by Sarah Lark
Francine was witty and always in good spirits. Her companionship was good for Gwyneira, and she did not allow any fear of the coming birth to set in. Gwyneira felt a pang of jealousy, for Francine had forgotten the young Candler boy and could not stop swooning over James McKenzie.
“He’s interested in me, no doubt about it,” she said excitedly. “Every time he sees me, he asks me a lot of questions. About my work and after that how you’re doing. He’s so sweet! And it’s so obvious that he’s trying to find things to talk about that interest me. Why else would he inquire when you’re supposed to have the baby?”
Several reasons occurred to Gwyneira, and she thought it reckless of James to show such a visible interest. Above all, though, she longed for him and his comforting presence. She would have liked to feel his hand on her stomach and to have him share her breathless joy at the baby’s movements in her womb. Whenever the little thing was “boxing” inside her, she thought of how happy he had looked when he first saw newborn Ruben. She also recalled a scene in the horse stables when Igraine was near the end of her gestation.
“Do you feel the foal, miss?” he had asked, beaming. “It’s moving. You should talk to him now, miss! Then it will already recognize your voice when it’s born.”
Now she spoke with the baby, whose nest was already so perfectly prepared. His cradle sat next to her bed, a marvel of blue and golden-yellow silk built by Kiri according to Lucas’s instructions. His name had already been decided: Paul Gerald Terence Warden—Paul after Gerald’s father.
“We can name the next son after your grandfather, Gwyneira,” Gerald declared generously. “But first I’d like to establish a certain tradition.”
Gwyneira didn’t really care about the name. The baby was becoming heavier every day; it was time for him to be born. She caught herself counting the days and comparing them with her adventures the year before. “If it comes today, it was conceived at the lake…if it waits until next week, then it’s a fog baby…a little warrior come to being in the stone circle…” Gwyneira remembered every nuance of James’s tenderness, and sometimes she cried longingly in her sleep.
The pains set in on a day in late November when the weather resembled a June day in faraway England. After several weeks of rain, the sun came up shining; the roses in the garden were blooming, and all the colorful flowers that Gwyneira actually preferred unfurled in all their splendor.
“How lovely that is,” gushed Francine, who was setting the breakfast table by the bay window in Gwyneira’s room. “I’ll have to convince my mother to plant some flowers. Only vegetables grow in our garden. Though there are always rata bushes coming up.”
Gwyneira was about to reply that she had fallen instantly in love with the rata bushes’ abundance of red flowers upon her arrival, when she felt the pains. Right then her water broke.
Gwyneira did not have an easy delivery. Because she was so healthy, her lower body muscles were very well developed. While her mother had thought that so much riding would lead to a miscarriage, it instead made the baby’s passage through the pelvis more difficult. Francine assured her frequently that everything was going well and that the baby was perfectly positioned, but that did not stop Gwyneira from screaming—or cursing. Lucas did not hear any of it though. At least she was lucky that no one was crying by her bedside—Gwyneira didn’t know whether she would have been able to handle Dorothy’s weeping. Kiri, who was assisting Francine, remained calm.
“Baby healthy. Said Matahorua. Always right.”
Before the birth, however, all hell broke loose. At first Gerald was tense, then concerned, and by the end of the day, he flew into a rage at anyone who approached him as he drank himself into oblivion. He slept through the last few hours of the delivery in his armchair in the salon. Lucas worried and drank in moderation, as was his custom. Even he fell asleep in the end, though it was only a light slumber. Anytime something stirred in Gwyneira’s chamber he raised his head, and he asked Kiri for news several times throughout the night.
“Mr. Lucas so thoughtful,” she informed Gwyneira.
