by Sarah Lark
“Nothing to be sorry for, Howard. I was told it might take some time before you heard of my arrival. But now you’re here.”
“Now I’m here.”
Howard smiled too, which softened his features and made him more appealing. On account of his polished writing style, Helen had at least expected a more intellectual conversation. But what did it matter? Maybe he was shy. Helen took over steering the conversation.
“Where exactly did you come here from, Howard? I had thought Haldon lay closer to Christchurch. But it turns out it’s its own city. And your farm lies somewhere outside of it?”
“Haldon lies on Lake Benmore,” Howard explained, as though that meant anything to Helen. “Don’t know if you could call it a ‘city.’ But it has a few stores. You can buy the important things there. The things you need, at least.”
“And how far is it from here?” Helen inquired, feeling dumb. Here she was sitting with the man she was likely to marry and they were gabbing about distances and town shops.
“Just about two days with the team,” said Howard after brief contemplation. Helen would have preferred a clarification in miles but didn’t want to nitpick. Instead, she said nothing, which created an awkward silence. Howard cleared his throat.
“And…did you have a safe journey?”
Helen sighed with relief. Finally a question with a story she could tell. She described her passage with the girls.
Howard nodded. “Hm. A long journey…”
Helen hoped he would tell of his own immigration, but he remained quiet.
Fortunately, Vicar Chester now joined them. As he greeted Howard, Helen finally found the time to catch her breath and take a closer look at her future husband. The farmer’s clothing was simple but clean. He wore leather breeches that had clearly seen many rides, and a waxed jacket over a white shirt. A splendidly decorated brass belt buckle was the only valuable piece of his wardrobe—other than a silver necklace around his neck, from which hung a green stone. His bearing had initially been stiff and unsure, but now that he was loosening up, she saw that he carried himself erectly and in a self-assured manner. His movements were limber, almost graceful.
“Now tell Miss Davenport a bit about your farm,” the vicar encouraged him. “Maybe about the animals or the house…”
Howard O’Keefe shrugged. “It’s a lovely house, Helen. Very sturdy, built it myself. And the animals…well, we have a mule, a horse, a cow, and a few chickens. And sheep, of course. Thousands of them.”
“That…that’s a great many,” Helen remarked, wishing fervently she had listened more closely to Gwyneira’s endless stories about sheep breeding. How many sheep had she said Mr. Warden had?
“That’s not many, but there’ll be more. And there’s plenty of land; it’ll work out. So how…eh, how do we proceed?”
Helen wrinkled her brow. “How do we proceed with what?” she asked, feeling for a few strands of hair that had fallen from her chaste hairdo.
“Well, uh…” Howard played awkwardly with his second cup of tea. “With the wedding…”
With Gwyneira’s permission, Kiri finally scampered off in the direction of the kitchen to come to Moana’s aid. Gwyneira spent the last few minutes before teatime conducting a more thorough inspection of her rooms. Everything was impeccably arranged, down to the lovingly arrayed toiletries in the dressing room. Gwyneira marveled at the ivory combs and matching brushes. The soap smelled of roses and thyme—surely not a creation of the indigenous Maori tribe; the soap must have been bought in Christchurch or imported from England. A pleasant aroma wafted from a little dish of dried flower petals in her salon. There was no doubt about it—even a perfect housewife in her mother’s or sister Diana’s vein could not have arranged her rooms any more invitingly than…Lucas Warden? Gwyneira simply could not imagine how a man could be responsible for this display.
She could barely contain her curiosity. She told herself that she didn’t really have to wait for teatime; Gerald and Lucas might already be in the salon. Gwyneira walked over to the stairs, across halls laid out with expensive rugs—and heard raised voices coming from the salon that echoed through half the house.
“Can you tell me why today of all days you absolutely had to check on the pastures?” Gerald thundered. “Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? The girl will think she doesn’t mean anything to you!”
“Forgive me, Father.” The voice sounded calm and cultivated. “But Mr. McKenzie simply wouldn’t let up. And it was urgent. The horses had already broken out three times.”
