In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

“I don’t want to have it!” she said, sobbing after riding at full speed to Helen. She had not been able to wait for school to end to speak to her friend. Helen could tell by her horrified countenance that something terrible must have happened. She let the children go early, sent Fleur and Ruben to play outside, and took Gwyneira into her arms.

  “Did they find Lucas?” she asked quietly.

  Gwyneira looked at her as though she were crazy. “Lucas? What about Lucas…oh, it’s much worse, Helen; I’m pregnant! And I don’t want to have the baby!”

  “You’re a mess,” Helen murmured, leading her friend into the house. “Come now, I’ll make some tea, and then we’ll talk about it. Why in heaven’s name aren’t you happy about the baby? You’ve been trying for years to have one after all, and now…or are you afraid that the baby might come too late? Is it not Lucas’s?” Helen looked searchingly at Gwyneira. She had sometimes suspected that there was a secret behind Fleur’s birth—no woman could miss the way Gwyneira’s eyes lit up at the sight of James McKenzie. But she hadn’t seen the two of them together for a long time. And Gwyneira would never be so stupid as to take a lover right after her husband left. Or did Lucas leave because there already was a lover? Helen could not imagine that. Gwyneira was a lady. Certainly not faultless, but faultlessly discreet.

  “The baby is a Warden,” Gwyneira answered firmly. “There can be no doubt about it. But I still don’t want it!”

  “But it’s not something that requires your approval,” Helen said helplessly. She could not follow Gwyneira’s thoughts. “When you’re pregnant, you’re pregnant.”

  “Nonsense! There has to be some way to get rid of the baby. Miscarriages happen all the time.”

  “Yes, but not to healthy young women like you.” Helen shook her head. “Why don’t you go to Matahorua? She can surely tell you whether the baby is healthy.”

  “Maybe she can help me,” Gwyneira said hopefully. “Maybe she knows a potion or something. Back on the ship, Daphne said something to Dorothy about ‘abortives’…”

  “Gwyneira, you can’t even think of such a thing!” Helen had heard rumors of “abortives” in Liverpool; her father had buried some of their victims. “That’s ungodly! And dangerous. You could die from that. And why, in heaven’s name…”

  “I’m going to Matahorua!” Gwyneira declared. “Don’t try to stop me. I don’t want this baby!”

  Matahorua motioned Gwyneira to a row of stones behind the communal houses where the two could be alone. She too must have seen from Gwyneira’s face that something serious had happened. But this time, she would have to sort it out without a translator—Gwyneira had left Rongo Rongo at home. The last thing she needed was another conspirator.

  Matahorua made a noncommittal face as she offered Gwyneira a seat on one of the stones. Her expression was no doubt meant to be friendly, perhaps it was even a smile, but it looked threatening to Gwyneira. The tattoos on the face of the old witch doctor seemed to alter every facial expression, and her figure cast strange shadows in the sunlight. “Baby. I already know from Rongo Rongo. Strong baby…much power. But also much anger.”

  “I don’t want the baby!” Gwyneira cried out without looking at the witch doctor. “Is there anything you can do?”

  Matahorua sought eye contact with the young woman. “What should I do? Kill baby?”

  Gwyneira winced. She had not yet dared to phrase it so explicitly. But that’s what it came down to. Feelings of guilt rose up within her.

  Matahorua looked her over attentively, studying both her face and her body. As always she seemed to be looking through the person and into some distant place known only to herself.

  “Is important to you baby die?” she asked quietly.

  Gwyneira suddenly felt anger welling up inside her. “Would I be here otherwise?” she burst out.

  Matahorua shrugged. “Strong baby. If baby die, you die too. Important enough?”

  Gwyneira shuddered. What made Matahorua so sure? Why did no one ever doubt her words, no matter how nonsensical they might be? Could she really see into the future? Gwyneira considered. She felt nothing for the baby in her womb, at most repugnance and hatred, just as she felt for its father. But the hatred was not so violent as to be worth dying for. Gwyneira was young and enjoyed life. Besides, she was needed. What would become of Fleurette if she lost her second parent as well? Gwyneira decided to let the matter rest. Perhaps she could give birth to this unfortunate child and then forget about it? Gerald should be the one to care for it.

