by Sarah Lark
Waikouaiti lay several miles outside of Dunedin’s borders, and it couldn’t be compared to the Scottish settlement. Here, people settled on the coast, and the area was entirely flat. Otago’s hilly terrain did not begin until a mile west of the farms. Two miles farther lay the mouth of the Waikouaiti River. It immediately reminded Claire of the Avon, and in truth, Waikouaiti was more comparable to the Canterbury Plains than Dunedin. The little town consisted mostly of cabins similar to the farmhouses Kathleen and Claire had left behind.
Reverend Burton headed straight for a neat red-painted school, which stood beside an equally well-kept church. There was also a parsonage.
“My brother of the cloth, Reverend Watgin, also serves as the teacher here,” he informed Sean, who was listening attentively. “He’s been here for almost twenty years now and is very strict—so, please, not a word about Mr. Darwin’s ideas. Reverend Watgin thinks me dangerous; the bishop must have warned him about me. In any case, Johnny Jones brought him here to offer his settlers spiritual and moral support. He really thought of everything.”
Reverend Watgin and his wife did not seem any less bigoted and ossified than the Scottish settlers of Dunedin, but the couple had been on the South Island longer and seemed to have lost their pioneering spirit. They showed only a modicum of politeness to Reverend Burton, and they viewed Kathleen, Claire, and the children with skepticism.
“So, from the plains,” said Reverend Watgin, a tall, haggard man with piercing eyes. “Widows?”
“My husband is at sea,” Claire rushed to assure them.
“And why aren’t you waiting at the harbor like a good wife?” Watgin asked sternly. “Whenever you are involved in something, Reverend Burton, we see the effects of modern times. Priests deny the Bible; women leave their homes . . .”
Kathleen and Claire said nothing to his grumblings, as Reverend Burton had advised them.
“We briefly had to pay our respects there first, but Reverend Watgin does not have much say,” he told them later. “The main thing is that Mrs. Jones is like you. Johnny is at sea most of the time; his wife holds rank here, and she’s an uncrowned queen.”
Mrs. Jones resided on Matanaka Farm, named for the strips of coast on the north end of Waikouaiti Bay. She ruled over a large, tidy farmhouse surrounded by gardens of lushly blossoming flowers, which Claire noticed first. The farm buildings were painted in fresh colors that also spoke of a person who embraced her life—and what was more, the mistress of the house seemed to have a weakness for good-looking young men. Her small blue eyes shone when she opened the door for Reverend Burton.
Mrs. Jones was plump, and a smile spread across her greasy face at the first glimpse of her male visitor. Excitedly, she adjusted her coiffure, which seemed to consist of a thousand blonde corkscrew curls. Doubtless it took her hours with her curling irons every day to give it shape, but it made her look younger. Her cheerful, high-pitched voice contributed to people liking her at once.
“Reverend Burton! Are you bringing those dangerous thoughts of yours back to our tiny little town?” she teased him, all her little curls bobbing with pleasure. “Now what have you brought us here? Not any fallen women, I hope?” She shook her finger at the reverend. “Recall: ‘our descent hearkens back exclusively to decent, well-regarded citizens of South England.’” She spoke these last words with a high-pitched, almost nagging voice, apparently imitating someone. “So please don’t entrust any little sheep that have faltered in any way to our Mrs. Ashley. They could blacken the whole herd!” Mrs. Jones winked at the reverend and the women.
“And so she denies heredity too,” laughed Reverend Burton. Apparently, they were talking about a mutual acquaintance. “But Mrs. Jones, you should be ashamed. We’ve just got here, and you start mocking your brothers and sisters in Christ. Is that Christian?” He did not wait for an answer. “I think it’s time for a good work—as atonement, so to speak—and you’ll suffer in silence what Agnes Ashley has to say about it.”
At that, the reverend described the women and children’s situation to Carol Jones.
“You know the Scots, Mrs. Jones. They immediately assume eternal damnation when a woman is alone, no matter the reason. Mrs. Edmunds and Mrs. Coltrane will never have any luck in Dunedin, and I can’t let them sleep in the church forever. People are already wagging their tongues. Even our own ladies are no angels, after all, as you well know.”
