by Lark, Sarah
For years, the reverend had concerned himself with the spiritual and also the very practical problems of new immigrants and those returning frustrated from the goldfields. By then, the gold rush in Otago had abated. European adventurers were now drawn to the gold and diamond mines of South Africa. The unsuccessful miners stranded in Dunedin were forced to find other work, often with the pastor’s help. Now, they were building their houses around his church, his parish was growing, and he looked forward to the typical work of Sunday school, baptisms, and weddings.
Heather and Chloe joined the group, their hosting duties now fulfilled. All their guests had been plied with drinks, small talk had been made all around, and Chloe had given a speech about the artist and her work.
“Sales are off to a slow start,” Heather observed regretfully. “Even though they’re little treasures.” She studied one of the meticulous paintings admiringly.
“Maybe you should pitch them to morticians,” Atamarie remarked. “I could imagine them in a mortician’s parlor, or the mortuary receiving room.”
The others laughed.
“You don’t know anything about art,” Heather chided her niece.
“Cubic modifications of carbon, on the other hand—” Atamarie retorted. “How many of these strange paintings would you have to sell to buy a ring like that?”
She pointed to Heather’s finger, which featured a fine gold ring with glittering diamonds.
Kathleen smiled at her daughter. “What a gorgeous ring! And you look splendid in your new outfit. It’s just a shame it’s not from my collection.”
Heather’s cheeks burned at the flattery. She was no great beauty with her limp, ash-blonde hair. In Europe, she’d worn it short, but here that was too scandalous, even for artists. People whispered enough about her predilection for wide, Oriental-style trousers, and the bold jackets and blouses that went with them. Heather’s features had been delicate and Madonna-like, but now they seemed almost harsh, and her once-gentle brown eyes had grown sharp.
“I think the ring looks much nicer on Chloe,” she demurred. “Come on, Chloe, show them yours.”
The dark-haired Chloe looked more feminine than her friend. That day, she wore a red empire-style dress from Kathleen’s collection, the color reflecting off the diamond of her ring.
“Matching diamond rings,” laughed the pastor. “Very fine, indeed! I see I’m not twisting the screws hard enough when I collect for my soup kitchen.”
“Heather sold a few paintings,” Chloe explained, a bit self-conscious. “And so, she thought, well, the gallery’s been around for ten years. We should celebrate.”
“Has it really been that long?” asked Kathleen, playing along with the pretext that Heather and Chloe were celebrating their business rather than their love. “In any case, the rings are beautiful. And diamonds are so affordable now that they’ve found so many in—where was it again, Peter? South Africa?”
Peter Burton nodded. “The Cape of Good Hope. I fear we’ll be hearing about South Africa more often. There’s talk of war.”
“War?” Atamarie’s eyes widened. She knew war only from history class and from her parents’ recollections of the last skirmishes between the Maori and pakeha. It was hard for her to imagine that they had really gone after each other with guns, let alone spears. In Atamarie’s experience, wars were fought with words—newspaper diatribes and petitions to try to sway Parliament. “Who’s going to war?”
But Roberta had little interest in politics. All of her attention was focused on Kevin, who had just joined them, Patrick on his heels. Juliet leaned in to squint at Heather’s and Chloe’s rings, but she seemed unimpressed. Her own jewelry was far more eye-catching, though the local ladies were already alleging that it was mere rhinestones. A faux pas. Here, in Calvinistic Dunedin society, people wore very little jewelry, but when they did, it was real.
“The English and the Boers,” Kevin told Atamarie. “The latter are really Dutch, but since they settled in South Africa, they’ve called themselves Boers, or Afrikaners. They lay claim to a few regions there, even though England technically conquered the country a few centuries ago.”
The reverend nodded. “And nobody gave a hoot about their claim until all those diamond and gold mines turned up. But no, it’s only the noblest of motivations, of course. Suddenly, England can’t possibly accept that they treat the natives worse than cattle. Or that migrants in the gold-mining areas don’t have voting rights.”
