In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

  Helen fondled the letters he’d sent, which she always kept with her. When would her husband finally open up enough to repeat those beautiful words to her face?

  The wedding itself was very festive. Reverend Baldwin proved to be an excellent speaker who knew how to captivate his parish. As he spoke of love “in good times and bad,” every last woman in the church was in tears and even the men were sniffling. The choice of maid of honor was the only bitter note for Helen. She had wanted to ask Mrs. Godewind, but Mrs. Baldwin had forced herself on Helen, and it would have been impolite to refuse her. Besides, she was very happy with the best man, Vicar Chester.

  Howard surprised her when he spoke his vows freely and with a steady voice, looking at Helen almost lovingly as he did. Helen did not manage it quite so perfectly herself—she cried as she spoke.

  But then the organ sounded, the parish sang, and Helen felt overjoyed as she strode from the church on her husband’s arm. Outside, the well-wishers were already waiting.

  Helen kissed Elizabeth and let herself be embraced by a sobbing Mrs. McLaren. To her surprise, Mrs. Beasley and the whole O’Hara family had appeared, although the latter did not belong to the Anglican Church. Helen shook hands and laughed and cried until in the end only one young woman remained whom Helen had never seen before. She looked over at Howard—maybe the woman had come for him—but Howard was talking with the pastor and seemed to have missed this last well-wisher.

  Helen smiled at her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but may I ask where I know you from? There have been so many new things over the last few days that…”

  The woman gave her a friendly nod. She was petite, with a plain, childlike face and thin blonde hair that she had pinned up primly under a hat. She wore the simple clothing typical of a Christchurch housewife going to church. “There’s no need to apologize; you don’t know me,” she said. “I wanted to introduce myself because…we have a few things in common. My name is Christine Lorimer. I was the first.”

  Helen looked at her, confused. “The first what? Come, let’s step into the shade. Mrs. Baldwin has prepared some refreshments in the house.”

  “I don’t want to impose,” Mrs. Lorimer said quickly. “But you could say I’m your predecessor. The first who came from England to be married here.”

  “That is interesting indeed,” Helen said, surprised. “I thought I was the first. They said the other women had yet to receive any replies to their letters, and I came without any explicit agreement.”

  The young woman nodded. “Me too, more or less. I didn’t answer an advertisement though. I was twenty-five and had no prospects for a husband. And how would I, without a dowry? I lived with my brother and his family, which he supported more poorly than properly. I tried to earn enough as a seamstress to help out, but I’m not much use. I have bad eyes; they didn’t want me in the factory. Then my brother and his wife had the idea to emigrate. But what would have become of me? We stumbled on the idea of writing a letter to the pastor here. Was there perchance a proper Christian man in Canterbury looking for a bride? We received an answer from a Mrs. Brennan. It was very stern, and she wanted to know everything about me. She must have enjoyed it. At any rate, I received a letter from Mr. Thomas Lorimer. And what can I say—I fell in love at once!”

  “Seriously?” Helen asked, not wanting to admit that she had felt no differently. “After one letter?”

  Mrs. Lorimer giggled. “Of course. He wrote so beautifully. I can still repeat his words by heart: ‘I yearn for a woman who would be prepared to tie her fate to mine. I pray to God for a loving woman, whose heart my words can soften.’”

  Helen’s eyes widened. “But…but that’s in my letter!” she exclaimed, becoming agitated. “Howard wrote exactly those same words to me. I can’t believe what you’re telling me, Mrs. Lorimer. Is this some kind of joke?”

  The woman looked shocked. “Oh no, Mrs. O’Keefe! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I had no way of knowing they’d done it again.”

  “What do you mean, ‘done it again’?” Helen asked, although she was beginning to put the pieces together.

  “Well, what they did with the letters,” Christine Lorimer explained. “My Thomas is a good-hearted man. Really, I couldn’t wish for a better husband. But he is a joiner; he doesn’t make big speeches, nor does he write romantic letters. He told me, he had tried again and again, but he didn’t like any of the letters he wrote me enough to send them. After all, he wanted to touch my heart, you know. So, he just turned to Vicar Chester.”

