by Sarah Lark
“It’s all full of weeds,” she complained.
The journey by river had seemed long to her, and then the farm could be reached only on foot. Her recently relaxed mood had quickly given way to a new bad one. The farm was exactly as she had imagined it: far removed from civilization. And although she had expected it, she bemoaned her fate again. It would take years before this landscape could become the kind of business that she could do anything with.
“Yes, we’ll have to remove a few of the bushes,” Christopher said regretfully.
In truth, he thought it was beautiful that most of his land was overgrown by rata bushes. The tender blossoms were just beginning to open, and Chris was reminded of Cat again. He thought of how she called the flowers “fire blossoms,” and it seemed to him that the name applied to her too.
“But aren’t they lovely to look at? I thought about naming the farm Rata Station, in their honor.”
“Then everyone would immediately think of rats,” Jane said scathingly. “Where’s the house?”
Christopher pointed out a low rise in the plains. “If it’s all right with you, I thought we could build our permanent house there on the hill. I imagine it will be a two-story farmhouse. But for now, the Maori workers and I built a cabin behind it. We can use it as a barn later.”
He excitedly led her around the hill, and Jane was taken aback. It was a single-story, solidly built longhouse, with a saddle roof and an intricately carved gable over the entryway. Jane would have never imagined that the natives lived in such houses.
“Shall I carry you over the threshold? That’s supposed to keep the evil ghosts away,” Christopher said jokingly.
She shot him a condescending look. “You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?”
Chris smiled, with difficulty. Of course he didn’t believe in ghosts, but even if he had, no ghost would dare to attack Jane Fenroy-Beit.
“The Maori do,” he said.
“Then you can carry them over the threshold,” she replied, and entered the house without even waiting for Chris to open the door for her.
But once inside, she couldn’t come up with one derogatory remark about her new home. Given the quick building time, it was wonderful. Chris had divided the elongated space into several rooms with simple wooden walls. There was a sort of entry hall. Of course it wasn’t a proper receiving room like in her parents’ house, but you didn’t enter the living space immediately like in the Wild West shacks that had haunted Jane’s nightmares of their future farm. The entry hall led into a main room bordered by a kitchen and a door to a bedroom. The kitchen had a side door. There was another room off the bedroom.
“Just in case our marriage is blessed with children before the real house is finished,” Christopher said, his brow creasing.
Jane didn’t bother to comment on that. She had discovered that even her silence was enough to make her husband uncomfortable. It amused her.
“Is it all right if we fetch the trunks and your furniture tomorrow?” Christopher asked.
It was already twilight, and it had been a long day. Chris didn’t have any desire to tack up the horse, which was whinnying in the corral behind the house, and heave the heavy crates onto the wagon by himself. Jane wondered how he was planning to do all that the next day. Hopefully he didn’t think she was going to help him!
“The necessities are here,” he said.
It was true, the house had rudimentary furnishings. There were a table and two chairs, a shelf that held a frying pan and a kettle and some kind of earthenware dishes, and a broad, solidly built bed.
Jane decided not to make any more trouble that evening. She was tired and hungry. If she sent Christopher out now, it would take forever until she got something to eat.
“Just get the basket of food,” she conceded. “I’ll set the table.”
It probably wasn’t a good idea to complain about the lack of personnel immediately either. Of course she would need a maid eventually, but there was hardly space for servants’ quarters in the hut.
A little later, they both sat down to a little feast. The Beits’ cook had packed a generous amount of provisions. There was smoked ham, roasted chicken, and fresh bread. Jane knew that, starting tomorrow, their food wouldn’t be very luxurious. She had seen the supplies that Christopher had bought for the next few months. They consisted mostly of grains and dried beans. He obviously expected her to cook and bake her own bread. Jane had never done that before, and had been obligated to ask the cook how it was done. The woodburning stove in the kitchen eyed her like a hostile monster.
