by Lark, Sarah
But Joe wouldn’t ruin this for her. She was here to see Vincent.
“What shall we do now?” she asked him. “Will you show me Addington?”
The question of what a fellow did in Addington with a girl he wanted to marry was one Vincent had asked himself. Aside from the racetrack, the suburb had rather little to offer. Nonetheless, Vincent led his friend dutifully down the rows of the brightly painted workers’ houses and then out into the rural surrounds. Vincent talked about how lucky he felt to have found the position at the racetrack. He loved being able to work exclusively with horses. The methods and machinations of some trainers, however, he rejected, and he was happily surprised when Roberta agreed with him. For the first time, she told him in detail about her family and her childhood.
“We even lived near here for a time. Back then, the racing center was Woolston. And my mother loves to talk about how she often took us to Christchurch, on foot no less, to hear the speeches of the women’s rights activists. That’s where she got to know Kate Sheppard.” Roberta smiled. “And reconnected with Sean Coltrane.”
“The lawyer who used to be in Parliament?” asked Vincent. “He’s your stepfather, right? Is he really brothers with that ghastly Colin Coltrane? I still don’t understand how all of you are related.”
Roberta laughed. “Half brothers,” she corrected him. “Sean’s also a half brother of Kevin Drury. He shares a mother with Colin, a father with Kevin. But Colin and Sean didn’t grow up together. When Kathleen left her husband, Colin remained with his father. He’s supposed to have been a similar, um, a similarly unbalanced character.”
Vincent smiled and put his arm around her carefully. “Roberta, once you’re certain you love me, would you say ‘bastard’ when you mean bastard? It’s nice to express oneself decently, but sometimes, one does not find—how should I put it—exactly the right word in high-brow dictionaries like your mother had.”
Roberta made a face. “I’m vulgar enough as it is,” she complained. “Miss Byerly, my superior in the Caversham school, is constantly chiding me about it. And the stories I tell my students. Africa was not very good for my, um, career.”
Vincent pulled her closer. “Perhaps you should consider a different sort of career,” he said. “As a veterinarian’s wife, you could even curse. Not on Sundays, of course.”
“You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”
“No, I’m trying to bring about your fall,” Vincent declared. “You see, I’m taking you to a pub. Don’t worry, it’s not one of the gin mills by the racetrack. Lord Barrington frequents it when he’s here, as do all the local notables. And tonight, they’re holding a concert. There’ll be other ladies present, and we don’t need to tell Miss Byerly. Will you come?”
Roberta thought about it. It was nice to walk with Vincent’s arm around her, along a stream with reeds growing along its banks. As for the pub, she trusted him. It would be silly to sit at the inn with Rosie, hearing all about horses instead of going to the concert.
“Singing or instrumental music?” she asked bravely.
Vincent smiled. “A singer will be performing.”
Juliet LaBree-Drury had long since had enough of New Zealand. The country was simply too small and too provincial for her art. There were no stages on which she could adequately present herself, no audience worldly enough to appreciate her refined songs and piano arrangements.
The establishment in Queenstown that Pit Frazer had swept her off to, for example, had revealed itself to be little more than a cathouse. It was called a hotel, of course, and the proprietress was trying to class it up, but Daphne’s didn’t begin to compare with the nightclubs where Juliet had performed in New Orleans. Moreover, she and Daphne O’Hara were soon butting heads. Juliet did not like to have either her program or her interactions with the audience dictated—for which Daphne showed little sympathy. When Juliet, for only the second time, was standing with one of the little city’s notables at the bar, allowing him to buy her a glass of champagne, the determined red-haired madam with a feline face pulled the singer aside.
“Just so we understand each other, sweetie, you don’t work here on your own account. My girls are treated decently, but they have to give me fifty percent of what they make, and that goes for you, too, if you sell yourself here. You understand?”
“Sell myself?” Juliet responded indignantly. “I don’t know what you mean. But while we’re on the topic of decency—perhaps you could sell some decent champagne. No one can drink this swill.”
