by Sarah Lark
Daphne wrinkled her brow. “Off the top of my head, no. But it does sound vaguely familiar…I’ll fetch your food and think about it.”
George had pulled a few coins from his pocket, which he hoped would increase Daphne’s willingness to provide information. That, however, did not seem necessary; the girl did not appear to be playing coy. On the contrary, she was beaming when she emerged from the kitchen.
“There was a Warden on the ship I came from England on!” she explained excitedly. “I just knew I’d heard the name somewhere. But the man wasn’t called Lucas, but Harold or something like that. And he was a bit older. Why would you want to know that?”
George was blown away. He had not counted on hearing something like that. Very well, Daphne and her family had apparently sailed to Christchurch on the Dublin, like Helen and Gwyneira had done. A strange coincidence, but it did not help him.
“Lucas Warden is Gerald’s son,” George replied. “A tall, thin man, light blond hair, gray eyes, very proper deportment. And there’s reason to believe that he’s on the move somewhere on the West Coast.”
Daphne’s open expression turned suspicious. “And you followed him here? What are you, the police?”
George shook his head.
“A friend,” he explained. “A friend with very good news. I’m convinced Mr. Warden would be overjoyed to see me. In case you do know something…”
Daphne shrugged. “It wouldn’t matter,” she muttered. “But if you really want to know, there was a man here named Luke—I never got his last name—but the description fits. Not that it matters now, like I said. Luke is dead. But if you want, you can talk to David…if he’ll talk to you. Up until now he’s hardly spoken to anyone. He’s pretty far gone.”
George gave a start—and knew in the same moment that the girl had to be right. There were not going to be many men like Lucas Warden on the West Coast, and this girl was a keen observer. George got up. The sandwich Daphne had brought him looked good, but he had lost his appetite.
“Where can I find this David?” he asked. “If Lucas…if he really is dead, I want to know. Right away.”
Daphne nodded. “I’m sorry, sir, if it really is your Lucas. He was a nice fellow. A little strange, but all right. Come along, I’ll take you to David.”
To George’s astonishment, she did not lead him out of the bar but up the steps. The hourly hotel rooms had to be up here.
“I didn’t think you rented by more than the hour,” he said as the girl purposefully crossed a plush salon lined with several numbered doors.
Daphne nodded. “That’s why Madame Jolanda screamed bloody murder when I had David brought up here. But where could he have gone, badly hurt as he was? We haven’t got a doctor. The barber put his leg in a splint, but feverish and half dead from hunger as he was, he couldn’t just be laid out in a stall. So I made my room available. I now take customers together with Mirabelle, and the old woman takes half my pay as rent. That said, the fellows are happy to pay for the double, so I’m not making any less. Oh well, the old lady is greedy as the Gates of Hell, but I’m ditching this place soon anyway. When Davey’s healthy, I’m going to take my children and look for something new.”
So she already had children. George sighed. The girl must have a hard life. But then George concentrated his full attention on the room that Daphne was now entering and the young man lying in the bed.
David was hardly more than a boy. He looked tiny in the plush double bed, and his splinted and heavily bandaged leg, held up by a complicated contraption of supports and ropes, exaggerated this impression. The boy lay with his eyes closed. His handsome face was pale and drawn beneath his scraggly blond hair.
“Davey?” Daphne asked cheerfully. “Here’s a visitor for you. A gentleman from…”
“Christchurch,” George finished her statement.
“Apparently, he knew Luke. Davey, what was Luke’s last name? You know it, right?”
For George, who had been casting an eye about the room, the question was as good as answered already. On the boy’s night table lay a sketchbook with drawings that were perfectly in keeping with Lucas’s style.
“Denward,” the boy said.
An hour later George had heard the whole story. David told him how Lucas had spent the last few months as a construction worker and draftsman, and ended by describing their ill-fated search for gold.
“It’s all my fault!” he said desperately. “Luke didn’t want to go at all…and then I just had to try climbing down this rock. I killed him! I’m a murderer!”
