by Sarah Lark
Daphne looked at Helen Davenport, who was just learning—plenty late, in Daphne’s opinion—that you couldn’t change the ways of the world, no matter how much you behaved like a lady. Then she looked at Gwyneira Silkham, who obviously still had to learn that as well. But Gwyneira Silkham was strong. Under different circumstances, for example as the wife of a powerful sheep baron, she could have done something. But she hadn’t come that far yet.
And then there were the Candlers: charming, kind people who would give her, little Daphne from the gutter, a once-in-a-lifetime chance. If she just played her cards right, she’d marry one of their heirs, lead a respectable life, have children, and become one of the region’s “notables.” Daphne could have laughed. Lady Daphne Candler—that sounded like something from one of Elizabeth’s stories. Too beautiful to be real.
Daphne ended her reverie abruptly and turned to her friend.
“Get up, Dorothy! Don’t howl like that,” she snapped at the girl. “It’s unbearable how you get so worked up. For my part, I don’t care if we trade. You go with the Candlers. I’ll go with him.” Daphne indicated Mr. Morrison.
Helen and Gwyneira held their breath, and Mrs. Candler gasped. Dorothy raised her head slowly, revealing her face, which was red and swollen from crying. Mr. Morrison frowned.
“Is this a game? Red Rover, Red Rover? Who says I’m just going to trade our girl away?” he asked angrily. “This one was promised to me.” He reached for Dorothy, who screamed in terror.
Daphne looked at him, the hint of a smile appearing on her lovely face. As though inadvertently, she ran her hand over her prim hairdo, freeing a few strands of glowing red hair.
“It won’t be any loss to you,” she breathed as the locks fell down over her shoulder.
Dorothy fled into Helen’s arms.
Morrison grinned, and this time there was no disguising his pleasure. “Well, if it’s like that…” he said and pretended to help Daphne fix her hair. “A red minx. My wife will be delighted. And you will surely be a good maid to her.” His voice sounded like silk, but Helen felt as though she were being sullied by the sound of his voice alone. The other women seemed to feel the same way. Only Mrs. Baldwin was immune to feelings, regardless of what kind. She wrinkled her brow disapprovingly and appeared to seriously consider whether she should allow the girls to follow through with their exchange. Then she graciously handed the papers she’d prepared for Daphne to Mr. Morrison.
The girl looked up only once briefly before following the man out.
“Well, Miss Davenport?” Daphne asked. “Did I behave…like a lady?”
“I love you and will pray for you,” she whispered as she watched the girl go.
Daphne laughed. “I thank you for your love. But you can save your prayers,” she said bitterly. “First wait until you see what card your God pulls out of his sleeve for you!”
Helen cried herself to sleep that night after excusing herself from dinner with the Baldwins under the flimsiest of pretexts. She would have liked to leave the parsonage and curl up in the blanket Daphne had forgotten in the stall. She could have screamed at the very sight of Mrs. Baldwin, and the reverend’s prayers made a mockery of the God her father had served. She had to get out. If only she could afford the hotel. If only it would have been even halfway decent for her to meet her fiancé without a go-between and chaperone. But it couldn’t last much longer. Dorothy and the Candlers were on their way to Haldon. Tomorrow Howard would learn about her arrival.
