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that, but she didn’t ask anything else.
     She’d learned years ago with Belle that to push for an explanation usually
     resulted in her clamming up permanently. Mariette was much the same.
    They were now sitting either side of the
     workroom table, with Janet Appleby’s satin wedding dress spread out between
     them. Sewing pearls to the hem was an intricate task which required patience and
     excellent eyesight, but it was the kind of job they both enjoyed and, usually, when
     they worked together they chatted and laughed.
    But today Mariette looked haunted;
     she’d barely said a word since she sat down at the table, put on her thimble
     and began sewing. Normally she would have said where she’d walked to and who
     she’d seen, often making Mog laugh with sarcastic comments about the clothes
     that passed as ‘Sunday best’ on some of their neighbours. Women in
     Russell were not very fashion-conscious – many of them wore dresses that only fitted
     where they touched.
    As Mariette had been such a tomboy when
     she was younger, Mog was both surprised and delighted when she took to sewing. She
     was now almost as adept as Mog, and far better than her mother. Mog often remarked
     that her tiny, neat stitches looked like the work of a fairy.
    She looked over her glasses and watched
     Mariette as she rethreaded her needle. She had a true amalgamation of her
     parents’ best features, with Belle’s eyes and Etienne’s sharp
     cheekbones. But the strawberry-blonde hair, which was a common result from one dark
     and one blondeparent, gave her a
     distinctive look that was all her own. She also had an enviable complexion, as clear
     and flawless as a porcelain doll.
    ‘You’re very quiet,’
     Mog said casually. ‘Something on your mind?’
    ‘No,’ Mariette retorted, a
     bit too sharply. ‘Sometimes it’s nice to be quiet.’
    After another twenty minutes of silence,
     Mog felt compelled to probe. ‘If there’s something bothering you, do
     tell me. I might be able to help,’ she said.
    Mariette looked up from her sewing, and
     Mog saw a flicker of something – maybe the need to confide? – in her face.
    ‘Nothing’s bothering
     me,’ she said. ‘Well, apart from wishing I had a job.’
    Mog was fairly certain that wasn’t
     the truth. ‘What about your mum’s idea, nursing?’
    ‘Hmm,’ Mariette responded.
     ‘I don’t think I’m really cut out for that. All those bedpans,
     vomit and blood. But it would be good to go to Auckland.’
    ‘You want to run away from someone
     here?’
    Mog knew she’d hit the nail right
     on the head by the way Mariette’s eyes widened – even though she gave a
     humourless laugh, as if such a thing was impossible.
    ‘Of course not. But there
     aren’t any opportunities for me here, are there?’
    ‘You never know what’s round
     the corner,’ Mog said evenly. ‘Summer’s coming, and the people who
     come here for sailing and fishing are from all walks of life.’
    ‘Is that all everyone thinks I
     want? To find a husband?’
    ‘It’s what most girls
     want,’ Mog said.
    ‘Well, I don’t want to spend
     my life cooking, cleaning and washing clothes,’ Mariette snapped. ‘And
     that’s what marriage is about, isn’t it? Janet Appleby might be stupid
     enoughto think that getting married is
     just about a lovely dress and a big party, but not me.’
    Mog shook her head in disapproval.
     ‘You are far too young to be so cynical,’ she said. ‘And very
     wrong too. Marriage is about sharing a life with a man you love, nurturing your
     children, supporting one another. I didn’t get married until I was almost
     middle-aged, and we only had a few years together before Garth was taken by the
     Spanish flu, but they were the best years of my life. Look at your parents, Mari –
     they are still as much in love as they were when they got married. I think your
     mother would tell you marriage is about a great deal more than washing clothes,
     cooking