Kathleen furrowed her brow. “Since when do miners care about politics? Most of them can hardly read and write, and they don’t have any interest in government.”
“It’s more the other way around.” Kevin smirked. “Politics has an interest in gold.”
Roberta watched as his shining blue eyes flashed mockingly and dimples softened his otherwise square face. She forced herself to return the smile, recalling Atamarie’s encouragement. She had to get Kevin’s attention somehow. By saying something, for example. Preferably something smart. Roberta racked her brain.
“But New Zealand has nothing to do with whether England goes to war in South Africa, does it?” she finally asked—then blushed when everyone looked at her.
“That depends entirely on our premier,” Heather observed drily. “And Mr. Seddon is known for his strange ideas. And switching sides.”
Seddon had made life difficult during the fight for women’s right to vote.
“Not to mention that every thinking person has something to do with it when wars are fought for diamonds and gold,” the pastor said, and Roberta reddened again. So, her remark had not been so smart after all.
“Do you think they might send New Zealanders to Africa to fight?” Atamarie asked.
“Why not?” mused Kevin, playing casually with Juliet’s fingers. The young woman had lasciviously laid her hand on his left arm, and he put his right hand over it. This had been happening all evening—Kevin and Juliet couldn’t keep their hands off each other. “They won’t force us, of course, but volunteers . . .”
Fear suddenly seized Roberta.
“But you, you—all of you.” She scrambled to include the other men. “None of you would go, would you?”
She sighed with relief when the men laughed, but then Juliet spoke up.
“Not without my permission,” she declared, leering and pulling Kevin closer. “There are sweeter battlefields than the cape to prove yourself a hero.”
Chapter 3
“What do you think this Juliet woman is going to do to your reputation?”
Lizzie Drury stormed into Kevin’s office, her husband, Michael, a few steps behind. She had come intending to speak calmly with her son, but after just now seeing the lady in question saunter out of his private apartment upstairs, she could no longer hold her tongue.
“Where’d you even dig her up? And how could you think to bring a woman like that to the Dunloes’ reception?”
Kevin jumped up from his desk. “Mother, don’t take that tone with me. And please lower your voice.” His eyes went to the ceiling.
“Worried she’ll hear? Don’t worry, the young ‘lady’ took her leave. She has enough shame to steal away before the maid comes, at least.”
A light flush spread over Kevin’s face when he realized his parents had witnessed Juliet’s departure. He knew what his mother thought about his various female acquaintances.
“Juliet had, well, she had forgotten something in, in my apartment—”
“Best not ask what she forgot,” his father quipped.
Kevin tried not to let himself be cowed. “Juliet is an honorable woman who knows how to behave in society. And Mr. Dunloe was quite impressed, you know.”
“Which speaks to the woman’s talents,” Lizzie replied. “Mr. Dunloe may have been ‘impressed,’ as you say, but Mrs. Dunloe was terrifically embarrassed.”
This was a slight exaggeration. Though Claire Dunloe had cast some indignant glances at Juliet’s indiscreet dress and sham jewelry, the reception had p
assed uneventfully enough. Juliet’s table manners were perfect, she knew how to chatter meaninglessly, and this time she had reined in her champagne consumption.
“Regardless, everyone is talking about her,” Lizzie continued. “So loud that it’s reached all the way to Tuapeka.” Tuapeka, the town nearest Lizzie and Michael’s farm, lay nearly sixty miles from Dunedin. It had officially been called Lawrence since 1866, but Lizzie and Michael could never get used to the change. They seldom came to Dunedin but hadn’t wanted to turn down an invitation from Jimmy Dunloe, the bank director. “I hear she broke out in song at Heather and Chloe’s gallery!”
Kevin rubbed his forehead. No doubt, Juliet had overdone it. The art opening had been rather boring, the paintings gloomy, the people dull, but there’d been plenty of champagne, which Juliet did love. After a few too many, she had crossed to the trio of musicians and asked them to strike up a popular American hit. The reaction of Dunedin society had not been hostile, but they had certainly looked surprised. Graceful Chloe had saved the situation by speaking briefly with the impromptu soloist and then formally introducing her, thereby solving the riddle of her last name and her history: Juliet LaBree was American by birth and belonged to a vaudeville ensemble playing in Wellington. Or rather, she had until a few weeks ago.