Daphne rolled her eyes. “You know exactly what I mean. Even if you’re selling yourself as higher class or whatever, it’s the same in the end. Or do you mean to tell me you’re doing baldie over there out of love?” She indicated the man waiting patiently at the bar. “Were you on fire for him all week? Just like the scribbler who brought you here? No, sweetie, don’t bother. Either you keep your legs closed, or you give me my share. In exchange, you work in a nice room with fresh sheets every day. Now, now, don’t act like you wouldn’t settle for less. You’ve seen worse days, I can tell.”
Naturally, Juliet would not stand for this and traveled onward the next day. That man had already provided the necessary seed money. He really was generous—it was insolent to treat him like a client. Juliet would herself have used the word “patron.” She headed for the booming West Coast, where swanky hotels were popping up, even if most were still under construction.
Unfortunately, their proprietors proved excessively prudish. They seemed to be concerned with distinguishing themselves from the coal miners’ pubs in the city center. Juliet was sent packing twice for intending to end the evening with gentlemen in her room—even if very distinguished ones. At least that was handled discreetly, unlike with Daphne. However, there could be no thought of longer engagements, and while the patron’s money did suffice for a halfway glamorous life, it was not even close to enough for first-class passage on a ship to America or even Europe.
Now, there was this backwater Addington, outside of Christchurch—since she had not found an engagement within the city itself. No doubt there were a few rich men living there, but they were apparently more fixated on horses than beautiful women. The bar was not to her taste either. The Addington Swan could at best be described as blandly bourgeois. New Orleans jazz fit here like a lobster with mashed potatoes.
Juliet sat down at the piano and eyed the stodgy audience in the ridiculously overlit room. They were too solemnly dressed for a visit to a club and lacked any refinement. Heavens, compared to Addington, Dunedin had been Paris.
But, wait, the young woman in the last row was an exception. Her dress was simple but emphasized her figure—it was one of these reform dresses, which were fortunately going out of style again. Most women, after all, had looked as if they were wearing a potato sack. But this woman, with her braided, chestnut-brown hair, somehow looked the part of a classical goddess. Really only one tailor could make reform dresses like that: Kathleen Burton at the Gold Mine Boutique.
Juliet stole another look as she began to sing of longing and love. The goddess in the last row whispered something excitedly into the ear of her companion, a slender young man whose honest face bored Juliet. But the girl—Juliet had without a doubt seen her before.
Juliet’s voice bewitched and beguiled the audience as she mentally reviewed all the people she knew from Dunedin. Finally, it came to her. Kevin’s little admirer. The shy girl he had made happy with a stupid stuffed horsey. Juliet decided it would be better to avoid her after the concert.
But when Juliet had finished and left the stage to rather scattered applause from her uncomprehending audience, the young woman rushed over to her.
“Mrs. Drury! That was beautiful. But I didn’t know—Patrick didn’t mention. Anyway, are you coming back to Dunedin? May is so adorable.”
Juliet struggled to smile. “You’re, um, Kevin’s little niece, is that right?”
“Not quite. I’m Roberta Fence, Atamarie’s friend. Atamarie�
�s Kevin’s niece, and, naturally, Patrick’s too.” Her voice now sounded a little recriminating.
Juliet was annoyed. It had been gauche to simply forget Patrick.
“Yes, yes, of course, forgive me. There were so many things that happened all at once in Dunedin.”
She let her gaze wander to Roberta’s companion, and smiled seductively. Really, that was the surest way to bring a conversation with another woman to an end.
But the man had no eyes for Juliet. He seemed to worship Roberta alone. And she, well, either she did not care about him or she trusted him completely.
“You can renew your acquaintance with all of us when you come home,” Roberta remarked with sugary sweetness.
Juliet registered with certain respect that the young lady seemed to have overcome her shyness.
“Oh yes, Dunedin.” Juliet sighed theatrically. “I don’t know yet if I’ll be passing through. My obligations, you know.”
She brushed a strand of hair out of her face lasciviously and smoldered at Vincent once more.