Mrs. Jones giggled. “Aye. Do you have any experience with farm work?” She turned to Kathleen and Claire. “Or can you make yourselves useful some other way?”
Kathleen nodded, wanting to say something about herself, but Claire beat her to it. “We had a sort of business in Christchurch,” she declared courageously. “Ladies’ fashion in the styles of Paris and London.”
With a grand gesture, she pulled out a few of Kathleen’s drawings and held them out to Mrs. Jones. The town founder’s wife looked at them with an increasingly covetous facial expression.
“You can tailor this here?” Mrs. Jones’ tiny curls bobbed again. “Truly?”
A short time later, Kathleen, Claire, and the children moved into a shanty on the coast. It had no window, but Claire was delighted they could hear the sea.
“We’ll have some windows put in,” said Mrs. Jones, unconcerned. “That’s important; otherwise you’ll ruin your eyes sewing. You really think this crinoline will look good on me, Reverend?” Mrs. Jones could hardly tear herself from the fabrics and designs. She had already found a favorite dress too. “Won’t it make me look fat?”
Kathleen was cleaning the shanty and making it comfortable while Claire said a heartfelt good-bye to Reverend Burton.
“You will come to visit occasionally, won’t you?” she asked.
The reverend nodded. “Of course. I’ll also look forward to seeing you Sunday at service. It’s a little far, naturally, so now and again you’ll want to attend the sermons of my esteemed colleague here for a change.” He winked at her. “And you must bring this back to me as well.” He pointed to the Darwin papers Claire had borrowed to study with Sean.
Kathleen was not overly excited about that. Sean would be going to Reverend Watgin’s school from now on and should not offend him right away. Yet on the other hand, his hunger for knowledge could hardly be sated.
“I’m expecting a new book,” Reverend Burton continued eagerly. “On the Origin of Species; it’s to be published soon. In it, Mr. Darwin will provide evidence for this hypothesis. Keep your eyes open. It will cause an uproar in the next few years. The world will change.”
Reverend Burton’s last statement would be proven right when it came to Otago. However, it was not the writings of Charles Darwin that would turn everything topsy-turvy in Dunedin and its environs.
At first, life in Waikouaiti traveled a familiar course. To Claire, it hardly differed from her existence in Christchurch. At least, she did not find any friends, except for the cheerful Mrs. Jones.
Kathleen looked forward to meeting the settlers from Australia, hoping to learn information about the country to which Michael had been banished. Yet even the mention of penal colonies seemed to anger the farmers, and even more so their wives.
“That’s how it always is,” said Mrs. Ashley, who didn’t require an introduction. Mrs. Jones had done a perfect impression. “Hardly does one mention that accursed land but it’s about rogues and thieves and murderers. You can’t even tell people you come from there, because they assume you were hauled there in chains. But, ladies, we are honorable people driven by a pioneering spirit. We left the south of England willingly. Keep that in mind. We come from highly esteemed families and . . .”
“I just was curious about what it’s like there,” said Kathleen, “the country, the weather, the people.”
Mrs. Ashley was not assuaged. She gave Kathleen and Claire disapproving looks.
“It depends on where you wash up in that hellish country,” answered Mr. Ashley in her stead. He was not quite as prejudiced and cantankerous as hi
s spouse, but the women didn’t like the brawny, dim-witted farmer any more than they did his wife. “There’re deserts where you burn up, but also regions where it rains all the time, like here. There are plains, rainforests, swamps. Anyway, it’s not like it should be. And the animals: everything that creeps and crawls carries death inside it—snakes, scorpions, massive spiders. The big animals don’t birth their young normally but carry them in pouches of fur and skin. It’s unnatural is what it is.”
“Or different than in the south of England.” Mrs. Jones grinned.
The group had met on the way to church, and their “queen” was wearing her new dress for the first time. The crinoline and puffy sleeves weren’t perhaps the best choice for her figure, but Carol Jones was overjoyed with the powerful marine blue of the silk she had chosen. The other women looked at her with a mixture of fascination, disapproval, and jealousy.
