In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

  Gwyneira waited for her son in the parlor, which she had taken to using as an office of sorts. After all, no guests dropped off calling cards, waiting for the family to notice them at tea. So she had found other uses for the room. She no longer feared her father-in-law’s reactions. Gerald had given her free rein over almost all house-related decisions and only rarely raised objections to her meddling with the farm business. Gerald and Gwyneira were both born farmers and livestock breeders, and the two of them worked well together in that respect. After Gerald added cattle to his operation some years earlier, they had divided the farm responsibilities rather easily: Gerald saw to the longhorns, while Gwyneira oversaw the sheep and horse breeding. The latter was the bigger job, but Gerald was often too drunk to make complex decisions quickly—though that was never mentioned. Instead, the workers simply turned to Gwyneira when it did not seem advisable to speak to the proprietor, and from her, they received clear directions. Gwyneira had made her peace with her existence and moreover with Gerald. Particularly after she had learned his history with Howard O’Keefe, she could no longer bring herself to hate him as profoundly as she had in the first year few years after Paul’s birth. She realized that he had never loved Barbara Butler. Her standards, her vision of living in a manor house and raising their son to be a gentleman, may very well have fascinated him—but in the end it disheartened him. Gerald lacked the temperament of the landed gentry; he was a gambler, a warhorse, an adventurer—and a capable farmer and businessman through and through. He never was the considerate “gentleman” with whom Barbara entered a marriage of convenience after being forced to renounce her true love—and never wanted to be either. His first encounter with Gwyneira must have opened his eyes to the kind of woman he really longed for—and doubtless it angered him that Lucas had not had the first idea what to do with her. Gwyneira had since become convinced that Gerald must have felt something like love for her when he brought her to Kiward Station. She suspected that he had not merely been venting his anger at Lucas’s impotence on that terrible December night but also expressing the pent-up frustration that he had felt for years at being nothing more than a “father” to the woman he wanted.

  Gwyneira also knew that Gerald regretted his behavior back then, even if no words of apology ever emerged from his mouth. His increasingly excessive drinking, his reserve and indulgence toward her—and Paul—spoke for themselves.

  She raised her head from her papers about sheep breeding and watched her son storm into the room.

  “Well, hello, Paul! Why are you in such a hurry?” she asked with a smile. She still found it difficult to feel genuinely happy when Paul came home. Her peace accord with Gerald was one thing, her relationship with Paul quite another. She simply could never bring herself to love the boy. Not like she loved Fleur, so naturally and unconditionally. If she wanted to feel something for Paul, she always had to engage her reason: he was handsome, with his tousled auburn hair. Gwyneira had bestowed only its color, not its consistency, and instead of curly locks, his hair had the fullness that Gerald’s hair still showed. His face was reminiscent of Lucas’s, though he had more determined, less soft features, and his brown eyes were clear and often hard, unlike the soft and dreamy eyes of his half brother. He was smart, but his talents lay more in the mathematical realm than in the artistic. He would surely become a good businessman, and he was quite competent. Gerald could not have asked for a better heir to the farm. Though Gwyneira felt that he sometimes lacked empathy for the animals and, more importantly, for the people on Kiward Station, she tried to shake these feelings. She wanted to see the good in Paul, wanted to love him, but when she looked at him, she did not feel any more than she felt for Tonga, for example: a nice boy, clever, and no doubt suited to what would later be expected of him. But it was not the profound, heart-wrenching love she felt for Fleurette.

  She hoped that Paul did not notice this absence of love, and she always strove to be especially kind and patient with him. Even now, she was willing to forgive him for wanting to walk past her without a greeting.

  “Did something happen, Paul?” she asked, concerned. “Did something upset you at school?” Gwyneira knew that Helen did not always have an easy time with Paul and was aware of his ongoing rivalry with Ruben and Tonga.

  “No, nothing. I need to talk to Grandfather, Mother. Where is he?” Paul did not bother with pleasantries.

  Gwyneira looked at the grandfather clock that dominated one wall of her study. It was another hour until dinner. So Gerald might already have started on his aperitif.

