by Sarah Lark
“Understandable on the part of O’Keefe,” George remarked. “But the winner certainly shouldn’t have any reason to brood on it.”
“Like I said, I don’t know the specifics. And in the end, Howard still kept enough for a farm. But he doesn’t have the know-how. This year he lost practically all of his lambs—herded them up too soon, before the last storms. A few always freeze to death, even when there isn’t a late winter storm. But herding up to the highlands at the beginning of October? God help you!”
George recalled that October here was the equivalent of March, when it was also appreciably cold in the Welsh highlands.
“Why would he do that?” he asked, uncomprehending. Though what really bothered him was why Helen let her husband go through with such nonsense. It was true that she had never taken an interest in agricultural work, but if her economic survival depended on it, she would certainly have gotten involved.
“Oh that’s a vicious circle,” Brewster sighed, offering a cigar. “The farm is too small or the land too poor for the large number of animals. But keeping fewer animals wouldn’t bring in enough to live on, so you have to rely on luck. In good years there’s enough grass; in bad, you run out of fodder for winter. Then you have to buy more—and then you don’t have enough money again. Or you herd the animals into the highlands and hope it doesn’t snow anymore. But let’s talk about more pleasant things. You were interested in taking over my clients. Very well, I would be glad to introduce you to all of them. We’ll no doubt come to an agreement on a transfer fee. Could I possibly interest you in our offices? Bureaus and storehouses in Christchurch and Lyttelton? I could rent the buildings to you and guarantee right to buy…or we could form a partnership, and I would maintain part of the business as a silent partner. That would provide me with some insurance in case the gold rush dries up.”
The men spent the afternoon visiting the properties, and George was very taken with Brewster’s operation. They agreed to negotiate the terms of the takeover after George’s excursion to the Canterbury Plains. George left his business partner in good spirits and wrote a letter straightaway to his father. Greenwood Enterprises had yet to acquire a branch in a new country with such speed and so little hassle. Now there only remained the question of a capable manager. Brewster himself would have been ideal, but of course he planned to leave.
George set these considerations aside for the time being. Now he could set out for Haldon the following day without any worries. He would soon be seeing Helen again.
“More guests so soon?” Gwyneira asked reluctantly. She had been planning to use the gorgeous spring day for a visit to Helen. Fleurette had been whining for days about wanting to play with Ruben; besides, mother and child were running out of reading material. Fleurette was crazy for stories. She loved it when Helen read aloud to her, and was already making her own first attempts at copying letters when she sat in on Helen’s lessons.
“Just like her father,” said the people in Haldon whenever Gwyneira ordered new books to read aloud to her little one. Mrs. Candler continually found physical similarities to Lucas. The girl was gracile and red-haired like Gwyneira, but the original blue of her irises had given way to a light brown flecked with amber. In their own way, Fleur’s eyes were just as captivating as Gwyneira’s. The amber in them seemed to spark whenever she got excited and flared up properly when the little girl grew upset—which happened easily, as even her loving mother had to admit. Fleurette was not a calm, easily satisfied child like Ruben. She was whiny, made difficult demands, and resorted to anger when things did not go her way. Then she would rant and rave, turning red and even spitting in extreme cases. The almost four-year-old Fleurette Warden was most definitely not a lady.
Nevertheless, she had a good relationship with her father. Lucas was not put off by her temper and gave in to her moods far too often. He rarely made any effort to correct her behavior and seemed content to classify his daughter in the category of “highly interesting object of research.” As a result, Kiward Station now had two residents who passionately collected, drew, and observed wetas. Fleur, however, was interested in seeing how far the bugs could jump and thought it a good idea to paint them with bright colors. Gwyneira developed an extraordinary talent for getting the giant bugs back into their collection jars.
Now she wondered how she would be able to explain to the child that the ride she had promised would not take place.
“Yes, another guest,” growled Gerald. “By my lady’s leave. A merchant from London. He spent the night at the Beasleys’ and will arrive here this evening. Reginald Beasley was kind enough to send a messenger so that we can receive the gentleman properly. Of course, only if it pleases my lady!”
