In the Land of the Long White Cloud (23 page)

It didn’t sound very Christian, but Gwyneira didn’t find it unpronounceable either. She determined not to rename her own servants.

“Where exactly did the Maori learn English?” she asked Gerald as they continued their journey the next day. The Beasleys had protested when they left, but understood that after his long absence Gerald wanted to make sure everything was in order at Kiward Station. They didn’t have much to say about Lucas—other than the usual praise. It appeared he had not left the farm during Gerald’s absence. At least he hadn’t honored the Beasleys with a visit.

Gerald seemed to be in a bad mood that morning. The two men had stayed up and partaken generously of the whiskey, while Gwyneira, mentioning the long ride that lay behind and ahead, had said good night early. Mrs. Beasley’s monologue about roses had bored her, and she had known since they arrived in Christchurch that Lucas was a cultivated man and gifted composer who, what’s more, always had the latest works of Mr. Bulwer-Lytton and similarly great authors to lend.

“Oh, the Maori…” Gerald took up the question unenthusiastically. “You never know what they understand and what they don’t. They always pick some up from their employers, and the women pass it on to their children. They want to be like us. Which is helpful.”

“But they don’t go to school?” Gwyneira inquired.

Gerald laughed.

“Who do you think would teach them? Most of the colonist mothers are happy when they can manage to teach their own brood a little civilization. To be sure, there are a few missions, and the Bible has been translated into Maori. But if you feel moved to teach a few black brats the Queen’s English—I won’t stand in your way.”

Gwyneira did not really feel so moved, but maybe that would provide Helen with a new field to work in. She smiled at the thought of her friend, who was even now still sitting on her hands at the Baldwins’ home in Christchurch. Howard O’Keefe had not shown any sign of appearing, but Vicar Chester had assured her every day that this was nothing to worry about. There was no way of being certain that news of Helen’s arrival had even reached him yet, and then of course he would have to be free to come and get her.

“What do you mean by ‘free to come’?” Helen had asked. “Does he not have any farmhands?”

The vicar had not responded to the question. Gwyneira hoped there wasn’t an unpleasant surprise awaiting her friend.

Gwyneira had been quite happy with her new homeland from the start. Now, as they approached the mountains, the landscape became hillier and more varied but it remained just as lovely and well suited to sheep. Around noon Gerald happily revealed that they had crossed the property line of Kiward Station and that from now on they would be moving across his own land. To Gwyneira the landscape was a garden of Eden: an abundance of grass; good, clean drinking water for the animals; and a tree or even a shady copse here and there.

“As I said, it hasn’t all been cleared yet,” Gerald Warden explained as he let his gaze wander over the landscape. “But we could leave part of the forest. Some of it is rare wood, and it would be such a shame to burn it all. It could even be worth something someday. We might be able to use the river as a flume. In the meantime, though, we’ll
leave the trees alone. Look, there are the first sheep! I wonder what the critters are doing here though. They should have long since been driven up into the hills.”

Gerald frowned. Gwyneira knew him well enough by now to realize that he was contemplating how to punish whomever was responsible. Normally he had no compunctions about expressing his thoughts to his listeners at length, but today he kept it to himself. Could it be because Lucas was the one responsible? Did Gerald not want to disparage his son in front of his fiancée—right before their first meeting?

All the while, Gwyneira could barely contain her excitement. She wanted to see the house, of course, but more than anything she wanted to meet her future husband. During the last few miles, she pictured him coming out to greet her, laughing, from a stately farmhouse like the Beasleys’. Meanwhile, they were already passing some of Kiward Station’s outbuildings. Gerald had had shelters and shearing stations for his sheep set up all over his property. Gwyneira found that very prudent of him but was astounded by the scope of the grounds. In Wales, her father’s stock of some four hundred sheep had been considered large. But here they counted by the thousands.

“So, Gwyneira, I’m curious what you think.”

It was late afternoon and Gerald’s whole face shone as he guided his horse alongside Igraine. The mare had just stepped from the usual muddy path onto a paved trail that led from a little lake around a hill. A few more steps revealed the farm’s main house.

“Here we are, Lady Gwyneira,” Gerald said proudly. “Welcome to Kiward Station!”

Gwyneira should have been prepared, but she almost fell from her horse in surprise. In front of her, in the sun, in the middle of an endless grassland, with the mountains rising up in the background, was an English manor house. Not as large as Silkham Manor and with fewer turrets and side buildings, but otherwise comparable in every way. Kiward Station was even more beautiful in some ways, having been perfectly planned by a single architect instead of being rebuilt and added onto like most English manors. The house was constructed
of gray sandstone as Gerald had mentioned. It had oriels and large windows, which were partially adorned with small balconies; an ample path led up to it with flower beds that had not yet been planted. Gwyneira decided to sow rata bushes. That would highlight the facade and, moreover, they were easy to take care of.