“How does a decent young lady even get here from Wellington? What is she doing here?” asked Michael, though he sounded more curious than disapproving. Juliet had made a strong impression on nearly every man in town. And no matter how ardently they agreed with their wives that she was gaudy and disreputable, they all envied Kevin a bit.
“Juliet, uh, seems to have had enough of her troupe. And she likes it in New Zealand. She’s decided to seek a new engagement here.”
“Oh really?” said Lizzie. “Then she should be looking in Auckland or Wellington. Not in Dunedin, of all places, city of the Church of Scotland, city with the most closed-minded citizenry of the whole South Island. What does she plan to sing here? Hymns?”
“With her voice, she can sing anything,” Kevin insisted. “Besides, you may not have noticed, Mother, but Dunedin has changed. There was a gold rush here.”
Lizzie laughed. “I remember. The ruins of the brothel still stand in Tuapeka.”
“And you planted the flag of virtue there, did you?” Kevin retorted.
Lizzie glared at her son. “In Tuapeka, I never—”
She stopped, ashamed. She had never told her sons about her past in London and Kaikoura, but Kevin was clever and could no doubt put some things together. By the time Lizzie followed Michael to the goldfields, though, she had long since become respectable—in so far as selling bootleg whiskey could be called respectable.
Michael stepped in to defend his wife. “Kevin, your mother and I weren’t angels either, but that’s exactly why we’re concerned about Miss LaBree. She’s running away from something. Believe me, I know the look. Probably this ensemble threw her out, and for good reason. So, she gradually made her way to Otago. The goldfields near Queenstown. A series of pubs, a series of men.”
Kevin had had enough. “Fine, that may be, but you can’t deny that she’s captivating. No matter her past, that’s all I care about. After all, I haven’t proposed marriage. And I’ll remind you that I am not a child. I shall decide what I want.”
He cast a pointed glance at the heavy grandfather clock. He knew Lizzie wouldn’t want to be late for the fashion show at the Gold Mine Boutique.
“Fine, we’ll go,” she said. “But if I’m right about Miss LaBree, it doesn’t much matter what you want. The only question is what she wants.”
Juliet LaBree wanted a place to call her own, though she found that hard to admit, even to herself. After all, she had loved her wild life. For years, she had been able to imagine nothing more perfect than to drift from city to city, theater to theater, man to man. This had been the life she’d dreamed of even as a girl. Juliet had never been enthusiastic about books, riding, or little parties and picnics. More than just her exotic appearance differentiated her from the dutiful plantation daughters of Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana. From an early age, Juliet’s lust for life had driven her to the big city of New Orleans for concerts and theater and excitement.
Juliet’s parents were themselves no prigs. Her mother was a Creole who’d made her way from Jamaica, and Juliet had no illusions about how she’d done it. Yet Juliet’s father had fallen for her at once, taken her to his plantation, and had loved and spoiled her as much as any woman might wish.
When Juliet was born, she was the apple of his eye. Nothing was good enough for his beautiful daughter. Juliet had all the best teachers, and learned French and ballroom dancing, though she only really took an interest in the music lessons. When she turned seventeen, she was to be wed to the perfect husband. Her father found him two plantations away, from an old family that had somehow survived the Civil War with its unfathomable wealth intact. But the young man was so bloodless that, during every visit to his plantation, Juliet looked around nervously for vampires. He could give her a grand manor house, but to Juliet it seemed a tomb.
