Wherever the Wind Blows

By Anne deNize

Eleanor must seek employment now that her parents and most of her siblings are killed by Scarlet Fever. Her new job takes her to New Zealand, and she meets a kindred spirit on the ship taking them to the new colony. Her hopes of a future with her new love are dashed when they must disembark at different ports 500 miles and a deep channel apart. The transport available in 1900 in the new country makes this an almost insurmountable challenge. When Eleanor's employer is elected to parliament, her hopes are revived as this takes her to Wellington, where John has joined the police force. A murder and misunderstandings intervene between them and it is not until Eleanor devises a risky trap and then takes part herself in the proceedings that all can be resolved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anne deNize
• Release date: Apr 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310979316

Anne deNize

A New Zealander who grew up on a farm, studied languages and literature then went into computing and business administration. This took her through systems analysis, systems training, software design and IT project management. She is now following a long-held dream to write and combining it with a love for science fiction and a passion for child literacy - writing science fiction and fantasy for children and young adults. Recently she has been branching out into romance, fantasy and science fiction for adults.

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Wherever the Wind Blows

by Anne deNize

(c) Anne deNize 2016

e-pub ISBN: 9781310979316

Cover design by Renee Barratt, www.TheCoverCounts.com

All characters in this novel are entirely fictional. Many places mentioned here are genuine but are used in a fictitious manner and context. The SS Monowai did exist at the time and carried settlers to New Zealand. Some aspects of the ship have been imagined or changed to suit the story.

Chapter 1

"Yah, beanpole! Who's going to want to marry you? Beanpole, beanpole."

Beanpole, beanpole! the other children took up the chant. I couldn't let them see how much it hurt. It made me angry, too. How many times would I have to put up with rude jeering?

Get off with you, you filthy urchins! Get away.

I rushed up the front step and inside, brushing away tears. Little rats. I dropped my shopping bag and plumped down in a chair with a hand over my eyes. My mother looked up from her ironing.

What is it dear?

Those grimy little street urchins. They really challenge my temper! I can’t go out anywhere without a chorus of ‘beanpole’ or similar. Why in heavens did God see fit to make me six feet tall? He’s got a lot to answer for here.

Now, now. You know better than that, dear. He has His Own plan and we just have to live it.

It wasn’t ‘done’ to question the Good Lord, even if women were a bit freer thinking in this year of Our Lord 1899, I thought, rather rebelliously.

The trouble is, mother, that they’re not entirely wrong. Tall women aren’t popular, especially with men. I’m very unlikely to make a good ‘catch’. Or any catch at all, the way things look at the moment.

I know, darling, it can be very frustrating, but you never know. She folded the pillow case she’d just ironed to smooth perfection and picked up a tablecloth.

Maybe I should go north, I mused. They’re supposed to have tall men up there. Tall, blond, strong, handsome…

Bossy, poor… was mother’s contribution. It’s all those Vikings who went around pillaging and leaving their mark wherever they could.

You make them sound like dogs.

Well, not a lot different, from what we read.

Tall dogs anyway.

We both chuckled and I unpacked the market food from my bag.

Mother had finally despaired of finding me a suitable husband and quietly just accepted my help with the younger siblings. I’d had enough education to be able to teach them to read and write and how to do some basic figuring which did save the family some money.

Father brought in what he could as a bootmaker's assistant, but it was hard going to feed and clothe all eight of us. My mother took in ironing to help and I did some stitching. We didn't have any household staff. Mother and I cooked for the family. I taught and helped school my siblings in the way of proper and respectable living. They were high-spirited but reasonably co-operative. I did get very tired but, seeing Mother wearing herself to the bone, I couldn't complain. Sometimes I wondered if there was someone for me somewhere. Someone who could love me in spite of my height.

There were some brown loaves today. It happens every so often, I cheerily reported.

That's nice. I think there's a bit more flavour in the brown and I know your father thinks so, she replied. She always made an effort for us, although ever since my youngest sister was born, she seemed never-endingly exhausted, even first thing in the morning.

Mother shook out the linen tablecloth and tested the heat of the iron with a sizzle of spit on a finger. Dipping a hand in the bowl of water she kept by when ironing, she flicked droplets from her fingers onto the cloth spread over the board, following up with the hot iron. The finished cloth was wonderful to see, so straight and flat. It smelt hot.

What do you want for dinner tonight? I asked.

Oh, I don't know, any suggestions? she was too tired to even think.

Well there's that mutton shank and a couple of vegetables, what about a stew with the fresh bread?

Sounds lovely, darling. Another flick of water and she smoothed out a pillow case. Then it was time to swap the iron for another that sat heating in front of the fire.

