by Sarah Lark
Steinbjörn had already dismounted, so he followed her into the warehouse. It would not have been polite to greet the older man from the saddle. Besides, he hated when people treated him differently because of his limp.
An active, noisy commotion filled warehouse one just as it had in Gwyneira’s division, but the atmosphere was different here—palpably more strained, not as chummy. The men seemed less motivated, more pressed or hounded. And the powerful older man moving among the shearers criticized rather than joked with them. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass stood next to the board where he noted output. He was just taking another drink when Gwyneira entered and spoke to him.
Steinbjörn saw a bloated face with bloodshot eyes; whiskey had clearly taken its toll on the man.
“What are you doing here?” he snapped at Gwyneira. “Already done with the five thousand sheep in warehouse two?”
Gwyneira shook her head. Steinbjörn noticed her simultaneously concerned and accusatory glance at the bottle.
“No, Gerald, Andy is handling it. I was called away. And I think you should come too. Gerald, this is Mr. Sigleifson. He’s come to tell us about Lucas’s death.” She introduced Steinbjörn, but the old man’s face exhibited only disdain.
“And you’re leaving the warehouse in the lurch for that? To hear what your cock-sucking husband’s catamite has to say?”
Gwyneira looked shocked, but to her relief her young visitor looked on uncomprehending. His Nordic accent had already caught her attention—either he had not heard or he just didn’t understand what the words meant.
“Gerald, this young man was the last person to see Lucas alive.” She calmly tried once more, but the old man exploded at her.
“And kissed him good-bye, eh? Spare me these stories, Gwyn. Lucas is dead. He should rest in peace, but please leave me in peace too! And I don’t want to catch that boy in my house when I’m done here.”
Gerald turned away. Gwyneira led Steinbjörn out with an apologetic expression on her face. “Please forgive my father-in-law; it’s the whiskey talking. He never got over Lucas…well, him being what he was, or that he ended up leaving the farm…deserted it, as Gerald puts it. Lord knows he had his part in it. But that’s ancient history. I’m grateful that you’ve come, Mr. Sigleifson. Let’s go to the house; you could no doubt do with some refreshment.”
Steinbjörn could hardly bring himself to set foot in the manor. He was sure he’d make one mistake after another. Luke had occasionally brought to his attention certain details of correct table posture and the rules of etiquette, and even Daphne seemed to know something of these matters. But he himself knew nothing and was terribly afraid of making a fool of himself in front of Gwyneira. She, however, led him entirely naturally in through a side door, took his jacket, and then rang, not for the maid apparently, because they met straightaway with the nanny, Kiri, in the salon. Gerald had recently lifted his prohibition on the young woman bringing the children along when she was cleaning or taking care of other housework. He had eventually realized that if he banned Kiri to the kitchen, Paul would grow up there.
Gwyneira greeted Kiri kindly and took one of the babies out of the baby basket.
“Mr. Sigleifson, my son Paul,” she said, though the last words were drowned out by the baby’s earsplitting scream. Paul did not seem to relish being taken from his adopted sister Marama’s side.
Steinbjörn pondered a few things. Paul was still a baby. He must have been born during Luke’s absence.
“I give up,” sighed Gwyneira, laying the baby back in its basket. “Kiri, would you take the babies please—Fleur too; she still needs to eat, and what the two of us have to discuss is not suitable for her ears. And could you please make us some tea—or coffee, Mr. Sigleifson?”
“Steinbjörn, please,” the boy said shyly. “Or David. Luke called me David.”
Gwyneira’s gaze passed over his features and his ruffled hair. Then she smiled. “He always was a little jealous of Michelangelo,” she remarked after a pause. “Come, sit down. You had a long ride.”
To his astonishment Steinbjörn did not find the conversation with Gwyneira Warden difficult at all. He had initially been worried that she didn’t know about Lucas’s death, but George Greenwood had obviously already said something. Gwyneira had long since overcome the first waves of sorrow and only asked sympathetically about Steinbjörn’s time with her husband, how they had come to know each other and what had happened during his final months.
Finally Steinbjörn described the circumstances of his death, blaming himself anew.
