Call of the Kiwi (10 page)

He heard a side door to the anteroom open, and Emily Winter appeared in a formal apple-green dress with a dark-green shawl over it. Her luxuriant hair was held back with a wide barrette and her heavy locks fell gracefully over her shoulders. A pert little green hat emphasized the deep brown of her hair.

“Emily! What are you doing here?” The reverend looked both astounded and perturbed by her sudden appearance.

Emily Winter studied his slender but powerful physique in the elegant black frock coat he had borrowed for the wedding.

“Well, what else? I’m presenting you the fruits of my labor. Here.” She turned to the little window of the sacristy and pointed outside, where the young bride was talking with Gloria and Lilian. Sarah was completely transformed.

“Do you like it?” Emily asked, pressing closer to Christopher.

He took a deep breath.

“You, ma’am, have worked a miracle.”

Emily laughed. “Just a few parlor tricks. Tonight the princess will turn back into Cinderella. But by then there won’t be any going back.”

“There’s no going back already.” Christopher tried to withdraw from Emily’s approach, but he felt arousal spreading through him, the allure of the forbidden. What if he were to take Emily one more time? Here, next to his church, just steps from the bishop and Sarah?

“But it’s not too late for a few nice memories,” Emily said temptingly. “Come, Reverend,” she spoke the last word slowly and lasciviously, “my husband is already drinking to the health of the happy couple. The bishop is blessing all the village brats, and your Sarah is comforting that ugly little Gloria because she looks like a fat flamingo in that bridesmaid’s dress. No one will bother us.” She let her shawl fall.

“Come, Christopher, one last time.”

Sarah could not make up her mind. She looked so pretty—for the first time in her life. She could picture the light in Christopher’s eyes already as she walked down the aisle to him. He would hardly believe her transformation. He
had
to love her, now more than ever.

“Behold, thou art fair, my beloved.” The Song of Songs would take on a whole new meaning for him and for Sarah too. Because she was fair. Love made her glow.

If only it weren’t for her glasses. Sarah did not want to stumble blindly through her own wedding ceremony. But maybe there was a solution. Christopher should see her at least once without them, even if it brought bad luck. She would pop into the sacristy for a moment, tell him what a fabulous job Emily had done—and maybe he would even kiss her. Of course he would kiss her. Sarah gathered her dress and veil.

“I’ll be right back, girls. Tell the bishop we can start in five minutes. But for now I need t
o . . .
” She hurried around the church to the entrance to the sacristy.

Breathless from her corset but also from excitement, Sarah took her glasses off and felt around the anteroom. The door to the sacristy stood open. Something was moving, a strangely compact body lying halfway over an armchair, something green and black, and pinkish. Naked skin?

“Christopher?” Sarah felt in the folds of her dress for her glasses.

“Sarah, no!” Christopher Bleachum tried to prevent the worst, but Sarah had already put on her glasses.

The sight was not only disgraceful but disgusting.

And suddenly the lovestruck Sarah Bleachum transformed back into the smart young woman unafraid of questioning the world.

After staring, dazed, for a few seconds at the half-naked bodies in the room next to God’s house, her eyes flashed with rage.

Pale, her mouth closed tight, she ripped the veil from her hair and flung it to the floor. Then she ran out.

“You need to get dressed, the bisho
p . . .
” Emily said, coming to her senses first. But it was too late.

Christopher did not believe that Sarah would tell the bishop, but he must have seen her storming out of the sacristy.

The reverend ducked his head instinctively and prepared himself. The wrath of God would soon break over him.

“I’m sorry, Glory, I’m really sorry.”

Sarah Bleachum cradled the sobbing girl in her arms. “But you have to understand that I can’t remain under these circumstances. How would people look at me?”

“I don’t care. But if you go back to New Zealand no
w . . .
is my great-grandmum really sending you the money?”

As soon as Sarah had run past the confused wedding guests, her thoughts began to flow again. She had to leave—as soon as possible. Otherwise she would go mad. When Sarah reached her room she ripped off her dress, undid that fatal corset, and pulled on the first clothes she found. Then she packed up her things and set off for Cambridge.

She had seven miles to cover. At first she set off at nearly a run, but as her burning anger and shame dissipated, they gave way to exhaustion. She found a modest bed-and-breakfast and knocked at the door. And for the first time that awful day, she was in luck. The proprietress, a widow named Margaret Simpson, asked her no questions.

“You can tell me what happened later if you want,” she said softly, placing a cup of tea in front of Sarah. “First you need to relax.”

“I need to find a post office,” Sarah said. She had begun to tremble. “I need to send a telegram, to New Zealand. Could I do that from here?”

Mrs. Simpson refilled her teacup and laid a wool jacket around the shoulders of her strange guest. “Of course. But it can wait until tomorrow.”

