by Lark, Sarah
Nandi looked shocked. “But what I do with money?”
Lizzie had a few suggestions. However, hoofbeats and the sound of wagon wheels interrupted them. Lizzie looked out the window—and with a mixture of joy and trepidation, she recognized Lady, Patrick’s mare. It was good that Patrick was back, but it would have to bring the confrontation between him and Kevin that Lizzie had long feared. Juliet still stood between them, and now Doortje, who was acting like a farmer’s wife, might too. It could not please Patrick to see Kevin and his wife on the farm. Elizabeth Station was his inheritance, whereas Kevin had received his lengthy medical studies and the practice in Dunedin. Lizzie could only hope that her younger son did not take Kevin’s move to Otago as an affront.
Yet Patrick did not look unhappy. Lizzie took May in her arms to go meet him, and Patrick danced through the door, stroking the collie on the head when it leaped up on him, then hugging Lizzie and May at the same time. Lizzie had not seen him this happy in ages.
“Mother, May, my sweet. You’ll never believe whom I’ve brought with me.”
May gurgled amiably in response—but a bad feeling took root in Lizzie and was quickly confirmed.
“Patrick, surprise or not, you can’t just leave me sitting in the wagon. It’s raining.”
In the door stood Juliet LaBree-Drury. Lizzie looked at her in disbelief. Nandi, in contrast, was visibly interested. The beautiful Creole was the first person of color she had encountered in New Zealand.
Juliet laughed. “Cat got your tongue, Lizzie?” With feigned nonchalance, she went up to Lizzie and greeted her with kisses on the cheek. “Patrick thought you’d be thunderstruck, but well, you did have to reckon on me coming back someday.”
Lizzie cleared her throat. “No,” she admitted, “honestly, we had not reckoned on that.”
Juliet turned to Nandi and eyed her without any compunction.
“Heavens, I don’t believe it. A black woman. A cute one at that. But he always did have good taste. Let me look at you, girl. You’re Kevin’s wife?”
Nandi stared at the ground, embarrassed.
“Forgive me,” Patrick said apologetically. “My wife is, um, somewhat impulsive. But I had also, if you’ll forgive me, pictured you differently.”
Lizzie stepped in. “Nandi, this is Patrick Drury, my younger son, and his, er, wife, Juliet. Juliet, Patrick, this is Nandi. Doortje’s lady’s maid,” she said, choosing the most status-enhancing term she knew.
Juliet made a face. So, Kevin’s wife had had a servant at her disposal—a lady’s maid, even.
She cast a look at the blond—and certainly white—child in Nandi’s arms.
Nandi was approaching Patrick with him. “This Abraham. Your nephew, yes?”
Patrick smiled at her. “Yes, that’s right. You’re learning English, miss?”
Nandi nodded.
Another woman was now entering the kitchen. Doortje Drury was wearing her usual Boer work clothing: blue dress, apron, bonnet. Everything had been clean and fresh that morning but had not survived the battle with the ewes unscathed. She looked rumpled and dirty, her dress dusted with bits of straw and sheep manure. Added to which, she had run from the sheep barn through the rain. Doortje’s eyes nevertheless flashed triumphantly, and no one could deny she was exceptionally beautiful.
“I have milk,” Doortje declared, and held up a bucket. “I managed to milk two of them.”
Lizzie suppressed a laugh. “Allow me to introduce you. Doortje Drury, Patrick and Juliet Drury. This is my younger son and his wife.”
Lizzie’s daughters-in-law eyed each other, equally stunned. Juliet stared at Doortje’s manure-smeared apron, Doortje at Juliet’s mixed-race features.
Patrick relieved the tension a little by offering his sister-in-law his hand. “I look forward to making your acquaintance,” he said formally. “That is, both yours and little Abe’s.” He took the baby from Nandi and rocked him in his arms. “The family resemblance is unmistakable,” he remarked guilelessly. “He looks like Atamarie, doesn’t he?”
Chapter 5
Lord Barrington had generously allowed Rosie to lodge Bulldog’s black stallion in his racing stables and to train on his grounds. To which end, he acquired a trainer’s license for her, which was not exactly simple: the racing association might look past female harness racers as long as no one shouted it from the rooftops, but licensing a female trainer?