  “Where he always is at this time,” she replied. “In the salon. And you know perfectly well that it’s best not to bother him at this hour. Especially not when someone hasn’t washed or combed his hair, young man. If you want my advice, go change in your room before you go see him.”

  It was true that Gerald had not taken changing before dinner very seriously himself for a long time, and even Gwyneira only tended to change her clothes when she was coming from the stables. The tea dress that she had worn that day would be perfectly acceptable for dinner. But Gerald could be strict with the children—or rather, he was usually looking for a reason to pick a fight with someone around that time of day. The hour before the common meal was the most dangerous. By the time dinner was served, Gerald’s alcohol level was usually so high that violent eruptions were no longer possible.

  Paul briefly considered his options. If he went straight to Gerald with the news, his grandfather would indeed explode—but in the absence of the “victim,” the effect would be limited. It would be better to tell on Fleur when she was present; then there was a better chance that he, Paul, would get to hear every detail of the ensuing confrontation. Besides, his mother was right: if Gerald was in a really bad mood, he might not even give Paul a chance to announce his news before unleashing all his fury on Paul.

  So the boy decided to go to his room first. He would appear at dinner properly dressed, while Fleur would inevitably show up late—and still in her riding clothes. He would let her stammer her excuses, and then, when she was done, he would drop his bombshell. Paul went upstairs feeling smug. He lived in his father’s old room, which was now crammed full with toys and fishing tackle rather than art supplies and books. The boy changed into his dinner clothes meticulously. He was eager with anticipation.

  Fleurette had not promised more than she could deliver. Her dog, Gracie, had gathered together the missing sheep with lightning speed as soon as Ruben and the girl had found them. Even finding them had not proved difficult. The young rams were bound for the highlands and the pastures where the ewes were. Still, flanked by Gracie and Minette, they were content to turn back toward the farm. Gracie did not tolerate any frolicking, and quickly herded any sheep trying to break ranks back into the flock. The group was small and easy to keep track of, so Fleurette managed to shut the paddock gate behind them long before dark—and more importantly, long before Howard O’Keefe returned from the shed, where he was seeing to his last cattle. The animals were finally to be sold after Howard had endlessly clung to cattle farming as a potential second source of income against George Greenwood’s advice. O’Keefe Station did not boast any land suitable for cattle; only sheep and goats could thrive here.

  Fleurette looked at the position of the sun. It wasn’t late yet, but if she helped Ruben fix the fence as she had promised, she wouldn’t make it home for dinner. Even that wouldn’t be so bad—her grandfather usually retired to his room with a last whiskey after dinner, and her mother and Kiri would no doubt save her something to eat. Still, Fleur hated to make more work for the help than was necessary. Besides, Fleur did not relish the idea of possibly running into Howard and then—horror of horrors!—bursting into the house in the middle of dinner. On the other hand, she could hardly leave Ruben alone with the fence. Then the rams would waste no time heading right back up to the highlands again the next day.

  To Fleurette’s relief, Ruben’s mother now approached them—with her mild-mannere
d mule, which she had laden with tools and fencing materials.

  Helen waved at her. “Go on home, Fleur, we’ll take care of this,” she said kindly. “It was very nice of you to help Ruben bring the sheep back. There’s no reason you should be punished for your good deed with trouble at home. And that’s what will happen if you’re late getting home.”

  Fleurette nodded gratefully. “Then I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Miss O’Keefe!” she exclaimed. As it was, she had more or less finished school, but it was an excuse to spend time with Ruben every day. She was good at math, could read and write, and had read many of the classics, or at least the first few pages of them, though not in their original language as Ruben had. Fleur thought that knowing Greek and Latin was unnecessary, so there was hardly anything left that Helen could teach her. However, after Lucas’s death, Gwyneira had donated many of his botany and zoology books to Helen’s school. Fleur browsed them with interest while Ruben dedicated himself to his books. He would have to go to Dunedin the following year if he wanted to continue his studies. Helen still had no idea how she was going to make that idea palatable to Howard. Moreover, there was no money left over for his studies; Ruben would have to rely on George Greenwood’s generous help—at least until he could distinguish himself enough to earn a scholarship. But studying in Dunedin would separate Ruben and Fleurette for a time. Just as Marama had, Helen recognized that the two were obviously in love and had already spoken with Gwyneira about it. In principle, the mothers had nothing against the union, but naturally, they feared Gerald’s and Howard’s reactions. They agreed that the young couple should wait a couple of years before entering into any permanent commitment. Ruben had just turned seventeen; Fleur was still not quite sixteen. Helen and Gwyneira both felt that they were still too young to tie themselves down.