Gerald raised himself unsteadily. It wasn’t quite midday, but he did not appear to have sobered up since the evening before. The more he drank, the crueler his comments to Gwyneira. In recent months, she had become his favorite object of ridicule—which no doubt had to do with the fact that it was winter. In winter, Gerald made more allowances for his son’s holing up in his study rather than seeing to the farm, and he ran more often into Gwyneira, whom the rainy weather kept in the house. In the summer, when the sheep shearing, lambing, and other farm work lay ahead, Gerald once again focused his attention on Lucas, while Gwyneira took off on officially sanctioned rides—in reality fleeing to see Helen. Gwyneira and Lucas were familiar with this cycle from the last few years, but that didn’t make it any easier. There was only one possibility of breaking the cycle: Gwyneira would have to provide Gerald with his desired heir. But Lucas’s energy in this regard seemed to have faded over time. Gwyneira simply didn’t arouse him; there could be no contemplating the conception of another child. And Lucas’s increasing inability at marital coitus made it impossible for Gwyneira to repeat the pretense of Fleur’s conception. Gwyneira did not have any illusions about this being a possibility anyway. James McKenzie would never agree to such an arrangement a second time. And she knew that she would not be able to break it off afterward a second time. It had taken months after Fleurette’s birth before Gwyneira was no longer seized by the pain of longing and desperation that crippled her whenever she touched or even saw James. The former was not always avoidable—it would have looked strange if James had suddenly stopped holding out his hand to her to help her from the wagon, or if he had no longer taken the saddle from her after she had led Igraine into the stables. If their fingers touched in the process, it was like an explosion of love and recognition, dissipated by a constant refrain of “never again, never again” that almost made Gwyneira’s head burst. At some point it had gotten more bearable, thank God. Gwyneira learned greater self-control, and the memories faded. But to go through it all again was unthinkable. And with another man? No, she wouldn’t put herself through that. Before James, it hadn’t mattered to her; one man seemed to her more or less like the next. But now? It was hopeless. Short of a miracle, Gerald would have to get over the fact that Fleur would be his only grandchild.
Gwyneira had no problem with that. She loved Fleurette and recognized herself in her as well as everything she had loved about James McKenzie. Fleur was adventurous and smart, bullheaded and clever. Thanks to her Maori playmates, she had a fluent command of the Maori language. More than anyone else though, she loved Helen’s son, Ruben. Older by a solid year, he was her hero and idol. When she was with him, she even managed to sit in Helen’s lessons and not utter a word the entire time.
Well, that wouldn’t be the case today. Sighing, Gwyneira called for Kiri to have her clean the breakfast table. Kiri probably would not have thought of it on her own. She had recently married and could think of nothing but her husband. Gwyneira was just waiting for her to announce her own pregnancy—and for Gerald to explode about it.
Afterward, Gwyneira had to persuade Kiri to polish the silver, and then she would have to discuss dinner with Moana. Something with lamb. And Yorkshire pudding wouldn’t be bad either. But first Fleur…
Fleurette had not
been idle while her parents had breakfast. She wanted to get going, which meant saddling or harnessing the horse. Gwyneira usually took her daughter on Igraine with Fleurette sitting in front, but Lucas preferred that his “ladies” rode in a carriage. He’d had a dogcart specially sent for Gwyneira, which she commanded excellently. The light, two-wheeled vehicle was extremely good for travel over rough terrain, and Igraine pulled it effortlessly over the difficult paths. However, it could not go off road, nor could you jump in it. That meant the shortcut through the bush to Helen’s was ruled out. Unsurprisingly, Gwyneira and Fleur preferred to ride, and that’s what Fleurette decided on that day.
“Can you saddle up Igraine, Mr. McKenzie?” she asked James.
“With the sidesaddle or a different one, little miss?” James asked seriously. “You know what your father said.”