“The horses had what?” Gerald bellowed. “Broken out three times? That means that for three days I’ve been paying the men to catch their nags all over again? Why didn’t you step in earlier? McKenzie wanted to make the repairs right away, didn’t he? And while we’re on the subject of pens—why was nothing prepared for the sheep in Lyttelton? If it weren’t for your soon-to-be wife and her dogs, I’d have had to spend the whole night watching the beasts myself!”
“I had a lot to do, Father. Mother’s portrait for the salon had to be finished. And I had to take care of Lady Gwyneira’s rooms.”
“Lucas, when will you finally learn that oil paintings don’t run away, unlike horses? And as for Gwyneira’s rooms…you arranged her rooms?” Gerald seemed just as unable to comprehend that as Gwyneira herself.
“Who would have done it otherwise? One of the Maori girls? She would have found palm mats and a fire pit!” Now Lucas sounded a bit heated. Only as much, however, as a gentleman ever allowed himself to become in company.
Gerald sighed. “All right, fine, let’s hope she knows how to appreciate it. Let’s not fight now; she’ll be coming down any minute.”
Gwyneira decided to take that as her cue. With even steps, her shoulders squared, and her head raised high, she came down the stairs. She had practiced such entrances for days before her first debutante ball. Now it was finally paying off.
As expected, her entrance left the men in the salon speechless. Before the background of the dark staircase, Gwyneira’s delicate figure clad in pale blue silk seemed to have stepped out of an oil painting. Her face shone brightly, and the loose strands of hair framing it looked like spun gold and copper in the light of the salon’s candles. Gwyneira’s mouth hinted at a shy smile. She lowered her eyelids, but that did not stop her from being able to peek out from her long red lashes. She had to catch a glimpse of Lucas before she was formally introduced to him.
What she saw, however, made it hard for her to preserve her dignified poise. She came close to losing her composure, opening her eyes and mouth, to stare without impediment at this perfect example of the male species.
Gerald had not exaggerated in his description of Lucas. His son was the very definition of a gentleman and, what’s more, blessed with all the attributes of masculine beauty. The young man was tall, considerably taller than Gerald, and thin, but muscular. He had none of the lankiness of a young Barrington or the meek tenderness of a Vicar Chester. Lucas Warden no doubt played sports, but not so excessively as to assume the muscle-packed physique of an athlete. Symmetrical and noble, his narrow face had an intellectual look to it. Gwyneira found herself reminded of the statues of Greek gods that lined the path to Diana’s rose garden. Lucas’s lips were finely carved, neither too wide and sensual nor too thin and tight. His clear eyes were a shade of intense gray that Gwyneira had never seen before. Usually gray eyes had a hint of blue, but Lucas’s eyes looked as though only black and white tones had been introduced into the mix. He wore his bright blond, lightly curled hair short, as was fashionable in London salons. Lucas was formally dressed; for this meeting, he had chosen a gray three-piece suit of the best cloth and wore shiny black shoes.
As Gwyneira approached him, she smiled. In response, his face became all the more attractive. His eyes, however, remained expressionless.
Finally he bent forward and took Gwyneira’s hand in his long, svelte fingers, intimating a kiss on the hand in perfect form.
> “My lady…enchantée.”
Howard O’Keefe looked at Helen in astonishment. Obviously he did not understand why his question had rendered her speechless.
“What…what about the wedding?” she stammered finally. “I…I thought…” Helen tugged at her strands of hair.
“And I thought you had come to marry me,” Howard said, looking a little peevish. “Was there a misunderstanding?”
Helen shook her head. “No, of course not. But it’s all happening so fast. We…we don’t know anything about each other. U…usually the man courts his wi…wife-to-be first, and then…”
“Helen, it’s a two-day ride from here to my farm,” Howard said sternly. “You can’t really expect me to make that trip several times just to bring you flowers. As for me, I need a wife. Now I’ve seen you, and I like what I see.”
“Thank you,” Helen murmured, blushing.
