by Lark, Sarah
Afterward, Brigitte could not dance for several weeks and repeatedly sobbed through the night, a routine that initially got on Kura’s nerves because she was sharing a hotel room with the dancer. However, after only a few nights, Kura began to slip out shortly after bedtime to visit the impresario herself. Brigitte did not hold this against Kura and pretended not to notice a thing. She was relieved to be rid of the singing parts that were hopelessly beyond her, and she certainly had no further interest in Roderick.
Kura found herself strongly attracted to the handsome tenor. She did not have to fake her enthusiasm when she succumbed to his advances. He did not bother long with kisses and harmless caresses though. And when Kura expressed her fears about becoming pregnant, he only laughed.
“Nonsense, child, I’ll be careful! Nothing will go wrong with me. No worries.”
Kura wanted to believe that, and she noticed that Roderick pulled out of her more quickly when making love than William had. But the situation with Brigitte nagged at the back of her mind. Finally, with a thumping heart, she confided in Sabina Conetti. Although she was a bit concerned that the singer did not particularly like her—Roderick was now rehearsing the soprano roles with his new discovery—Kura trusted her more than anyone else to have insights into women’s problems. And Sabina did instruct Kura in what little she knew about these matters.
“You can stay away from him on the dangerous days. But that is never a sure thing; nothing ever is,” she said. “Least of all the fellows’ promises they’ll marry you if things go wrong, or anything else they say. Believe me, Roderick will promise you the moon and the stars now, but you shouldn’t count on that. For the moment, he thinks himself a Pygmalion, but in the end, he’s the same as the rest. Once he has no more need of you, he’ll drop you.
This warning was wasted on Kura, however. For one thing, she knew nothing about Greek mythology, and second, she was firmly convinced that Roderick meant to do right by her. If he was so egotistical, he would not be giving her ever-greater roles or singing lessons every day for free. He spent half the afternoon on the piano with Kura while the other members of the ensemble enjoyed their freedom, exploring towns like Auckland and Wellington, and taking trips to visit the region’s natural wonders.
Kura was at his service at night as well. Though she enjoyed herself, Roderick paled in comparison to William as a lover. Kura missed the ecstasy, the breathless climaxes her husband had driven her to, and was occasionally irked that Roderick did not compensate her in the same manner for the risk of becoming pregnant. But she forgot all that when she stood onstage in the evenings, basking in the audience’s applause. And Roderick proved to be anything but vain. On the contrary, he let her shine, sending her repeatedly in front of the curtain on her own to receive the ovations of the crowd and handing her flowers onstage. She was exquisitely happy then, and after the performance, overwhelmed with gratitude toward Roderick, she covered him in caresses.
“Our rooster seems to have found true love!” whispered Fred Houver, the baritone, to Sabina Conetti one evening. “And the girl is really improving. She still has trouble with her breathing, but one day she’ll make has-beens of the rest of us—and him first of all.”
The singers were standing in the background while Roderick bowed to Kura onstage for the fifth time. They had served as the chorus while Kura and Roderick had played Carmen and her matador.
Sabina nodded at Fred Houver’s words and looked at Kura’s radiant face. There was no question that Roderick had fallen for the girl. But would that save her when the day of reckoning came?
William had had enough. It had been another one of those days when he would have liked to leave Kiward Station sooner rather than later—if only he could imagine some alternative. Gwyneira had sold a flock of lambs to Major Richland and asked William to herd them over to him. Since the weather had looked promising, the major had decided to ride along and had spent the night before at Kiward Station. He had tippled with William for quite a while after Gwyneira and James had retired, which meant they were both hungover and in a bad temper the following morning. It didn’t help that it was now raining and that the Maori shepherds Gwyneira had assigned to William had not appeared. Only Andy McAran was hanging about in the stables. William asked him to accompany him and the major, as he did not trust himself to find the selected sheep on his own. Andy, who saw that he had no other choice if the whole endeavor was not to degenerate into a complete disgrace, condescended to come along, but kept up a grueling tempo and ignored William when he asked him to slow down on account of his older guest. Major Richland, however, held his own just fine on his thoroughbred, his spirits rising with every drink from the flask he carried. William ended up drinking, too, though Andy declined with a shake of his head.
“Not on the job, Mr. Martyn. Gwyn doesn’t look kindly on that.”
William, sensing that he was being reprimanded, tried to ride with Major Richland, but as it turned out, he could not hold his liquor half as well as the old soldier. He failed miserably at herding the sheep together. His dog refused to listen to him, instead pressing itself to the ground in fear as he yelled at it. Then his horse shied away from a thick-headed young ram that broke through the shepherds’ lines, and William found himself sprawled in the wet grass.
Andy McAran kept an iron grip on himself, maintaining his composure, but Major Richland teased his host mercilessly the rest of the way back to the farm. In addition to that humiliation, the rain was still pouring down and the men were soaked to the bone. The major did not want to return home that evening, and instead planned to spend the night at Kiward Station, undoubtedly entertaining the McKenzies with the tales of William’s misadventures. The whole undertaking had turned into a fiasco. If only Kura would return. But in the enthusiastic letters that she occasionally sent to Gwyneira, she sounded as happy as ever. She had not once written to William.
