by Sarah Lark
Gwyneira sighed. She had heard that Maori women on the North Island used underground or volcanic sources of heat to cook their food. But Kiward Station had nothing of the sort, nor had she ever observed Moana or the other Maori women digging cooking pits either. But the cookbook translation was a good idea.
Gwyneira spent the afternoon in the kitchen with the Maori Bible, the English Bible, and Gerald’s late wife’s cookbook. Yet her comparative studies met with limited success. In the end she gave up and fled to the stables.
“Now I know what ‘sin’ and ‘divine justice’ are in the Maori language,” she told the men, thumbing through the Bible. Hardy Kennon and Poker Livingston had just returned from the mountain pastures and were waiting on their horses, and James McKenzie and Andy McAran were cleaning their saddles. “But the word for ‘thyme’ is nowhere to be found.”
“Maybe it would still taste good with frankincense and myrrh,” James remarked.
The men laughed.
“Just tell Mr. Warden that gluttony is a sin,” Andy McAran advised. “But do it in Maori just in case. If you say it in English, he may bite your head off.”
Sighing, Gwyneira saddled her mare. She needed some fresh air. The weather was far too lovely to be wasted poring over books.
“You lot aren’t any help to me either,” she chided the men, who were still kidding around as she led Igraine out of the stables. “If my father-in-law asks, tell him I’m gathering herbs for his stew.”
At first Gwyneira had her horse go at a walking pace. As always, she savored the panoramic vista of the land, which extended in all directions before the breathtaking backdrop of the mountains. Once again the mountains seemed so near, as though they could be reached in an hour’s ride, and Gwyneira enjoyed trotting toward them, with one of the peaks as a goal. After not getting perceptibly closer after two hours, she turned around. This was what she liked in life. But what in the world was she going to do about the Maori cook? Gwyneira without question needed female support. But the next white woman lived twenty miles away.
Was it even socially proper to pay a visit to Mrs. Beasley only a month after getting married? But maybe a trip to Haldon would suffice. Gwyneira had yet to visit the small town, but it was about time. She had letters to post, wanted to buy a few things, and above all was eager to see some new faces that did not belong to her family, the Maori servants, or the shepherds. They had all gotten to be a bit much—with the exception of James McKenzie. He could accompany her to Haldon. Hadn’t he just said the day before that he had to pick up the goods he’d ordered from the Candlers? Gwyneira’s spirits lifted at the thought of the excursion. And Mrs. Candler would certainly know how to make Irish stew.
Igraine was happy to gallop homeward. After the long ride, she was looking forward to the feeding trough. Gwyneira was hungry herself when she finally led the horse back into the stables. The aromatic scent of meat and spices emanated from the workers’ quarters. Gwyneira could not help herself. She knocked, full of hope.
It seemed that she was expected. The men again sat around an open fire, and a bottle made the rounds. An aromatic stew was simmering over the flame. Wasn’t that…?
The men were all beaming as though they were celebrating Christmas, and Dave O’Toole, the Irishman, held out a dish of Irish stew to her. “Here, miss. Give this to the Maori girl. These people are very good at copying. Maybe she’ll manage to figure it out from this.”
Gwyneira thanked him gratefully. Doubtless this was just the dish Gerald had hoped for. It smelled so good that Gwyneira would have liked to ask for a spoon and empty the bowl herself. But she got a hold of herself. She would not touch the delicious stew until she had given Kiri and Moana a chance to sample it.
She set it down safely on a hay bale while she waited on Igraine and then carried it carefully out of the stables. She almost ran into James, who was waiting for her at the stable doors with a bouquet of leaves, which he handed over to Gwyneira as ceremoniously as though they were flowers.
“Tàima,” he said with a half grin, winking at her. “Instead of frankincense and myrrh.”
Gwyneira took the strands of thyme and smiled at him. She did not know why her heart beat so frantically as she did so.
Helen was delighted when Howard finally announced that they would go to Haldon on Friday. The horse needed to be reshod, which was apparently always the reason for trips to town. She realized that it must have been during a visit to the blacksmith that Howard had learned of her arrival.