“Allow me to introduce Dr. Vincent Taylor,” Roberta said stiffly. “He’s the veterinarian for the racetrack here. Vincent and I were together in—”
“South Africa,” Vincent completed the thought with a bow.
Juliet’s ears pricked up. “Then you know Kevin Drury?” she blurted out. “How’s he doing?”
Vincent nodded guilelessly. “Certainly, Kevin and I were in the army together. And Miss Fence was a teacher in the Boer camps, and worked wonders, if I may say so.” He beamed.
“Kevin’s well,” Roberta added. “As are Patrick and May. Oh yes, and Kevin is—”
“You can see for yourself when you get back to Dunedin,” Vincent said eagerly. “Roberta says you’re married to Patrick Drury?”
Juliet nodded distractedly. So, Kevin was back? Of course, that crazy war overseas was over. Her mind raced feverishly.
“I’ll think about it, all that with Dunedin,” she said.
Roberta smiled—sardonically, Vincent realized to his astonishment. He had never seen such an expression on her.
“Patrick would surely be extraordinarily happy.” Roberta beamed at her former rival. “And Kevin, well, I’m sure he’d love to introduce his wife. She’s a Boer woman, an exceptional beauty. And the two of them have the most charming little boy.”
Chapter 4
Lizzie changed baby Abe while keeping a watchful eye on May, who was tussling with one of the collies on the kitchen floor. The dog was good-natured, but the girl was two years old now, and if she got too rough, it might protest. Mostly, though, May was gentle and oddly graceful for her age, and Lizzie never got tired of her exotic beauty. Kevin and Doortje’s son had a finely carved little face, and his first locks were golden blond. Sometimes Lizzie thought she saw a metallic shimmer like in Atamarie’s hair. She had thought that hair color only ran in Kathleen’s family.
Lizzie pulled on Abe’s little pants and shirt, stroked May’s black locks, and thought for the umpteenth time what gorgeous grandchildren had come her way. She would have been perfectly content—if only the children’s mothers were a bit easier. Lizzie still thought of Juliet with dread—in her opinion, the singer’s flight was the best thing that could have happened to Patrick. Unfortunately, Patrick Drury wasn’t over it. Though he took exemplary care of his “daughter,” who was actually his niece, he couldn’t seem to shake his heartbreak. But he must have known that Juliet did not love him. Lizzie doubted that she had offered even Kevin honest affection, but those two had had something, at least.
Lizzie was slowly starting to worry about her younger son. Patrick had always stood a bit in Kevin’s shadow—Kevin, who was his father’s son, was without a doubt the more scintillating personality of the two, and even Lizzie could hardly resist her elder son when he galloped up to her door with a radiant expression and curly black hair blowing in the wind. Patrick, on the other hand, took after Lizzie. His exterior was unassuming, but he was warm, loyal, and intensely reliable. Unfortunately, he lacked the thick skin that Lizzie had developed during her youth in London and exile in Tasmania. It had been too easy for Juliet to break his heart. Lizzie could only hope he’d get over it someday.
And now Kevin with his Doortje, this girl he really seemed to love. But was it a happy marriage? The way the two of them acted around each other, Lizzie kept wondering how they had ever produced a child. The young couple had been living for a few days now on Elizabeth Station, but Lizzie simply could not warm up to her new daughter-in-law. Of course, Doortje was the exact opposite of Juliet. She was interested in everything that happened on the farm, and she was never lazy—only her care for Abe left something to be desired. Doortje seemed to think it built character to let the baby scream now and then before she fed it, which caused Lizzie pain in her soul. Doortje, however, informed her that the boy needed to get used to privation.
“But surely not in his first six months,” Lizzie objected.
Doortje’s conviction, though, was ironclad, as in so many things. And she never lost her composure. Never in her eventful life had Lizzie met a woman who was so self-controlled, although she clearly suffered from constant stress. Someday that volcano would have to erupt, and Lizzie was already dreading it.
“Can I help somehow?”
A friendly, high-pitched voice with a strong accent interrupted Lizzie’s reflections. Once again, Nandi had slipped into the house without a sound. The young woman always went barefoot and moved like a lissome cat.