But Gwyneira saw things as Greenwood had and expressed herself even more strongly. “There’s nothing you could do about Lucas being unable to tie a knot. He was a good man, God knows I treasured him. And as it turns out, he was a very gifted artist. But he was hopelessly lacking in common sense. Still…I think he always wished he could be a hero just once. And he was in the end, wasn’t he?”
Steinbjörn nodded. “Everyone talks about him with the greatest respect, Mrs. Warden. People are considering naming the rock after him. The rock that…that we fell from.”
Gwyneira was touched. “I don’t think he ever wanted more than that.”
Steinbjörn was afraid she would burst into tears any moment, and he certainly had no idea how to properly comfort a lady. But then she regained her composure and continued with her questions. To his amazement, she asked a great many questions about Daphne, whom she remembered very well. After Greenwood reported having met the girl, Helen had written straightaway to Westport, but had yet to receive a response. Steinbjörn confirmed their suspicion that the red-haired Daphne in Westport was indeed Helen’s charge from long ago, and he informed her about the twins as well. Gwyneira was blown away when she heard about Laurie and Mary.
“So Daphne found the girls! Now how did she manage that? And they’re all doing well? Daphne’s taking care of them?”
“Well, they…” Steinbjörn reddened. “They…work a bit themselves. They dance. Here…here, Luke sketched them.” The boy had brought his saddlebags in with him and looked for a folder; having located it, he thumbed through it. Only as he was pulling it out did it occur to him that these drawings were hardly fit for the eyes of a lady. However, Gwyneira did not bat an eye when she laid eyes on them. In order to supply the galleries in London, she had already combed through Lucas’s workroom and was therefore not nearly as innocent as she had been a few months before. Lucas had already painted nudes before—boys at first, who assumed the same pose as that of David, but men too in unambiguous poses. One of the images had displayed the traces of frequent use. Lucas had taken it out again and again, looked at it, and…
Gwyneira noticed that the nude sketches of the twins, but especially a study of young Daphne, contained finger indentations. Lucas? Hardly!
“You like Daphne, do you?” she asked her young visitor cautiously.
Steinbjörn blushed deeply. “Oh yes, very much! I wanted to marry her. But she doesn’t want me.” In the youth’s voice, she discerned all the pain of a lover spurned. This young man had never been Lucas’s “catamite.”
“You’ll marry a different girl,” Gwyneira comforted him. “You…you do like girls?”
Steinbjörn’s expression made it clear he thought that was the dumbest question a person could ask. Then he willingly gave her more information about his plans for the future. He planned to go looking for George Greenwood and work for him.
“I would have preferred to build houses,” he said sadly. “I wanted to be an architect. Luke said I had talent. But I would have had to go to school in England for that, and I can’t afford it. But here, these are for you.” Steinbjörn closed Lucas’s sketch portfolio and pushed it across to Gwyneira. “I brought you Luke’s pictures. All his drawings…Mr. Greenwood said they might be valuable. I don’t want to get rich that way. If I could maybe keep just one. The one of Daphne.”
Gwyneira smiled. “Naturally, you can keep all of them. No doubt that’
s what Lucas would have wanted.” She considered briefly, seeming to arrive at a decision. “Go ahead and put your jacket on, David. We’ll ride to Haldon. There’s something else there that Lucas would have wanted.”
The director of the bank in Haldon seemed to think Gwyneira was crazy. He came up with a thousand reasons to refuse her request, but finally conceded when faced with her implacable determination. Reluctantly, he transferred the account into which Lucas’s income from the picture sales flowed to Steinbjörn Sigleifson’s name.
“You’re going to regret this, Mrs. Warden. It’s shaping up into a fortune. Your children…”
“My children already have a fortune. They’re the heirs of Kiward Station, and my daughter does not have the slightest interest in art. We don’t need the money, but this boy here was Lucas’s pupil. A…soul mate, so to speak. He needs the money, he knows to cherish it, and he will have it! Here, David, you need to sign. With your full name, that’s important.”
Steinbjörn’s breath caught when he saw the sum in the account. But Gwyneira only nodded at him kindly. “Well, go ahead and sign. I need to get back to my shearing shed to increase my children’s fortune. And you’d do best to look into this gallery yourself. So that they don’t swindle you when you sell the rest of the pictures. You are now more or less the manager of Lucas’s artistic inheritance. So make something of it!”