James McKenzie did not sleep at all. He spent the day in a state of obvious suspense and skulked that night into the garden outside Gwyneira’s window. He was the only one who heard her cries. Helpless, with balled fists and tears in his eyes, he waited. No one told him whether it was going well, and he feared for Gwyneira’s life with every cry. Finally something furry and soft brushed up against him, someone else who had been forgotten. Francine had mercilessly cast Cleo out of Gwyneira’s room, and neither Lucas nor Gerald had paid any attention to her. She whined when she heard Gwyneira’s screams.
“Sorry, Gwyn, I’m so sorry,” James whispered into Cleo’s silky hair.
He was still embracing the dog when he suddenly heard another cry, this time softer, but stronger and rather higher than Gwyneira’s. The baby greeted the new morning’s first ray of light. And Gwyneira accompanied it with a final painful scream.
James cried with relief into Cleo’s soft fur.
Lucas awoke right away when Kiri stepped onto the landing holding the baby in her arms. She stood there like an actor, fully aware of the importance of her role. Lucas wondered briefly why Francine wasn’t presenting the child to him herself, but Kiri was beaming from ear to ear, so he assumed that mother and child were both fine.
“Is everything…all right?” he nevertheless asked dutifully, standing up to approach the young woman.
Gerald stumbled to his feet as well. “Is he here?” he asked. “And healthy?”
“Yes, Mr. Warden!” Kiri rejoiced. “A beautiful baby. Beautiful. Has red hair like mother!”
“A little firebrand!” said Gerald, laughing. “He’s the first red-haired Warden.”
“I think, not called ‘he,’” Kiri corrected him, “called ‘she.’ Is girl, Mr. Warden. Beautiful girl!”
Francine suggested naming the baby “Paulette,” but Gerald resisted. “Paul” was to be reserved for the male heir. Lucas, ever the gentleman, appeared at Gwyneira’s bedside with a red rose an hour after the birth, assuring her in measured tones that he found the child adorable. Gwyneira only nodded. How else would anyone have described this perfect little creation that she now held proudly in her arms? She couldn’t get enough of the individual fingers, the button nose, or the long red eyelashes around the big blue eyes. The baby already had quite a lot of hair. She was an unequivocal redhead like her mother. As Gwyneira stroked her baby, the little thing reached for her finger. She was already astoundingly strong. She would have sure control of the reins…Gwyneira would start teaching her to ride early.
Lucas suggested “Rose” as a name and had a giant bouquet of red and white roses brought into Gwyneira’s room, which immediately filled the air with their enchanting fragrance.
“I’ve rarely seen the roses bloom as enchantingly as today, my love. It is as though the garden blossomed especially for the birth of our daughter.” Francine had laid the baby in his arms; he held her ineptly, as though he did not know what to make of her. Still, he spoke the words “our daughter” naturally. He did not seem to entertain any doubts.
Gwyneira, who was thinking of Diana’s rose garden, responded: “She’s much more beautiful than any rose, Lucas. She’s the most beautiful thing in the world!”
She took the baby back from him. It was crazy, but she felt a prick of jealousy.
“Then you’ll have to think of a name yourself, my love,” Lucas said mildly. “I’m sure you’ll find something fitting. But now I must leave you two to take care of Father. He can’t get over the fact that she’s not a boy.”
A few hours passed before Gerald could pull himself together sufficiently to visit Gwyneira and her daughter. He congratulated the mother halfheartedly and looked the baby over. Only after she wrapped her tiny hand possessively around his finger while blinking did she wring a smile from his lips.
“Oh well, at least everything is there,” he grumbled reluctantly. “The next will have to be b
oy. Now that you two know what you’re doing.”
As Warden closed the door behind him, Cleo slipped in. Happy to have finally succeeded, she trotted over to Gwyneira’s bed, set her front paws on the covers, and gave her best collie smile.
“Where have you been hiding?” Gwyneira asked, delighted, stroking her dog. “Look here; I want to introduce you to someone!”
To Francine’s horror, she let the dog sniff the baby. Which is when she noticed a bouquet of spring flowers that someone had secured in Cleo’s collar.