Naturally, there was no stableboy in sight when the men finally rode into Kiward Station’s farmyard, and William had to tend to his horse himself. Andy McAran did not insist that William accompany him to the sheepcotes where the sheep were to be kept overnight. Stinking of wet wool and lanolin, William decided he hated working with sheep more than anything in the world.
Gwyneira and James were expecting the major and William in the salon, but they made no move to offer the men a drink. They could tell from their red faces and unsteady steps that enough alcohol had already flowed that day. Gwyneira and James exchanged looks: there would be no alcohol before dinner if this was to be a pleasant evening. They sent the men upstairs to bathe and change. The butler carried the hot water to the guest’s room first.
William would have liked to lie down in bed with a bottle of whiskey, but when he entered the rooms he had so lovingly furnished for his life with Kura, there was a surprise waiting for him: the aromatic scent of fresh tea wafted from the little salon. A samovar was keeping it warm, and beside it were two glasses and a bottle of rum.
William could not restrain himself. He reached for the rum bottle and took a long slug. But who might have prepared all this for him? Certainly not Gwyneira, nor Moana or Kiri to be sure. The Maori women had little sense for such things, and the servants were busy with the houseguest anyway.
William looked around skeptically. Then he heard an effervescent laugh coming from the bathroom.
“What a horrible day! I had to teach school for the Maori, and the water came through the roof. How could they have thought to cover that hut with palm leaves? And then I thought of you out there. You must have been frozen to the bone.”
At the entrance to the bathroom stood Heather, with a radiant smile on her face and an apron over her dark dress like a well-trained housemaid. With a motion of her hand, she directed him to the bathtub, which was already filled with hot, fragrant water.
“Heather, I…” William vacillated between gratitude, desire, and the knowledge that it would be madness to let himself be seduced by her. But Kura had been gone a long time.<
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“Come, William,” said Heather. “We have an hour before dinner is served. Mrs. McKenzie has to keep an eye on the kitchen, Mr. McKenzie is lounging by the fireplace, and I’ve given Jack enough homework to keep him quiet. There’s nothing to fear. No one saw me come in.”
William wondered fleetingly if she had carried the hot water up here herself, which he could not imagine. But then he stopped thinking and succumbed to the temptation to submerge himself in the hot water, let her massage his shoulders, caress him, and finally lead him to bed.
“I don’t want anyone to notice us either,” purred Heather. “But it’s difficult enough as it is here. We don’t have to live like monks.”
After that evening, William and Heather rekindled their relationship. He forgot his qualms and his fears as soon as he lay in her arms, and moreover, he assuaged his self-recriminations. Kura was certainly not leading a completely chaste life either. And besides, he saw only Kura’s face and body when he took Heather in a dark room or with his eyes closed.
2
Elaine O’Keefe strolled down Main Street in the little town of Greymouth on the West Coast. What an ugly little town, she thought peevishly. The name fit! Although she had once heard that the town was named for the mouth of the Grey River, Elaine felt it was nothing more than a gray abyss threatening to swallow her whole. That was due in large part to the fog that enveloped the town. In sunnier weather, the town would surely not look so forbidding. After all, Greymouth was idyllically placed on a narrow strip of coast between the river and the sea, and the one- and two-story houses that lined the street appeared just as new and tidy as the buildings in Queenstown.
Greymouth, too, was a rapidly developing community, although it drew its wealth not from the gold mines but from the professionally run coal mines that had opened a few years before. Elaine wondered if there was coal dust hanging in the air or if it was only the fog and the rain that made it hard to breathe. Either way, the atmosphere struck her as altogether different from that of her lively, optimistic hometown. In Queenstown, of course, all the gold miners hoped to get rich quick, while the coal-mining trade only brought its operators good money, damning the pitmen to a hard life underground.
Given the choice, Elaine would never have sought this town out herself, but after several weeks of riding through the mountains, she’d had enough. During the first few days after fleeing Lionel Station, she’d had good luck with the weather. At first, she had ridden along the Haast River—in the water as often as possible to cover her tracks. Not that she believed they would employ bloodhounds. Where would they get them? And even if Elaine had taken a different route, Banshee’s hooves hardly left imprints on the dry ground. It had not rained for a few days prior to her departure, and the weather remained clement until she reached the McKenzie Highlands. Then it grew cold, and Elaine froze horribly even after wrapping herself up in all the clothes she had brought with her. Banshee’s saddle blanket helped, but it was usually wet with the mare’s sweat. Added to all that was her gnawing hunger.