Steinbjörn Sigleifson no longer hesitated but signed his name to the document.
Lucas’s “David” had found his gold mine.
Arrival
CANTERBURY PLAINS—OTAGO
1870–1877
1
“Paul, Paul, where are you hiding this time?”
Helen called after the most rebellious of her pupils, though she knew for a fact that the boy could hardly hear her. Paul Warden was certainly not playing peacefully with the Maori children in the immediate vicinity of their makeshift schoolhouse. When he disappeared, it meant trouble in no uncertain terms—whether he was duking it out somewhere with his archenemy Tonga, the son of the chief of the Maori tribe dwelling on Kiward Station, or he was lying in wait for Ruben and Fleurette in order to play some kind of prank on them. His gags were not always funny. Ruben had gotten rather upset recently when Paul had poured an inkwell out on his newest book. That had been aggravating not only because the boy had wanted this law compendium for a long time and only just received it from England thanks to George Greenwood, but also because the book was exceptionally valuable. Although Gwyneira had reimbursed him for it, she was just as shocked by her son’s deed as Helen.
“He’s not all that young anymore!” she exclaimed, working herself into a state while the eleven-year-old Paul stood, unremorseful, nearby. “Paul, you knew what that book was worth! And that was no accident. Do you think money grows on trees at Kiward Station?”
“Nah, but it does on the sheep,” retorted Paul, not entirely wrong. “We could afford to buy a stupid, dusty old book like that every week if we wanted.” He glared spitefully at Ruben. The boy knew exactly what the economic situation in the Canterbury Plains was. True, Howard O’Keefe was doing much better under the aegis of Greenwood Enterprises, but he was still a long way from Gerald’s honorary title of sheep baron. The flocks and the wealth of Kiward Station had also grown over the past ten years, and for Paul Warden, hardly a wish went unfulfilled. He had little interest in books. Paul would rather have the fastest pony, loved toy weapons like pistols, and would surely already have had an air rifle if George Greenwood had not “forgotten” it every time he placed orders to England. Helen observed Paul’s development with concern. In her opinion, no one set enough boundaries for the boy. Both Gwyneira and Gerald bought him expensive presents but otherwise hardly concerned themselves with him. By this time, Paul had largely outgrown the influence of his “adopted mother,” Kiri, as well. He had long since adopted his grandfather’s opinion that the white race was superior to the Maori. That was also the cause of his endless fights with Tonga. The chieftain’s son was just as self-assured as the sheep baron’s heir, and the boys fought bitterly over to whom the land on which both Tonga’s people and the Wardens lived belonged. That too disconcerted Helen. Tonga would most likely take over as his father’s successor, just as Paul would inherit from his grandfather. If their enmity lasted, then things might become difficult. And every bloody nose that one of the boys went home with deepened the rift between them.
At least there was Marama, who reassured Helen somewhat. Kiri’s daughter, Paul’s “adopted sister,” had a sort of sixth sense for the boys’ confrontations and tended to show up at every battleground to arbitrate. If she was there, innocently playing hopscotch with a few friends, then Paul and Tonga avoided trouble. Marama then gave Helen a conspiratorial smile. She was a charming child, at least by Helen’s standards. Her face was narrower than that of most Maori girls, and her velvety complexion was the color of chocolate. She did not have any tattoos yet and probably never would be decorated according to custom. The Maori had increasingly abandoned the ritual and rarely even wore traditional clothing anymore. They were obviously making efforts to fit in with the pakeha—which delighted Helen in some ways, but which also occasionally filled her with a vague feeling of regret.
“Where’s Paul, Marama?” Helen now turned directly to the girl. Paul and Marama usually came to class together from Kiward Station. If Paul had gotten upset about something and ridden home early, she would know it.
“He rode away, miss. He’s on the trail of a mystery,” Marama revealed in a clear, loud voice. The little girl was a good singer, a talent treasured by her people.