His lordship proved rather inventive here. He accompanied Rosie to the Canterbury Trotting Club and supported her request for a license.
“Ross Paisley,” he introduced Rosie, who had hidden her short hair under a newsboy cap and her figure under a shapeless shirt. She wore dungarees to match. “Very gifted, a real asset for the club.”
The secretary of the Canterbury Trotting Club looked up reluctantly from his work. “So, what’s the man’s proper name?” he inquired. “I need the full name for the papers. It’s Ross, isn’t it, or is that short for something?”
His lordship bent down to him. “Certainly,” he whispered. “But would you like to have the name ‘Rosamond Paisley’ emblazoned on your documents?”
The secretary chortled. “His name is Rosamond?” he boomed.
Rosie blushed. Really her name was Rosemary, but she had thought it impudent to show up as a boy with that name.
The secretary could hardly contain his laughter. “Well, some parents deserve a thrashing. Although, the boy looks a little ladylike, don’t he?”
Rosie held her breath, but the man was already reaching for his pen. A few minutes later, she held a trainer’s license with the name “Ross Paisley” in her hands.
Joe Fence and the two other trainers in Addington tried to create an uproar. Rosie’s sex was, after all, universally known on the racetrack. The racing club, however, would not be moved. Lord Barrington had major influence in Addington, and Tom Tibbs might be an up-and-coming name among the horse owners. After all, he had money and a knack for horses. No one in the racing leadership would force a new trainer under the protection of both to pull down their pants in public. Besides, the horse Paisley trained acquitted itself excellently.
Vincent Taylor, however, was not so enthusiastic when Rosie Paisley called him to examine her mare, Trotting Diamond, for the third time in two weeks.
“Rosie, there’s nothing wrong with her,” he insisted. “There wasn’t on Monday, and there isn’t today either. Maybe she’s a little excited. Her pulse is a bit quicker than it should be, but—”
“She trembled,” Rosie insisted, “and she’s sweating differently than usual. Something’s not right, Dr. Taylor. I notice these things.”
Vincent shook his head. “I can’t find anything, anyway. Is she racing well as always?”
Rosie nodded. “She qualified for the Auckland Trotting Cup,” she declared proudly. “I just don’t know how I’ll get her to the North Island—it’s so far.”
“Fence also sends horses there,” Vincent said. “But of course, you won’t want to transport her with them. What about Mr. Tibbs?”
“Oh, Mr. Tibbs is very satisfied,” she reported eagerly. “The stallion is doing well, you know. He won second place on the last race day. But Auckland? Maybe next year.”
“I meant he could sponsor your trip,” Vincent said. “He doesn’t lack for money.”
Though Bulldog’s freight company might have seemed small, the enterprise was actually spread across the whole South Island. Tibbs maintained branches in Blenheim, Queenstown, and on the West Coast. He was already thinking of motorizing and buying shares in the railroad.
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to do that,” Rosie murmured. “He already spends so much on Dream.”
“He pays you an entirely normal training rate,” Vincent replied, “nothing more or less. And in return, you do very good work. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”
“But I’m happy to do it,” Rosie insisted, “for, um, Mr. Tibbs.”
Vincent now smiled conspiratorially at
her. “Haven’t you ever considered that Mr. Tibbs might be happy to do something for you too?”
The light in Rosie’s and Tibbs’s eyes could not be missed. However, the relationship did not quite seem to advance. Of course, Vincent wasn’t doing much better with Roberta. He sighed as he patted Trotting Diamond in good-bye. Everything had looked so promising, but after their encounter with that slick, unscrupulous singer, Roberta seemed to withdraw back into herself. It must have something to do with Kevin. And according to Roberta’s last letter, this Juliet character was now back in Dunedin, or Otago. There seemed to have been something of a clash between Kevin and his brother. This last piece of information he had from his friend’s own mouth. Kevin had accompanied his father to a meeting of the livestock breeders’ association in Christchurch, and he came to Addington to see Vincent. He was none too eager to hobnob with the livestock barons.
“It’s really more your brother’s job, isn’t it?” Vincent asked during their first round of whiskey.