“How often does a horse need to be shod?” she asked carefully.
Howard shrugged. “It depends, but usually every six to ten weeks. But the bay’s hooves grow slowly; sometimes a shoe lasts him twelve weeks.” He patted his horse approvingly.
Helen would have preferred a horse whose hooves grew more quickly and could not stifle a remark. “I’d like to be around people more often.”
“You could take the mule,” he said generously. “It’s five miles to Haldon, so you’d be there in two hours. If you set out right after milking, you could easily be back by evening to cook dinner.”
Helen knew Howard well enough by now to know that he would not go without a warm meal under any circumstances. Still, he was easy to please: he gobbled down flat bread as readily as pancakes, scrambled eggs, and stew. It did not seem to bother him that Helen could hardly make any other dishes, but Helen still planned to ask Mrs. Candler for a few new recipes in Haldon. The meal rotation was becoming a little monotonous even for her.
“You could slaughter a chicken sometime,” Howard suggested when Helen mentioned it. She was horrified—just as she had been at the idea of having to ride to Haldon alone on the mule.
“Now you can look at it that way,” Howard said calmly. “Or you can hitch up the mule.”
Neither Gerald nor Lucas had anything against Gwyneira joining James on the trip to Haldon. Lucas could hardly fathom why she wanted to go.
“You’ll be disappointed, my love. It’s a dirty little town, just a store and a pub. No culture, not even a church.”
“What about a doctor?” Gwyneira inquired. “I mean, in case I sometime really…”
Lucas reddened. Gerald, however, was excited.
“Is it time already, Gwyneira? Are you showing the first signs? If that really is the case, of course we’ll send for a doctor from Christchurch. We don’t want to take a chance on the midwife from Haldon.”
“Father, the baby would have long since been born before the doctor arrived from Christchurch,” Lucas chided.
Gerald looked at him coldly. “I’ll have the doctor come ahead of time. He should stay here until it’s time, regardless of the cost.”
“And his other patients?” Lucas asked. “Do you think he’ll just leave them in the lurch?”
Gerald snorted. “That’s simply a question of the sum, my son. And the Wardens’ heir is worth any sum!”
Gwyneira stayed out of it. She would not even have recognized the signs of pregnancy—how should she know how it felt? Besides, she was just happy to be going to Haldon.
James McKenzie picked her up right after breakfast. He had hitched two horses to a long, heavy wagon. “If you rode, you’d get there faster,” he offered, but Gwyneira did not mind the idea of sitting at James’s side on the box and enjoying the landscape. Once she knew the way, she could ride to Haldon more often; today, though, she was content to ride on the wagon. Besides, James was a genial conversation partner. He told her the names of the mountains on the horizon, as well as of those of the rivers and creeks they crossed. He often knew the Maori name as well as the English.
“You speak Maori well, don’t you?” Gwyneira asked, impressed.
James shook his head. “I don’t think anyone speaks Maori well. The natives make it too easy on us. They’re so happy about every new English word they learn. So who wants to bother with words like taumatawhatatangihangakoauauotamateaturipukakapikimaungahoroukupokaiwhenu-akitanatahu?”
“What?�
� Gwyneira laughed.
“It’s a mountain on the North Island. The Maori also use it as a tongue twister. But it gets easier with every glass of whiskey, believe me.” James winked at her and smiled his rakish smile.
“So you learned it by the campfire?” Gwyneira asked.
James nodded. “I’ve moved around quite a bit, hiring myself out to sheep farms. In between, I’ve often stayed in Maori villages—they’re very hospitable.”
“Why haven’t you worked in whale fishing?” Gwyneira wanted to know. “There’s supposed to be more money in it. Mr. Warden…”
James grinned. “Mr. Warden can also play a good hand at cards,” he remarked.
Gwyneira blushed. Could it be that the story of the card game between Gerald Warden and her father had made the rounds here?
“Most people don’t earn a fortune whale hunting,” McKenzie continued. “And for me it was a simple choice. Don’t get me wrong: I’m not squeamish, but all that wading through blood and fat…no thanks. But I make a good shepherd; I learned how in Australia.”