  Ruben helped Fleur put the saddle they had taken off to be able to ride together back on her mare. He stole a kiss before she mounted.

  “I love you, until tomorrow!” he said quietly.

  “Only until tomorrow?” she returned, laughing.

  “No, for forever. And a few days beyond that!” Ruben’s hand stroked hers softly, and Fleurette beamed at him as she rode out of the yard. Ruben watched her go until the last shimmer of her red-gold hair and her sorrel’s equally luminous tail had melted into the evening light. Helen’s voice shook him out of his reverie.

  “Come on, Ruben, the fence isn’t going to fix itself. We’d better be finished by the time your father comes home.”

  Fleurette spurred her horse on at a brisk pace and would almost have been punctual for dinner at Kiward Station. But there was no one in the stables to whom she could give Minette, so had to take care of her horse herself. By the time the mare had been brushed, watered, and provided with food, the first course was no doubt already on the table. Fleurette sighed. She could steal into the house and skip dinner entirely. However, she was afraid that Paul had seen her ride into the yard; she had detected movement from behind his window, and he would tell on her without question. So Fleur gave in to the inevitable. At least she would get something to eat. She was starving after her day in the highlands. She decided to approach the situation optimistically and put a beaming smile on her face when she entered the dining room.

  “Good evening, Grandfather, good evening, Mummy! I’m an itty bit late today because I was an itty bit wrong about how much time it would take to…uh, to…”

  Stupid that she couldn’t think of an excuse off the top of her head. She could not possibly say she had spent the day herding Howard O’Keefe’s sheep.

  “To help your beau hunt down his sheep?” Paul asked with a sardonic expression on his face.

  Gwyneira blew up. “Paul, what is that supposed to mean? Do you always have to tease your sister?”

  “Did you or didn’t you?” Paul asked insolently.

  Fleurette blushed. “I…”

  “With whom were you hunting down sheep?” Gerald inquired. He was pretty drunk. He might not have made a scene but something about what Paul said had caught his attention.

  “With…um, with Ruben. A few rams had gotten away from him and Mrs. O’Keefe and…”

  “From him and that nice father of his, you mean to say,” Gerald scoffed. “How typical of old Howard to be too stupid or too tightfisted to pen up his animals. And that dandy has to ask a girl to help him herd them.”

  The old man laughed.

  Paul frowned. This wasn’t going as planned.

  “Fleur does it with Ruben!” burst out of him, earning a few initial seconds of stunned silence.

  Gwyneira was the first to react. “Paul, where do you learn these expressions! You will excuse yourself this instant and—”

  “Wai…wait a moment!” Gerald interrupted her in an unsteady but loud voice. “Wha…what is the boy saying? She’s…doing it…with the O’Keefe boy?”

  Gwyneira hoped that Fleurette would simply deny it, but she only needed to look at the girl to see that Paul’s malicious assertion had at least some truth to it.

  “It’s not what you think, Grandfather!” Fleur said, trying to reassure herself. “We…well, we…uh, don’t do it with each other, of course. We…”

  “Oh, no? What do you do, then?” Gerald thundered.

  “But I saw it! I saw it!” Paul sang.

  Gwyneira ordered him sternly to be silent. “We…we’re in love. We want to get married,” Fleur explained. There. At least she had said it—even though this was hardly the ideal moment for that announcement.

  Gwyneira attempted to ameliorate her daughter’s position.

