by Sarah Lark
Helen seemed to relax. “Education has yet to do anyone harm,” she said. “Please, join us.”
Amazed, the Maori children made room as George took his seat with them on the ground. Helen explained in English and Maori that he was a former student of hers from faraway England and as such he had come the farthest way of all to school. The children laughed and George once again noted how Helen’s tone as a teacher had changed. She’d had much less fun before.
The children greeted their new classmate in their language, and George learned his first few Maori words. By the end of the lesson, he could even read the first section of the creation story, though the children were constantly laughing and correcting him. Later the older students were allowed to ask him questions, and George told stories from his own school days—first with Helen in his London home, then at college in Oxford.
“Which did you like better?” one of the oldest boys asked cheekily. Helen called him Reti, and he spoke English very well.
George laughed. “Lessons with Miss O’Keefe, of course. When the weather was nice, we sat outside, just like this. And my mother insisted that Miss O’Keefe play croquet with us, but she was never very good and always lost.” He winked at Helen.
Reti did not seem surprised. “When she first got here, she couldn’t milk a cow either,” he revealed. “What is croquet, Mr. Greenwood? Do you have to be able to play it to work in Christchurch? You see, I want to work with the Englishmen one day and become rich.”
George registered this remark and made a mental note of it. He would have to speak to Helen about this promising young man. A perfectly bilingual Maori could be of great use to Greenwood Enterprises. “If you’re considered a gentleman and want to get to know a lady, you should at least be good enough at croquet to lose with dignity,” he replied.
Helen rolled her eyes. Gwyneira noticed how young she suddenly seemed.
“Can you teach it to us?” Rongo Rongo asked. “As a lady one surely also has to be able to play.”
“Certainly,” George said seriously. “But I don’t know if I have enough time. I…”
“I can teach you how to play,” Gwyneira interjected. The game was an unexpected chance to pull Helen away from her lesson. “What would you think if we left the reading and arithmetic for today and instead made mallets and hoops? I’ll show you all how, and Miss O’Keefe will have time to see to her visitor. No doubt she wants to show him the farm.”
Helen and George shot her grateful looks. Helen rather doubted that Gwyneira was all that excited about such a slow-paced game, but she was likely better at it than Helen and George together.
“So, we need a ball…no, not such a big ball, Ruben, a little one…yes, we could also use that rock. And little hoops…good idea, braiding them, Tani.”
As the children launched into their task, Helen and George moved away. Helen led him back to the house the same way that he had just come with Gwyneira.
She seemed to be ashamed of the condition of the farm.
“My husband hasn’t had time to fix the pens after this past winter,” she said apologetically as they passed the paddocks. “We have a lot of livestock in the highlands, spread across the pastures, and now that it’s spring, the lambs are being born.”
George did not comment, though he knew how mild the New Zealand winters were. Howard should have had no trouble repairing the pens even during the coldest months of the year.
Naturally, Helen knew that too. She was silent for a moment, then turned to him suddenly.
“Oh, George, I’m so ashamed! What must you think of me after you’ve seen all this, compared with my letters.”
The expression on her face pained his heart.
“I don’t know what you mean, miss,” he said softly. “I see a farmhouse…not big, not luxurious, but well-built and lovingly furnished. True, the livestock won’t be winning any prizes, but they’ve been fed and the cows milked.” He winked. “And that mule really seems to love you.”
Nepumuk let out his customary piercing neigh as Helen passed his pen.
“Of course I’ll also come to know your husband as a gentleman who makes every effort to support his family well and work his farm in an exemplary manner. You can rest assured, miss.”
Helen looked at him incredulously. Then she smiled. “You’re wearing rose-colored glasses, George.”
He shrugged. “You make me happy, miss. Wherever you are I can only see goodness and beauty.”
Helen turned a burning red. “George, please. You should really have put that behind you.”
George grinned at her. Had he put it behind him? To an extent, yes; he couldn’t deny that. His heart had raced when he had laid eyes on Helen again; he rejoiced at the sight of her, at her voice, at her ongoing balancing act between decorum and authenticity. But he no longer struggled with longing to know what it would be like to kiss her and make love to her. That was in the past. He felt only a vague tenderness for the woman now standing before him. Would he have felt the same way if she hadn’t refused him then? Would his passion have given way to friendship and a sense of responsibility? Likely even before he had completed his studies and been able to seal the bond of marriage with her? And would he really have married her then, or would he simply have hoped that he would someday feel such a burning love for another woman?
George was unable to answer any of these questions with certainty—except for the last. “When I say forever, I mean just that. But I won’t importune you with that anymore. You’re not going to run away with me anyway, are you now?” The old, impertinent grin.
Helen shook her head and held a carrot out to Nepumuk. “I could never leave the mule,” she joked, with tears in her eyes. George was so sweet and still so innocent. How happy he would make the first girl to take his promises seriously.
“Now come in and tell me about your family.”