George shook his head. “You made a mistake, son, maybe more than one. But if it happened like you told me, it was an accident. If Lucas had tied the rope better, he would still be alive. You can’t blame yourself forever. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”
Inwardly he thought that this accident seemed just like Lucas. He was an artist, hopelessly inept in practical life. But such a talent, such a waste.
“How were you saved in the end?” George asked. “I mean, if I understood correctly, you two were pretty far from here.”
“We…we weren’t all that far,” David said. “We both miscalculated. I thought we had ridden at least forty miles, but it was no more than fifteen. I couldn’t manage that on foot…with my injured leg. I was sure I was going to die. But first…first I buried Luke. Right there on the beach. Not very deep, I’m afraid, but…but there aren’t any wolves here, right?”
George assured him that no wild animal on New Zealand would exhume the body.
“And then I waited…waited to die myself. Three days, I think…at some point I lost consciousness; then I had a fever. I couldn’t make it to the river anymore to drink water…but during that time our horse had come home, which made Mr. Miller think that something wasn’t right. He wanted to send a search party right away, but the men laughed at him. Luke…Luke was not that skilled with horses, you know. Everyone thought he had just tied the gelding up wrong, and that it had run off. But then when we didn’t come back, they sent a boat up. The barber came along, and they found me right away. After only paddling two hours, they said. I was completely unconscious. When I came to, I was here.”
George nodded and ran his hand over the boy’s hair. David looked so young. George could not help but think about the child that Elizabeth was carrying inside her at that moment. Maybe in a few years he would have a son like this—so eager, so brave—but hopefully born under a luckier star than this young man here. What might Lucas have seen in David? The son he had wished for? Or the lover? George was no fool, and he came from a big city. Homosexual tendencies were nothing new to him, and Lucas’s bearing—along with Gwyneira’s years of childlessness—had given him reason to suspect early on that the younger Warden leaned more toward boys than girls. Well, that was none of his business. As for David, the loving glances he cast at Daphne left no doubt about his sexual orientation. Daphne did not, however, return these glances. Another inevitable disappointment for the boy.
George thought for a moment.
“Listen, David,” he said. “Lucas Warden…Luke Denward…was not so alone in the world as you believe. He has a family, and I think his wife has a right to know how he died. When you’re feeling better, there will be a horse waiting for you in the rental stables. Take it and ride to the Canterbury Plains and ask for Gwyneira Warden at Kiward Station. Will you do that…for Luke?”
David nodded seriously. “If you think that’s what he would have wanted.”
“He would certainly have wanted that, David,” George replied. “And after that, ride to Christchurch and come to my offices. Greenwood Enterprises. You won’t find any gold there, but you will find a job that pays better than being a stable boy. If you’re a clever boy—and you must be or Lucas would not have taken you under his wing—you might even grow wealthy in a few years.”
David nodded again, but this time reluctantly.
Daphne, though, gave George a friendly look. “You’ll give him a job where h
e can sit, right?” she asked as she led the visitor out. “The barber says he’ll always limp; the leg is bum. He can’t work at the site or in the stables anymore. But if you find a place for him in an office…then he’ll also change his mind, with regard to girls. It was good for him that he didn’t fall for Luke, but I’m not the right bride for him.”
She spoke calmly and without bitterness, and George felt a slight regret that this active, clever creature was a girl. As a man, Daphne could have made her fortune in the New Country. As a girl, she could only be what she would have been in London—a whore.