Something Like Love
CANTERBURY PLAINS—WEST COAST
1852–1854
1
Gerald Warden and his baggage did little more than creep forward, though Cleo and the young flock kept a brisk pace. Gerald had needed to rent three wagons to transport his European purchases to Kiward Station, as well as Gwyneira’s comprehensive dowry of occasional furniture, silver, and fine linen. Lady Silkham had not scrimped in that regard, going so far as to reach into the contents of her own trousseau. It first struck Gwyneira when they were unpacking how many useless extravagances her mother had packed in her chests and baskets—items that no one at Silkham Manor had needed for thirty years. What Gwyneira was supposed to do with them here at the edge of the world was a mystery, though Gerald seemed to hold the bric-a-brac in high regard and wanted to bring it all to Kiward Station straightaway. So three teams of sturdy horses and mules lurched across the Canterbury Plains. The rains had made the trails muddy in places, which dragged the trip out considerably. The spirited riding horses did not like the slow pace, and Igraine had been pulling at her reins all morning. Yet, to her own surprise, Gwyneira wasn’t at all bored: she was enthralled by the endless landscape through which they rode, the silky carpet of grass on which the sheep would gladly have paused, and the view of the towering and majestic mountains in the background. After the past few days of rain, it was as clear as the day after they had arrived, and the mountains appeared once more to be close enough to touch. Near Christchurch, the land had been mostly flat, but it was becoming noticeably hillier. It consisted primarily of grassland, stretching as far as the eye could see, and was broken only occasionally by hedges or boulders that protruded so sharply from the green that it was as though a giant child had thrown them into the landscape. Now and then they crossed streams and rivers whose currents were so mild that they could be waded through without danger. Now and then they rounded inconspicuous hills—suddenly to be rewarded with the sight of a small, crystal-clear lake in whose water the sky or the rock formations above were reflected. The majority of these lakes, Warden revealed, had volcanic origins, although there were no longer active volcanoes in the area.
Not far from the lakes and rivers stood the occasional humble farmhouse with sheep grazing in the meadows beside it. When the settlers noticed the riders, they came out from their farmhouses, hoping for a chat. Gerald spoke only briefly with them, however, and took none of them up on their offers of rest and refreshment.
“If we start accepting their invitations, we won’t reach Kiward Station for another two days,” he explained when Gwyneira found fault with his gruffness. She would have liked to have a look inside one of these sweet little houses because she assumed that her own future home would look similar. But Gerald allowed only short rests on riverbanks or at hedges, and otherwise insisted on maintaining a rapid pace. Only in the evening of the first day did he accept accommodations at a farm, which appeared considerably larger and neater than the houses of the roadside settlers.
“The Beasleys are wealthy. For a while, Lucas and their eldest son shared a tutor, and we invite them over every now and then,” Gerald explained to Gwyneira. “Beasley spent many years at sea as a first mate. An exceptional seaman. Just doesn’t have a knack for sheep breeding, or they’d have even more. But his wife wouldn’t settle for anything but a farm. She comes from rural England. And that’s why Beasley’s having a go at agriculture. A gentleman farmer.” Coming from Gerald’s mouth it sounded a bit derogatory. But then he smiled. “With an emphasis on the ‘gentleman.’ But they can afford it, so what’s the harm? And they provide a little culture and social life. Last year they even put together a fox hunt.”
Gwyneira wrinkled her brow. “Didn’t you say that there weren’t any foxes here?”
Gerald smirked. “The whole thing suffered a little because of that. But his sons are prodigious runners. They provided the bait.”
Gwyneira had to laugh. This Mr. Beasley sounded quite original, and he appeared to have a good eye for horses. The thoroughbreds resting in the paddock in front of his house were definitely imported from England, and the composition of the garden along the approach struck her as classically English. Indeed, Beasley turned out to be a pleasant, red-faced gentleman who reminded Gwyneira vaguely of her father. He too resided on the land rather than working the soil with his own hands, yet he lacked the landed gentry’s aptitude, cultivated over many generations, of running the farm effectively, even from the salon. The path leading up to
his farm might have been elegant, but the horse pastures’ fences could have used a fresh coat of paint. Gwyneira also noticed that the meadows were overgrazed and the water troughs were dirty.
Beasley seemed sincerely pleased by Gerald’s visit. He uncorked his best bottle of whiskey straightaway and fell all over himself with compliments—alternating between Gwyneira’s beauty, the skill of the sheepdogs, and the Welsh Mountain sheep. His wife, a well-groomed middle-aged woman, welcomed Gwyneira heartily.
“You must tell me about the latest English fashions! But first I’ll show you my garden. My goal is to grow the prettiest roses in the plains. But I won’t be upset if you outdo me, my lady. No doubt you’ve brought the prettiest examples from your mother’s garden and spent the whole trip taking care of them.”
