Igraine would have found their way back to Kiward Station under any circumstances. She was therefore optimistic when she set out three days later to visit her friend. Lucas did not have anything against her riding to Haldon; he had other problems just then anyway.
Gerald Warden had not only decided that Gwyneira should take her duties as a housewife more seriously, but was also of the opinion that Lucas finally needed to assume a bigger role in looking after the farm. So he gave his son tasks to perform with their employees every day—frequently choosing activities that made the aesthete’s cheeks flush with embarrassment—or provoked even worse reactions. The castration of the young rams, for example, made the young Mr. Warden so nauseated that he was indisposed for the rest of the day, Hardy Kennon revealed with a snort while sitting around the shepherds’ fire. Gwyneira heard about the episode by chance and could hardly keep from laughing, though she had no idea whether she might have reacted similarly—there were jobs that had remained off-limits to the curious young lady even at the Silkhams’.
That day Lucas was to head out with James to drive the wethers into the mountain pastures, where the animals would remain for the summer before being slaughtered. Lucas was terrified at the prospect of having to oversee that task as well.
Gwyneira would gladly have ridden along, but some feeling kept her from doing so. Lucas did not need to see how naturally she worked alongside the shepherds—she had learned to avoid competitive situations like that with her brother at all costs. Besides, she had no desire to spend the day riding in a sidesaddle. She was no longer used to sitting that way, and after a few hours her back would no doubt start to hurt.
Igraine
moved briskly forward, and after an hour or so Gwyneira reached the fork that led to Helen’s farm. From here it should be only two more miles, which were certain to be rough, however. The road was in miserable condition. The idea of leading a team along it horrified Gwyneira—let alone a wagon as heavy as the one Howard O’Keefe had been pulling. No wonder poor Helen had looked exhausted.
Igraine was not concerned about the road. The strong mare was used to a rocky landscape, and the frequent stream crossings were fun and refreshing for her. It was a hot day by New Zealand standards, making the mare sweat. Cleo, however, always tried to keep her paws as dry as possible while crossing the water. Gwyneira laughed every time the little dog fell into the cool water after an ill-fated leap, which caused the dog to look up at her mistress, hurt.
The house finally came into view, though at first Gwyneira could hardly believe that the log cabin ahead was really Howard O’Keefe’s farm. But it had to be; the mule was grazing in the pen in front of it. When it saw Igraine, it let out a strange sound that started out like a neigh but degenerated into a lowing. Gwyneira shook her head. Peculiar animals. She did not understand why some people preferred them to horses.
She tied the mare to the fence and set out to look for Helen. She found only a cow in the stall. But then she heard a shrill cry come from the house. It was obviously Helen; she screamed with such horror that Gwyneira’s blood ran cold. Terrified, she looked for a weapon with which to defend her friend, then decided to use her riding crop, and rushed to Helen’s aide.
There was no assailant to be seen. Helen looked as though she had been quietly sweeping the room—until some fearful sight made her freeze.
“Helen!” Gwyneira yelled. “What is it?”
Helen did not greet her, or even turn to look at her. She just stared in terror at the corner.
“There…there…over there! What in heaven’s name is that? Help, it’s jumping!” Helen fled backward in panic and almost tripped over a stool in the process. Gwyneira caught her and likewise retreated before the fat, gleaming hopper, which was now hopping away from them. The bug was a splendid specimen—at least four inches long.
“That’s a weta,” Gwyneira explained calmly. “Probably a ground weta, but it could also be a tree weta that’s gotten lost. In any case it’s a giant weta, which is to say it can’t jump high.”
Helen looked at her as though she’d escaped from an asylum.
“And it’s a male. Just in case you want to give him a name.” Gwyneira giggled. “Don’t make such a face, Helen. They’re gross, but they won’t hurt you. Let the critter out and…”
“Ca…can’t we squ…ash it?” Helen asked, trembling.
Gwyneira shook her head. “All but impossible. They’re hard to kill. Supposedly even when you cook them…which I haven’t tried, however. Lucas can discourse on them for hours. They’re his favorite insect. Do you have a glass or something?” Gwyneira had watched before when Lucas caught a weta and now she capably brought an empty marmalade glass down over the insect. “Got you,” she rejoiced. “If we can get the lid screwed on, I can take it back to Lucas as a gift.”
“Don’t joke like that, Gwyn! I thought he was a gentleman.” Helen slowly collected herself, but kept staring in fascination and horror at the giant captured bug.
“That doesn’t mean he can’t have an interest in crawly things, you know,” Gwyneira remarked. “Men have strange predilections.”
“You can say that again.” Helen was thinking of Howard’s nightly pleasures. He’d have pursued them nearly every night if Helen didn’t have her periods. Which had, however, ceased after a short time—the only positive aspect of her married life.
“Shall I make tea?” Helen asked. “Howard prefers coffee, but I bought tea for myself. Darjeeling, from London.” Her voice took on a note of longing.
Gwyneira looked around the humbly furnished room. The two rickety chairs, the clean-scoured but worn-out tabletop on which lay the Maori Bible. The stew simmering on the shabby stove. It wasn’t exactly the ideal setting for teatime. She thought of Mrs. Candler’s cozy home. Then she shook her head decisively. “We’ll make tea afterward. First thing, you need to saddle that mule. I'll give you…well, let’s say three riding lessons. After that we’ll start meeting in Haldon.”