Helen sighed. They had just read a few books about pirates and treasure hunts, hidden countries and secret gardens, and now all the girls were looking for enchanted rose gardens while the boys excitedly drew treasure maps. Ruben and Fleur had done the same thing at this age, but when it came to Paul, she knew that the secrets might not be so innocent. He had recently driven Fleurette into a frenzy of worry by leading her beloved horse Minette, a daughter of the mare Minty and the stud Madoc, away and hiding it in Kiward Station’s rose garden. Since Lucas’s death, that part of the garden was hardly kept up, and no one thought to look for the horse there. Besides, Minette had not been taken from her stall but from the O’Keefes’ yard. Helen was frantic at the thought that Gerald would hold her husband responsible for the loss of his valuable animal. Minette had finally drawn attention to herself by whinnying and galloping around the yard. That did not happen, however, until hours later, after she had enjoyed her fill of the grass in the overgrown square, during which a desperate Fleurette wrongly believed her horse to be lost in the highlands or stolen by horse thieves.
Thieves and rustlers in general…this was a subject that had been disquieting farmers in the Canterbury Plains for a few years now. Although the New Zealanders had prided themselves only a decade earlier on not being the descendants of convicts like the Australians, instead building a society of virtuous colonists, criminal elements were beginning to surface here. It was nothing surprising—the abundant livestock count of farms like Kiward Station and the steadily growing fortune of their owners aroused covetousness. In addition, climbing the social ladder was no longer so simple for new immigrants. The first families were already established, land was no longer to be had for free or close to it, and the whale and seal grounds were largely exhausted. There was still the occasional spectacular gold find, so it was still possible to go from rags to riches—just not in the Canterbury Plains. But the great livestock barons’ foothills, flocks, and herds had become the center of operations and the barons themselves victims of brutal thieves and rustlers. It had all begun with one man, an old acquaintance of Helen and the Wardens: James McKenzie.
At first Helen had not believed it when Howard had come home from the pub cursing Gerald’s former foreman by name.
“Heaven only knows why Warden gave him the boot, but now we’re all paying the price. The workers talk about him as if he were a
hero. He steals only the best animals, they say, ones from the money-bags. He leaves the small farmers alone. What nonsense! How’s he supposed to know the difference? But they take a devilish delight in it. Wouldn’t surprise me if the fellow gathered himself a band of thieves.”
“Like Robin Hood,” had been Helen’s first thought, but then she reproved herself for the romantic lapse. The romanticization of the rustler was nothing more than people’s imagination at work.
“How is one man supposed to manage all of that?” she remarked to Gwyneira. “Herding the sheep together, culling them, taking them over the mountains…you’d need a whole gang.”
“Or a dog like Cleo,” Gwyneira suggested uneasily, thinking of the puppy she had given James in parting. James McKenzie was a particularly gifted dog trainer. No doubt Friday was no longer second to her mother anymore—more likely she had since lapped her. Cleo had grown very old by this time and mostly deaf. She still stuck to Gwyneira like her shadow, but she no longer served as a work dog.
It wasn’t long before the odes to James McKenzie began including his brilliant sheepdog. Gwyneira’s suspicions were confirmed when Friday’s name was dropped for the first time.
Fortunately, Gerald made no comment on James’s abilities as a shepherd or the missing pup, whose absence he must have noticed at the time. However, Gerald and Gwyneira had had other things on their minds during that fateful year. The sheep baron had probably simply forgotten about the little dog. In any event, he lost several head of livestock a year to McKenzie—as did Howard, the Beasleys, and all the other larger sheep breeders. Helen would have liked to know what Gwyneira thought about it, but her friend never mentioned James McKenzie if she could help it.
Helen had by now had enough of her senseless search for Paul. She would begin class whether he showed up or not. Chances were pretty good that he would turn up eventually. Paul respected Helen; she might have been the only person he ever listened to. Sometimes she believed that his constant attacks on Ruben, Fleurette, and Tonga might be motivated by jealousy. The bright and attentive chieftain’s son was among her favorite students, and Ruben and Fleurette held a special place in her heart, of course. Paul, though certainly not stupid, was not exceptionally scholarly, preferring to play the class clown—and thus made Helen’s life difficult, as well as his own.