There was also a bottle of wine in the basket, but Jane noticed that Christopher didn’t touch it. She got the message. She wouldn’t be able to get away from him this night. Unless, of course, she got creative . . .
She briefly considered it, but then decided not to delay the unavoidable any longer.
At the same time, about three hundred miles to the north, Ida followed her new husband through the rain-drenched twilight in the settlement behind the mission. It was dark, the thick cloud cover blotting out the sky. Without Ottfried’s lantern, they wouldn’t have found the way to their hut. The dim light didn’t reveal much, but Ida was comforted a little when she recognized the precious sheets and tablecloth she had laid out the day before to make the roughly furnished place look more like a home. However, Ottfried hadn’t been very careful with them. He’d slept there the previous night and hadn’t bothered to make the bed. There were drops of wax on the tablecloth, and it was stained. The dish that he’d eaten soup out of, probably brought from his mother’s kitchen, wasn’t washed.
“Go ahead and get undressed now,” Ottfried said. “I won’t peek.”
With a furtive grin, he turned away from her, and Ida quickly pulled the dress over her head. There was nowhere she could go for privacy; the hut had only one room.
“Ida!” Ottfried said.
She saw him peering through his fingers as she slipped as quickly as possible into her nightgown. Her haste wasn’t only because of shame but also because she was shivering with cold. The hut had a fireplace, but Ottfried hadn’t gone to the trouble of lighting it. He hadn’t even gathered any wood, and he laughed now when she said shyly that she was freezing.
“I’ll keep you warm,” he said with a leer. “Are you ready?”
Ida nodded, which of course he couldn’t see. But he wouldn’t have waited any longer, anyway. Ottfried turned to the girl who had wrapped herself tightly in the quilt, terrified and shivering. His gaze was expectant and lustful. Her dark brown hair spilled over her face like a veil, and her bright eyes were full of fear. They widened with shock when Ottfried pulled down his trousers and freed his rigid member.
“What—what is that?” she asked with a gasp. “Have you—have you done this?”
Ottfried laughed aloud. In Raben Steinfeld, he never would have had the chance to stick his cock in a woman before marriage. But he’d made use of his time in Bahia, and there was also a pub in Nelson that kept two whores.
“Don’t worry, darling!” he said magnanimously. “Your husband will show you how it works.”
Then he blew out the lantern, and Ida felt as though she were imprisoned by a darkness blacker than any night. Then she heard a whine. Chasseur, who’d slipped into the hut after her and curled up unhappily in front of the cold fireplace, seemed to share her feelings.
Ida wished she could have the creature next to her. Even the smell of wet dog would be better than the stench of alcohol and bad breath permeating the air around her. Until now, Ottfried had never come so close to her. He breathed in her face as his mouth sought hers, and his tongue forced its way between her lips. She tasted the smoked fish that he’d eaten and the schnapps he’d washed it down with, and thought she would writhe with disgust. But her fear of what was still to come froze her solid. She lay unmoving as Ottfried briefly kneaded her breasts before throwing himself on top of her. His weight pinned her to the hard bed, and then she felt something puls
ing and hard against her upper thighs. It stabbed upward and into her like a knife. Ida had been determined to withstand every trial in dignified silence, but now a scream escaped her lips. The knife was pulled out when Ottfried kicked at the dog that had leaped on him in answer to Ida’s cry.
“Devil’s cur!” he shouted.
Ida heard growling, and then Chasseur whimpered and scampered to the farthest corner of the hut. At least Ottfried hadn’t killed him. Ida felt a vague sense of relief and desperately repressed the next scream. If the dog came to her rescue again, she didn’t want to think what would happen to him.
This time the pain wasn’t quite as bad as the first, but it took longer. Ottfried lay on her so heavily that she couldn’t breathe, penetrated her again and again, and made terrifying noises. He moaned and panted—and somewhere, the dog howled.
It will be over quickly. Ida remembered what the women had said. Obviously, that had been a horrible joke! It seemed to take hours until Ottfried finally collapsed on her with a gasp.