Why don't we get one of Mr Seely's new electric irons, mother? It would save you a lot of bother. And a bit of lifting, too, since you wouldn’t have to keep swapping the heavy irons.

Oh, goodness, we don't need any newfangled things, dear. These old irons have been very faithful for a lot of years. And they do a good job. I couldn't face your father if we spent money on a new gadget and then it didn't do as good a job as the old one. I could lose customers, and we don't want that. No, I appreciate the thought, but I think I'd rather stick with these.

I couldn't argue. Quite often the 'newfangled things' didn't do as good a job. We lived in one of the houses that the landlord had run electricity through but it didn’t do much for us. Gas was how we cooked and a fire was our main source of heat.

Time to peel potatoes. With two parents and six children, we got through quite a few potatoes. I was only up to number three when my little sister Rosie came through the door, sobbing.

Ma, make Jeremy give me back the top. I was playing with it. He could play with the hobbyhorse.

"No, it's my turn. You play with the horse," Jeremy insisted.

Be careful of the hot iron darling, mother held up the hot iron out of the way and tried to detach Rosie from around her legs with the other hand. Jeremy tried to joggle the arm with the iron.

Jeremy! Don't do that, you'll burn yourself. How many times have I said to stay away while I'm ironing? It's too dangerous to play near hot irons.

Here you two, you know you should leave mother alone when she's ironing! I intervened. Two little faces looked rebellious and then tears threatened. I crouched down and held out my arms. Oh, come here then, tell me about it and we'll see if we can sort it out. Two little faces cheered up immediately and each tucked into an arm.

Rosie started first, as usual. I was playing with the top and Jeremy came and grabbed it.

I didn't really, you know, said Jeremy, surprisingly maturely for an eight-year old. You had stopped playing with it and picked up Nellie. Nellie was an ancient wooden doll, carved, we were told, by our grandfather for mother when she was little. I had stitched a couple of tiny outfits for her.

Well, Rosie, if you were more interested in playing with Nellie, then it's fair to let someone else have a go with the top, don't you think? I always tried the reasonable tone first. Sometimes it worked.

"But I was playing with it." Sometimes it didn't work. At six years old, reason could be an unconvincing guide.

I'll tell you what. Let me just finish these potatoes and get them on to boil and we'll see what Nellie will look like with a new headscarf, shall we.

The little girl jumped up and down. A new headscarf! For Nellie! Where is it?

Just wait, darling, I need to put the dinner on first. In the meantime, why don't you make sure she's properly dressed. Maybe the scarlet skirt would look best with the headscarf? And Jeremy can play with the top because you don't need it at the moment, you're busy.

Yes, I'm busy! she announced to Jeremy imperiously. You can have the top for now.

Jeremy grinned at me. Thanks Eleanor, he said and rushed out of the room quickly, before Rosie could change her mind. The wee girl was happy with the doll, however. She sat on the wooden floor in the living room to change its clothes, scolding all the while, but eventually relenting and promising the doll a treat for being good.

So, where were you hiding a doll's headscarf then? mother twinkled at me.

An old handkerchief that I was beginning to think needed pensioning off. This will make it an honourable retirement, I replied, hands busy with the potatoes. Perhaps I can use a scrap of red thread for decoration. I think it would match the skirt and look rather nice.

Good girl, mother said and bent her head to a tricky shirt collar. This was starched and the flick of water helped it set rock hard.

That was the last day of our old life. George came back from the mill with a cough and sore throat.

Perhaps you've got a cold, dear. Have some lemon in water and sit by the fire for the moment, my mother said. She wasn't fussy, but did take care of us.

By the next Monday all the other children were coughing.

I’m afraid it’s scarlet fever, my mother said, pointing to the tell-tale red rash on George. We’ll get in Doctor Roberts with that little bit of money from yesterday’s ironing. He should only charge for one visit even though there are six patients to see.

In another week Mother and Father started coughing and we ended up with everyone confined to bed but me.

George got over the worst of it but he would have to build up his strength before he could do much. He sat by the younger ones and helped sponge their fevered faces and foreheads. I was preparing some chicken broth in the hopes of being able to persuade them all to take at least a few mouthfuls when George called out.

Eleanor, please come. It's Rosie. I rushed in to see the poor little mite lying terribly still on her little truckle bed. She was still breathing, thank the Lord. I bent over her.

How do you feel Rosie? A bit better? There's not so much cough now, is there?

She smiled sweetly but didn't have any energy to talk. I smoothed the damp tendrils of hair from her forehead. George rubbed his eyes. She moved her hand towards me and I took it in mine.

Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll have you better in no time. Then you'll be running around again and playing with Nellie, just like before. She smiled again, releasing a