“Don’t only convicts live in Australia?” Gwyneira inquired.
“Not entirely. There are the convicts’ offspring and other immigrants too. And the convicts aren’t all felons. Plenty of poor fellows have ended up there for stealing a loaf of bread for their kids. And there are all the Irish who wouldn’t swear loyalty to the Crown. A lot of them were very upstanding guys. There are scoundrels everywhere, and for my part, I didn’t meet any more in Australia than in any other part of the world.”
“Where else have you been?” Gwyneira asked eagerly. She found James fascinating.
He grinned. “Scotland. That’s where I come from. A true Highlander. But I’m no lord or chieftain; my clan were always common folk. Knew sheep better than long swords.”
Gwyneira found that a bit of a shame. A Scottish warrior would have been almost as captivating as an American cowboy.
“And you, miss? Did you really grow up in a castle, like they say?” James turned again to look at her. But he appeared not to be interested in gossip. Gwyneira sensed that he was honestly curious about her.
“I grew up in a manor house,” she informed him. “My father is a lord—not one of those who sit on the royal council, however.” She smiled. “In a way we have something in common: the Silkhams also prefer sheep to swords.”
“And for you is it…forgive my asking, but I always thought…aren’t ladies supposed to marry lords?”
That was indeed a rather indiscreet question, but Gwyneira decided not to hold it against him.
“Ladies are supposed to marry gentlemen,” she replied uncertainly. Then her temper got the better of her. “And naturally, there was a lot of idle chatter in England about my husband being only a ‘sheep baron’ without real patents of nobility. But like they say, it’s nice when you have the title to a thoroughbred of your own. But you don’t ride on paper.”
James laughed so heartily that he almost fell from the box. “Don’t ever say that in society, miss! You’d be compromised for all time. But I’m beginning to get the impression that it was difficult for you to find a gentleman in England.”
“I had plenty of suitors!” Gwyneira lied, insulted. “And Lucas has yet to complain.”
“Then he must be dumb and blind too,” James burst out, but before he could elaborate on his comment, Gwyneira noticed a settlement on a plain below the ridge they were passing over.
“Is that Haldon?” she asked.
James nodded.
Haldon seemed to perfectly mirror the pioneer towns described in Gwyneira’s penny novels; just like in those books, it had a general store, a barber, a smith, a hotel, and a bar, which was called a “pub” here and not a “saloon.” All the merchants were located in colorfully painted two-story buildings.
James stopped the wagon in front of the Candlers’ store.
“Take your time shopping,” he said. “I’m loading the wood first, then going to the barber, and for a beer at the pub after that. So there’s no hurry. If you’d like, you could have tea with Mrs. Candler.”
Gwyneira smiled at him conspiratorially. “Maybe she’ll even teach me a few recipes. Mr. Warden has been asking for Yorkshire pudding. Do you know how to make that?”
James shook his head. “I’m afraid not even O’Toole knows how to do that. Anyway, see you soon, miss.”
He held out his hand to help her from the box. Gwyneira wondered why the same feeling shot through her at this contact that she otherwise only felt when she touched herself in secret.
7
Gwyneira crossed the dusty town street, which no doubt turned into a sea of mud when it rained, and entered the Candlers’ general store. Mrs. Candler was sorting colorful candies into tall glass jars, but seemed more than willing to take a break. She greeted Gwyneira enthusiastically.
“Mrs. Warden, what a surprise! And what luck. Do you have time for a cup of tea? Dorothy’s making some right now. She’s in the back with Mrs. O’Keefe.”
“With whom?” Gwyneira asked, her heart leaping. “You don’t mean Helen O’Keefe?” She could hardly believe it.
Mrs. Candler nodded, delighted. “Oh, that’s right, you knew her as Miss Davenport. Well, my husband and I were the ones who got to inform her fiancé of her arrival. And as I heard it, he was in Christchurch quick as lightning and brought her right back with him. Just go on back, Mrs. Warden. I’ll be right along, as soon as Richard gets back.”
