by Sarah Lark
Ruben sent his letter off to the governor the next day, but no one expected a swift response. So James struggled with his boredom in jail while Helen spent a wonderful time in Queenstown. She played with her grandchildren, and watched, with an anxiously beating heart, as Fleurette set little Stephen on the pony for the first time. Helen, meanwhile, tried to comfort little Elaine, who cried in protest. Prepared for the worst, she inspected the little school that had just opened. Perhaps she could make herself useful there, so that she could stay in Queenstown forever. At the time, however, there were only ten students, and the young teacher, a likeable girl from Dunedin, handled them perfectly well on her own. There was not much for Helen to do in Ruben and Fleurette’s shop either, and the twins fell all over themselves in their desire to keep their beloved former teacher from having to lift a finger. Helen finally heard Daphne’s whole story. She invited the young woman to tea, even though it might set the respectable women in Queenstown to gossiping.
“First thing after I had taken care of that brute, I went to Lyttelton,” Daphne said of her flight from the lascivious Mr. Morrison. “I would have liked to take the next ship back to London, but of course that wasn’t an option. No one would have taken a girl like me. I thought about Australia too. But God knows they have enough…ahem, women of easy virtue over there who could not find a job selling Bibles. And then I found the twins. They were headed the same place I was: away from here—and ‘away’ meant a ship.”
“How exactly did they find each other again?” Helen inquired. “They were in completely different areas.”
Daphne shrugged. “They’re twins, after all. What the one thinks, the other thinks too. Believe me, I’ve had them with me for more than twenty years, and I still think it’s uncanny. If I understood them correctly back then, they ran into each other on the Bridle Path. How they slogged all the way there, I have no idea. When I found them, they were running around the harbor, stealing their food together, and trying to stow themselves away on a boat. Utter nonsense; someone would have found them straightaway. So what was I supposed to do? I held onto them. I was a bit nice to a sailor, and he got me the papers of a girl who died on the way from Dublin to Lyttelton. Officially my name is Bridey O’Rourke. Everyone believed it too, with my red hair and all. But the twins kept calling me Daphne, naturally, so I kept my first name. It’s a good name anyway for a…I mean, it’s a Biblical name; it’s not easy to let something like that go.”
Helen laughed. “They’ll canonize you someday!”
Daphne giggled, looking for a moment like the young girl from back then. “So then we left for the West Coast. We traveled around a bit at first, finally ending up in a broth…ahem, in the establishment of a certain Madame Jolanda. It was pretty run-down. First thing I did was clean the place up, which really caused business to pick up. That’s where your friend Mr. Greenwood smoked me out, though I didn’t leave because of him. It was rather that Jolanda was never satisfied. One day she told me that she wanted to start putting the girls to work the following Saturday. It was time, she said, that they were broken in…ahem, that they knew somebody, as it says in the Bible.”
Helen had to laugh. “You really have your Bible memorized, Daphne,” she said. “Next we’ll have to test your knowledge of David Copperfield.”
“So that Friday I really kicked up my heels one last time, and then we made off with the cash box. Naturally, that wasn’t very ladylike.”
“Let’s just say—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” Helen remarked.
“And then we followed the ‘scent of gold’ here.” Daphne grinned. “And we struck it big! I’d go so far as to say that seventy percent of the yield of all the gold mines in the area comes my way.”
Ruben was confused, bordering on a little unsettled, when he received an official-looking envelope only six weeks after he had posted his letter to the governor. The postman handed him the missive almost ceremoniously.
“From Wellington!” he exclaimed importantly. “From the government! Are you being ennobled now, Rube? Is the queen coming by?”
Ruben laughed. “Not likely, Ethan, not in the least bit likely.” He checked his desire to rip the envelope open immediately since Ethan was looking a little too curiously over his shoulder, and Ron from the rental stables was hanging around Ethan’s shop.
