In the Land of the Long White Cloud (44 page)

The pains set in on a day in late November when the weather resembled a June day in faraway England. After several weeks of rain, the sun came up shining; the roses in the garden were blooming, and all the colorful flowers that Gwyneira actually preferred unfurled in all their splendor.

“How lovely that is,” gushed Francine, who was setting the breakfast table by the bay window in Gwyneira’s room. “I’ll have to convince my mother to plant some flowers. Only vegetables grow in our garden. Though there are always rata bushes coming up.”

Gwyneira was about to reply that she had fallen instantly in love with the rata bushes’ abundance of red flowers upon her arrival, when she felt the pains. Right then her water broke.

Gwyneira did not have an easy delivery. Because she was so healthy, her lower body muscles were very well developed. While her mother had thought that so much riding would lead to a miscarriage, it instead made the baby’s passage through the pelvis more difficult. Francine assured her frequently that everything was going well and that the baby was perfectly positioned, but that did not stop Gwyneira from screaming—or cursing. Lucas did not hear any of it though. At least she was lucky that no one was crying by her bedside—Gwyneira didn’t know whether she would have been able to handle Dorothy’s weeping. Kiri, who was assisting Francine, remained calm.

“Baby healthy. Said Matahorua. Always right.”

Before the birth, however, all hell broke loose. At first Gerald was tense, then concerned, and by the end of the day, he flew into a rage at anyone who approached him as he drank himself into oblivion. He slept through the last few hours of the delivery in his armchair in the salon. Lucas worried and drank in moderation, as was his custom. Even he fell asleep in the end, though it was only a light slumber. Anytime something stirred in Gwyneira’s chamber he raised his head, and he asked Kiri for news several times throughout the night.

“Mr. Lucas so thoughtful,” she informed Gwyneira.

James McKenzie did not sleep at all. He spent the day in a state of obvious suspense and skulked that night into the garden outside Gwyneira’s window. He was the only one who heard her cries. Helpless, with balled fists and tears in his eyes, he waited. No one told him whether it was going well, and he feared for Gwyneira’s life with every cry. Finally something furry and soft brushed up against him, someone else who had been forgotten. Francine had mercilessly cast Cleo out of Gwyneira’s room, and neither Lucas nor Gerald had paid any attention to her. She whined when she heard Gwyneira’s screams.

“Sorry, Gwyn, I’m so sorry,” James whispered into Cleo’s silky hair.

He was still embracing the dog when he suddenly heard another cry, this time softer, but stronger and rather higher than Gwyneira’s. The baby greeted the new morning’s first ray of light. And Gwyneira accompanied it with a final painful scream.

James cried with relief into Cleo’s soft fur.

Lucas awoke right away when Kiri stepped onto the landing holding the baby in her arms. She stood there like an actor, fully aware of the importance of her role. Lucas wondered briefly why Francine wasn’t presenting the child to him herself, but Kiri was beaming from ear to ear, so he assumed that mother and child were both fine.

“Is everything…all right?” he nevertheless asked dutifully, standing up to approach the young woman.

Gerald stumbled to his feet as well. “Is he here?” he asked. “And healthy?”

“Yes, Mr. Warden!” Kiri rejoiced. “A beautiful baby. Beautiful. Has red hair like mother!”

“A little firebrand!” said Gerald, laughing. “He’s the first red-haired Warden.”

“I think, not called ‘he,’” Kiri corrected him, “called ‘she.’ Is girl, Mr. Warden. Beautiful girl!”

Francine suggested naming the baby “Paulette,” but Gerald resisted. “Paul” was to be reserved for the male heir. Lucas, ever the gentleman, appeared at Gwyneira’s bedside with a red rose an hour after the birth, assuring her in measured tones that he found the child adorable. Gwyneira only nodded. How else would anyone have described this perfect little creation that she now held proudly in her arms? She couldn’t get enough of the individual fingers, the button nose, or the long red eyelashes around the big blue eyes. The baby already had quite a lot of hair. She was an unequivocal redhead like her mother. As Gwyneira stroked her baby, the little thing reached for her finger. She was already astoundingly strong. She would have sure control of the reins…Gwyneira would start teaching her to ride early.

Lucas suggested “Rose” as a name and had a giant bouquet of red and white roses brought into Gwyneira’s room, which immediately filled the air with their enchanting fragrance.

“I’ve rarely seen the roses bloom as enchantingly as today, my love. It is as though the garden blossomed especially for the birth of our daughter.” Francine had laid the baby in his arms; he held her ineptly, as though he did not know what to make of her. Still, he spoke the words “our daughter” naturally. He did not seem to entertain any doubts.

