by Sarah Lark
Oliver Butler was standing in the middle of the group of athletes, and next to him was a significantly shorter, wiry man—his partner, Fitz. He shook hands with Mrs. Tribe and her husband, George Henry Tribe, as though he never wanted to stop. The Tribes seemed uncomfortable, and Mrs. Tribe pulled her hand back quickly and focused all her attention on chatting with Oliver. Carol and Linda spotted Captain Butler and his wife. They were celebrating with their son, in the midst of the most important figures of local society.
“How did the Butlers get onto the dignitaries’ stand?” Linda asked.
Carol was wondering the same thing about her future in-laws, and also why they hadn’t invited her to join them.
“Perhaps they joined the rowing club and donated the cost of one of the trophies,” someone behind her remarked. Franz recognized Chris Fenroy, whom Karl had previously introduced. “That’s how it works in aristocratic circles. You don’t get the honor for nothing. But personally, I wouldn’t want to be over there. There’s no beer, only affected conversation with Mrs. Tribe, who is about as clever as a sheep.” Chris set down the pitcher of beer he’d brought and scratched Fancy. “I prefer the company of this nice young collie. But if your happiness depends on it, girls, I’d be glad to apply for membership in the rowing club.”
“You don’t even row!” Carol objected.
Mara laughed. She had just opened the picnic basket, and was pulling out a bowl of grilled chicken legs. She unabashedly served herself before offering any to her father, Chris, or Franz.
Chris raised his eyebrows and took a piece of chicken. “Captain Butler probably hasn’t rowed since he worked his way up from whaler to captain. God knows how he did it. Help yourself to the beer; it’s for everyone.”
Franz took a sharp breath as Karl picked up one of Carol’s carefully polished crystal glasses and filled it with Chris’s contribution to the picnic.
“That Fitz fellow rows like the devil,” Chris continued, as Franz covertly crossed himself at the reference to the prince of hell. “But I hear he’s still not allowed to join the club. Apparently, he’s not aristocratic enough for the fine gentlemen of Christchurch.”
Karl laughed. “And Butler is?” He took a chicken leg too, and watched the men on the pier silently for a moment as he chewed. “What about Weaver? Isn’t he supposed to have won the money for his farm at poker?”
Chris shook his head, grinning. “No, that was Warden from Kiward Station. Apparently, Weaver found gold in Australia. He claims he wasn’t sent there as a convict; bless the man who believes it.”
Franz crossed himself again. Aside from Mara, who regarded him with slight astonishment, no one else seemed to notice.
“Whatever. Now they’re all sheep barons, and Fitz is just the caretaker for the rowing club’s boats. Oh well. Perhaps this win will help the poor devil.”
Franz made a strangled sound. “And what makes you assume that there would be nothing against your own acceptance into the club?” he asked. “As a, um, gentleman so quick to blasphemy?”
Chris looked down at his chicken leg irritably. “My name,” he replied casually. “And my money. The Fenroys are old English nobility, and Rata Station is a kind of sheep barony, if you will. Of course, one never knows for sure. The club votes on new members by secret ballot. Everyone gets a black and a white marble. White means yes, and black means no. If there are three black marbles in the urn—bad luck! But as Mara already said, I don’t row anyway.”
“And Carol will get to go to the dignitaries’ stand next year anyway,” Linda said, smiling consolingly at her sister. “As Oliver’s wife.”
In the meantime, the award ceremony had ended. The winners got in their boats and rowed back to the clubhouse. Now the teams of eight were in formation for the final heat of the regatta. The long rowing sculls were an impressive sight, and even Chris and Karl let themselves get carried away by the enthusiasm and cheered loudly with the others as the boats raced toward the finish line.
Chris recognized one of the previous farmhands of Rata Station among the oarsmen, and the men began to cheer on his boat with shouts and whistles, until it finally got a slight lead over the other.
Franz thought indignantly that his sister’s husband and his friend were behaving like schoolboys, probably due to the alcohol they had consumed. His gloomy mood only lifted again when Linda caught his eye and winked conspiratorially. She, too, seemed to have notice the men’s childish behavior, though she obviously didn’t judge them as sternly. Her lighthearted smile seemed to lift the dark veil from Franz’s eyes a little.