Kevin looked into his glass. “Patrick won’t budge from Juliet’s side these days, and he insisted that she move to Otago with him, to our parents’ farm. So they’d have more time together and could reconnect.”
He gave Vincent the rough outlines of Patrick’s marriage so far. The veterinarian listened attentively. And pursed his lips when he put two and two together.
“This Juliet wouldn’t happen to be the girl who drove you to war, would she?”
Kevin grimaced. “How’d you figure it out?”
“Roberta’s reaction to her hinted as much. She’s usually so polite, but she really crossed swords with this Juliet person. And now you’re all living on the farm? You with Doortje and Patrick with Juliet? Your poor parents.”
“No, no. Juliet and Doortje can’t stand each other. Although, I don’t know what Juliet has against Doortje.”
Vincent almost choked on his whiskey. “Might I offer a few conjectures?”
Kevin looked at him punitively. “Laugh it up,” he said melodramatically. “Unfortunately, what Doortje has against Juliet is clear. Juliet is Creole—oh, right, you’ve seen her. A rare beauty, don’t you think?”
Vincent tilted his head. “Beauty isn’t everything. She doesn’t hold a candle to Roberta. She’s got something hounded about her, if you ask me. But you do like the difficult cases. Doortje—”
“Could hardly be dragged to a table with Juliet,” sighed Kevin. “Nor was Juliet particularly congenial. She treated Doortje like a bumpkin, and Doortje didn’t have a quick counter to that. Still, she marveled aloud that a ‘colored girl’ could speak in complete sentences.”
Vincent groaned. “Something’s going to have to give, Kevin. She’s still so, so—”
Kevin buried his head in his hands. “We’re still not living a marriage,” he admitted. “She doesn’t resist, and I have to confess I—I’ve taken her twice. And she did not object. On the contrary, she said she’d wondered, but she lay there, stiff as a board. It’s not right, Vincent. Nothing’s right. And now, I’m living with her in the old log cabin.”
“Where?”
“It’s a gold miner’s hut my parents built for themselves long before they had the farm. It’s old, but sturdy, and closer to Lawrence, which is certainly a pro for me. My parents suggested it after Patrick—well, he’s made himself quite clear. He doesn’t want me or Doortje anywhere near Juliet.”
“Somehow, I can understand that.”
“I’m so glad you’re amused,” Kevin retorted bitterly. “At least, Doortje was immediately in favor. She spoke of a farm of our own, which upset Patrick again. The gold miner’s hut sits on Elizabeth Station land. But at any rate, he had nothing against us living there for the time being. And now Doortje acts as if she’s completely satisfied. She has a few sheep, a cow, and she’s planting a garden, or is at least supervising Nandi while she plants a garden. The poor thing is breaking her back, but for Doortje, the division of labor is clear: the coarser work is for the Kaffir; the more sophisticated is for the baas. She bakes the bread herself, makes the cheese. It would almost be nice if she—well, if we were a loving couple. You know what I mean?”
“Of course.”
For a moment, Vincent lost himself in dreams of building a home far out in the country, but then shook it off. Roberta was a city girl, and Addington might already have been too provincial for her. Was that the reason she had cooled off toward him? But no, he did not believe that. Roberta’s withdrawing had to do with Juliet. And—though he hated to admit it—Kevin.
“But out in that wilderness, she must be bored to death,” Kevin complained. “That’s how it is for me, anyway, when I come back from the practice. Doortje puts dinner on the table, I try to start a conversation, she tells me a bit about her day—but then that’s it. There’s nothing to say.”
“And Nandi?” asked Vincent.
“She sleeps in the toolshed. Which I hate. Doortje treats her like a dog. The whole thing’s a mess. I wish I could move back to Dunedin.”
Kevin ordered another whiskey. He seemed determined to get drunk. Vincent took another sip too.
“You should, then,” he advised. “‘I will follow where you lead’ and all that. It’s pure Old Testament. Besides, you’re not doing her any favors by allowing her to set up a little Africa in Otago. Not to mention, you can’t let your son grow up on the Dutch Bible and bloody Voortrekker legends. Take Doortje to Dunedin and force her to assimilate. She’ll manage. She’s intelligent, and I bet—I bet Roberta would help.” He swallowed. “And while we’re on the topic of Roberta . . .” He pressed ahead in a feigned lighthearted tone. He had to know. “Have you—have you ever been attracted to her?”