Just before the wedding, she had fled to New Orleans and from there straight to Tennessee. At first, the money she had brought with her sufficed, and after that, she had ample clothing and jewelry to pawn. When she sang in clubs then, it was for pleasure; in Memphis, she soon became a minor star. Then, however, there were difficulties with a certain Mafia boss, and Juliet had to leave the city very quickly, this time without a cent. She was not proud of what she did next to make it to New York. Some time later, she was offered a job singing on a luxury liner bound for Europe. She spent three years playing small clubs across the Continent—and she enjoyed every minute of it. Juliet fell in love rarely, but she kissed men often. Her life was a singular rush.
And then came the engagement that led her to Australia and New Zealand. It was a talented troupe, but not very professional. Juliet was good to the manager, but in the end, he found another girl—a long story. Juliet had fled to the South Island, only to find that the cities there were even more backward than those in the North. There were practically no variety shows, and the venues that hired women to sing and dance were usually just a better sort of brothel.
Juliet had been over the moon when she met Kevin Drury, and she was surprised to find that he still did not bore her after a few weeks. She enjoyed the security Kevin offered, plus the fact that he was extraordinarily good-looking and experienced—Kevin knew how to satisfy Juliet. He seemed enthralled by her skills at pleasing men. What was more, he did not ask questions about her past, and he was generous. Whenever she expressed a wish, it was as good as fulfilled, at least within Kevin’s means.
Juliet quickly found that the young doctor was successful, well off—but not exactly rich. She was astonished by how her standards had fallen. She no longer required her beau to rent out a whole club just to be allowed to dance with her, and she did not demand showy jewelry she would only pawn later. The events Kevin took her to were less sophisticated than what she was used to: an art show in Dunedin, a choral concert in Christchurch. On the other hand, she had never caused such a stir as in this nest of provincials. In Memphis, New York, Paris, and Berlin, she was one beauty among many. Here, though, the men fell at her feet.
Juliet began to dream of settling down, of belonging to Dunedin society—and reigning over it. When she gave her first party here, the whole South Island would talk about it. The salon of the young Mrs. Drury would draw artists and musicians. The newspapers would report on what dresses she wore to which event. Naturally, they would require a suitable house, especially once they had children. Just think of the domestics they would need. Juliet realized that the planning in and of itself was a joy. Perhaps she should write to her parents and tell them about her court at the end of the world.
The dark clouds in this beautiful dream came from Kevin having not yet made a move to ask for her hand. Juliet had learned from asking around that he was considered something of
a womanizer. He did not seem to be interested in settling down, which brought Juliet to a crossroads. If she wanted to move Kevin toward marriage, she would have to get pregnant—but really, she did not want a child so soon. Juliet could easily imagine dancing alongside Kevin through the humble Dunedin nightlife for a year or two, wrapping the city’s men around her finger, reaping the jealous looks of the women. A child would limit that, at the least delaying her debut as a glamorous hostess and pillar of society.
But if there was no other way . . .
Juliet had been nervous since running into Kevin’s mother in the stairwell. Elizabeth Drury had not said anything, but the look she had given Juliet could not be misconstrued. Juliet was willing to bet that this well-dressed matron didn’t have a spotless past either. Her husband may have made his fortune as a gold miner, but had his wife merely handed him the shovel, or might she have supported the family some other way?
Regardless, Lizzie had a knowing look—and she’d likely stop at nothing to break off Kevin’s affair. Juliet thought she already recognized the first successes in that campaign. Kevin had not taken her to the fashion show, the most discussed event of the season among the women of Dunedin. And recently, he preferred to take her out alone instead of escorting her to society events. Juliet sensed the beginning of the end, and she was bound and determined not to let that happen.
When Kevin left her waiting one evening while finishing up with a patient, she closed the door to his apartment behind her and went through his night table. As a doctor, Kevin did not rely on women to avoid unwanted offspring, which, at first, Juliet had appreciated. Of course, she knew how to perform the usual methods, too, calculating the fertile days and performing a rinse in case of doubt. Kevin, however, relied on sheaths. Juliet had previously known men who put on such sleeves before making love, but those had mostly been made of sheep’s guts or other animal matter. Kevin preferred the modern, rubber models. They were thick and cumbersome, but very reliable. Surely no fluid could make it through, as long as they remained undamaged.