“That was pretty good, sweetheart,” he murmured. “But you’ll see, I can do it again! I can do it four times a night. The whores at Stephen’s pub by the harbor can hardly believe it. Let me rest a little while.”
Ida didn’t dare to move while he caught his breath, lying half on top of her with his ugly thing dangling limp and damp on her thigh. She felt herself bleeding, and worried. Her menses had finished a week ago. And then Ottfried stirred again. The torture and pain were repeated, except this time, he fell asleep when he rolled off her. Ida tried carefully to slip out of the bed so she could wash herself. She didn’t care how cold the water was; at least she had to wash off the blood. But Ottfried grabbed her.
“Stay here and keep me warm,” he murmured, and dragged her into a viselike embrace.
Ida couldn’t escape. She lay awake, trembling with pain and humiliation. How long would she be able to stand it?
Jane peeled herself out of her dress and corset while Christopher brought the horse to the stall. She wondered briefly who had fed it the day before. She calmly put on a silk nightgown. Fortunately, it wasn’t cold. Chris had started a fire in the kitchen woodstove, and the warmth spread through the bedroom and parlor as well.
Jane unpinned her hair so the thick brown strands fell loosely over her shoulders. After brief consideration, she lit a candle and blew out the oil lamp. It illuminated the room enough to see a little. Jane didn’t want to gloat over Chris’s nakedness, but she still wanted to know what was going on. She certainly wasn’t about to put herself at his mercy in the pitch dark.
Christopher was obviously pleased about the romantic lighting when he finally came to her. He’d already taken off his shirt to wash himself. Now he smelled of fresh soap. His naked chest wasn’t hard to look at, and when he took off his trousers, Jane saw that he had quite muscular legs. However, it seemed to make him nervous that she looked at him so directly.
“Have you ever done it?” she asked candidly as he moved toward the bed. He still wore his underwear, and was going to take it off under the quilt.
“Yes, I have.” The candlelight was dim, but Jane could tell by the sound of his voice that he was blushing. “But never with a girl I loved.”
Jane sighed. “Well, in that case, tonight will be nothing new for you,” she remarked matter-of-factly. “What should I do? I think the woman lies on her back, doesn’t she? Be careful of the nightgown, it’s Brussels lace.”
Jane’s mother’s insinuations about what to expect on her wedding night had alternated between comforting and threatening. It hurts, but it will be over quickly! However, that didn’t prove to be true. It actually took quite a long time until Christopher Fenroy was ready to take the final step. He seemed to be going to great trouble to caress her breasts and kiss her face, neck, and chest before he finally lay on top of her and she felt something hard between his legs seeking entry to her most intimate parts. As it penetrated her, it did hurt a little. She felt something tear, and realized that she was bleeding. But it wasn’t half as bad as she’d feared, after her mother had spoken of it with tear-filled eyes and trembling hands clutching her handkerchief. The hard thing was inside of her, and Christopher began to move a little. Jane felt him pushing in and out, and the pain gave way to a kind of tingling that wasn’t bad. Finally, a sort of fluid seemed to come out of Christopher’s member. It wasn’t painful, but she thought it rather disgusting. Then his thing shrank inside of her and became soft again. Christopher gave a repressed moan. She’d imagined that to be worse too. After all, her mother had expected to be able to hear it through closed doors. It was better this way. Jane felt a sense of relief when he rolled off her.
“Was that it?” she asked in amazement. “People really shouldn’t make such a big fuss about it. After what my mother said, I expected some kind of tornado. But that was nothing. Can I wash somewhere here?” She wasn’t happy about hauling her body out of bed again, but his fluids and her blood felt sticky on her thighs. “You—dripped, or something. Perhaps you can refrain from doing so in the future.”
Christopher pretended to be asleep when she returned. He felt hurt and humiliated. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to stand it.