Elaine was quite fluent in the plants of her homeland—Fleurette had often taken her children on “adventure rides,” and James McKenzie had likewise played the “survival in the wilderness game” with his grandchildren that Gwyneira had found so wonderful in her youth. But Elaine had no shovel for digging and no knife for peeling roots or gutting fish, or more importantly, for making fishing line or hooks. She occasionally succeeded in making a fire by striking two stones together—but that became hopeless after the first rain. She had managed to catch a few trout with her hands and then roasted them, but she always worried that the fire might give her away. For the same reason, she was afraid to shoot at the ubiquitous rabbits. Not that Elaine was likely to hit anything. After all, she had missed Thomas’s chest when he was standing only six feet away. How was she supposed to shoot a rabbit?
Callie did catch a rabbit once. It was a lucky day all around, since Elaine discovered a dry cave in the mountains and managed to make a fire that night. Stewed with its skin and hair, the rabbit was no culinary wonder, but at least it filled Elaine’s stomach. The days after that were bad, as nothing edible seemed to grow on the West Coast. There were only ferns, and they also offered some protection from the rain. At one point, Elaine ran into a Maori tribe who took her in hospitably. Their cooked sweet potatoes had never tasted so good.
Finally, the Maori showed her the way to Greymouth—or Mawhera, as they called it. It had a long history as a Maori stronghold, but had been in the hands of the pakeha for many years. Nevertheless, the Maori indicated to her that the area was very safe—probably another story having to do with the spirits. Elaine did not care. One town was as good as another to her, and she had to give up her wandering sooner or later. So she decided to follow her new friends’ advice and look for work in Greymouth. It was the largest town on the West Coast, and it would not be all that easy for people to find her there. More than anything, she needed a proper bed and clean clothes. Even Banshee seemed excited about the prospect of a dry stall.
Paying for a stall was Elaine’s first transaction, which she handled with a heavily beating heart, because she could not pay up front. The owner of the stables did not ask for any payment though, and instead directed the mare right away to a clean stall strewn with straw and gave it an abundance of hay.
“She’s a little scrawny, the sweet girl,” he remarked, which was no surprise. The meager grass in the highlands had been inadequate nourishment for the horse. She wasted no time eating her fill. Elaine still had no idea how she was going to pay for Banshee’s luxurious accommodations. The proprietor had already looked her over meaningfully, as though to let her know that the horse’s rider looked just as ill-cared-for as the horse. Elaine asked him where she might be able to find a job and a place to stay. The man thought about it.
“There are a few hotels on the quay, but they’re expensive. Only the rich folks who make their money with the mines stay there.” It was clear that he did not think Elaine fell into this category. “As for the Lucky Horse, well, I wouldn’t especially recommend that one, though they’d probably welcome you with open arms if you don’t care what kind of work you do.” He grinned significantly. “But the widow Miller and the barber’s wife rent rooms. You could ask there; both of them are good women. If you don’t have money though…”
Elaine took the hint. The man didn’t know of any positions for single, respectable women. But that did not mean anything. Elaine set out bravely up the street through the center of town. She would find something.
The town did not look very promising, however. And Elaine’s determination to ask for work in every single store fell apart as soon as she reached the Chinese laundry. The billowing steam robbed her of even more of her breath, and then the proprietor hardly seemed to understand her request. Instead, he tried to buy Callie from her—even though he did not have any sheep. Elaine remembered the rumor that the Chinese ate dogs, and she turned on her heels immediately.
The barber’s wife had a vacant room, but no work. Elaine had been nursing hopes that she might. After all, she was thoroughly familiar with the sort of work done in a hotel. But Mrs. Tanner kept the three rooms she rented clean herself, and she didn’t need help cooking those extra three diners.
“Come back when you’ve found something,” she told Elaine, who took the hint: until she found a source of income, there would be no bed and nothing to eat.
The next business was a coffin maker, which Elaine ruled out with a guilty conscience. But what was she supposed to do there? Although the general store gave her a spark of hope, it was run by a family with five bright kids. There were enough helping hands. A tailor worked next door, and Elaine desperately wished she could sew. But she had always hated handwork, and Fleurette had not forced it upon her. She had learned a little sewing from her grandmother Helen, but her skills hardly went beyond sewing buttons. Nevertheless, Elaine stepped into the store and asked about work. The tailor was kind but only shook hi
s head.
“There aren’t many people here who can afford a tailored suit. The mine owners, sure, but they like to shop in the bigger towns. They only come to me for alterations, and I manage those on my own.”
That was in essence what she heard from all the other honorable tradespeople of Greymouth. All that were left were the grand hotels, where Elaine could apply as a chambermaid. But that was unlikely to work out, given how tattered she looked at the moment. Maybe she should try her luck in a pub. As a waitress or a cook? Her cooking skills were rudimentary, to be sure, but she could certainly try. She had passed by an inn and considered going back to ask. But the entrance had looked so ugly and sleazy. As Elaine argued with herself, she found herself once more in front of the Lucky Horse Inn.
Elaine was very much reminded of Daphne’s establishment. The entrance was colorfully painted and looked almost inviting—at least to men, for the offer was directed at them. For girls, however, it seemed to offer the only opportunity to make money—if not in an honorable way.