  “Vicar Chester wrote the letters?” asked Helen, who didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Yet a few things suddenly made sense: the lovely fine handwriting typical of a cleric; the well-selected choice of words; the lack of practical information that Gwyneira had observed. And, of course, the vicar’s obvious interest in the success of the romance.

  “I wouldn’t have thought they’d dare do it again,” Mrs. Lorimer said. “Especially since I gave both of them a thorough dressing down when I learned of the whole thing. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Keefe. Your Howard should have had the chance to tell you himself. But I’m going to deal with this Vicar Chester. I’ve certainly got a few things to say to him!”

  Christine Lorimer leaped resolutely into action, while Helen remained behind, contemplative. Who was the man she had just married? Had Chester really only helped him put his feelings into words, or had Howard not really cared how he lured his future bride to the ends of the earth?

  She would soon find out, though she wasn’t entirely certain that she wanted to know the truth.

  The wagon had been bouncing over muddy paths for more than eight hours. Helen felt the journey would never end. Moreover, the infinite expanse of the landscape depressed her. They hadn’t passed a house for more than an hour. Besides, the vehicle in which Howard transported his young wife, her worldly goods, and his own purchases was without a doubt the most uncomfortable form of transportation that Helen had ever traveled in. Her back hurt from the uncushioned seat, and the constant misting rain gave her headaches. Howard didn’t do anything to make the trip any easier on her. He hadn’t said a word to her for at least a half hour, at most muttering a command to the brown horse and gray mule that pulled the wagon.

  Helen, therefore, had all the time in the world to dwell on her thoughts, which were not exactly joyful. The debacle over the letter was the least of her troubles. Howard and the vicar had begged for forgiveness for their little ruse the day before, admitting that it had been a venial sin. However, they had brought the matter to a successful conclusion: Howard had his wife and Helen her husband. What was infinitely more troubling was the news that Helen had heard from Elizabeth the night before. Mrs. Baldwin had said nothing—perhaps because she was ashamed or because she didn’t want to unsettle Helen—but Belinda Baldwin had not been able to hold her tongue and had revealed to Elizabeth that little Laurie had run away from the Lavenders on her second day with them. She had been found quickly and sharply rebuked, but she had tried it again the next evening. After the second time, she had been beaten. After her third attempt, she had been locked in the broom closet.

  “Only getting bread and water!” Belinda declared dramatically.

  Helen had spoken to the reverend about it that morning before their departure; naturally, he had told her he would see that right was done by Laurie. But would he keep his word when Helen was not there to exhort him to do his duty?

  Then there had been the departure with Howard. Helen had spent her last night chastely in her bed at the Baldwins’. To bring her man into the parsonage was out of the question, and Howard couldn’t or wouldn’t pay for a night in the hotel.

  “We have our whole lives together,” he had declared, kissing Helen awkwardly on the cheek. “Not everything needs to happen tonight.”

  Helen had been relieved but also a little disappointed. She would have preferred the amenities of a hotel room to the blanket bed in the covered wagon that likely awaited her during this trip. She had l
aid her good nightshirt at the top of her travel bag, but where she was supposed to dress and undress decently was a mystery to her. In addition to all that, the mist had made her clothing—and doubtless the blankets, too—cold and damp. Whatever awaited her that night, these conditions certainly would not contribute to its success.

  However, Helen was spared an improvised camp in the covered wagon. Shortly before dark, when she was completely exhausted and just wished the clattering of the carriage would finally cease, Howard stopped before a humble farmhouse.

  “We can stay here with this family tonight,” he told Helen, helping her down from the box in a gentlemanly manner. “I know Wilbur from Port Cooper. He’s married and settled down now too.”

  A dog began barking inside the house, and Wilbur and his wife came out, curious about their visitors.

  When the short, wiry man recognized Howard, he let out a shout and embraced him roughly. They clapped each other on the shoulder and began reminding each other of their great former exploits—and probably would have liked to uncork their first bottle right there in the rain.