Gwyneira, who was thinking of Diana’s rose garden, responded: “She’s much more beautiful than any rose, Lucas. She’s the most beautiful thing in the world!”

She took the baby back from him. It was crazy, but she felt a prick of jealousy.

“Then you’ll have to think of a name yourself, my love,” Lucas said mildly. “I’m sure you’ll find something fitting. But now I must leave you two to take care of Father. He can’t get over the fact that she’s not a boy.”

A few hours passed before Gerald could pull himself together sufficiently to visit Gwyneira and her daughter. He congratulated the mother halfheartedly and looked the baby over. Only after she wrapped her tiny hand possessively around his finger while blinking did she wring a smile from his lips.

“Oh well, at least everything is there,” he grumbled reluctantly. “The next will have to be boy. Now that you two know what you’re doing.”

As Warden closed the door behind him, Cleo slipped in. Happy to have finally succeeded, she trotted over to Gwyneira’s bed, set her front paws on the covers, and gave her best collie smile.

“Where have you been hiding?” Gwyneira asked, delighted, stroking her dog. “Look here; I want to introduce you to someone!”

To Francine’s horror, she let the dog sniff the baby. Which is when she noticed a bouquet of spring flowers that someone had secured in Cleo’s collar.

“How original!” remarked Francine as Gwyneira carefully freed the little bouquet. “Who do you think it was? One of the men?”

Gwyneira knew exactly who it was. Though she said nothing, her heart ran over with happiness. So he knew about their daughter—and of course he had picked colorful wildflowers instead of cutting roses.

The baby sneezed when the flowers brushed her nose. Gwyneira smiled.

“I’m going to name her Fleurette.”

C
ANTERBURY
P
LAINS
—
WEST
C
OAST

A
fter his ascent up the Bridle Path, George Greenwood was lightly out of breath. He slowly drank the ginger beer sold at the highest point between Lyttelton and Christchurch, savoring the view of the town and the Canterbury Plains below.

So this was Helen’s new homeland. This is what she left England for…George had to admit it was a beautiful country. Christchurch, the town near which he assumed her farm must be located, was supposed to be a burgeoning community. As the first settlement in New Zealand, it had received its charter last year and was now a bishopric too.

George recalled Helen’s last letter, in which she reported with schadenfreude that the aspirations of the unkind Reverend Baldwin had not been fulfilled. The archbishop of Canterbury had instead called a pastor by the name of Henry Chitty Harper to the bishop’s chair, who had traveled from the homeland with his family expressly for that purpose. He seemed to have been beloved in his earlier parish, though Helen did not report anything else about his character, which rather surprised George. After all, he imagined that she must have long since gotten to know him from all the church activities that she was always writing about. Helen O’Keefe participated in ladies’ Bible circles and worked with native children. George hoped that she hadn’t become as bigoted and self-righteous as his mother through these activities. He couldn’t picture Helen in silk dresses at committee meetings, but her letters made it sound as though she spent most of her time with the children and their mothers.

Could he still picture Helen? So many years had passed, and he’d had an endless stream of experiences since then. College, his travels through Europe, to India and Australia—those should have been
enough to erase the image of a much older woman with gleaming brown hair and clear gray eyes from his memory. Yet George could still see her before him as though she had left only the day before: her narrow face, her prim hairstyle, her erect gait—even when he knew she was tired. George remembered her well-concealed anger and her strenuously contained impatience when dealing with his mother and his brother, William, but also her secret smile whenever he succeeded in breaking through her armor of self-restraint with some impertinence. Back then he had read every emotion lurking within her—hidden behind the calm, equanimous expression she exhibited to the world. That fire, burning under still waters, which had flared up over some crazy advertisement from the other end of the world. Did she really love this Howard O’Keefe fellow? In her letters she spoke with great respect of her husband, who worked hard to make a comfortable life for her and to make the farm profitable. Yet George read between the lines that her husband didn’t always succeed. George Greenwood had been active enough in his father’s business to know that New Zealand’s first settlers had almost all become wealthy. Whether they focused on fishing, trade, or animal breeding, business was booming. Anyone who didn’t make an inept start of things turned a profit. Gerald Warden, the largest wool producer on the South Island, was a perfect example. Visiting him at Kiward Station was at the top of the list of activities that had brought Robert Greenwood’s son to Christchurch. The Greenwoods were considering opening a branch of their international trading firm here. There was growing interest in New Zealand’s wool trade, and steamships would soon be trafficking between England and the islands. George himself had already traveled on a ship driven by a steam engine in addition to traditional sails. No longer dependent on the capricious winds in the calm belt, the ship could now make the trip in just eight weeks.