“How original!” remarked Francine as Gwyneira carefully freed the little bouquet. “Who do you think it was? One of the men?”
Gwyneira knew exactly who it was. Though she said nothing, her heart ran over with happiness. So he knew about their daughter—and of course he had picked colorful wildflowers instead of cutting roses.
The baby sneezed when the flowers brushed her nose. Gwyneira smiled.
“I’m going to name her Fleurette.”
Something Like Hate
CANTERBURY PLAINS—WEST COAST
1
After his ascent up the Bridle Path, George Greenwood was lightly out of breath. He slowly drank the ginger beer sold at the highest point between Lyttelton and Christchurch, savoring the view of the town and the Canterbury Plains below.
So this was Helen’s new homeland. This is what she left England for…George had to admit it was a beautiful country. Christchurch, the town near which he assumed her farm must be located, was supposed to be a burgeoning community. As the first settlement in New Zealand, it had received its charter last year and was now a bishopric too.
George recalled Helen’s last letter, in which she reported with schadenfreude that the aspirations of the unkind Reverend Baldwin had not been fulfilled. The archbishop of Canterbury had instead called a pastor by the name of Henry Chitty Harper to the bishop’s chair, who had traveled from the homeland with his family expressly for that purpose. He seemed to have been beloved in his earlier parish, though Helen did not report anything else about his character, which rather surprised George. After all, he imagined that she must have long since gotten to know him from all the church activities that she was always writing about. Helen O’Keefe participated in ladies’ Bible circles and worked with native children. George hoped that she hadn’t become as bigoted and self-righteous as his mother through these activities. He couldn’t picture Helen in silk dresses at committee meetings, but her letters made it sound as though she spent most of her time with the children and their mothers.
Could he still picture Helen? So many years had passed, and he’d had an endless stream of experiences since then. College, his travels through Europe, to India and Australia—those should have been enough to erase the image of a much older woman with gleaming brown hair and clear gray eyes from his memory. Yet George could still see her before him as though she had left only the day before: her narrow face, her prim hairstyle, her erect gait—even when he knew she was tired. George remembered her well-concealed anger and her strenuously contained impatience when dealing with his mother and his brother, William, but also her secret smile whenever he succeeded in breaking through her armor of self-restraint with some impertinence. Back then he had read every emotion lurking within her—hidden behind the calm, equanimous expression she exhibited to the world. That fire, burning under still waters, which had flared up over some crazy advertisement from the other end of the world. Did she really love this Howard O’Keefe fellow? In her letters she spoke with great respect of her husband, who worked hard to make a comfortable life for her and to make the farm profitable. Yet George read between the lines that her husband didn’t always succeed. George Greenwood had been active enough in his father’s business to know that New Zealand’s first settlers had almost all become wealthy. Whether they focused on fishing, trade, or animal breeding, business was booming. Anyone who didn’t make an inept start of things turned a profit. Gerald Warden, the largest wool producer on the South Island, was a perfect example. Visiting him at Kiward Station was at the top of the list of activities that had brought Robert Greenwood’s son to Christchurch. The Greenwoods were considering opening a branch of their international trading firm here. There was growing interest in New Zealand’s wool trade, and steamships would soon be trafficking between England and the islands. George himself had already traveled on a ship driven by a steam engine in addition to traditional sails. No longer dependent on the capricious winds in the calm belt, the ship could now make the trip in just eight weeks.
Even the Bridle Path had become less treacherous than what Helen had described to George in her first letter. It had been expanded and could now be crossed with wagons. George could easily have spared himself the arduous trip on foot, but after the long trip aboard the ship, he was yearning for movement. Besides, it was exciting for him to retrace Helen’s experiences on her arrival. George had been obsessed with New Zealand during his studies. Even when he received no letters from Helen for long periods, he devoured all the available information on the country in order to feel closer to her.