Gwyneira swallowed. Not even Lady Silkham had thought to give her daughter some of her roses to bring along. But now she felt obliged to marvel at the flowers that so perfectly mirrored her mother’s and sister’s blossoms. Mrs. Beasley almost fainted when Gwyneira casually mentioned this, dropping the name “Diana Riddleworth” in the process. Apparently, it was the crowning achievement of Mrs. Beasley’s life as a rose gardener to be compared to Gwyneira’s famous sister. Gwyneira let her enjoy the moment. She certainly had no plans to outdo Mrs. Beasley. Not especially captivated by the roses, she found herself instead much more interested in the native plants that grew all around the manicured garden.
“Oh, those are cabbage trees,” Mrs. Beasley explained, disinterested, when Gwyneira pointed to a palmlike plant. “It looks like a palm, but supposedly belongs to the lily family. They shoot up like weeds. Be careful you don’t get too many of those in your garden, child. Or those over there.”
She pointed to a blooming bush that Gwyneira actually liked more than Mrs. Beasley’s roses. Its blossoms glowed a fiery red, in handsome contrast to its lush green leaves, which were unfolding beautifully after the rain.
“A rata,” Mrs. Beasley explained. “They grow wild across the whole island. Can’t get rid of them. I always have to take care that they don’t sneak in with the roses. And my gardener is no great help. He doesn’t understand why you care for some plants and weed out others.”
As it turned out, the Beasleys’ entire staff was Maori. They had hired only a few white adventurers who claimed to know what they were doing to look after the sheep. Gwyneira saw a pureblooded native for the first time here and was initially a bit frightened. Mrs. Beasley’s gardener was short and stocky. His hair was dark and curly and his skin light brown; his face was marred by tattoos—or at least that’s how Gwyneira saw it. The man must have liked the whirls and zigzags himself, however, since he’d agreed to have them scratched painfully into his skin. Once Gwyneira had gotten used to his appearance, she found she liked his grin. He was very polite too, greeting her with a deep bow and holding the garden gate open for the ladies. His uniform was no different from that of white servants, though Gwyneira assumed that the Beasleys had ordered it. Before the whites had appeared, the Maori had no doubt dressed differently.
“Thank you, George,” Mrs. Beasley said to him kindly as he shut the door behind her.
Gwyneira was surprised.
“His name is George?” she asked, taken aback. “I would have thought…but your help are no doubt baptized and have taken English names, is that right?”
Mrs. Beasley shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t even know,” she admitted. “We don’t go to church regularly. That would mean a day’s journey to Christchurch every time. So on Sunday I just hold a little devotional here for us and the help. But if they come because they’re Christian or because I demand it…I don’t know.”
“But if his name is George…” Gwyneira insisted.
“Oh, child, I gave him that name. I’ll never learn the language of these people. Their names alone are unpronounceable. And he doesn’t seem to care either way, do you George?”
The man nodded and smiled.
“Proper name Tonganui!” he then added, pointing at himself when Gwyneira still looked dismayed. “Means ‘Son of Sea God.’”
It didn’t sound very Christian, but Gwyneira didn’t find it unpronounceable either. She determined not to rename her own servants.
“Where exactly did the Maori learn English?” she asked Gerald as they continued their journey the next day. The Beasleys had protested when they left, but understood that after his long absence Gerald wanted to make sure everything was in order at Kiward Station. They didn’t have much to say about Lucas—other than the usual praise. It appeared he had not left the farm during Gerald’s absence. At least he hadn’t honored the Beasleys with a visit.
Gerald seemed to be in a bad mood that morning. The two men had stayed up and partaken generously of the whiskey, while Gwyneira, mentioning the long ride that lay behind and ahead, had said good night early. Mrs. Beasley’s monologue about roses had bored her, and she had known since they arrived in Christchurch that Lucas was a cultivated man and gifted composer who, what’s more, always had the latest works of Mr. Bulwer-Lytton and similarly great authors to lend.