“Go on back,” meant to the Candlers’ living quarters, which were attached to the spacious store. Yet it did not seem at all temporary and was tastefully furnished with expensive-looking furniture made from native woods. Large windows allowed plenty of light in and offered a view of the wood store behind the house, where James was just receiving his order. Mr. Candler was helping him load it.
And Helen really was there in the lounge! She was sitting on a chaise lounge upholstered in green velvet, chatting with Dorothy, and sprang up when she noticed Gwyneira. Her face reflected a mixture of disbelief and joy.
“Gwyn! Or are you a ghost? I’m seeing more people today than in the last twelve weeks. So I’m beginning to think I’m seeing ghosts.”
“We could each pinch the other,” Gwyn said, laughing.
The friends fell into each other’s arms.
“When did you get here?” Gwyneira inquired, after she had pulled away from Helen. “I would have come long before now if I’d known I’d meet you here.”
“I married just over three months ago,” Helen said stiffly. “But this is my first time in Haldon. We live…rather far away.”
She didn’t sound especially enthusiastic. But now she needed to say hello to Dorothy. The girl had just returned with a teapot and was setting another place for Gwyneira. As she went about it, Gwyneira had the opportunity to take a closer look at her friend. Indeed, Helen did not give the impression of being happy. She was thinner, and the pallor that she had so carefully preserved after disembarking had given way to the sunbaked brown she so disapproved of. Her hands too were coarser and her fingernails shorter than before. Even her clothing had suffered. True, her dress was scrupulously clean and starched, but the hem was muddy.
“Our stream,” Helen said by way of apology when she noticed Gwyneira’s gaze. “Howard wanted to take the heavy wagon because he had fencing material to pick up. The horses can make it through the stream only if we push.”
“Why don’t you build a bridge?” Gwyneira wanted to know. She had already crossed several new bridges on Kiward Station.
Helen shrugged. “Howard probably doesn’t have the money. Or the people. You can’t build a bridge alone, after all.” She reached for her teacup. Her hand trembled slightly.
“You don’t have any servants?” Gwyneira asked, uncomprehending. “Not even Maori? How do you keep the farm running? Who takes care of the garden and milks the cows?”
Helen looked at her. In her beautiful gray eyes was a mixture of pride and desperation.
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“Well, who do you think?”
“You?” Gwyneira was alarmed. “But you can’t be serious. Wasn’t he supposed to be a gentleman farmer?”
“Strike the gentleman…by which I don’t mean to say that Howard isn’t a man of honor. He treats me well and works hard. But he’s a farmer, no more and no less. In that regard your Mr. Warden was right. Howard hates him as much as he hates Howard. Something must have once happened between those two.” Helen would have liked to change topics; she did not feel comfortable speaking disparagingly of her husband. And yet…if she did not at least drop a few hints, she would never receive any help.
But Gwyneira did not press her further on that matter. She did not care about the feud between Howard O’Keefe and Gerald Warden. She cared about Helen.
“Do you at least have neighbors who can help you out sometimes or whom you can ask for advice? You can’t do everything alone!” Gwyneira said, returning to the subject of the farm work.
“I’m a quick learner, you know,” Helen murmured. “As for neighbors…well, there are a few Maori, yes. The children come to me every day for lessons; they’re adorable. But…but otherwise, you’re the first white people I’ve seen…since I arrived on the farm.” Helen attempted to maintain her poise but was fighting to hold back her tears.
Dorothy curled up consolingly to Helen. Gwyneira, however, was already making plans to help her friend.
“How far is the farm from here anyway? Can’t I come visit sometime?”
“Five miles,” Helen informed her. “But of course, I don’t know in which direction.”
“But that’s something you should learn, Mrs. O’Keefe. If you can’t get your bearings out here, you’re lost!” Mrs. Candler said as she came in, bringing pastries from the store with her. A woman in town baked them and sold them there. “From here, your farm is to the east—yours too, of course, Mrs. Warden. Though not in a straight line. You have to veer off the main road. But I can explain that to you. And your husband surely knows it as well.”