  Matahorua laughed. “I see you not die. You live, baby live…not happy. But live. And will someone be who want…”

  Gwyneira frowned. “Who wants what?”

  “There will be someone who want baby. In the end. Makes…rounds…” Matahorua outlined a circle with her finger, then rummaged around in her bag. Finally she dug out an almost round piece of jade and handed it to Gwyneira. “There, for the baby.”

  Gwyneira took the small stone and thanked her. She did not know why, but she felt better.

  None of that stopped Gwyneira from attempting every conceivable method of inducing a miscarriage. She worked in the garden to the point of exhaustion, bent over as often as possible, ate unripe apples until the indigestion nearly killed her, and trained Igraine’s newest daughter, a remarkably difficult foal. To James’s astonishment, she even insisted on teaching the unruly animal to accept a sidesaddle—a last, desperate effort, since Gwyneira was naturally aware that the sidesaddle did not make her seating less secure, but more so. Accidents in the sidesaddle almost always resulted from the horse stumbling and the rider being unable to free herself from the seat and roll away. Such accidents often ended in death. But the mare, Vivian, was just as sure of foot as her mother—and Gwyneira had no intention of dying with her baby. Her last hope was the considerable jolting that came from trotting, which could not be easily avoided in a sidesaddle. After a half hour of riding at full speed, she could hardly stay on the horse for the pains it caused in her sides, but it did not seem to bother the baby a bit. It withstood the dangerous first three months without a problem, and Gwyneira wept with rage when she saw that her belly was beginning to swell. At first she tried to contain the telltale curves by pulling her laces tighter, but that would not work for long. In the end, she resigned herself to her fate and steeled herself against the inevitable torrent of best wishes. Who else could ever know how unwanted the little Warden was who was now growing within her womb?

  The women in Haldon naturally recognized Gwyneira’s pregnancy right away and immediately started turning the rumor mill. With Mrs. Warden pregnant and Mr. Warden absconded—wild speculation ensued. Gwyneira did not care. It horrified her, however, to think that Gerald would say something about it. But more than anything, she was afraid of James McKenzie’s reaction. Soon he wouldn’t be able to help noticing it or at least hearing about it. And she couldn’t tell him the truth. She had been avoiding him since Lucas’s disappearance because there were questions in his eyes. Now he would want answers. Gwyneira was ready for accusations and anger, but not for his honest reaction. It caught her completely off guard, when she ran into him one morning in the stables in his riding gear and raincoat—because it was drizzling again—and with his saddlebags packed. He was just tying a portmanteau to the back of his bony gray horse.

  “I’m going, Gwyn,” he said calmly when she looked at him questioningly. “You can imagine why.”

  “You’re going?” Gwyneira did not understand. “Where? What…”

  “I’m going away, Gwyneira. I’m leaving Kiward Station and looking for another job.” James turned his back to her.

  “You’re leaving me?” The words burst out before she could stop herself. But the anguish had come upon her so suddenly—the shock shook her to her core. How could he leave her alone? She needed him, more than ever.

  James broke out laughing, but he sounded more bitter than amused. “Does that surprise you? Did you think you had a claim to me?”
/>   “Of course not.” Gwyneira sought support from the stable door. “But I thought you…”

  “You can’t really be expecting declarations of love now, can you, Gwyn? Not after what you’ve done.” James continued securing his saddle as though he were having a casual conversation.

  “But I didn’t do anything!” Gwyneira said, defending herself, but she knew how wrong it sounded.

  “Oh no?” James turned around and looked her over with a cold gaze. “So that thing in there is a new edition of the immaculate conception.” He gestured toward her stomach. “Don’t tell tales, Gwyneira. I’d prefer to hear the truth. Who was the stallion? Did he come from better stables than me? With a better pedigree? Better opportunities? Perhaps a title of nobility?”

  “James, I never wanted…” Gwyneira did not know what to say. She would have loved to come clean with the truth, to unburden her soul. But then he’d do Gerald in. Then there would be dead men or at least injured ones, and afterward, all the world would know where Fleurette had come from.

  “It was that Greenwood, wasn’t it? A real gentleman. A good-looking fellow, educated, well-mannered, and no doubt very discreet. Shame that you didn’t know him back when we…”

  “It wasn’t George! What’s gotten into you? George came because of Helen. And now he has a wife in Christchurch. There was never any reason to be jealous.” Gwyneira hated the imploring tone in her voice.

