by Sarah Lark
George met Gwyneira and her daughter in the corridor outside his room just as he was about to go down to dinner. He had done his best as far as evening wear went. Though slightly wrinkled, his light brown suit was handsomely tailored and much more becoming than the comfortable leather pants and waxed jacket he had acquired in Australia.
Gwyneira and the captivating little red-haired girl who was squabbling so loudly were likewise elegantly attired.
Though not in the latest fashion. Gwyneira was wearing a turquoise evening gown of such breathtaking refinement that, even in the best London salons, it would have created a stir—especially with a woman as beautiful as Gwyneira modeling it. The little girl wore a pale green shift that was almost entirely concealed by her abundant red-gold locks. When Fleur’s hair hung down loose, it frizzed a bit, like that of a gold tinsel angel. Her delicate green shoes matched the adorable little dress, but the little one obviously preferred to carry them in her hands than wear them on her feet.
“They pinch!” she complained.
“Fleur, they don’t pinch,” her mother declared. “We just bought them four weeks ago, and they were on the verge of being too big then. Not even you grow that fast. And even if they do pinch, a lady bears a small degree of pain without complaining.”
“Like the Indians? Ruben says that in America they take stakes and hurt themselves for fun to see who’s the bravest. His daddy told him. But Ruben thinks that’s dumb, and so do I.”
“That’s her opinion on the subject of being ‘ladylike,’” Gwyneira remarked, looking to George for help. “Come, Fleurette. This is a gentleman. He’s from England, like Ruben’s mummy and me. If you behave properly, maybe he’ll greet you by kissing your hand and call you ‘my lady.’ But only if you wear shoes.”
“Mr. McKenzie always calls me ‘my lady’ even if I walk around barefoot.”
“He must not come from England, then,” George said, playing along. “And he certainly hasn’t been introduced to the queen.” This honor had been conferred on the Greenwoods the year before, and George’s mother would probably chatter on about it for the rest of her life. It did not seem to impress Gwyneira all that much—but it worked wonders with her daughter.
“Really? The queen? Did you see a princess?”
“All the princesses,” averred George. “And they all had shoes on.”
Fleurette sighed. “Very well,” she said, slipping into her shoes.
“Thank you,” said Gwyneira, winking at George. “You’ve been a great help. At the moment, Fleurette isn’t sure whether she’s going to be an Indian queen in the Wild West or would prefer to marry a prince and breed ponies in his palace. Beyond that, she finds Robin Hood very appealing and is considering the life of an outlaw. I’m most afraid she will decide on the latter. She loves to eat with her fingers, and she’s already practicing archery.” Ruben had recently carved bows for himself and his little friend.
George shrugged. “Well, you know, Maid Marian surely ate with fork and knife. And you won’t get far without shoes in Sherwood Forest.”
“Now there’s an argument!” Gwyneira said, laughing. “Do come, Mr. Greenwood, my father-in-law will be waiting.”
The threesome descended the stairs side by side in perfect harmony.
James McKenzie had accompanied Gerald Warden into the salon. This occurred only rarely, but today there were a few bills to be signed that James had brought back from Haldon. Gerald wanted to get it out of the way quickly—the Candlers needed their money, and James would be setting out at the crack of dawn to pick up the next shipment. Kiward Station was, as always, under construction; at the moment, a cowshed was being built. Cattle farming had been flourishing since the gold rush in Otago—all the gold miners wanted to be fed, and there was nothing they valued more than a good steak. The Canterbury farmers drove whole herds of cattle to Queenstown every few months. At the moment, though, the old man was sitting next to the fireplace studying the bills. James glanced around the expensively fashioned room and wondered idly what it would be like to live there—with all the gleaming furniture and the soft carpets…and a fireplace that filled the room with comforting warmth, which you didn’t have to light as soon as you came home. After all, what were servants for? James found it all very enticing, but foreign too. He didn’t need it and certainly didn’t long for it. But perhaps Gwyneira did. Well, if he ever managed to win her for himself, he would have a house like this built and squeeze into suits just as Lucas and Gerald Warden did.