Howard did not respond to that. “Everything is clear as far as I’m concerned. Mrs. Baldwin tells me that you’re very maternal and domestic, and I like that. I don’t need to know anything more. If you still have questions about me—please, I’d be happy to answer them. But then we should talk about the…eh, particulars. Reverend Baldwin would be the one to marry us, is that right?” At this last question, Vicar Chester nodded vigorously.
Helen searched feverishly for questions to ask. What did you need to know about someone you were going to marry? Finally she settled on family.
“You come from Ireland originally; is that right?”
O’Keefe nodded. “That’s right, miss. Connemara.”
“And your family…?”
“Richard and Bridie O’Keefe were my parents, and I had five siblings—or maybe more, I left home early on.”
“Because…the land couldn’t feed so many mouths?” Helen asked cautiously.
“You could say that. It wasn’t really up to me.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Howard!” Helen suppressed the impulse to lay her hand consolingly on his arm. Naturally, that was the “heavy fate” he had written about in his letter.
“And then you came straightaway to New Zealand?”
“No, I’ve…eh, traveled around a bit.”
“I could see that,” Helen responded, although she did not really have the faintest idea where an adolescent kicked out of his house could go. “But in all that time…in all that time, did you never consider marriage?” She reddened.
Howard shrugged. “The places I wandered, there weren’t many women, miss. Among whaling stations, seal hunters. There was once…” Then the look on his face retreated.
“Yes, Howard? Forgive me if I’m being pushy, but I…” Helen was desperate for some emotion from this man that would make it a little easier for her to size up this Howard O’Keefe.
The farmer grinned widely. “That’s all right, Helen. You want to get to know me. Well, there’s not much to say. She married another…which might be the reason I want to wrap this business up quickly. This business with us, I mean.”
Helen was touched. So it wasn’t a lack of feeling on his part but rather an understandable fear that she might run off just like the first girl he had loved back then. She still could not understand how this taciturn, hard-seeming man could write such beautiful letters, but she thought she understood him better now. Howard O’Keefe was a still water.
But did she want to dive in blindly? Helen feverishly considered her options. She could not live with the Baldwins any longer; they would never understand why she had deferred her marriage. And Howard himself would take any delay as a rejection and perhaps withdraw entirely. And then what? Would she take a position at the school here—which was by no means guaranteed? Would she spend the rest of her life teaching children like Belinda Baldwin and slowly becoming an old spinster? She couldn’t take that risk. Perhaps Howard was not exactly what she had in mind, but he was honest and direct, was offering her a house and a home, wanted a family, and worked hard to grow his farm. She couldn’t ask for more.
“All right, Howard. But you will need to give me a day or two to prepare. A wedding like this…”
“Of course we’ll throw a little party,” Mrs. Baldwin declared, sweet as sugar. “No doubt you’ll want to have Elizabeth and the other girls who are still in Christchurch at your side. Your friend Lady Silkham has already left, though.”
Howard frowned. “Silkham? As in the noblewoman? Gwenevere Silkham who’s supposed to marry old Warden’s son?”
“Gwyneira,” Helen corrected him. “That’s right. We became friends during the voyage here.”
O’Keefe turned to her, and his previously amiable face contorted with rage.
“Just so we’re clear, Helen—you will never receive a Warden in my house! Not as long as I live. Keep far away from that clan. The old man is a crook and the son is a dandy! And the girl can’t be any better or she wouldn’t have let herself be bought. The whole brood ought to be weeded out. Don’t you dare invite them onto my farm. Sure, I don’t have the old man’s money, but my gun shoots just as straight!”
Gwyneira had been making conversation for two hours now, which was more of a strain than if she had spent all that time in the saddle or at a dog show. Lucas Warden covered every topic, one after another, that she had been trained to discuss in her mother’s salon, but his expectations were markedly higher than Lady Silkham’s.
Yet things had begun well. Gwyneira had managed to pour the tea impeccably—even though her hands shook the whole time. The first sight of Lucas had simply been too much for her. Now, however, her heart no longer raced out of control, as the young gentleman gave her no cause for further excitement. He made no move to undress her with his eyes, to brush her fingers as though by accident as the two both reached—purely by coincidence—for the sugar, or to look her in the eye for a heartbeat too long. Instead, Lucas’s neutral gaze appeared to rest on her left earlobe while they conversed, his eyes lighting up only when he asked a question that particularly interested him.