More than half a year passed before Steinbjörn Sigleifson directed his horse’s steps over the approach to Kiward Station. After lying for a long while in bed, the boy slowly had to learn how to walk again. In addition to that, taking leave of Daphne and the twins had been hard for him, even though the girl had been telling him for days that it was time for him to be on his way. In the end, there had been nothing else left for him to do. Madame Jolanda expressly asked that he clear out of her room in the brothel, and though Mr. Miller allowed him to make camp in the stables again, he could no longer repay the favor. There was no work for a cripple in Westport—the hard-bitten Coasters had informed him of that without sugarcoating the matter. Even though the boy could already get around without trouble, he still had a strong limp, and he could not remain on his feet for long. So he had finally ridden away—and now stood dazed before the statues on the facade of the manor where Lucas Warden had lived. He still had no idea why his friend had left Kiward Station, but he must have had important reasons to give up such luxury. Gwyneira Warden must have been a real shrew. Steinbjörn—after leaving Daphne, he saw no reason to hold on to the name David—seriously considered turning around without accomplishing anything. Who could imagine what he would have to hear from Lucas’s wife. She might even hold him responsible for Lucas’s death.
“What are you doing here? State your name and your desire.”
Steinbjörn started when he heard a high-pitched voice behind him. It came from the bushes below, and the young Icelander—who had grown up believing in fairies and elves who lived in stones—at first suspected a spirit.
The little girl on the pony who then appeared behind him made a suitably mundane impression on him, even if the rider and steed had a fay-like sweetness. Though the horses on his home island were not big, Steinbjörn had never seen such a small pony. But this tiny sorrel mare—whose color harmonized perfectly with the red-blonde hair of its little rider—looked like a full-grown horse in a miniature edition. The girl directed the horse purposefully toward him.
“Get moving!” she said rudely.
Steinbjörn had to laugh. “My name is Steinbjörn Sigleifson, and I’m looking for Lady Gwyneira Warden. This is Kiward Station, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded seriously. “Yes, but they’re shearing the sheep now, so Mummy isn’t home. Yesterday she was overseeing warehouse three; today she is at number two. She’s trading with the foreman. Grandfather is handling warehouse one.”
Steinbjörn did not know what the girl was talking about, but assumed that the little girl must be telling the truth.
“Can you take me to her?” he inquired.
The girl frowned. “You’re a visitor, right? So I have to take you into the house, and you have to put your card in the silver tray. And then comes Kiri who bids you welcome, and after that Witi, and then you go into the little salon and get tea…oh yes, and I have to entertain you is what Miss O’Keefe says. That means talking with each other, or something like that. About the weather and such. You are a gentleman, right?”
Steinbjörn still did not understand a thing, but he could not deny that the girl was rather entertaining.
“By the way, I’m Fleurette Warden, and this is Minty.” She pointed to the pony.
Steinbjörn suddenly took more interest in the child. Fleurette Warden—she had to be Luke’s daughter. So he had left this charming child behind as well…Steinbjörn understood his friend less and less.
“I don’t think I’m a gentleman,” he informed the girl. “At least, I don’t have a card. Couldn’t we just…I mean, can’t you just take me to your mother?”
Fleurette did not seem to care much for polite conversation and let herself be convinced. She moved her pony so that it was in front of Steinbjörn’s horse, which then had to work hard to keep up. Little Minty made short but fast strides, and Fleurette directed her with great competence. On the short ride to the shearing sheds, she revealed to her new friend that she had just come from school. She wasn’t generally allowed to go by herself, but she was just then because there was no one to accompany her while the sheep were being sheared. She told him about her friend Ruben and her little brother, Paul, whom she though rather daft because he didn’t talk and only screamed—most of all when Fleurette held him in her arms.
“He doesn’t like any of us, only Kiri and Marama,” she said. “Look, there’s shed two. What do you bet that Mummy’s in there?”
The shearing sheds were long buildings with space for several pens that allowed the shearers to work rain or shine. In front and behind them were more pens, where the still unshorn sheep awaited their shearing and those already shorn waited to be herded back into the pastures. Steinbjörn understood next to nothing about sheep but had seen many in his homeland—and could tell that he was looking at top-quality animals. Before being shorn, Kiward Station’s sheep looked like clean, fluffy balls of wool with legs. Afterward they were run through a hygiene bath and looked well nourished and spirited, if a little peeved. Fleurette had dismounted and tied her pony in front of the warehouse with an expert knot. Steinbjörn did the same, then followed her inside, where a pervasive stench of manure, sweat, and wool grease struck him. Fleurette seemed not to notice it as she pushed her way through the orderly chaos of men and sheep. Steinbjörn observed with fascination how the shearers seized the animals quick as lightning, laid them on their backs, and unburdened them of their wool in short order. They seemed to be competing against each other in their task. They triumphantly called out new numbers to each other at regular intervals, which were evidently meant for the overseer.