Voices could be heard on the stairs. James looked up anxiously. Seeing Gwyneira in her evening dress enchanted him and caused his heart to beat faster—as did the sight of their daughter, whom he rarely saw in formal attire. At first he thought he recognized the man with them as Lucas—upright bearing, an elegant brown suit—but then he saw that it was someone else. He realized that he should have known that at once, as he had never seen Gwyneira laughing and so at ease in Lucas’s presence. This man seemed to amuse her though. Gwyneira was teasing him or their daughter or both, and he was just as quick to riposte. Who the devil was that man? What gave him the right to joke around with his Gwyneira?
The stranger was certainly handsome. He had a thin, well-shaped face and clever brown eyes with a hint of mockery in them. His body was lanky, but he was tall and strong and moved lithely. His whole demeanor conveyed self-assurance and confidence.
And Gwyneira? James noticed the usual flash in her eyes when she spotted him in the salon. But was it the spark of their old love flaring up from the ashes at every encounter, or merely surprise in Gwyneira’s gaze? James’s sense of distrust blazed. Gwyneira gave no sign acknowledging his peevish demeanor.
“Mr. Greenwood!” Gerald too had noticed the threesome on the steps. “Please pardon me for not being home on your arrival. But it looks like Gwyneira’s already shown you around the house.” Gerald held out his hand to the visitor.
Oh, right, that had to be the merchant from England whose arrival had thrown off Gwyneira’s plans for the day. She no longer appeared upset about it, though, and gestured for George to take a seat.
James, however, was left standing. His jealousy turned into anger.
“The bills, Mr. Warden,” he remarked.
“Yes, right, the bills. Everything is in order, McKenzie; I’ll sign off on them right away. A whiskey, Mr. Greenwood? You must give us an update on good old England!”
Gerald scribbled a signature at the bottom of the papers, then turned his attention to his visitor—and the whiskey bottle. The small flask he always carried must have been empty by afternoon—and Gerald was in correspondingly bad spirits. Andy McAran had informed James of an ugly altercation between Gerald and Lucas in the cow barn. It was about a calving cow who had experienced complications during her delivery. Lucas had once again not proved up to the challenge; he simply couldn’t bear the sight of blood. For that reason, it hadn’t been the older Warden’s best idea to make cattle breeding Lucas’s primary responsibility. In James’s opinion, the management of the fields would have suited Lucas a great deal more. Obviously Lucas was better with his head than with his hands, and when it came to calculating returns, fertilizer allocation, and cost-benefit analyses regarding farm machine purchases, he thought in purely profit-oriented terms.
Lowing animals giving birth, however, robbed Lucas of his composure, and the situation must have come to a head once again that afternoon. Still, it was lucky for Gwyneira. When Gerald unloaded his wrath on Lucas, she was spared. But she was evidently becoming quite good at her role. The guest seemed to be enjoying himself tremendously.
“Is there something else, McKenzie?” Gerald asked, pouring himself some whiskey.
“Did you see?” Fleurette asked. “I have shoes on like a princess.”
James laughed, immediately at ease. “They are very sweet, my lady. But of course you’re always an enchanting sight, regardless of what sort of shoes you’re wearing.”
Fleurette frowned. “You only say that b
ecause you’re not a gentleman,” she declared. “Gentlemen only have respect for a lady when she wears shoes. Mr. Greenwood says.”
Normally this remark would have amused James, but now his anger surged once again. Who did this fellow think he was, turning his daughter against him? James could hardly control himself.
“Well, my lady, then takest thou better care to associate with real men instead of bloodless men with big names wearing suits. Since if their respect is tied to shoes, then it’s sure to run out quickly.” He directed his words at the frightened child, but they struck Gwyneira, who was watching her daughter.
She looked at him, vexed, but James only glowered at her before withdrawing to the stables. Tonight he would help himself to a big slug of whiskey too. She could go ahead and drink wine with her rich fop.