“Don’t listen to our friends, girls. They were disappointed by Australia; that’s why they’re here.”
“But the worst are the convicts,” Mrs. Ashley took up her husband’s tirade. “You lose your good reputation as soon as you set foot in that country—and what’s worse, you can’t be sure of life and limb. They let the people run free, you know, once they’ve served their time, and often enough even before that. You can imagine, a whole country settled by ne’er-do-wells.”
“Surely they weren’t all ne’er-do-wells,” Kathleen dared to object, but that only turned the upright English even more against her. Everyone had a story to tell about how he or one of his neighbors was robbed, lied to, or cheated by a former prisoner.
“I’m sure there’s something to what they say,” Kathleen said glumly to Claire after church. “No doubt some prisoners are dangerous. And then there are the forest fires and wild animals. They say many of the convicts die there.”
Kathleen could no longer keep it to herself. On that second Sunday in their new home, she finally told Claire about Michael. She breathed a sigh of relief when Claire did not damn her for her love but instead found the whole thing rather romantic.
“He wrote he’d come back,” she said, enthralled, as Kathleen showed her the letter from Michael she had carefully kept all those years. The sight of his lock of hair almost moved her to tears. “Oh, Kathleen, maybe you should have waited for him.”
Mrs. Ashley and her friends found Kathleen’s interest in Australia strange; they also found the women and children without male protection strange. To them, cute, lively Claire and the quieter but extraordinarily beautiful Kathleen seemed a constant temptation for their husbands. They gossiped about every little conversation between the women and a farmworker or settler. Nevertheless, these pious women delighted in London fashion. So they slunk repeatedly to Kathleen and Claire’s house to place orders for clothing—only to complain about the high costs later.
“We’ll never make as much as in Christchurch,” said Claire with concern. “I had been looking forward to city flair. Instead, we’re sitting in the country again washing wool. If only they’d let me help out more with the sheep and horses at least. But, no, I might seduce Mr. Ashley in so doing. As if he were any more attractive than one of the rams.” Claire was more than unsatisfied.
Kathleen settled markedly more easily into her uneventful life. At least no one was beating and insulting her anymore. Sean was unthreatened, and Heather no longer witnessed ugly scenes. The children attended Reverend Watgin’s school, and thanks to their education from Claire, they easily overtook the settlers’ children. Sean, in particular, could learn nothing more in the village school. Were it not for Reverend Burton, he would have been disappointed with Otago. At least once a month, Claire insisted on attending Sunday service in Dunedin, usually driving there on Saturday afternoon, having dinner in Reverend Burton’s tent, and sleeping in the “church” or at the house of another parishioner. The Anglican parish grew slowly but steadily, and naturally, Reverend Burton did not want to gain a reputation for housing female visitors overnight.
Still, Claire and Kathleen were always welcome, as were the children, especially Sean, whose sharp intellect fascinated the reverend. He loaned the boy books and talked with him as with a grown-up about history and philosophy. Claire also treasured conversation with the reverend. Kathleen mostly only listened silently, but she never objected to the visits to Dunedin and never seemed bored. When she did on occasion interject something, it was usually striking and sharp-witted. Still, she could have lived without the discussion of Mr. Darwin’s ideas.
Kathleen often wondered what drew her to spend time with Reverend Burton. She did notice that she felt safe and comfortable in his presence—more comfortable than anywhere else since she had fled Ian. She still felt guilty—not about Ian, but Colin. She should not have left her son to himself and his swindler father. Moreover, Kathleen feared retribution. The escape had been so quick that she hadn’t thought much about Ian coming to look for her. In fact, she had assumed he would let her go. Now when she thought about his fits of jealousy, she couldn’t imagine how he would tolerate her leaving him. Ian may never have loved her, but he had seen her as his property. And he would not like her being stolen from him.