Carol turned back to the meal preparations, and scolded Mara for her attack on the picnic basket. “We don’t eat with our hands!” she said as the girl licked the fat off her fingers. She still somehow managed to look graceful, like a Persian cat cleaning itself.
“How else is she supposed to eat?” Karl said with a smile, coming to Mara’s defense. “This is a picnic, Carol. Do your mother and Cat bring porcelain plates when we drive the sheep to the highlands?” In fact, neither Ida nor Cat even owned such fancy dishes. Carol had found these in the back of a cupboard in the stone house. They had surely been part of Jane’s dowry. “Relax! Oliver will be so hungry after the race that he won’t be thinking about table manners, anyway.”
Before Carol could express any doubts, they heard more applause and shouts from the audience at the edge of the water. They were cheering for Oliver Butler. The young man was walking along the riverbank, happily greeting his fans on all sides.
Carol waved him over exuberantly.
Franz was embarrassed, but the others applauded as Oliver took his fiancée in his arms and kissed her.
“We won!” he cried. “Didn’t I tell you we would?” He triumphantly took the medal from around his neck and put it on Carol. The young woman nestled proudly into his arms. “And it’s all thanks to Fitz. Where did he go, anyway?”
Chapter 13
During Oliver’s march of triumph through the crowd, Joe Fitzpatrick had been standing in the shade nearby. It was no wonder that everyone knew Oliver Butler. Butler Station was one of the oldest and best-known sheep farms in the region. But Joe had only been in the Canterbury Plains for a few months. His curious gaze took in the residents of Rata Station. Then he focused on Linda, who was standing slightly apart from the group, like him.
Their eyes met, and Linda openly returned Joe’s gaze. Unlike Oliver, who was almost a head taller than Carol, Linda thought Fitz must be only slightly taller than herself. His legs seemed a little short in relation to his strong, muscular body and arms—it was easy to see he was an accomplished oarsman. His face wasn’t classically handsome like Oliver’s, but quite interesting. He was square-jawed and tanned. His full lips seemed perpetually poised in a mischievous smile. His nose was straight and distinctly formed, and his eyebrows and hair were lush and dark. His hair was short but nonetheless unruly, as though it didn’t want to capitulate to being cut. His blue eyes offered an unusual contrast to his otherwise Mediterranean looks. Linda also thought she’d never seen such astute eyes. Fitz’s eyes seemed to flash, but without making his gaze seem piercing or unsettling. He simply showed a steady, mindful interest in everything that was happening around him. The man was doubtlessly a good observer, and he managed to make whomever he was with feel important. Without a doubt, it was ungentlemanly to stare at anyone as intensely as he currently stared at Linda. Yet she didn’t feel bothered, but rather flattered and blessed by a sense of warmth for being the center of his attention. Without breaking eye contact once, he sidled over.
“Are you the other twin, then?” he finally asked, and winked at her. “I’m the second oarsman, at least from the audience’s point of view. They only have eyes for Ollie. How is it for you? Were you the first or the second?”
Linda looked bewildered. “First or second at what?” she asked.
“At birth,” Fitz said. “Which of you has the—birthright, as the Bible puts it? And who is the coxswain who s
teers the boat?” He grinned.
Linda had to laugh, though she knew she should really have been offended.
“Carol was the first,” she replied. “She’s a few hours older.” Actually, it had been a few days, but the girls had introduced themselves as twins so often that the small deviation from the truth had almost become reality for them. “She’s the one who usually calls the shots,” Linda admitted. “People pay more attention to Carol.”
A second later, she could have slapped herself for making it sound as though she were jealous of her sister. It’s just she’d never thought about things that way before. And now this man would assume she felt inferior. Which would mean that he’d pity her.
But Fitz just shrugged. “We’re two of a kind, then,” he said simply, and immediately changed the subject. “Is that fantastic-looking feast for us?” He pointed to the picnic cloth, the bowls, platters, and baskets of bread and cheese, ham and cold meats, eggs, and various preserves from Ida’s kitchen.
Linda nodded.