The meal’s main course consisted of lamb and a sweet potato casserole, which confirmed what George had already observed. Though the maid was now wearing shoes and served flawlessly, honoring tradition was clearly not of the utmost importance to Gwyneira. The maid showed so much respect to the lord of the manor, Gerald Warden, that it almost bordered on fear. The old gentleman clearly had a lively temper; he spoke excitedly, if a little drunkenly, of God and the world and had an opinion on every topic. The young master, Lucas Warden, seemed quiet by comparison, almost as though he were in pain. Whenever his father voiced opinions that he found too radical, it seemed to afflict him physically. Otherwise, Gwyneira’s husband struck him as pleasant and well-bred, the perfect gentleman in every way. Kindly but precisely, he corrected his daughter’s table posture—in fact, he seemed to have a talent for dealing with the child. Fleur did not quarrel with him as she did with her mother. At dinner, Fleur simply spread her napkin properly over her knees and transported the lamb to her mouth with her fork rather than picking it up with her fingers like the merry men in Sherwood Forest. But perhaps this too was the result of Gerald’s presence. In fact, no voices were raised while the old man was present.
Despite the quiet, George enjoyed himself considerably that evening. Gerald knew how to talk charmingly about farm life, and George confirmed the people’s opinions of him in Christchurch. Old Man Warden certainly knew a great deal about the sheep and wool industry, had caught the right wind with regard to acquiring cattle, and kept his farm in excellent shape. George would have liked to continue chatting with Gwyneira, though, and Lucas did not seem half the bore Peter Brewster and Reginald Beasley had made him out to be. Gwyneira had revealed earlier that her husband had painted the portraits in the salon himself. She made the announcement uncertainly and with a hint of mockery in her voice, but George looked on the paintings with nothing but respect. He would not have identified himself as an art connoisseur but was frequently invited to private viewings and art auctions in London. An artist like Lucas Warden would certainly have found a following there; with a spot of luck, he might even have arrived at fame and fortune. George considered whether it might pay off for him to take a few pieces back to London with him. He was certain he could sell the pictures there. On the other hand, he might run the risk of spoiling his relationship with Gerald Warden. The old man clearly wanted nothing less than to have an artist in the family.
The conversation that evening did not turn to art. Gerald monopolized the visitor from England the entire time, drinking a whole bottle of whiskey in the process, and seemed not to notice that Lucas had left early. Gwyneira had also fled at the earliest possible moment after the meal to tuck the child in. They did not employ a nanny, which George found strange. After all, Gerald Warden’s son had obviously had a proper English upbringing. Why would Gerald not do the same for his granddaughter? Did he not like the results it had produced before? Or did it have to do with Fleurette being “just” a girl?
The next morning offered the opportunity for a much more thorough conversation with the young couple. Gerald did not come down for breakfast—at least not at the usual time. Bacchus demanded his tribute from the night before. Gwyneira and Lucas appeared much more relaxed. Lucas inquired about the cultural scene in London and was obviously overjoyed that George had more to say about it than “sublime” and “edifying.” Confronted with praise for his portraits, he seemed to swell with pride and invited their guest into his studio.
“You’re welcome to come if you like. I know you’re taking a look at the farm this morning, but this afternoon…”
George nodded uncertainly. Gerald had promised him a ride through the farm, and George was very interested in doing that. Ultimately all other business on the South Island would be measured against Kiward Station. But Gerald was nowhere in sight.
“Oh, I can ride with you,” Gwyneira offered spontaneously after George made a cautious remark to this effect. “Lucas too, of course…but I didn’t make it out of the house at all yesterday. So if my presence would be acceptable to you…”
“To whom would your presence not be acceptable?” George asked gallantly, though he did not expect much from a ride with the lady. He had been counting on informative commentary and a peek into the breeding and pasture management. He was therefore all the more astounded when he met Gwyneira in the stables a short while later.
“Please saddle Morgaine for me, Mr. McKenzie,” she instructed the foreman. “She desperately needs training, but when Fleur’s around, I don’t like to take her. She’s too impetuous.”