Now refreshed, he began the descent. Maybe he would even see Helen the next day. If he could rent a horse and the farm lay as near to the city as Helen’s letters implied, there was nothing to stop him making a little courtesy visit. In any case, he would soon be headed to Kiward Station, which had to be near Helen. After all, she and the farm’s mistress, Gwyneira Warden, were friends. So the two estates could hardly be more than a short coach ride apart.
After taking the ferry across the Avon River, George walked the last few miles into Christchurch and took a room at the local hotel. It was simple but clean—and unsurprisingly, the manager knew the Wardens.
“Naturally. Gerald and Lucas Warden always stay here when they have business in Christchurch. Very cultivated gentlemen, especially the younger Warden and his lovely wife. Mrs. Warden has her clothes tailored in Christchurch, so we see her two or three times a year.”
However, the hotelier had not heard of Howard and Helen O’Keefe. Neither one of them had ever stayed there, nor did he know them to be members of the church community.
“But they wouldn’t be part of our community, if they’re the Wardens’ neighbors,” the hotelier explained. “They must belong to the Haldon congregation, which recently got its own church. It’s much too far to ride here every Sunday.”
George absorbed this news with astonishment and inquired about a rental stable. First thing the next day he planned to pay a visit to the Union Bank of Australia, the first bank office in Christchurch.
The bank director was exceedingly polite and happy about the Greenwoods’ plans in Christchurch.
“You should talk to Peter Brewster,” he advised. “Up until now he’s been handling the local wool trade. But from what I hear, he’s moving to Queenstown—the gold rush, you know. Brewster surely won’t be doing any digging himself, but likely has the gold trade in mind.”
George frowned. “Do you think that will be much more lucrative than wool?”
The banker shrugged. “If you ask me, wool is growing every year. But how much gold is lying in the earth over there in Otago, no one knows. Brewster is young and entrepreneurial though. Besides, he has family reasons. His wife’s family comes from there. They’re Maori, and she’s inherited some land. He shouldn’t be upset if you take over his clients here. That would certainly make founding your business much easier.”
George could only agree with him and thanked him for the tip. He also used the opportunity to make inquiries about the Wardens and the O’Keefes. The director was naturally full of praise when it came to the Wardens.
“The elder Warden is an old warhorse, but he knows a thing or two about sheep breeding! The younger is more of an aesthete and isn’t much for farm work. That’s why the old man was hoping for a grandchild who would make more of a go of it, but so far without any luck. Still, his young wife is pretty as a picture. A crying shame that she has trouble having children. So far
just one girl in almost six years of marriage. Oh well, they’re young; there’s still hope. As for the O’Keefes…” The bank director was clearly searching for words. “What can I say? It’s a bank secret, you understand.”
George understood. Howard O’Keefe was evidently not a well-loved client. He probably had debts. The farms lay a two-day ride from Christchurch, so Helen had lied in her letters about life in town—or at least exaggerated it. Haldon, the closest large settlement to Kiward Station, was hardly more than a village. What else might she have kept secret and why? Was she embarrassed about the way she lived? Was it possible she wouldn’t be pleased to see him? But he had to see her. By God, he had traveled eighteen thousand miles to see her!
Peter Brewster proved to be quite affable and immediately invited George to lunch for the following day. George had to push his plans back, but it would have been unsociable to refuse. The meeting went very harmoniously. Brewster’s ravishing wife served a traditional Maori meal of fresh fish from the Avon and artfully prepared sweet potatoes. His children barraged their visitor with questions about good old England, and naturally, Peter knew the Wardens as well as the O’Keefes.
“Just don’t talk to one about the other,” he warned, laughing. “They’re like cats and dogs, and to think they used to be partners. Kiward Station once belonged to both of them, hence the name: ‘Kee’ and ‘Ward.’ But they were also both gamblers, and Howard O’Keefe lost his share. No one knows anything more, but the both of them still take the whole thing hard.”