Lizzie smiled at her. Of all the feminine beings to have taken up quarters in her house in the last few years, she liked Nandi best by a mile. Nandi was helpful and willing to learn, her English was constantly improving, and she always seemed happy. With big, astonished eyes, she gazed at the new world, which must have been even more foreign to her than to her mistress. Mistress—Lizzie trembled at the word, but she also refused to translate baas, which Nandi still called Doortje, any more generously.
But Lizzie no longer believed that—not after the ugly incident with Haikina and Hemi, who came to visit shortly after Doortje’s arrival. Michael had been with the sheep, Lizzie in the vineyard, and Kevin at his new practice. The Maori had only encountered Doortje and Nandi in the garden. They were bringing gifts from the tribe for the young woman, tried to start a conversation, and heard Nandi addressing Doortje as baas. When they repeated it, Doortje did not correct them. On the contrary, when Haikina came by a few days later to help harvest grapes, Doortje insisted on the title. Lizzie then had a stern talk with her and was horrified at her reaction. “Your Kaffir can’t simply call you by your names,” she had replied.
Once again, Doortje would not budge an inch, despite Lizzie explaining the close relationship between the Drurys and the tribe—without mentioning the gold, of course.
“She’ll learn,” Haikina told Kevin. “Bring her along to our festivals. Maybe she could read a few books or newspapers, too, about the women who fought for the right to vote and the Maori Parliament.”
“Haikina would be happy to lend you a few books,” Lizzie told her a few days later.
Doortje had been perusing the bookshelf almost as discontentedly as Juliet before her. Only, she found Lizzie’s books on viniculture not only boring but morally objectionable, just like the women’s journals Lizzie occasionally bought and that Juliet had devoured.
“The black woman can read?” Doortje asked, horrified. “That’s against God’s will.”
Now Lizzie understood why Nandi so carefully hid her small treasury of Kevin and Patrick’s old children’s books.
“Haikina is a teacher. She taught your husband how to read,” Lizzie informed her daughter-in-law, now really angry. “And since it’s quite far to the school in Lawrence, she’ll also be teaching Abe. Unless you have designs on that yourself. But he’s sure not going to learn in Afrikaans or out of that old Bible of yours alone, over my dead body.”
Doortje had stared at her wrathfully at that, but had not
replied. Thankfully, it was still a long time until Abe’s schooling.
Lizzie sighed. The thought of having to contend with this daughter-in-law for years made her sick.
“You can take May out for a bit,” she now told Nandi, “before it rains again. If you like, you can take Abe with you too. Are you already done in the garden? Where’s Doortje hiding?”
“Tries to milk sheep,” Nandi informed her. “I not help. Baas said I not have to help if I am afraid.” Nandi gave Lizzie a concerned and guilty look.
Lizzie had nothing against Doortje’s attempts at cheese making per se. Unfortunately, Michael’s prize-winning wool producers were not about to hold still. Normally, they lived free with their flock and really only knew people from shearing time—and the occasional assisted birth. Neither was a positive experience. The animals fled any touch. During Doortje’s attempts to tie them down and milk them, they kicked and thrashed about. Nandi had earned painful bruises and was now afraid of them. Doortje, by contrast, would not let it go. Every day she struggled with three independent-minded ewes—and would not accept defeat.
“Every year we have a few orphaned lambs, Doortje. You could simply tame two or three of them and acclimate them to milking,” Kevin suggested. “Then, in two years, you’ll have ewes who will hardly leave your side, and the cheese will be better too.”
Doortje, however, was set on immediate cheese production—she seemed to draw some kind of satisfaction from the daily melee with the animals.
Lizzie could only shake her head at that.
“You only have to do one thing, Nandi,” she now said amiably, “and that’s to stop calling Michael baas. He’s not your master. Call him Michael, or Mr. Drury, if you must. But I don’t want to hear this ‘slaves can’t’ here. Which brings me to the question of your wage. It’s not right for you to work for us for free.”