Call of the Kiwi by Sarah Lark Page A

more comfortable stock saddles.
    Behind Charlotte’s well-bred facade lurked a child of nature—and a feminist. With an astounded Gwyneira, she discussed the writings of Emmeline Pankhurst and seemed almost disappointed that women already had the right to vote in New Zealand. In England she had taken to the streets with other students and had obviously enjoyed herself royally. James teased her by offering her a cigar—smoking was considered a means of protest by the suffragettes—and Jack and Gwyneira laughed when she took a few puffs on one. Everyone agreed that Charlotte enriched life on Kiward Station, and even Jack managed to converse normally in her presence. One night, Charlotte lured him outside in the moonlight, insisting on seeing to the horses once more. Cautiously she placed her hand in his.
    “Is it true that the Maori don’t kiss each other?” she asked quietly.
    “I’m not sure,” Jack replied.
    “You might think the Maori would have learned to kiss from us pakeha by now,” Charlotte whispered. “Don’t you think one could learn?”
    Jack swallowed. “Without a doubt,” he said. “If you found the right teacher.”
    “I’ve never done it before.”
    Jack smiled. Then he tentatively took her in his arms.
    “Should we start by rubbing noses?” he asked teasingly, trying to downplay his own nervousness.
    But Charlotte had already opened her lips. There was nothing for her to learn. Jack and Charlotte were made for each other.

    Love did not distract Charlotte from her studies. She had fun flirting with Jack in Maori, and found in James McKenzie a patient teacher. After three months on Kiward Station, she could not only pronounce the old tongue twister but had written down her first Maori myths in English and in their original language. Time flew, and her parents soon arrived to fetch her.
    “Naturally I would like to stay longer,” she explained to her parents. “But I’m afraid it wouldn’t be proper.”
    At which point she blushed and smiled over at Jack, who almost dropped his fork. He had just been about to help himself to a piece of roast lamb but suddenly seemed to have lost his appetite.
    The young man coughed. “Yes, well, the Maori see things differently, of course, but we want to stick to the old pakeha customs. And so, well, when a girl is engaged, it’s not proper for her to share a roof with her future husband.” 
Charlotte caressed Jack’s hands, which were nervously playing with his napkin. “Jack, you wanted to do it right,” she said, softly chiding him. “You were supposed to request a tête-à-tête with my father now and formally ask for my hand.”
    “To sum up, it looks like the young people have gotten engaged,” James McKenzie remarked, getting up and uncorking a particularly good bottle of wine. “I’m eighty, Jack. I can’t wait anymore for you to ask a simple question. Besides, the thing’s long been decided. And at my age, I ought to eat my roast while it’s warm or it’ll get tough and chewing will be hard. So, let’s have a quick toast to Jack and Charlotte. Any objections?”

    George and Elizabeth Greenwood were delighted with the match, in spite of the surprise announcement. Naturally there would be whispering in town. Though Jack inspired respect from all sides, the sheep barons had not forgotten that he was the son of Gwyneira and a rustler. The biggest gossips would recall that fewer than nine months had elapsed between the McKenzies’ wedding and Jack’s birth, and everyone knew that Jack was not the heir to Kiward Station but could at best hope to fill a managerial position. The daughter of the immensely wealthy George Greenwood could undoubtedly have made a better match. That argument, however, left George cold. He knew Jack was hardworking and trustworthy, and he simply wanted to see his daughter happy—and married!
    Jack and Charlotte married in the spring, right after the sheep had been herded into the highlands. Elizabeth had