Call of the Kiwi by Sarah Lark Page B

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.
    Your half granduncle who loves you more than anything,
    Jack
    William scanned the lines with furrowed brow.
    “You were right to seize this letter, Miss Arrowstone,” he remarked. “The relationship between my daughter and this man was always somewhat unhealthy. Throw the letter away.”
    Gloria was alone. Completely alone.
     

Paradise Lost
    C ANTERBURY P LAINS , C AMBRIDGE , A UCKLAND , C APE R EINGA , A MERICA , A USTRALIA , AND G REYMOUTH
    1914–1915

1
    A t the risk of sounding like old Gerald Warden, something’s not right.”
    James McKenzie shuffled through the former rose garden of Kiward Station heavily supported by his cane and leaning lightly on his wife’s arm. Recently every movement had become a torment, his joints were stiffer than ever, and his rheum reminded him of countless nights spent under an open sky. He only left the house when he felt it was necessary, such as the return of the flocks and their shepherds out of the mountains. Though the management of the farm had long been in Jack’s hands, the old foreman would not be denied a look at the well-fed ewes and lambs.
    James McKenzie glanced at Charlotte’s still slender form.
    “Five years of marriage and the girl is still as thin as a blade of grass. Something isn’t right there.”
    Gwyneira nodded. Though the subject came up often between them, neither of them wanted to bring it up directly with Jack or Charlotte.
    “It’s not for lack of effort,” Gwyneira joked. “They still can hardly keep their hands off each other. It’s unlikely that stops in the bedroom. But don’t you think she’s too thin, James? She’s pretty as a picture, of course, but a little lean. Or am I imagining things? And those constant headaches.”
    Charlotte had suffered migraines for as long as she could remember. Even in the first few years of marriage, she had spent a week in her apartments with the windows shaded only to reemerge pale and haggard. Neither the Haldon doctor’s powders nor the Maori midwife’s herbs had helped. Gwyneira had noticed that they’d begun to occur more frequently.
    “She’s probably worried. She’s always wanted children,” James said. “What does Rongo say? Didn’t you send her there