  “So who was it, then?” James stepped closer to her almost threateningly. Fired up, he seized her upper arm as though he wanted to shake her. “Tell me, Gwyn! Someone in Christchurch? The young Lord Barrington? You like him, don’t you? Tell me, Gwyn. I have a right to know!”

  Gwyneira shook her head. “I can’t tell you, and you have no right to know.”

  “And Lucas? He figured you out, didn’t he? Did he catch you, Gwyn? In bed with someone else? Did he have you watched and then give you the nod? What was between you and Lucas?”

  Gwyneira looked at him desperately. “It was nothing like that. You don’t understand…”

  “Then explain it to me, Gwyn! Explain to me why your husband left you in the middle of the night, and not just you but the old man too, the child, and his heir. I’d like to know.” James’s face softened, though he still kept a tight grip on her. Gwyneira wondered why she wasn’t afraid. But she had never been afraid of James McKenzie. Behind all the mistrust and anger, she still saw love in his eyes.

  “I can’t, James. I can’t. Please accept that. Don’t be angry. And please don’t leave me!” Gwyneira let herself slump into his shoulder. She wanted to be near him and didn’t care whether she was welcome or not.

  James did not push her away, but he did not embrace her either. He just let go of her arm and nudged her softly away from him until they no longer touched.

  “No matter what happened, Gwyn, I can’t stay. Maybe I could if you had an explanation for all this…if you would really trust me. But as things are, I don’t understand you. You’re so bullheaded, so fixated on names and heirs that even now you want to stay true to the memory of your husband…and yet you’re pregnant by someone else.”

  “Lucas isn’t dead!” Gwyneira cried out.

  James shrugged. “That’s beside the point. Whether he’s dead or alive, you would never speak frankly with me. And that’s getting to be too much for me. I can’t see you every day but make no claim on you. I’ve been trying for five years, but anytime you come into view, I want to touch you, kiss you, be with you. Instead, it’s ‘Miss Warden’ and ‘Mr. McKenzie.’ You’re polite and distant—although one can see the longing in you just like in me. That kills me, Gwyn. I could have borne it if you had borne it too. But now…it’s too much, Gwyn. The baby is too much. At least tell me whose it is!”

  Gwyneira shook her head again. It wrenched her apart inside, but she did not reveal the truth. “I’m sorry, James. I can’t. If you have to go because of that, then go.”

  She suppressed a sob.

  James put a bridle on the horse, moving to lead it outside. As always, Daimon followed him. James stroked the dog.

  “Will you take him?” Gwyneira asked in a choked voice.

  James said no. “He doesn’t belong to me. I can’t just let the best breeding dog on Kiward Station walk off.”

  “But he’ll miss you.” Gwyneira observed with an aching heart how the dog stuck to him.

  “There are a great many things that I’ll miss too, but we’ll all learn to live with that.”

  The dog barked in protest as James started to leave the stables.

  “I’m giving him to you.” Gwyneira suddenly wanted James to have a memento of her. Of her and Fleur. Of their days in the highlands. Of the dog performance at her wedding. Of all the things they had done together, the thoughts they had shared.

  “You can’t give him away. He doesn’t belong to you,” James said softly. “Mr. Warden bought him in Wales, don’t you remember?”

  Certainly Gwyneira remembered. Just as she remembered the polite words she had exchanged with Gerald back then. At the time, she had thought he was a gentleman, somewhat exotic perhaps, but honorable. And how well she remembered the first days with James, when she had taught him the tricks for training the young dogs. He had taken her seriously even though she was a girl.

  Gwyneira looked around her. Cleo’s puppies were ready to be sold, but still followed after their mother and scurried about Gwyneira now. She bent over and picked up the biggest and most beautiful of the puppies. A young bitch, almost black, with Cleo’s typical collie smile.

  “But these are mine to give away. They belong to me. Take her, James. Please take her!” She thrust the puppy quickly into James’s hands. The puppy immediately tried to lick his face.

  James smiled and blinked, ashamed of the tears forming in his eyes. “Her name is Friday, right? Friday, Robinson’s companion in his loneliness.”