All these thoughts fell silent when Kathleen was around Reverend Burton. She recognized that he admired her beauty, but he never got too close. She appreciated the way he conversed with Claire—not as man and woman, but as two people who shared similar interests. Reverend Burton did not flatter like Michael, and he did not flirt with the women. Yet surely he kept his word and bore the consequences of all he said and did. His adherence to Darwin’s theories and rebellion against his own church impressed her. The Bible was a big book, and Reverend Burton could preach about everything and anything, not just the creation story. And yet he would not let go of this subject, and as consequence, he bore his exile to a tent in Dunedin patiently.
Nevertheless, he recently had been worrying more and more about his future. “They’re talking of ordaining a bishop and sending him here.” He sighed. “Will I keep my position here then? I rather doubt it. They’ll find something else for me. Perhaps I’ll be sent to preach to the Maori.”
“The Maori believe the world was made when two lovers were forcefully separated,” said Kathleen.
She now often worked with Maori women. There was a settlement near Waikouaiti, and Reverend Watgin made every effort to convert the Ngai Tahu, and they came politely to church. However, during their mutual exchanges of patterns and secrets about wool dyeing, they told Kathleen and Claire their people’s mythology: Papa was the earth, Rangi the sky, and only once their children pushed them apart could plants, animals, and humans come into being.
“So, even worse,” laughed Claire. “Natural selection and divorce. They can’t set you loose among the Maori, Reverend; you’d come back with even more shocking ideas than you had before.”
Thus passed the summer and winter. Claire and Kathleen lived a quiet, not very exciting life in their little town on the South Island. But then, on a cool autumn day in 1861, something happened that would influence not only the Anglican church but also the life of every single citizen of Otago. The first in Waikouaiti to learn of it was Carol Jones, because she allowed herself the luxury of a daily newspaper. Occasionally, delivery of the Otago Witness was late and she received three or four issues at once. Still, she did learn the news before everyone else, and that day, she gladly shared her knowledge with Claire, who was helping her in the garden.
“They found gold near the Tuapeka,” Mrs. Jones said. “An Australian; seems he’s completely beside himself. ‘Shining like the stars of Orion on a dark, frosty night,’ he said. So he might make a decent geologist, but he’d starve as a poet.”
Claire laughed. “And now? Is everyone running to the Tuapeka?”
The small river where Gabriel Read was supposed to have found gold flowed some thirty-five miles from Dunedin.
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “Stuff and nonsense. You know the Scots. Wheat’s more precious than
gold, and heaven forbid any wealth without work. The city sent out a hundred and fifty people first thing to see if there’s anything to it. Maybe this Read fellow just dreamed it up.”
For a while, no one heard any more about Gabriel Read’s gold find. Even Reverend Burton didn’t know any news. “The bishop in Canterbury has been warning about people chasing after gold; so far, there have been rumors of more finds but no reports about them in the papers.”
A few weeks later, Kathleen, Claire, and the children were spending another Saturday evening with the reverend. He had invited a young married Anglican couple that had immigrated from Australia a short time before. Of course, Reverend Burton knew of Kathleen’s interest in the neighboring country. He bathed in Kathleen’s gratitude but also registered that her face looked increasingly clouded over with sorrow as she heard the couple’s report.
“The country is very fertile,” said Mr. Cooper, an agricultural engineer, “but a large portion is very dry. And not without its dangers. Some regions are breathtakingly beautiful, but in the grass wait poison snakes and other beasties. Nor are the natives always friendly; no comparison with the Maori here. The aborigines aren’t looking to give anything away. They feel threatened by the white settlers. Well, and the many convicts there have not done us any favors either. Most of them, it’s true, aren’t half so bad, but there are also plenty of scoundrels the others don’t even like.”
“Is it, is it true that many die?” Kathleen asked quietly.
Mr. Cooper shrugged his shoulders. “That depends a bit on the region. For instance, Tasmania—what they used to call Van Diemen’s Land—has a bad reputation, true, but nature is not nearly so dangerous there. In the interior, however . . .”
“What about the forest fires?” asked Claire.
Kathleen had admitted that she had been suffering nightmares since hearing the Ashleys’ reports. She pictured Michael trapped in a fiery hell. And sometimes herself as well. Kathleen did not know whether these images related to hearing of the fires or more to her own sins and the purgatory they made inevitable.