  Helen looked imploringly at Wilbur’s wife. To her relief, the woman smiled openly and warmly.

  “You must be the new Mrs. O’Keefe! We could hardly believe it when we heard that Howard was ready to marry. But come in out of the rain, you’re no doubt chilled to the bone. And the rattling of these wagons—you come from London, isn’t that so? No doubt you’re used to fine carriages!” The woman smiled as though she hadn’t meant her last comment seriously. “I’m Margaret.”

  Helen introduced herself. Apparently, people didn’t stand on ceremony here. Margaret was thin and a little taller than her husband and looked a bit haggard. She wore a simple gray dress that had been patched many times. The house into which she led Helen was rather primitive: the tables and chairs of were made of unfinished wood, and an open fireplace was also used for cooking. But the food simmering in a large caldron smelled good.

  “You’re in luck; I just slaughtered a chicken,” Margaret explained. “Not exactly the youngest of the lot, but she’ll make a proper soup. Sit down by the fire, Helen, and dry off a bit. Here’s some coffee, and I’ll find a swig of whiskey around here too.”

  Helen looked at her, bewildered. She had never drunk whiskey in her life, but Margaret didn’t seem to think twice about it. She filled Helen’s enamel cup with coffee as bitter as gall, which she had been keeping warm near the fire for what must have been an eternity. Helen hadn’t dared ask for sugar or even milk, but Margaret set both out readily in front of her on the table. “Take plenty of sugar; it gets your spirits up. And a slug of whiskey!”

  The liquor really did enhance the taste of the coffee, and the mixture was perfectly drinkable with milk and sugar. Alcohol was supposed to chase away sorrows and relax strained muscles. So Helen justified it as medicine and didn’t refuse when Margaret topped off her cup a second time.

  By the time the chicken soup was ready, Helen was viewing everything as though through a light fog. She was finally warm again, and the firelit room had a welcoming atmosphere. If she should experience the “unspeakable” here for the first time—what of it?

  The excellent soup did its part to raise her spirits, but it made her tired. Helen would have liked to go straight to bed, though Margaret obviously enjoyed chatting with her.

  But even Howard seemed to want to bring the evening to a conclusion. He had emptied several glasses with Wilbur and laughed loudly when his friend suggested a card game.

  “Nah, m’friend, no more tonight. Tonight I got something else in mind that has a lot to do with that enchanting woman who fled from the old country to me.”

  He bowed gallantly to Helen, who reddened.

  “So, where can we retire to? This is…so to speak…our wedding night!”

  “Oh, then we still need to throw some rice!” Margaret squealed. “I didn’t know you tied the knot so recently. Unfortunately, I can’t offer you a proper bed. But there’s plenty of fresh hay; it’ll be warm and soft for you. Wait a moment, I’ll give you sheets and blankets; yours’ll be clammy from the drive through the rain. And a lantern, so you can see something…though the first time, people usually prefer doing it in the dark.”

  She giggled.

  Helen was appalled. She was supposed to spend her wedding night in a stall?

  The cow mooed hospitably as Helen and Howard entered the shed—she with an armful of blankets, he with the stall lantern. It was relatively warm. In addition to Howard’s team, the stall sheltered the cow, two horses, and a mule. The animals warmed the room up but also filled it with permeating smells. Helen spread their blankets on the hay. Had it really only been three months since she had been so upset by the presence of a sheep pen? Gwyneira would certainly have found this amusing. Helen, however…if she were honest, she was just afraid.

  “Where…can I undress here?” she asked shyly. She couldn’t possibly undress in front of Howard in the middle of the stall.

  Howard frowned. “Are you crazy, woman? I’ll do all I can to keep you warm, but this is no place for lace shirts. It’ll cool down tonight, and what’s more there are bound to be fleas in the hay. Leave your dress on.”

  “But…but when we…” Helen turned a burning red.

  Howard laughed, pleased. “You let me worry about that!”

  He calmly loosened his belt buckle. “Now get under the covers, so you don’t catch cold. Do you need my help to loosen your corset?”