“I’ll see you two later, then,” he said, trying to appear relaxed, but he was already playing with the envelope as he walked toward the warehouse. He had a change of plan as he walked past the police station. This was undoubtedly about James McKenzie, so he should be the first to find out what the governor had decided.
Soon Ruben, Leonard, and James were all bent eagerly over the missive. All of them moaned at the governor’s long introduction, in which he stressed all the services Ruben had rendered for the blossoming young settlement of Queenstown. The governor finally came to the heart of the matter:
…we are happy to be able to grant your request for further clemency regarding the livestock thief James McKenzie, whose case you so illuminatingly represented, a positive response. We too are of the opinion that James McKenzie could be of use to the young community of the South Island, as long as he limits himself in the future to the legal exercise of his doubtlessly considerable talents. We also hope herewith and especially to serve the interest of Mrs. Gwyneira Warden whom we, in another case laid before us for our decision, must disappoint. Please maintain absolute silence with regard to this latter matter. The judgment has yet to be presented to the involved parties…
“Damn it, that’s the business with the Maori.” James sighed. “Poor Gwyn…and the way it sounds, she’s still facing it all on her own. I should set out for Canterbury at once.”
Leonard nodded. “I won’t stand in your way,” he said, grinning. “On the contrary, then I’ll finally have a free room in the Grand Hotel!”
“I really should accompany you, James,” Helen said with some regret. The zealous twins had just served the last course of a grand farewell meal. Fleurette had insisted on entertaining her father at least once before he disappeared to Canterbury, possibly for several years. Naturally, he had sworn to come visit them with Gwyneira as soon as possible, but Fleur knew how it was on large sheep farms: something always came up that made it impossible for the manager to leave.
“It was wonderful here, but I need to get back to caring for the farm. And I don’t want to be a burden to you forever.” Helen folded her napkin.
“You’re not a burden to us,” Fleurette said. “On the contrary! I don’t know what we’re going to do without you, Helen.”
Helen laughed. “Don’t lie, Fleur. You were never very good at it. Seriously, dear, as much as I like it here, I need to have something to occupy me again. I’ve taught my whole life. Just sitting around now, playing with the children occasionally, seems like wasted time.”
Ruben and Fleurette looked at her. They seemed uncertain about how to respond. Finally, Ruben spoke.
“Very well, we didn’t want to ask until later, when everything was settled,” he said, looking at his mother. “But before you take off, we’d better just say it. Fleurette and I—and let’s not forget Leonard McDunn—have already been thinking about what you could do here.”
Helen shook her head. “I’ve already looked at the school, Ruben, the—”
“Forget the school, Helen!” said Fleur. “You’ve done that long enough. We were thinking…well, we were planning to buy a farm outside of town. Or rather a house, we haven’t given much thought to the farm as a business. It’s too loud here, too much traffic…I’d like the children to have more freedom. Can you imagine, Helen, Stephen’s never seen a weta?”
Helen felt that her grandson would grow up just fine without this experience.
“In any event, we’ll be moving out of this house,” Ruben explained, taking in the sweet, two-story townhouse with a sweep of his hand. “The house was completed last year and we spared nothing on the furnishings. We could sell it,
naturally. But then Fleurette thought it would be an ideal location for a hotel.”
“A hotel?” Helen asked, confused.
“Yes!” Fleurette announced. “Look, it’s got a great deal of room since we were always counting on a big family. If you were to live on the ground floor and rent out the rooms upstairs…”
“You want me to run a hotel?” Helen asked. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Think of it more like a bed and breakfast where people can stay longer if they like,” Leonard said helpfully, looking at Helen encouragingly.
Fleurette nodded. “Don’t misunderstand what we mean by hotel,” she said quickly. “We mean for it to be a respectable hotel. Not a den of thieves like Daphne’s, where bandits and loose women roost. No, I was thinking…when respectable people move to town, like a doctor or a banker, they have to live somewhere. And well…young women.” Fleurette played with a newspaper that had been lying on the table as if by chance—the newsletter of the Anglican diocese of Christchurch.