Chapter 27
When Jane Fenroy awoke the next morning, her husband was already gone. She was pleased to discover that he had left quietly, afraid of disturbing her. During the night, too, he had been in no way bothersome. He didn’t snore or seek physical contact with her. Jane appreciated that, and also felt more inclined to be friendly to him when she realized that he had already fetched her trunks and deposited them in the parlor, or perhaps had them delivered. A glance out the window showed her that he wasn’t alone. Along with two powerfully built, dark-skinned men, he was heaving more boxes from the wagon: tools and building materials that he’d brought from Port Victoria. The next thing he would do, he’d told her the previous day, would be to build a stable for the horse. After that, he would build the main farmhouse.
Jane watched the men who were helping Chris. They were the first Maori that she’d ever seen in person. They looked much less threatening than the illustrations in the books and brochures, perhaps because they weren’t wearing traditional warrior garb, but instead were dressed very similarly to Chris. Today he was wearing a plaid work shirt with torn canvas trousers. Jane was only taken aback when the men turned their faces in her direction. Christopher’s helpers were tattooed from forehead to chin. Jane would have to get used to the sight.
At the moment, she wasn’t very interested in getting to know her neighbors better. First, she had to face the task of getting dressed without the help of a maid, and then she needed breakfast. She wasn’t very pleased at the thought that she would have to prepare it herself. She gratefully reached for a dress that she wouldn’t have to lace herself into. She had expressly instructed the tailor in Nelson to make her a few housedresses of the kind, which had elicited horrified protests from her mother. But taking a maid with her had been out of the question, and training one here wasn’t high on Jane’s list of priorities. A cook was much more pressing.
Jane groaned as she attempted to heat the heavy iron skillet on the stove to fry eggs. At first, it didn’t seem hot enough, and then the eggs almost burned. At least Christopher had already made coffee. The iron pot he had left on the stove to stay warm was difficult to move, but the brew was strong and invigorating. There was some bread left over from the day before. Jane would soon have to make more, and she had no idea how to use the oven. She wasn’t even sure if she could manage to knead the dough.
Jane wondered for a moment if she should call Christopher in for breakfast. She’d managed to cook the eggs without any further mishap, and they were ready now. But what about his workers? Would he demand that she cook for them? Jane massaged her brow, and decided to eat alone. How would she ever find household personnel here?
With her hunger sated, she was filled with motivation to start her day. She briefly deliberated whether she sh
ould first unpack her trunks or take a walk around the farm. When she looked out the window again, Christopher beckoned her outside. It was a sunny day, and even she, who didn’t usually appreciate nature, had to admit that the rata bushes created a pretty contrast to the wide green plains that stretched around Fenroy Station. It would be possible to see the river from the hill where Chris had planned to build the main house. It was a beautiful piece of land. If it only weren’t so far from civilization.
Jane pasted a smile on her face as she approached Chris, which seemed to encourage him. He returned the smile genuinely and immediately introduced his helpers, Kutu and Hare from the Ngai Tahu tribe. Jane had heard that the Maori had strange greeting rituals, and she was relieved when they just bowed a little, the way workers usually did.
“Welcome, madam,” Kutu said, and smiled proudly.
“Haere mai, madam!” Hare said with a similarly wide smile.
“That means ‘welcome,’” Chris translated enthusiastically. “You’ll surely want to learn a few words of Maori, Jane, now that we’ll be living very close to them.”
Jane was about to respond with a few sharp words. How dare he assume that she would lower herself to learning the language of the savages? But then, a movement in the rata bushes caught her eye.
“There’s something there, Chris!”
She suppressed the reflex to hide behind her husband or run back into the house. At first, Jane thought it must be a wild animal, but then she remembered that there weren’t any in New Zealand that were bigger than a chicken.
Christopher followed her gaze but relaxed immediately when one of the Maori men said something and then laughed with pleasure.
“It looks like you have visitors, Jane.” Chris smiled uncertainly. “Kutu says a few of the women and children came along this morning to meet the new lady. They are waiting in the bushes and are a little shy about coming out . . . They don’t know if they’re welcome here.”