“Do you think the young man from London can handle your impetuosity, miss?” inquired the shepherd sarcastically.
Gwyneira frowned. George wondered why she did not give the brazen churl a dressing down.
“I hope so,” was all she said. “Otherwise, he’ll have to ride in back. He’s not going to fall off. Can I leave Cleo here with you? She won’t like it, but it will no doubt be a long ride, and she’s already pretty heavy.” The little dog that followed Gwyneira everywhere seemed to have understood her and tucked its tail between its legs.
“These will be your last pups, Cleo, I promise,” Gwyneira comforted her. “I’m going to ride with Mr. Greenwood as far as the stone warriors. We’ll see if we catch sight of a few rams. Can I take care of anything on the way?”
The young man seemed to make a pained face in response to one of her remarks. Or was he mocking her? Was that how he reacted to her offer to make herself useful with the farm work?
Though the young man did not answer, another farmworker answered her question as he was passing by.
“Oh yeah, miss, one of the little rams, the little charmer Mr. Warden promised to Mr. Beasley, keeps going off on his own. Runs around by the ewes and drives the whole flock crazy. Could you possibly herd him back? Or just bring along the two meant for Beasley; then we’ll have order up there. Does that sound good, James?”
The foreman nodded. “They need to be gone by next week anyway. Do you want Daimon, miss?”
When the word “Daimon” left his lips, a big black dog rose up.
Gwyneira shook her head. “No, I’ll take Cassandra and Catriona. We’ll see how they do. We’ve certainly trained them long enough.”
Both dogs looked like Cleo. Gwyneira introduced them to George as her daughters. Even her rather lively mare was the product of two horses she had brought from Great Britain. George noticed Gwyneira exchange looks with the foreman when he brought the mare out to her.
“I could have ridden with a sidesaddle,” Gwyneira remarked. She would have been willing to uphold decorum for their visitor from London.
Although George did not hear the man’s response, he did see that Gwyneira flushed with anger.
“Now come, too many people had too much to drink last night on this farm!” she burst out and urged her mare into a trot. George followed her, confused.
James McKenzie remained in the stables. He could have kicked himself. How could he have lost control like that? The impertinent comment he had just made played over again and again in his mind—“Forgive me. Your daughter said yesterday that she preferred a saddle for ‘grown-ups.’ But if my l
ady would like to play the little girl today and ride in a sidesaddle…”
It was unforgivable. If Gwyneira hadn’t figured out for herself what a catch this English fop might be, he had now most certainly shown her.
Once she had calmed down and reined in her mare so that his rental horse could keep pace with her, George was surprised by the amount of technical information Gwyneira gave him during their tour. Gwyneira obviously knew the breeding operation on Kiward Station forward and backward, and was able to supply him with detailed information regarding the pedigree of each animal and commentary on the successes and failures of breeding.
“We’re still breeding purebred Welsh Mountains and crossing them with Cheviots—that creates the perfect combination. Both are a down type. With Welsh Mountains, you can get thirty-six to forty-eight strands per pound of raw wool; with Cheviots it’s in the range of forty-eight to fifty-six. They complement one another, and the wool quality is consistent. It’s actually not ideal to work with Merinos. That’s what we always tell people who want purebred Welsh Mountain sheep, but most of them think they’re smarter than we are. Merinos produce ‘fine wool,’ which means about sixty to seventy strands per pound. Very nice, but you can’t breed purebreds here; they’re not robust enough for it. And when combined with other breeds, there’s no telling what you’ll get.”
George understood only half of what she was saying but was impressed by the scope of her knowledge—and became even more so when they successfully reached the highlands where the young rams grazed freely. Gwyneira’s young sheepdogs first herded the flock together, then separated out the two animals that had been sold—which Gwyneira recognized straightaway—and started to steer them placidly back down to the valley. Gwyneira slowed her mare to ride in tempo with the sheep. George took the opportunity to finally move on from the subject of sheep and ask a question that lay much nearer and dearer to his heart.