Kevin looked up, startled. “Your Roberta? Oh, come now, don’t tell me she’s still pining for me. She had a crush when she was little, but now she’s grown. I thought she was nearly engaged to you?”
“So, you don’t find her attractive, then?” Vincent asked seriously.
Kevin laughed. “No, Vincent, I really don’t. She’s cute, no doubt. But she’s—listen, my niece and Roberta grew up together. My lands, I even gave the sweet girl a stuffed horsey a few years ago. Roberta Fence is like family. I have no interest in her that way.”
Vincent Taylor’s heart felt a bit lighter. If Kevin posed no real threat, a few dreams and a stuffed horse were all he would have to contend with.
Around the same time, Doortje’s establishment of a personal little Africa was going off the rails—independently of Kevin and Vincent’s schemes.
Patrick Drury had honestly wanted to improve relations with his new sister-in-law when he stopped by during a ride through the sheep pastures. It had not escaped him how much Doortje and Juliet disliked each other—he already had his misgivings about why Juliet rejected the Boer, but he could not comprehend the deep antipathy from the other side. Patrick did not know anything about South Africa, and this sort of overt racism was foreign to him. As a result, he did not grasp why Doortje seemed personally offended by Patrick’s marriage to Juliet. He regretted the conflict with his brother and wanted, on the one hand, to set it aside, but, on the other, to keep as much space between Kevin and Juliet as possible. All of that was very difficult, and Doortje’s hostility did not make it easier. Here, however, Patrick told himself things could be remedied. If he drank coffee now and then with his new sister-in-law—without Juliet contributing spiteful comments—he could surely win her over.
So, on that radiant spring day, he hitched his horse in front of the cabin and knocked. No one answered, so Patrick decided to walk around back. His mother had said Doortje was planting a garden, and the sheep had to be housed somewhere too.
He heard someone singing a foreign tune as the garden and stables came into view. And then he saw Nandi.
She wore a summer dress—really just a colorful band of cloth, which she had ably wound around her body, ending above the knee. Despite her light garment, Nandi was sweating, which was no wonder. She was striking a
spade over and over into the dry ground with all her might to clear a bed.
“Nandi,” he called, “what are you up to there? That’s much too hard for you.”
Nandi turned around. When she saw Patrick, joy spread across her narrow, aristocratic face. “Baas Patrick,” she said cheerfully. “Good day.” She curtsied and giggled.
“A lovely day to you as well,” he greeted her, and bowed just as formally.
She giggled again. “Always funny, baas Patrick.”
“Well, I don’t see anything funny about it,” he said. “I’m here to visit Mrs. Drury. Is she here?”
Nandi shook her head. “She went up to Mrs. Lizzie Drury, bringing fresh cheese.”
Patrick nodded. All their differences aside, Lizzie and Doortje sedulously exchanged agricultural products. At first, Lizzie had wondered at that. She had expected Doortje would be happy finally to be rid of her, but Boer women seemed to do things like the wives of the farmers Patrick advised. You shared with your neighbors whether you liked them or not, and moreover, if they belonged to your family, you did your best to minimize conflicts.
Patrick took the spade from Nandi’s hands. “Let me do this while I’m waiting for Doortje. She won’t stay up there long, I’m sure. And this work’s too much for you.”
“Oh no, baas, um, Mr. Patrick.” She looked at him, seeking approval, although Patrick had not reproved the title before. In truth, he had no idea what it meant. “I, we always did. It’s our work on farm.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?” asked Patrick. “I mean, the little fellow can’t contribute much just yet.” Smiling, he indicated Abe, who was sleeping peacefully in a basket in the shadow of a rata bush. Next to him lay an open book, Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. “Or does he read to you while you dig?” He winked.
Nandi laughed again. “No, he can’t read yet. He is still baby, Mr. Patrick. ‘We’ is father and mother and brother and Nandi. We always worked in fields of baas van Stout.”