  “Fleur, my sweet, you’re not even sixteen. And Ruben’s going off to university next year.”

  “You want to do what?” Gerald roared. “Marry? O’Keefe’s brat? Have you completely lost your mind, Fleurette?”

  Fleur shrugged. Whatever else may be said of her, she could not be accused of cowardice. “It’s not something you choose, Grandfather. We love each other. That’s how it is, and no one can change it.”

  “We’ll just see if it can’t be changed!” Gerald sprang up. “You are not to ever see that boy again. No more school—I’ve been wondering what that O’Keefe woman has left to teach you anyway. I’m going to ride to Haldon and settle things with O’Keefe right now. Witi! Bring my gun!”

  “Gerald, you’re overreacting,” Gwyneira said, trying to remain calm. Perhaps she could convince Gerald to give up the crazy idea of going after Ruben—or Howard—before he did anything rash. “The girl isn’t even sixteen and is in love for the first time. No one’s even talking about a wedding.”

  “That girl is set to inherit a portion of Kiward Station, Gwyneira! Of course old O’Keefe’s thinking of marriage. But I’ll clear that up once and for all. You lock up the girl. This instant! She doesn’t need anything more to eat. She should fast and think about her sins.” Gerald reached for his gun, which a terrified Witi had brought, and slipped into a waxed jacket. Then he stormed out.

  Fleurette moved to follow him. “I have to go warn Ruben!” she exclaimed.

  Gwyneira shook her head. “Where do you expect to find a horse? All the riding horses are in the stables, and I won’t let you take one of the ponies into the wild without a saddle…no, you’d break your neck and the horse’s too. Gerald would overtake you anyway. Let the boys sort it out for themselves. I’m sure no one will get hurt. If he runs into Mr. O’Keefe, they’ll yell at each other, maybe break each other’s noses…”

  “And if he runs into Ruben?” Fleur asked, turning pale.

  “Then he’ll kill him!” Paul rejoiced.

  That was a mistake. Now mother and daughter turned on him.

  “You snitching little bastard!” Fleurette yelled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done, you nasty rat? If Ruben is killed, then…”

  “Fleurette, calm down. Your friend will survive just fine,” Gwyneira soothed her with greater conviction than she really possessed. She knew Gerald’s explosive temper, and he was once
more three sheets to the wind. However, Ruben’s even-keeled nature gave her hope. Helen’s son was not about to be provoked. “And you, Paul, go to your room this instant. I don’t want to see you in the dining room again until the day after tomorrow at the soonest. You’re under house arrest.”

  “Fleur is too, Fleur is too!” Paul would not let it go.

  “That’s something very different, Paul,” Gwyneira said sternly, and once again she had trouble finding even a spark of sympathy for the child she had given birth to. “Grandfather is punishing Fleur because he thinks she’s fallen in love with the wrong boy. But I’m punishing you because you’re rotten, because you spy on people and tattle—and enjoy it too! No gentleman behaves that way, Paul Warden. Only a monster behaves that way.” Gwyneira knew the moment she said it that Paul would never forgive her for that word. But she had reached her breaking point. She felt only hatred for this child who had been forced on her, who had ultimately been the cause of Lucas’s death, and who was now doing his utmost to destroy Fleur’s life too and to upset the very core of Helen’s tenuous family harmony.

  Paul looked at his mother, pale as a corpse, and saw the chasms in her eyes. This was no fit of anger like Fleurette’s; Gwyneira seemed to mean what she was saying. Paul began to sob, even though he had decided more than a year before to be a man and not to cry anymore.

  “What’s taking you so long? Go!” Gwyneira hated herself for her words, but she could not hold them in. “Go to your room!”

  Paul stormed out. Fleurette looked at her mother, stunned.

  “That was harsh,” she remarked soberly.

  Gwyneira reached with trembling fingers for her wineglass, then had another idea, and went to the wall cupboard, where she poured herself a brandy. “You too, Fleurette? I think we both need something to calm our nerves. We can only wait. Gerald will come back eventually, of course, if he doesn’t fall off his horse and break his neck somewhere along the way.”