“That’s not what I think it is, is it?” Helen asked and took the thin gazette from her hand. It was opened to a page with a little advertisement.
Queenstown, Otago. Are you a Christian girl, strong in faith and animated by the pioneer spirit, interested in entering into marriage with a respectable, well-situated member of the community…
Helen shook her head. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Back then it was whalers; now it’s prospectors! Do these respectable pastors’ wives and pillars of the community really know what they’re doing to these girls?”
“Well, it’s Christchurch, Mother, not exactly London. If the girls don’t like it, they’re back home in three days,” Ruben said in an attempt to appease her.
“And then people are supposed to take them at their word that they’re just as virtuous and untouched as when they left,” Helen scoffed.
“Not if they stay at Daphne’s,” said Fleurette. “Nothing against Daphne—but she tried to hire me on when I first got here years ago.” She laughed. “However, if the girls were to stay in a clean, proper hotel, run by Helen O’Keefe, one of the town notables? Word gets around. People will point out to the girls and maybe even their parents that there’s a respectable and wise chaperone with whom they can stay.”
“And you’ll have the opportunity to set the young things straight, Helen,” Leonard commented, who seemed to think about as highly of mail-order brides as Helen. “They’ll only see the nuggets the fiery-eyed swashbuckler has in his pocket that day—not the miserable hut she’ll land in when he moves on to the next goldfield.”
Helen looked grim. “You can be sure of that! I won’t be witnessing at anybody’s wedding after three days.”
“So you’ll manage the hotel?” Fleur asked fervently. “You think you can do it?”
Helen gave her an almost insulted gaze. “My dear Fleurette, in my life I’ve learned to read the Bible in Maori, to milk a cow, to slaughter chickens, and even to love a mule. I think I can manage to keep a small hotel running.”
The others laughed, but then Leonard jingled his keys meaningfully, a sign that it was time to adjourn. Since Helen’s hotel had not yet come into being, he had given his former prisoner permission to spend his last night in town in his old cell. No sinner, no matter how well recovered, could spend a night at Daphne’s without backsliding.
Normally Helen would have accompanied Leonard to the door so that they could chat for a while on the porch, but this evening Leonard sought Fleurette’s company. He turned somewhat bashfully to the young woman while James was saying good-bye to Helen and Ruben. “I…ahem, I don’t want to be indiscreet, Mrs. O’Keefe, but…you know I’m interested in the elder Mrs. O’Keefe…”
Fleur listened to his stammering with a wrinkled brow. What in heaven’s name did Leonard want? If this was supposed to be a marriage proposal, it would have been better to go straight to Helen.
Finally Leonard pulled himself together and got his question out. “Well…ahem, Mrs. O’Keefe: what the devil did Helen mean by ‘mule’?”
15
Paul Warden had never felt so happy.
In fact, he did not know what had happened. After all, he had known Marama since childhood; she had always been part of his life—and often a nuisance. It was only with mixed feelings that he had allowed her to accompany him on his flight into the highlands—and on the first day he had been properly angry because her mule trotted so hopelessly slowly behind his horse. He had thought Marama to be a millstone around his neck and was confident that he didn’t need her.
Now Paul was ashamed of everything he had said to her during their journey. But the girl had not listened; she never seemed to listen when Paul was cruel. Marama only saw his good side. She smiled when he was friendly and was silent when he got riled up. He got no satisfaction from taking his anger out on Marama. Paul had known that as a child, which was why she had never been the object of his pranks. And now…at some point over the last few months, Paul had found out that he loved Marama. Eventually, he realized that she was not patronizing him and not criticizing him, that she did not need to overcome any revulsion when she looked at him. Marama had helped him find a good hideout, far from the Canterbury Plains, in the newly discovered stretch of land they called the McKenzie Highlands—though it was not new to the Maori, Marama pointed out. She had been here with her tribe once before, as a little girl.