Whoever was keeping the books had a hell of a job keeping up. Yet the young woman who passed among the men noting their output did not seem overly taxed. Clearly relaxed, she joked with the shearers, and it did not appear that her tallies were ever challenged. Gwyneira Warden wore a simple gray riding dress, and her long red hair was braided carelessly. Though short, she was obviously just as energetic as her daughter—and as she now turned her face in the direction of Steinbjörn, he was blown away by so much beauty. What had Luke been thinking leaving such a woman behind? Steinbjörn could hardly take in her noble features, her sensual lips, and her enchanting indigo-blue eyes. He did not realize he had been staring until her smile turned into a frown, at which point he immediately averted his eyes.
“This is Mummy. And this is Stein…Stein…something with Stein,” Fleur said, attempting a formal introduction.
Steinbjörn had regained his composure and hobbled over to Gwyneira.
“Lady Warden? Steinbjörn Sigleifson. I’ve come from Westport. Mr. Greenwood asked me…well, I was with your late husband when…” He extended his hand to her.
Gwyneira nodded. “Mrs., not Lady, Warden,” she corrected him mechanically as she shook his hand. “But welcome. George mentioned something…but we can’t talk here. Wait a moment, please.”
The young woman looked around, then located an older, dark-haired man among the shearers and exchanged a few words with him. Then she announced to the men in the warehouse that Andy McAran would be handling the overseeing for a while.
“And I expect that you will all maintain our lead! Right now this warehouse is well ahead of one and three. Don’t let them take it from us. As you well know, the winners get a barrel of the best whiskey!” She waved cheerfully to the men, then turned to Steinbjörn. “Come with me, please; we’ll go to the
house. But first let’s find my father-in-law. He should also hear what you have to say.”
Steinbjörn followed Gwyneira and her daughter out to the horses. There Gwyneira mounted a powerful brown mare, quickly and without help. The boy also now noticed the dogs that followed her everywhere.
“Aren’t you needed elsewhere, Finn, Flora? Away with you, back in the warehouse. You come along, Cleo.” The young woman shooed two of the collies back to the sheep shearers; the third, an older dog who was gradually graying around the nose, joined the riders.
Warehouse one, where Gerald was working as overseer, was located west of the main house about a mile away. Gwyneira rode in silence, and Steinbjörn did not say a word either. Fleur alone provided the general entertainment by reporting excitedly about school, where there had apparently been a fight.
“Mr. O’Keefe was very angry at Ruben because he was at school and wasn’t helping with the sheep since the shearers are coming in a few days. Mr. O’Keefe still has sheep in the high pastures, and Ruben was supposed to fetch them, but Ruben is horribly bad when it comes to sheep. I told him: I’ll come help you tomorrow. I’ll take Finn and Flora along, then it’ll go quick as a flash.”
Gwyneira sighed. “O’Keefe will not be particularly happy that there’s a Warden with a few Silkham collies herding his sheep while his son studies Latin…watch out that he doesn’t shoot at you!”
Steinbjörn found the mother’s way of expressing herself as strange as that of her daughter, but Fleur seemed to understand.
“He thinks Ruben has to want to do all that because he’s a boy,” Fleurette remarked.
Gwyneira sighed again and halted her horse in front of a warehouse that looked just like the one they had come from. “He’s not the only one. Here…come along, if you please, Mr. Sigleifson. This is where my father-in-law is working. Or wait here if you prefer, and I’ll bring him right out. There’s as much of a rumpus in here as there was in mine.”