The interior of the hut was what George had expected: simple furniture, made cozy by the tireless hand of a tidy and busy housewife. A bright cloth and a pitcher full of flowers decorated a table, and the chairs were made more comfortable by homemade pillows. A spinning wheel stood in front of the fireplace alongside Helen’s old rocking chair, and her books were neatly organized on a shelf. There were even a few new ones. Were they presents from Howard, or on loan from Gwyneira, he wondered. Though George could hardly picture Gerald reading, Kiward Station had a comprehensive library.
George reported on London while Helen prepared tea. She worked with her back to him, surely not wanting him to see her hands. Raw and worn down, they were no longer the soft, manicured hands of his old governess.
“Mother still oversees her charitable committees—only she left the orphanage committee after the scandal back then. She still holds that against you, Helen. The ladies are convinced you spoiled the girls on the passage over.”
“I did what?” Helen asked, dumbfounded.
“Your, I’m quoting here, ‘emancipated style’ led the girls to forget humility and devotion toward their employers. That’s the only way this scandal could have come about. Of course, no mention was made of the fact that it was you, in fact, who revealed everything to Pastor Thorne. Mrs. Baldwin never said a thing.”
“George, those were young girls in distress! They delivered one up to a pervert and sold another into slavery. A family with eight children, George, for whom a girl of ten—at most—was supposed to manage the household. And serve as a midwife too. No wonder the child ran away. And Laurie’s so-called employers weren’t much better. I can still hear that impossible Mrs. Lavender: ‘No, if we take two they’ll only talk the livelong day instead of working.’ And the little one bawling her eyes out the whole time.”
“Have you heard anything more about the girls?” George inquired. “You never wrote anything more about them.”
It sounded like the young man knew each of Helen’s letters by heart.
Helen shook her head. “All anyone knows is that Mary and Laurie disappeared on the same day. Ex
actly a week after they were separated. It’s suspected that they arranged it ahead of time. I don’t believe that though. Mary and Laurie never needed to arrange anything. The one always knew what the other was thinking—it was almost eerie. No one heard another word from them after that day. I fear they’re dead. Two little girls alone in the wilderness…it’s not as though they lived two miles down the road from one another and could easily have met each other. These…these Christians,” she spat the word out, “they sent Mary to a farm behind Haldon, and Laurie stayed in Christchurch. There are almost fifty miles of wilderness in between the two. I dare not think about what those children endured.”
Helen poured the tea and sat down next to George at the table.
“And the third one?” he asked. “What happened to her?”
“Daphne? Oh we found out about that scandal a few weeks later. She ran away. But before that she threw a pot of boiling water at her employer, this Morrison fellow—full in the face. At first they said he wouldn’t survive it. He managed to after all, but he’s blind and his face is deformed by scars. Dorothy says that now Morrison looks like the monster he’s always been. She’s seen him once or twice since the Morrisons come shopping in Haldon. The wife really blossomed after her husband had his…accident. They’re still searching for Daphne, but unless she walks straight through Christchurch and into the police station, she won’t be found. If you ask me, she had good reasons for doing what she did. I just don’t know what sort of a future she’ll have now.”
George shrugged. “Probably the same future that would have awaited her in London. Poor child. But the orphanage committee got what was coming to it; Reverend Thorne saw to that. And this Baldwin…”
Helen smiled almost triumphantly. “He had Harper paraded right in front of him. So much for his dream of being bishop of Canterbury. I take a very un-Christian joy in that. But go on! Your father…”
“…holds his position in Greenwood Enterprises, same as always. The company is growing and thriving. The queen supports our foreign trade, and we’re making a fortune in the colonies, though often at the expense of the natives. I’ve witnessed it…your Maori should consider themselves lucky that the white colonists, as well as they themselves, are peacefully inclined. But my father and I can’t change the way things are—and we profit from the exploitation of these countries. In England, industrialization is booming, though with consequences that I like as little as the oppression I’ve seen overseas. The conditions in some factories are appalling. When I think about it, I’ve liked nowhere else as much as New Zealand. But I digress.”
As George attempted to return to the subject, he realized that he hadn’t just made this last remark to flatter Helen. He really did like this country: the upstanding but peaceful people, the broad landscape with the majestic mountains, the large farms with their well-fed sheep and cattle grazing on ample pastures—and Christchurch, which was in the process of turning itself into a typical English bishop’s seat and university town on the other end of the world.
“What is William doing?” Helen inquired.
George sighed with a telling look at the ceiling. “William did not end up going to college, but you hadn’t really counted on that happening, had you?”
Helen shook her head.
“He had a series of tutors who were regularly let go—at first by my mother because she thought they were too strict with William and then by my father because they didn’t teach him anything. He’s been working in the company for the last year, if you can call it work. Basically he’s just killing time, and he never lacks for company, male or female. After the pubs, he discovered women. Alas, predominantly those from the street. He doesn’t distinguish between them. On the contrary, ladies scare him, while easy women amaze him. It sickens my father, and my mother still hasn’t realized it. But how it’s going to turn out when…”
He did not continue, but Helen knew exactly what he was thinking: when his father died someday, both brothers would inherit the company. George would then either have to buy out his brother—which would destroy a business like the Greenwoods’—or continue to endure him. Helen did not think it likely that George would be able to maintain the latter situation for long.