“I heard that you play piano, Lady Silkham. What’s the latest thing you’ve been working on?”
“Oh, my mastery of the piano is incomplete at best. I only play for fun, Mr. Warden. I…I’m afraid I’m terribly untalented.” She looked bashfully down, then up, and made a slight frown. Most men would have said something complimentary and let the subject drop. Not Lucas.
“I can’t imagine that, my lady. Not if you enjoy it. Everything we do with joy we’ll succeed at; I’m convinced of it. Do you know Bach’s ‘Notebook’? Minuets and dances—it would suit you!” Lucas smiled.
Gwyneira tried to remember who had composed the etudes that Madame Fabian had tortured her with. She had heard the name “Bach” somewhere. Had he composed the church music?
“I make you think of chorales?” she asked playfully. Maybe she could bring the conversation down to the level of a light exchange of compliments and banter after all. That would have suited her much better than this discussion of art and culture. Lucas, however, did not take the bait.
“Why not, my lady? Chorales should mimic the exultation of the choirs of angels as they praise God. And who wouldn’t want to praise God for such a beautiful creature as you? What especially fascinates me about Bach is the almost mathematical clarity of his compositions, united with his undoubtedly deeply felt faith. Naturally, the music can only come to life in its proper element. What I wouldn’t give to listen just once to one of his organ concertos in one of Europe’s great cathedrals! That would be…”
“Illuminating,” Gwyneira remarked.
Lucas nodded enthusiastically.
After discussing music, he moved on eagerly to contemporary literature, the works of Bulwer-Lytton above all—“Edifying,” Gwyneira commented—and then it was time to exchange ideas on his favorite topic: painting. He was most inspired by the mythological motifs of the renaissance artists—“Sublime,” Gwyneira responded—as well as the light and shadow play in the works of Velasquez and Goya. “Refreshing,” Gwynei
ra improvised, who had never heard the first thing about them before.
After two hours, Lucas seemed enthusiastic about her, Gerald was battling with exhaustion, and Gwyneira just wanted to get out. Finally she lightly touched her temples and looked at the men apologetically.
“I’m afraid I’m getting a headache after the long ride and now the warmth from the fire. I think I need a little fresh air.”
As she prepared to stand, Lucas sprang to his feet. “But of course, you’ll want to relax before dinner. It was my fault! We’ve stretched our teatime out too long with our stimulating conversation.”
“Really I’d rather take a short stroll,” Gwyneira said. “Not far, just to the stables to look in on my horse.”
Cleo was already dancing around her with excitement. Even the dog had been bored. Her happy barking roused Gerald’s spirits.
“You should accompany her, Lucas,” he prompted his son. “Show Lady Silkham the stables and make certain the farmhands don’t drool over her.”
Lucas blinked, indignant. “Please, don’t speak like that in the presence of a lady.”
Gwyneira attempted to blush, but deep down she was looking for an excuse to refuse Lucas’s company.
Fortunately, Lucas also had his reservations. “I think perhaps that such an outing may overstep the boundaries of decency, Father,” he said. “It would be inappropriate for me to linger alone in the horse stables with Lady Silkham.”
Gerald snorted. “The horse stables are probably as busy as a pub right now. When the weather’s like this, the shepherds hang around where it’s warm and play cards.” Rain had set in late that afternoon.
“Just so, Father. Tomorrow they would be flapping their mouths about how their masters retreat to the stables to perform indecent acts.” Lucas seemed unpleasantly struck by the mere thought of becoming the target of such a rumor.
“Oh, I’ll be all right alone,” Gwyneira said. She wasn’t afraid of the hands. After all, she’d earned the respect of her father’s shepherds. And the shepherds’ crude speech was much more appealing to her at the moment than any further edifying conversation with a gentleman. On the way to the stalls he was likely to examine her knowledge of architecture too. “I should have no trouble finding the stall myself.”