The mule proved less cooperative. When Helen tried to put reins on it, it bit at her and ran away. She heaved a sigh when Reti, Rongo, and two other children appeared. Helen’s flushed face, her cursing, and the hopelessness of her attempt at putting the reins on the mule all gave the Maori children a new reason to titter, but Reti had the halter on the mule within seconds. He then showed Helen how to saddle the mule while Rongo fed the animal sweet potatoes. But beyond that, they could do nothing to help her. Helen had to mount it on her own.
Gwyneira perched on the paddock fence while Helen tried to make the animal move. The children nudged each other and giggled when the mule refused to move even a single step. Only after Helen gave it a spirited kick in the flanks did it make a sort of moaning sound and take a step forward. But Gwyneira was not satisfied.
“That won’t do. If you kick it, it won’t go forward, it’ll just get angry.” Gwyneira squatted on the fence beam like a shepherd boy and emphasized her words with her riding crop as though it were a conductor’s baton. In her only concession to propriety, she lifted her feet off the ground and hid them primly under her riding skirt, which made her a bit unsteady. Helen thought the balancing act was probably unnecessary, as the smirking children would probably not have given Gwyneira’s legs a second look even if they hadn’t been fully absorbed in the goings-on in the paddock. After all, didn’t their mothers constantly walk around barefoot, with half-length skirts, and even half-naked?
But Helen didn’t have time to give the matter any further thought. She had to give her full attention to directing the stubborn mule around the paddock. She was surprised to discover that staying on was not difficult; Howard’s old saddle offered sufficient support. Unfortunately, though, her mount wanted to stop before every clump of grass.
“If I don’t kick it, it doesn’t move at all,” she complained, digging her heels into the mule’s ribs again. “Maybe…if you gave me that stick of yours, then I could hit it!”
Gwyneira rolled her eyes. “Who hired you as an instructor? Hitting, kicking…you don’t treat your children that way!” She cast a glance at the smirking little Maori, who were visibly enjoying the battle between their teacher and the mule. “You have to love the mule, Helen. Make it like working for you. Say something nice to it.”
Helen sighed, thought about it, and then leaned forward grudgingly. “What beautiful, soft ears you have,” she cooed, attempting to stroke the mule’s strong, bag-like ears. The animal returned her advances with an angry snapping in the direction of her legs. Helen nearly fell off the mule with fear, while Gwyneira nearly toppled off the fence from laughing.
“Love!” Helen snorted. “It hates me.”
One of the older Maori children made a comment that was met with giggles from the others and made Helen blush.
“What did he say?” Gwyneira asked.
Helen bit her lip. “Just something from the Bible,” she murmured.
Gwyneira nodded in amazement. “Well, if you can get these snot-nosed brats to quote the Bible on their own, you shouldn’t have any trouble getting a mule to move. That mule is your only ticket to Haldon. What’s its name anyway?” Gwyneira wagged her crop, but obviously had no intention of assisting her friend in driving the mule forward.
Helen realized that she would have to give the mule a name.
They did finally have their tea after the riding lesson, during which time Helen talked about her little students.
“Reti, the oldest boy, is very sharp but cheeky. And Rongo Rongo is charming. Overall, they’re nice children. In fact, the whole tribe is friendly.”
“You can already speak Maori pretty well, can’t you?” Gwyn asked admiringly. “Sadly, I can still
only manage a few words. I just never have time to study the language. There’s too much to do.”
Helen shrugged but was grateful for the praise. “I’ve studied other languages before, which makes it a little easier. Otherwise, I don’t have anyone else to talk to. If I don’t want to be totally alone, I have to learn it.”
“Don’t you talk to Howard?” Gwyneira asked.
Helen nodded. “Yes, but…but we…we don’t have all that much in common.”
Gwyneira suddenly felt guilty. Helen would so enjoy the long discussions with Lucas about art and culture—not to mention his piano playing and painting. She knew she should feel grateful for her cultivated husband. Most of the time, however, she just felt bored.
“The women in the village are very outgoing,” Helen continued. “I’ve been wondering whether one of them is a midwife…”
“Midwife?” cried Gwyneira. “Helen! Don’t tell me that you…I don’t believe it. Helen, you’re pregnant?”
Helen looked up, agonized. “I don’t know for certain. But yesterday Mrs. Candler looked at me strangely and made a few comments. Besides, sometimes I feel…strange.” She blushed.
Gwyneira pressed her for more details. “Does Howard…I mean, with his…does he…”
“I think so,” whispered Helen. “He does it every night. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”
Gwyneira chewed on her lip. “Why not? I mean…does it hurt?”
Helen looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Of course it does, Gwyn. Didn’t your mother tell you it would? But we women simply have to bear it. Why do you ask? Doesn’t it hurt for you too?”
Gwyneira tried unsuccessfully to formulate a reply until Helen, ashamed, let the subject drop. But her reaction had confirmed Gwyneira’s suspicions. Something was not going right between Lucas and her. For the first time, she asked herself whether perhaps there was something wrong with her.