“Then may I accompany you to the table?”
Fitz bowed formally to Linda, as though they were at a society ball. Smiling, he offered her his arm. Before she could take it with an equally theatrical gesture, Oliver caught sight of his friend.
“Fitz, there you are! Carol, this is Fitz. Linda—”
“Joe Fitzpatrick,” he said politely. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He directed his words at Carol, but somehow managed to make Linda think he wasn’t speaking to anyone in the world but her.
The rest of the afternoon was as relaxed and wonderful as Carol had hoped. The picnic was fabulous, even if it began awkwardly when Reverend Lange pointed out that no one had said grace. Of course Karl and Chris offered politely to let him say it himself, whereupon everyone had to listen for a quarter of an hour as Franz thanked God. After that, it took several jokes from Fitz to loosen things up again. Linda opened the two bottles of wine they’d brought, and Karl and Chris refilled the beer glasses as well before they began to eat.
Carol realized that no one was saying “please” or “thank you” the way people did at the Butlers’ garden parties. She hoped Oliver wouldn’t take it too badly. But then she relaxed a little when she saw how much everyone was enjoying the food.
Oliver and Fitz were both famished from their efforts and ate with gusto. Oliver at least pulled the chicken from the bone using his fingers instead of his teeth, while Fitz gnawed just as shamelessly as Mara, Chris, and Karl. And just like Mara, he somehow managed to look graceful while he did it. While Carol served the wine with a flourish and Oliver formally tasted it before she filled his glass, Fitz helped himself to some beer.
Fitz was quite entertaining company, and seemed to relish making the girls laugh. He interrupted Oliver’s third long-winded description of the race, and instead told stories about the legendary boat races between Oxford and Cambridge.
“You went to school in Oxford?” Linda asked in surprise.
Fitz nodded. “You could say that. Student life was very appealing.”
“What did you study?” Carol asked.
He shrugged. “This and that. Rowing. How to drink and fight like a man. How to handle horses and write poems. How to court a girl—” He winked at Carol.
“But above all, whaikorero, the art of talking nonsense,” Mara remarked, unimpressed. “Did you also happen to study something useful?”
“You sound just like Jane,” Linda scolded.
Mara giggled. “Perhaps I’m more like her than she thinks. So, tell us now, Mr. Fitzpatrick! What were you intending to do with your life? Were you planning to become a doctor, lawyer, teacher? And why didn’t you?”
“Mara!” Linda cried. She thought she’d sink into the ground with embarrassment. Of course it had also occurred to her that Fitz must not have completed his studies, but she never would have dared to ask why.
Fitz grinned at the girls, totally unruffled. “At some point I figured out that I didn’t have to become anything else,” he replied. “I’m already something. I’m Joe Fitzpatrick. And anyone who doesn’t like what I am doesn’t have to spend time with me.”
Karl had been listening to the young people’s conversation. He himself was bored to death with Franz. The reverend wasn’t an enthusiastic conversationalist, and any detail about his studies or his family had to be pried out of him. Now he noticed the glow in Linda’s eyes.
“You still have to make a living somehow, young man,” he remarked. “It wouldn’t hurt to earn some money, especially if you’re planning to court a girl.”
Fitz shrugged. “Money comes and goes,” he said. “I’m happy when I have it, but I’m also satisfied when I don’t. It’s like the Bible says: ‘Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.’ Or something like that.”
“Faith is the only true wealth,” Franz added, without having really caught what the conversation was about. “True happiness is only found by following Jesus Christ.”
Fitz’s expression sobered. “Our Lord, too, was poor. That’s exactly what I mean, Reverend. We shouldn’t cling to material things!”
Franz nodded enthusiastically.
Chris reached for the empty beer pitcher and got up. “Blessed are the poor,” he remarked, and crossed himself. There had been tension between him and Ida’s brother from the beginning. Karl hardly seemed to notice, but it annoyed Chris that Franz seemed to resent every sip of beer the men took. Now he’d had enough of the young missionary’s judgment. “I’m going to continue praying at the beer stand. Would you like to join me, Karl?”
Karl wavered. He did want to follow his friend, but he didn’t want to be impolite. After all, he’d have to deal with Franz as a guest for a while.