  Howard obviously wasn’t doing this for the first time, and he didn’t seem nervous. On the contrary, his face shone with anticipation. Helen bashfully declined his help. She could loosen the ties herself. But to do so, she had to unbutton her dress, which wasn’t easy since the buttons were in the back. She shrank when she felt Howard’s fingers. He ably undid one button after the other.

  “Better?” he asked with a sort of smile.

  Helen nodded. She just hoped that this night would pass quickly as she lay down in the hay with desperate determination. She just wanted to put it behind her, whatever “it” was. Silently she lay on her back and closed her eyes. Her hands clamped down on the sheets after she’d pulled the covers over her. Howard slipped in next to her and undid his fly. Helen felt his lips on her face. Her husband kissed her cheeks and her mouth. Well all right, she had let him do that already. But then he attempted to insert his tongue between her lips. Helen stiffened immediately, feeling relieved when he noticed her reaction and backed off. Instead, he kissed her neck, pulling down the neckline of her dress and corset and beginning awkwardly to fondle her breasts.

  Helen hardly dared breathe, while Howard breathed faster and faster until he was panting. Helen wondered if that was normal—and was scared to death when he reached under her dress.

  Perhaps it would have been less painful in a more comfortable setting. On the other hand, more inviting surroundings might have made the whole interlude worse. As it was, it all simply felt unreal. It was pitch black, and the covers as well as Helen’s voluminous skirts, now pushed up to her hips, blocked her view of what Howard was doing to her. But it was horrible enough just to feel it. Her husband stuck something between her legs, something hard, pulsing, alive. It was terrifying and disgusting and painful. Helen screamed as something seemed to rip within her. She noticed she was bleeding, which did not stop Howard from tormenting her further. It was like he was possessed, moaning and moving himself rhythmically on top of and inside of her, almost seeming to enjoy it. Helen had to clench her teeth to keep from crying out in pain. Finally, she felt a gush of warm fluid, and a moment later, Howard collapsed on top of her. It was over. Her husband fell away. He was still breathing quickly, but he soon calmed down. Helen wept quietly as she fixed her skirts.

  “Next time it won’t hurt like that,” Howard said in an effort to console her and kissed her cheek awkwardly. He seemed to be pleased with her. Helen forced herself not to shrink from him. Howard had a right to do what he’d done to her. He was her h
usband, after all.

  4

  The second day of the journey was even more arduous than the first. Helen’s lower body hurt so much that she could hardly stay seated. Beyond that, she was so ashamed she did not want to look at Howard. Even breakfast in their hosts’ house had been torture. Margaret and Wilbur would not hold off on the teasing and innuendos, which Howard only moodily returned. Only at the end of the meal did Margaret notice Helen’s pallor and lack of appetite.

  “It gets better, child,” she turned to her confidingly as the men went outside to hitch the team. “The man just has to open you up for it at first. That hurts, and you bleed a bit. But then it goes in easy, and it doesn’t hurt anymore. It can even be fun; believe me.”

  Helen would never take pleasure in this act; she was sure of that. But if men liked it, you had to let them do it to keep them in a good mood.

  “And otherwise, there’d be no children,” Margaret said.

  Helen could hardly imagine that children came into being from this indecent business full of pain and fear, but then she remembered the stories in ancient mythology. In those stories too, women were sometimes defiled and bore children as a result. Maybe it was totally normal, then. And it wasn’t indecent; they were married, after all.

  Forcing herself to speak in a calm voice, Helen asked Howard about his land and his animals. She didn’t really listen to his answers, but she didn’t want him to think she was upset with him. Howard did not seem worried about that, however. In fact, it was clear that he was not the least bit ashamed about the night before.

  Late that afternoon they crossed the boundary onto Howard’s farm, which was marked by a muddy stream. The wagon promptly became stuck in it, and Helen and Howard were forced to get out and push. When they finally climbed back onto the coach box, they were wet, and the hem of Helen’s skirt was weighted down with mud. But then the farmhouse came into view and Helen promptly forgot all her concerns about her dress, her pain, and even her fear of the coming night.