Lucas was seriously considering having a pony sent from England for Fleurette, so that she would learn to ride properly in a sidesaddle. Gwyneira declared, however, that she would be too big for the pony by the time it arrived. Gwyneira started out teaching her daughter to ride astride Madoc. The stallion was very well behaved. The problem lay in keeping it secret.
“With a saddle for grown-ups!” Fleur declared.
James had to laugh. “A real saddle, you got it, my lady. Do you plan to ride alone today?”
“No, Mummy’s coming. But she still has to play ‘walking target’ for Grandfather. She told Daddy. Is he really going to shoot at her, Mr. McKenzie?”
Not if I can help it, James thought grimly. It wasn’t a secret to anyone on the farm that Gerald tormented his daughter-in-law. In contrast to Lucas, against whom the workers all harbored a certain resentment, Gwyneira had their sympathy. Sometimes the boys came dangerously close to the truth when they made jokes about their employer’s manhood. “If the miss only had a real man,” went the standard comment, “then the old man’d already be a grandfather ten times over.”
Often enough, the fellows would then offer themselves in jest as the “stud” and try to outdo each other with their ideas of how they could make their lovely mistress and her father-in-law happy at the same time.
James tried to put an end to these dirty jokes, but it wasn’t always easy. If only Lucas would make some effort to be useful on the farm. But he never learned anything about it and had become increasingly stubborn and recalcitrant when Gerald forced him into the stables or the fields.
While James put the saddle on Igraine, he chatted with Fleur. He hid it well, but he loved his daughter and couldn’t bring himself to view her as a Warden. This red-haired whirlwind was his child—and he didn’t care in the least that she was “just” a girl. He waited patiently until she had climbed on top of a crate, from which she could brush Igraine’s tail.
Gwyneira entered the stables just as James was cinching the saddle, and as always, she reacted involuntarily to his gaze. Her eyes lit up, her cheeks flushed…then the iron control clamped down again.
“Oh, Mr. McKenzie, have you already saddled the horse?” asked Gwyneira sadly. “I’m afraid I can’t go out for a ride with Fleur; we’re expecting a visitor.”
James nodded. “Ah, right, that English merchant. I should have remembered that you would be tied up today.” He made a move to unsaddle the mare.
“We’re not riding to school?” Fleur asked, hurt. “But then I’ll stay dumb, Mummy!”
That was her latest argument to justify making the ride to Helen’s whenever possible. Helen had used it on a Maori child who liked to skip class, and the remark had made an impression on Fleur.
James and Gwyneira had to laugh.
“Well, we couldn’t take that risk,” said James with mock seriousness. “With your permission, miss, I’ll take her to school.”
Gwyneira looked at him, astonished. “Do you really have time?” she asked. “I thought you were going to check on the pens for the ewes.”
“Well, that’s on the way,” James explained, winking at her. The pens did not lie on the main road to Haldon, but alongside Gwyneira’s secret shortcut through the wild. “Naturally, we’ll have to ride. I’ll waste time if I hook up the carriage.”
“Please, Mummy,” Fleur entreated, preparing herself for a tantrum should Gwyneira dare to refuse her.
Fortunately, her mother was not difficult to convince. Without the disappointed, grouchy child at her side, the work, which she didn’t care for under the best of circumstances, would go much more smoothly. “Very well,” she said. “Have fun. I wish I could come along.”
Gwyneira watched enviously as James led his gelding out and lifted Fleur in front of the saddle. She sat lovely and upright on the horse, and her red locks bounced in time with the horse’s steps. James took his place in the saddle just as easily. Gwyneira was almost a little worried when the pair rode away.
Was she the only one who noticed the resemblance between man and girl?
Lucas Warden, painter and trained observer, watched the riders from his window. Noticing Gwyneira’s lonely figure in the yard, he believed he could read her thoughts.
He was happy in his own world, but sometimes…sometimes he would have liked to love that woman.