“What are your plans, Franz?” he said, turning to the missionary. “For today, I mean. We’re sleeping at the Deanses’ farm in Riccarton, along with the Redwoods. I could ask if they have an extra bed for you. And of course, tomorrow you’ll come with us to Rata Station.”
Karl knew that putting up the Redwood family was already a huge demand on the Deanses’ hospitality. They had offered guest rooms for Linda, Carol, and Mara. Karl and Chris were prepared to sleep in the barn. Of course, there would be space in the barn for Franz, too, but Karl rather thought that the reverend wouldn’t feel comfortable with the company of cows and horses. What was more, Karl and Chris had brought a bottle of whiskey to help them fall asleep, and they didn’t need Franz’s disapproving looks.
“I will be staying with the brothers at the mission in Tuahiwi,” Franz Lange said stiffly. “They answered my letter very kindly, and are pleased to be able to show me their school and will allow me to stay as long as I wish.”
Mara listened closely. Would her uncle be useful to her after all?
“That means you still have a good distance to travel. It’s quite far from here to Tuahiwi. If you really intend to walk there, you’ll have to be on your way soon,” Karl replied.
Franz swallowed. He’d assumed that the missionary school was in the town of Christchurch, and wasn’t ready for another long hike. But he accepted his fate with humility. A long walk would still be better than watching Linda exchange compliments with Joe Fitzpatrick. At least the young rower seemed to be a good Christian in some way. But every smile that Linda bestowed on Joe was painful for Franz. Although he told himself that, as her uncle, he had no right to be interested, and in general must never stare at young women, he couldn’t tear his eyes off Linda.
Over the course of the picnic, Franz’s feelings had swung between irritation and envy of Fitz and Oliver. He was reluctant to approve of Karl, because his brother-in-law acted as though he didn’t even see Carol and Oliver’s kissing or Fitzpatrick’s shameless flirting with Linda. And Mara sat there casually and kept making sarcastic remarks instead of taking care of her employers’ children, as was seemly for a girl of her station. Incomprehensio
n and resentment were building up in Franz. The walk to Tuahiwi was probably God’s way to punish him for it.
“Then perhaps I should take your advice and be on my way,” he replied. “And who knows, perhaps I’ll find a generous soul headed that way in a wagon. Could you please just point out the way, Karl, and tell me where to meet you tomorrow morning for the journey to Rata Station?”
Mara leaped to her feet. “I’ll show you where to go, Reverend—I mean, Uncle Franz.” She smiled. “I have to get back to the Redwoods, anyway. I’ll see you all later at the Deanses’!” She waved innocently at her sisters, Chris, and her father before they had a chance to think up a reason why she shouldn’t go. “Come, Uncle.”
Franz Lange said goodbye and followed the girl through the festivities and then to a well-maintained road that led north, parallel to the coast. “You just follow this road until you reach the Waimakariri River. You’ll have to find a ferryman to take you across. Afterward, you go north again. I’ve never been that way, but it’s such a well-used path, you’ll find it for sure.”
Franz nodded. “And where shall I meet everyone tomorrow?”
Mara thought a moment. “We’ll be going upstream by boat, but you don’t have to worry about that. I’ll pick you up at the school early tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 14
Mara slipped out of the Deanses’ house before dawn. She didn’t know if the reverend could ride, but she expected it from a man who planned to bring God’s word to an undeveloped area. If the Church Missionary Society wanted the new messengers of the Lord to get anywhere, they must surely teach them about horses.
Mara took her white horse and one of the Redwoods’ horses—the residents of Rata Station had come by boat—and made her way north. The strong brown gelding that walked politely next to her own steed belonged to Joseph Redwood, and of course he would wonder where it had gone. Mara briefly considered leaving a note for him, but she’d already written one for Laura. She’d stuck it on Julie’s bassinet so they would know where she was and that she would meet the others at the river. She hoped that she wouldn’t get in too much trouble when she arrived with the reverend. His sudden appearance was a gift from heaven—or from the spirits. She would have ridden to Tuahiwi anyway, but Franz Lange offered a perfect excuse.