“Don’t you remember how you cried, Paul?” Marama asked in her songlike voice. “We had always been together until then, and you called Kiri ‘Mother,’ just as I did. But then the yield was bad that year, and Mr. Warden drank more and would break out in a rage. There were not many men who wanted to work for him, and it was still a long time until the shearing.”
Paul nodded. Gwyneira liked to give the Maori some advance pay in years like that to hold them over until the spring months when there was more work to do. That was risky, however: while some of the men remained and later remembered the money they had been paid, others took the money and disappeared, and still others forgot about the advance after the shearing and rudely demanded full payment. For that reason, Gerald and Paul had not permitted it the last few years. Let the Maori go. They would be back for the shearing, and if not, they could find other help. Paul had forgotten that he had once been a victim of this practice.
“Kiri laid you in your mother’s arms, but you cried and screamed. And your mother said she didn’t mind if you came with us, but Mr. Warden swore at her for that. I don’t remember it all anymore, Paul, but Kiri told me about it later. She says you always held it against us that we left you behind. But what could we do? Mrs. Warden did not mean it like that either; she was fond of you.”
“She never liked me,” Paul said coldly.
Marama shook her head. “No. You were just two streams that did not flow together. Perhaps someday you’ll find your way to each other. All streams eventually flow into the sea.”
Paul only planned to make a simple camp, but Marama wanted a proper house.
“We don’t have anything else to do, Paul,” she said easily. “And you will have to stay away for a while. So why should we freeze?”
There was an ax in the heavy saddlebags Marama’s mule carried, so Paul chopped down a few trees. With help from the patient mule, he dragged them to a clearing by a brook. Marama had chosen the place because several powerful rocks jutted up from the ground nearby. The spirits were happy here, she declared. And happy spirits were well disposed toward new settlers. She asked Paul to make a few carvings on their house so that it would look nice and papa would not feel insulted by it. When it finally met with her approval, she led Paul ceremoniously into the large, empty inner room.
“I now take you for my husband!” she announced seriously. “I’m lying with you in a sleeping lodge—even if the tribe is not present. A few of our ancestors will be here to witness it. I, Marama, descendent of those who came to Aotearoa in the uruao, take you, Paul Warden. Isn’t that how your
people say it?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” Paul said. He did not know what to think, but Marama was beautiful that day. She wore a colorful headband, had wound a sheet around her waist, and her breasts were bare. Paul had never seen her like this; she had always worn modest, Western clothing in the Wardens’ household and at school. But now she stood before him, half-naked, with gleaming light brown skin, a soft fire in her eyes—and he looked at her as papa must have looked at rangi. She loved him. Unconditionally, regardless of what he was and what he had done.
Paul put his arms around her. He did not know whether the Maori kissed at such moments, but then she rubbed her nose lightly against his. Marama giggled when she had to sneeze afterward. Then she removed her sheet. Paul’s breath caught as she stood fully naked before him. She was more delicately built than most of the women of her race, but her hips were wide, her breasts large, and her buttocks ample. Paul swallowed, but Marama serenely spread the blanket on the ground and pulled Paul down to her.
“You do want to be my husband, don’t you?” she asked.
Paul would have to answer, without ever having thought about it. Until that moment, he had hardly given marriage a thought, and the few times he had, he had imagined himself in an arranged marriage with a white-skinned girl—maybe one of the Greenwoods’ or Barringtons’ daughters. That would be suitable. But what expression would he see in the eyes of a girl like that? Would she abhor him like his mother did? At the very least, she would have reservations. Especially now, after he had murdered Howard. Would she really be able to love him? Wouldn’t he always be on his guard and suspicious?
To love Marama, on the other hand, was simple. She was there, willing and tender, fully submissive to him…no, that wasn’t right. She had her own will. He would never have been able to force her to do something. Be he also would never have wanted to. Maybe that was the nature of love: it had to be given freely. A love forced on someone, like his mother’s, wasn’t worth anything.