Free Bride in Flight by Essie Summers

smock, with hair as bright as a newly-minted penny, was sitting beside him, assisting him, but her attention too was on the newco m ers and Mark took advantage of it, picked up the empty shell and crammed it into his mouth.
    Anthony Bryn-Morgan said, “Di, look out, he’ll swallow it! The shell ... quick!”
    She swooped, but small Mark clamped his jaws together, worked them madly for a few seconds, his eyes gleaming.
    Dinah lifted his feeder, said, “Spit it out, love ... nasty ... prickly! Out it comes?”
    Mark had other ideas. A few hasty swallowings and he opened his lips to say triumphantly; “All gone. Mark a clever boy!”
    Kirsty, bubbling up with laughter, said to Simon,, “Uncomplicated, I think you said.”
    Simon introduced Kirsty. “Mrs. Brown is going to look after us all over the camp. What do you think of that, kids? You’ll be with me till your mother gets better, and by that time your father will be home too.”
    Geordie’s face was suddenly bemused. “Live over there ... right in the bush! Oh boy, oh boy! Think of it ... huhu grubs, wetas, taipo spiders, moths by the million ... and miles and miles of swamps for tadpoles!”
    They all burst out laughing. Simon said, “Geordie, don’t, you’ll put Mrs. Brown off.” He turned, laughing, to her. “It isn’t as bad as that, believe me, at Kairuri-mata.”
    Dinah looked up from wiping Mark’s mouth. “What is the meaning of that name, Simon?”
    He looked at her reproachfully. “You know darned well what it means. You asked me once before.”
    She giggled, said to Kirsty, “It means surveyor’s swamp, so look what you’ve let yourself in for!” She held up a hand to Simon. “Pax ... pax! I’ll admit that it’s one of the most beautiful places on earth ... virgin bush, a coastline without a road, rivers, waterfalls, mountains.”
    “That’s better. I put all the disadvantages to Kirsty before we left for here and she came notwithstanding.” Mrs. Bryn-Morgan had been busy at the stove in the kitchenette off the dining-room and her husband had put some bread in the toaster. Two plates with omelettes with chopped ham and tomatoes in them, and garnished with a savoury sauce and parsley, appeared on the table.
    “Sit down and have them before they flop,” Mrs. Bryn-Morgan said anxiously.
    Simon said affectionately, “Isn’t she the giddy wonder? Take more than three extra kids and two unexpected visitors to put Brynnie off her stride.”
    Kirsty sat by Rebecca, who had said very little till now, her big blue eyes apprehensive.
    She swallowed, tried to smile, said uncertainly, “What have we got to call you?”
    Kirsty smiled down on her. “What about just Kirsty?” She was going to hate being Mrs. Brown, reminding her all the time of the fact that she sailed under false colors. She ought to have been Brownfield now, wearing the name of the man she loved, proudly. But there was a Mrs. Brownfield with a prior claim to it, the mysterious wife from the past, who had erupted into Kirsty’s life as a voice then had—seemingly—disappeared.
    “Thank you,” said Rebecca on a thin thread of sound. Better not rush her.
    Dinah said, “Isn’t it the most delightful, old-fashioned name? Is it short for Christine?”
    Kirsty, bent over her omelette, said carelessly, “No, Kirsten, a Norwegian name.”
    The conversation became general. Anthony departed for the shop after uselessly trying to persuade his wife to come with him.
    Kirsty still felt that she moved in a dream. Simon took her into his sister’s home, leaving the children next door, to see what they would take to the Haast with them.
    He showed her into a spare room, opened the wardrobe, flung some hangers on the bed. “Some of your things might be better hung up for just now?”
    “Yes, I’ve some pleated things.” She took out a couple of frocks, unfolded a coat, said, “Oh, that bulge in the pocket probably indicates that I must have stuffed some missing gloves in there. I