As they lapsed into silence, thoughtfully drinking their tea, the front door flew open, and Fleur and Ruben stormed in.
“We won!” Fleurette beamed, swinging an improvised croquet mallet. “Ruben and I are the winners!”
“You cheated,” Gwyneira chided, appearing behind the children. She looked flushed and a little dirty, but seemed to have enjoyed herself immensely. “I very clearly saw you secretly push Ruben’s ball through the last hoop.”
Helen frowned. “Is that true, Ruben? And you didn’t say anything?”
“With the funny mallets, it doesn’t work pre…pre…what’s that word again, Ruben?” Fleur asked, defending her friend.
“Precisely,” Ruben finished her thought. “But the direction was right.”
George smiled. “When I get back to England, I’ll send you proper mallets,” he promised. “But then there can’t be any more cheating.”
“Really?” Fleur asked.
Other thoughts were going through Ruben’s mind. With his clever brown eyes, he looked at Helen and her visitor, who were obviously close.
“You’re from England. Are you my real father?”
Gwyneira gasped for air and Helen reddened.
“Ruben! Don’t say such nonsense. You know very well that you only have one father.” Apologizing, she turned to George. “I hope you don’t get the wrong idea. It’s only that Ruben…he doesn’t have the best relationship with his father, and recently he’s gotten it stuck in his head that Howard…well, that perhaps he has another father somewhere in England. I imagine it has to do with my talking so much about his grandfather. Ruben is very much like him, you know. And he takes that the wrong way. Now apologize immediately, Ruben!”
George smiled. “He doesn’t have to apologize. On the contrary, I’m flattered. Who wouldn’t gladly be related to Ruben Hood, brave yeoman and masterful croquet player? What do you think, Ruben, could I be your uncle? One can have more than one uncle.”
Ruben considered.
“Ruben! He’s going to send us croquet mallets. An uncle like that is good. You can be my uncle, Mr. Greenwood.” Fleur was unfailingly practical.
Gwyneira rolled her eyes. “If she stays so open-minded with regard to financial considerations, she’ll be an easy one to marry off.”
“I’m marrying Ruben,” Fleur explained. “And Ruben’s marrying me too, right?” She waved the croquet mallet about. Ruben had better not turn down her request.
Helen and Gwyneira looked at each other helplessly. Then they laughed, and George joined in.
“When can I meet the groom’s father?” he asked finally, glancing at the sun’s position in the sky. “I promised Mr. Warden I’d be back for dinner, and I’d like to keep my word. It looks like the discussion with Mr. O’Keefe will have to wait until tomorrow. Is there a possibility that he’ll meet me in the morning, miss?”
Helen bit her lip. “I’ll gladly give him the message, but sometimes Howard is…well, stubborn. If he gets the idea that you want to impose a time on him…” It was visibly difficult for her to talk about Howard’s stubbornness and bravado, and she couldn’t even admit how often his moods and decisions were guided by caprice or whiskey.
As always, she spoke with calm and restraint, but George could read her eyes—just as he’d done at the Greenwoods’ dinner table. He saw anger and revulsion, desperation and disdain. Back then these feelings had been directed toward his superficial mother—now they were reserved for the husband Helen had once believed she could love.
“Don’t worry, miss. You don’t have to tell him I’m coming from Kiward Station. Simply tell him I’m stopping by on the way to Haldon—and I would like to see the farm and make a few business suggestions.”
Helen nodded. “I’ll try.”
“George…” she began hesitantly. “When you talk to Howard tomorrow, please be indulgent. He is very proud and is quick to take offense. Life dealt him bad cards, and it’s hard for him to control himself. He is…he’s…”
“Not a gentleman,” she wanted to say, but could not get the words out.
George shook his head and laughed. In his usually teasing eyes, she saw a gentleness and an echo of his old love. “No need to say a thing, miss! I’m sure that I’ll come to a mutually satisfactory agreement with your husband. I did attend the best school for diplomacy, after all.” He winked at her.
Helen smiled, faint of heart. “Then, I’ll see you tomorrow, George.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Helen.” George wanted to shake her hand, but then had another thought. Once, just this once, he would kiss her. He put his arm around her and brushed her cheek with his lips. Helen let him—and then gave in and leaned for a few seconds on his shoulder. Perhaps someday, someone aside from herself could be strong. Perhaps someday someone would keep his word.
4
“Now, look, Mr. O’Keefe, I’ve visited several farms in this area,” George said. He sat with Howard O’Keefe on the veranda of Helen’s hut, and Howard had just poured himself some whiskey. Helen found that reassuring: her husband only drank with men he liked. So the tour of the farm earlier must have gone well. “And I have to admit,” George continued in a measured tone, “that I’m a little concerned.”
“Concerned?” grumbled Howard. “How do you mean? There’s plenty of wool here for your business. You certainly don’t need to worry about that. And if you don’t like what I’ve got…just as well, you don’t need to pretend with me. Then I’ll just look for another buyer.” He emptied his glass in one go and poured himself another.