2
George Greenwood received a friendly welcome in the Canterbury Plains. Peter Brewster’s name quickly opened the farmers’ doors to him, but they probably would have welcomed him even without a reference. He was familiar with the phenomenon from the farms he’d visited in Australia and Africa—anyone who lived in such isolation was generally happy for a visit from the outside world. For that reason, he listened patiently to Mrs. Beasley’s complaints about the help, admired her roses, and rode out across the pastures with her husband to admire the sheep as well. The Beasleys had gone to great lengths to turn their farm into a little piece of England, and George had to smile when Mrs. Beasley told him about her efforts to permanently ban sweet potatoes from her kitchen.
Kiward Station, he quickly realized, was very different. House and garden presented a unique combination: though someone here had clearly made every effort to recreate the life of the English country gentry, there was evidence of Maori culture here as well. In the garden, for example, rata and roses bloomed peacefully next to each other; beneath the cabbage trees were benches adorned with typical Maori carvings; and the tool shed was covered in nikau leaves, following Maori tradition. The housemaid who opened the door for George wore a demure servant’s uniform, but no shoes, and the butler greeted him with a friendly haere mai, the Maori phrase for “welcome.”
George recalled what he had heard about the Wardens. The young woman descended from an English noble family—and judging from the furnishings, she evidently had good taste. It appeared that she was pushing for Anglicization with even more perseverance than Mrs. Beasley; after all, how often did a visitor leave his calling card on the silver tray resting on the dainty little table in the front hall? George took the trouble to do so, which brought a radiant smile to the face of the young redheaded woman who was just entering. She wore an elegant beige tea gown embroidered with a bright indigo that matched the color of her eyes. Yet her skin tone did not match the fashionable pallor of the ladies in London. Her face was lightly bronzed, and she clearly made no effort to whiten her freckles. Nor was her elaborate hairstyle especially proper, given that a few tresses had already come loose.
“We’ll keep that there forever,” she declared, looking at the calling card. “It will make my father-in-law so happy. Good day and welcome to Kiward Station. I’m Gwyneira Warden. Come in and make yourself comfortable. My father-in-law will be back shortly. Or would you like to freshen up first and change for dinner? It looks to be quite a meal.”
Gwyneira knew she was crossing the boundaries of good decorum by dropping such a big hint. But this young man simply did not look like he was expecting a multicourse dinner during his visit to the bush for which his hosts planned to squeeze into evening wear. If he appeared in the breeches and leather jacket he was wearing at the moment, Lu
cas would be consternated and Gerald quite possibly insulted.
“George Greenwood,” George introduced himself with a smile. Fortunately, he did not seem angry. “Thank you for the hint. I would love a chance to wash up first. You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Warden.” He followed Gwyneira into the salon and stood amazed before the grand furniture and the large fireplace.
Gwyneira nodded. “Personally, I find it a bit big, but my father-in-law had it designed by the most famous architects. All the furniture comes from England. Cleo, get off the silk rug. Don’t even think about having your litter there!”
Gwyneira was speaking to a rotund collie that had lain down in front of the fireplace on an exquisite oriental rug. Insulted, she rose and tottered over to another rug that was surely no less valuable.
“She feels very important when she’s pregnant,” remarked Gwyneira, petting the dog. “But she’s got a right to. She litters the best sheepdogs in the area. The Canterbury Plains are now teeming with little Cleos. Mostly grandchildren, though, since I only rarely let her breed. I don’t want her getting fat!”
George was astounded. After hearing the stories of the bank director and Peter Brewster, he had pictured the all but childless mistress of Kiward Station as prudish and highly proper. But here was Gwyneira speaking quite naturally to him about dog breeding, and she not only let her sheepdog in the house but let her lie on the silk rugs! And she had not said so much as a word about the maid in bare feet.
Chatting amiably, the young woman led her visitor to his guest room and instructed the butler to fetch his saddlebags.
“And please tell Kiri she should put her shoes on. Lucas will have a fit if she serves like that.”
“Mummy, why do I have to put on shoes? Kiri isn’t wearing any.”