“Oh, the Maori…” Gerald took up the question unenthusiastically. “You never know what they understand and what they don’t. They always pick some up from their employers, and the women pass it on to their children. They want to be like us. Which is helpful.”
“But they don’t go to school?” Gwyneira inquired.
Gerald laughed.
“Who do you think would teach them? Most of the colonist mothers are happy when they can manage to teach their own brood a little civilization. To be sure, there are a few missions, and the Bible has been translated into Maori. But if you feel moved to teach a few black brats the Queen’s English—I won’t stand in your way.”
Gwyneira did not really feel so moved, but maybe that would provide Helen with a new field to work in. She smiled at the thought of her friend, who was even now still sitting on her hands at the Baldwins’ home in Christchurch. Howard O’Keefe had not shown any sign of appearing, but Vicar Chester had assured her every day that this was nothing to worry about. There was no way of being certain that news of Helen’s arrival had even reached him yet, and then of course he would have to be free to come and get her.
“What do you mean by ‘free to come’?” Helen had asked. “Does he not have any farmhands?”
The vicar had not responded to the question. Gwyneira hoped there wasn’t an unpleasant surprise awaiting her friend.
Gwyneira had been quite happy with her new homeland from the start. Now, as they approached the mountains, the landscape became hillier and more varied but it remained just as lovely and well suited to sheep. Around noon Gerald happily revealed that they had crossed the property line of Kiward Station and that from now on they would be moving across his own land. To Gwyneira the landscape was a garden of Eden: an abundance of grass; good, clean drinking water for the animals; and a tree or even a shady copse here and there.
“As I said, it hasn’t all been cleared yet,” Gerald Warden explained as he let his gaze wander over the landscape. “But we could leave part of the forest. Some of it is rare wood, and it would be such a shame to burn it all. It could even be worth something someday. We might be able to use the river as a flume. In the meantime, though, we’ll leave the trees alone. Look, there are the first sheep! I wonder what the critters are doing here though. They should have long since been driven up into the hills.”
Gerald frowned. Gwyneira knew him well enough by now to realize that he was contemplating how to punish whomever was responsible. Normally he had no compunctions about expressing his thoughts to his listeners at length, but today he kept it to himself. Could it be because Lucas was the one responsible? Did Gerald not want to disparage his son in front of his fiancée—right before their first meeting?
All the while, Gwyneira could barely contain her excitement. She wanted to see the house, of course, but more than anything she wanted to meet her future husband. During the
last few miles, she pictured him coming out to greet her, laughing, from a stately farmhouse like the Beasleys’. Meanwhile, they were already passing some of Kiward Station’s outbuildings. Gerald had had shelters and shearing stations for his sheep set up all over his property. Gwyneira found that very prudent of him but was astounded by the scope of the grounds. In Wales, her father’s stock of some four hundred sheep had been considered large. But here they counted by the thousands.
“So, Gwyneira, I’m curious what you think.”
It was late afternoon and Gerald’s whole face shone as he guided his horse alongside Igraine. The mare had just stepped from the usual muddy path onto a paved trail that led from a little lake around a hill. A few more steps revealed the farm’s main house.
“Here we are, Lady Gwyneira,” Gerald said proudly. “Welcome to Kiward Station!”
Gwyneira should have been prepared, but she almost fell from her horse in surprise. In front of her, in the sun, in the middle of an endless grassland, with the mountains rising up in the background, was an English manor house. Not as large as Silkham Manor and with fewer turrets and side buildings, but otherwise comparable in every way. Kiward Station was even more beautiful in some ways, having been perfectly planned by a single architect instead of being rebuilt and added onto like most English manors. The house was constructed of gray sandstone as Gerald had mentioned. It had oriels and large windows, which were partially adorned with small balconies; an ample path led up to it with flower beds that had not yet been planted. Gwyneira decided to sow rata bushes. That would highlight the facade and, moreover, they were easy to take care of.