Sarah would never have thought she would sleep that night, but to her surprise, she slept soundly—and when she awoke the next morning, she felt newly liberated. Deep down she was happy to be able to return home. If only it weren’t for Gloria.

“She promised to pay for my trip should I, well, not have my hopes fulfilled here. And she’ll keep that promise; she’s already confirmed that,” Sarah informed Gloria. She was scheduled to leave in just a few days. But she had to speak to Gloria before leaving. With a heavy heart she had ordered a cab to Oaks Garden and walked past the teachers and housemothers looking on sourly with her head held high. As expected, Gloria was inconsolable.

“Can’t you at least stay in England?” she asked desperately. “Maybe Miss Arrowstone would hire you.”

“After what happened, Glory? No, that’s impossible. Just imagine my having to see Christopher at service every Sunday. I wish I could take you with me but that won’t work right now. And your parents are coming to visit soon, Glory. You’ll feel better then.”

Gloria had her doubts about that. She was both excited and nervous about her reunion with her parents.

“I’ll tell your great-grandmother how unhappy you are here,” Sarah said halfheartedly. “Perhaps she can do something.”

“Don’t bother.”

Gloria no longer believed in miracles.

She played with the letter in her pocket that had come that morning. Her great-grandmother had written to tell her that Jack was now married to Charlotte Greenwood. Surely they would soon have children. And he would forget all about Gloria.

“We are delighted to have you here,” Miss Arrowstone said, greeting William Martyn euphorically. With few exceptions, William had always charmed women. The rotund headmistress was now purring like a cat as she gazed up at him adoringly. Though now middle-aged, he remained slender and stately; his hair was still blond and curly, and the light of his clear blue eyes, exaggerated by his slightly tanned face, made him irresistible. He and his beautiful wife, Kura, made an exceptionally attractive couple. Miss Arrowstone wondered how two such handsome, charismatic people could have brought such a mediocre child as Gloria into the world.

“We received a letter for Gloria that caused us some concern, to put it mildly.” Miss Arrowstone fished an envelope from her desk drawer.

“How is Gloria doing anyway? I hope she’s settled into life here.”

Miss Arrowstone forced a smile. “Well, your daughter is still struggling with the transition. She is a little wild, you know, from her time Down Under.”

William nodded and waved it away. “Horses, cows, and sheep, Miss Arrowstone,” he said dramatically. “That’s all people have in their heads there. We should have brought Gloria into a more stimulating setting sooner. But that’s how it is, Miss Arrowstone. Great success only comes with great effort.”

Miss Arrowstone smiled understandingly. “That’s why your wife isn’t with you to retrieve Gloria. We would have enjoyed seeing her again.”

And hearing another free concert, thought William, although he answered amiably: “Kura was somewhat indisposed after the last tour. And you understand of course that even the smallest cold is cause for concern for a singer. So we thought it would be better for her to stay in London. We have a suite at the Ritz.”

“I would have thought you would have your own town house, Mr. Martyn,” Miss Arrowstone said, astonished.

William shook his head with slight regret. “Nor a country house, Miss Arrowstone. Though I’ve often broached the subject of a residence, my wife doesn’t want to settle down. Her Maori heritage, I suspect.” He smiled winningly. “But now, what about that letter you mentioned, Miss Arrowstone? Is someone harassing our daughter? Perhaps something else our Gloria will have to get used to. Successful artists always generate envy.”

Miss Arrowstone handed the letter over. “I would not call it ‘harassment.’ And I’m a little uncomfortable with the fact that we opened the letter. But as the father of a daughter you will undoubtedly understand that we must mind the virtue of our charges. To be on the safe side, we open letters by male senders whose relationship to the girls we’re not familiar with. If it proves harmless, as is almost always the case, we hand over the letter. But this time, well, read for yourself.”

My dearest Gloria,

I’m not quite sure how I should begin this letter, but I’m too troubled to wait any longer. My beloved wife, Charlotte, encouraged me simply to write you and impart my concerns.

How are you, Gloria? Perhaps you think that a bothersome question. From your letters we take it that you are always busy. You write about playing the piano, drawing, and many activities with your new friends. But to me your letters seem strangely curt and stiff. Can it really be that you have forgotten all of us on Kiward Station? Do you really not want to know how your dog and horse are? I never read laughter between the lines and never hear a personal word. Quite the opposite, in fact; sometimes the few short sentences seem to radiate sadness. When I think of you, I always hear the last words you said to me before you left: ‘If it’s really bad, you’ll come get me, right?’ At the time I did not know how to answer. But the answer is: yes. If you’re truly desperate, Gloria, if you’re all alone and see no hope that things will get better, then write me, and I’ll come. I don’t know how I’ll arrange it, but I’m here for you.