  Gwyneira nodded. “You don’t have to be lonely,” she said softly.

  James petted the dog. “Not anymore. Thank you, miss.”

  “James…” She stepped closer to him and raised her face to him. “James, I wish it were your child.”

  James kissed her lightly on the mouth, as softly and calmly as only Lucas had ever done before.

  “I wish you luck, Gwyn. I wish you happiness.”

  Gwyneira wept without stopping once James had gone. She watched him from her window as he rode away over the fields, the little dog in front of him on the saddle. He turned toward the highlands. Or was he taking her shortcut to Haldon? It didn’t matter to Gwyneira; she had lost him. She had lost both men. Aside from Fleur, there was only Gerald and this cursed, unwanted baby.

  Gerald Warden did not broach the subject of his daughter-in-law’s pregnancy, not even when it became so obvious that anyone could tell at first glance. Thus the question of delivery was not discussed. No midwife was brought to the house this time, no doctor consulted to check on the course of the pregnancy. Gwyneira herself tried to ignore her condition as much as possible. Up until the last few weeks of her pregnancy, she rode the most spirited horses and tried not to think about the birth. Maybe the baby wouldn’t survive if she did not receive the help of a specialist.

  Contrary to Helen’s expectations, Gwyneira’s feeling toward the baby had not changed over the course of her pregnancy. The first stirrings of the new life, which she had greeted so enthusiastically for Ruben and Fleur, she did not even mention. And when the baby once kicked so hard that Gwyneira cried out, no remark on the obvious health of the unborn baby followed; instead, she just said angrily, “It’s bothering me again today. I just wish it were gone!”

  Helen wondered what Gwyneira meant by that. The baby would not just disappear when it was born but announce its rights at the top of its lungs. Perhaps Gwyneira’s maternal instincts would finally kick in then.

  Kiri’s time was approaching first, however. The young Maori was delighted about her baby and constantly tried to draw Gwyneira into her joy. She com
pared their belly sizes and teased Gwyneira that her baby may be younger but was certainly much bigger. Gwyneira’s belly was indeed enormous. She tried to hide it, but sometimes, in her darkest hours, she feared that she was carrying twins.

  “Impossible!” said Helen. “Matahorua would have noticed that.”

  Even Rongo Rongo laughed at her mistress’s fears. “No, there’s only one baby in there. But beautiful, strong. No easy birth, miss. But no danger. My grandmother says it will be a gorgeous baby.”

  When the pains set in for Kiri, Rongo Rongo disappeared. As an ardent student of Matahorua, she was, despite her youth, much sought after as a midwife and spent many nights in the Maori village. This time she came back toward morning, looking pleased. Kiri had given birth to a healthy girl.

  Just three days later, she showed her baby off proudly to Gwyneira.

  “I her name Marama. Beautiful name for beautiful baby. Means ‘moon.’ I bring her with me to work. Can play with baby from miss!”

  Gerald Warden would surely have his own opinions about that, but Gwyneira did not comment on the remark. For a while now, Gwyneira had no longer found it difficult to defy her father-in-law. Gerald generally ceded ground silently. The power relations on Kiward Station had shifted without Gwyneira’s really understanding why.

  This time no one stood in the garden as Gwyneira lay in pain, and no one waited anxiously in the salon. Gwyneira did not know whether anyone had informed Gerald of the imminent birth and would not have cared either way. The old man was probably spending another night with a bottle in his room—and by the time it was over, he would no longer be capable of comprehending the news, regardless.

  As Rongo Rongo had predicted, this birth did not go as smoothly as Fleurette’s. The baby was considerably larger—and Gwyneira was unwilling. With Fleurette she had yearned for the birth, hung on the midwife’s every word, and striven to be a truly shining example of motherhood. With this birth, she let everything happen to her in a stupor; at times she bore the pain stoically, at others with defiance. The entire time, she was plagued by the memory of the pain under which this child had been conceived. She thought she could feel Gerald’s weight on top of her again, that she could smell his sweat. Between the pains, she vomited several times, felt weak and beaten down, and finally cried out in anger and pain. By the end she was totally drained and wanted nothing more than to die. Or even better, that this being that held tight in her womb like an evil parasite should die.