Everything seemed as though it were out of a dream. Surely she would wake up anytime now and realize that peculiar game of blackjack had never happened. Instead, her father had married her off with a dowry from the sale of the sheep to some Welsh nobleman and now she was to take possession of some manor house near Cardiff.

Only the help, who were lined up before the front door to receive their master just as in England, didn’t fit the picture. Though the male servants were wearing livery and the housemaids wore aprons and little bonnets, their skin was dark, and many of their faces were emblazoned with tattoos.

“Welcome home, Mr. Warden!” A short, compact man greeted his master, smiling across his broad face, which made the perfect canvas for his tattoo designs. He gestured to the sky, which remained blue despite the hour, and the sunny landscape. “And welcome, miss! As you see—the
rangi
, the sky, beams with joy at your arrival, and
papa
, the earth, smiles because you wander over it.”

Gwyneira was touched by his hearty welcome. She impulsively extended her hand to the short man.

“This is Witi, our butler,” Gerald said. “And that’s our gardener, Hoturapa, and the housemaid and cook, Moana and Kiri.”

“Miss…Sil…ha…” Moana wanted to greet Gwyneira properly as she curtsied, but apparently, she found the British name unpronounceable.

“Miss,” Gwyneira shortened it. “Just call me
miss
.”

She herself did not find it difficult to note the Maori’s names, and she decided to learn a few polite phrases in their language as soon as possible.

So that was the staff. It struck Gwyneira as rather small for such a big house. And where was Lucas? Why wasn’t he standing here to greet her and make her feel welcome?

“Now, where is…” Gwyneira launched into the pressing question of her fiancé’s whereabouts, but Gerald beat her to it. He seemed just as vexed by his son’s absence as Gwyneira.

“Where is that son of mine, Witi? He ought to be dragging his hide out here to meet his fiancée…ahem, I mean to say…Lady Silkham is naturally awaiting his appearance with great anticipation.”

The butler smiled. “Young master rode out, checking on pastures. Mr. James say, someone from house must authorize buying material for horse pen. As it is now, horses not staying in. Mr. James very angry. That why young master rode away.”

“Instead of receiving his father and bride? Now what a great way to start things!” roared Gerald.

Gwyneira, however, found it excusable. She would not have had a moment’s peace if Igraine had been put in a stall that wasn’t secure. And a ride to check up on the pastures was more fitting for her dream man than reading or playing the piano.

“Well, Gwyneira, it looks like there’s nothing to do but have patience,” Gerald said, finally calming down himself. “But maybe it’s not as bad as all that. In England you wouldn’t have met your fiancé for the first time in riding clothes and with your hair down.”

He thought that Gwyneira, with her hair only half up and her face slightly pink from riding in the sun, looked ravishing himself, but Lucas might not see it that way.

“Kiri will show you your room now and help you freshen up and do your hair. In an hour we’ll all meet for tea. My son should be back by five—he doesn’t generally prolong his rides. Then your first encounter will go as properly as anyone could ask for.”

Gwyneira could indeed have asked for something else, but she gave in to the inevitable.

“Can someone take my bag?” she asked, looking at the help. “Oh, no, that is too heavy for you Moana. Thank you, Hotaropa…Hoturapa? Pardon, but I’ll remember it now. Now how do you say ‘thank you’ in Maori, Kiri?”

Helen had settled in at the Baldwins’ against her will. As abhorrent as the family was to her, there was no alternative until Howard arrived. So she did her best to be friendly. She asked Reverend Baldwin to write down the texts for the church newsletters and then took them to the printer. She ran errands for Mrs. Baldwin and tried to make herself useful around the house, taking on small sewing projects and checking Belinda’s homework. This last task soon made her the most hated person in the house. The girl did not like having her work checked and complained to her mother at every opportunity. This was how it became clear to Helen how weak the teachers in the newly opened school in Christchurch must be. She considered applying for a position there if things did not work out with Howard. Vicar Chester persisted in his encouragement: it could still be a while before O’Keefe learned of her arrival.

“After all, the Candlers were hardly going to send a messenger to his farm. They were probably waiting for him to come shopping in Haldon, and that could take a few days. But when he hears that you’re here, he’ll come. I’m sure of it.”

For Helen that was further cause for concern. She had gotten over the fact that Howard did not live right next to Christchurch. Haldon was obviously not a suburb but its own independent and growing town. Helen could get used to that too. But now the vicar was telling her that Howard’s farm lay outside of Haldon. Where exactly was she going to be living? She would have loved to talk it over with Gwyneira; perhaps Gwyneira could even have unobtrusively sounded Gerald out on the subject. But Gwyneira had left for Kiward Station the day before, and Helen had no idea when or even if she would see her friend again.

At least she had something pleasant planned for the afternoon. Mrs. Godewind had formally reissued her invitation, and right at teatime her chaise arrived to pick Helen up, with Jones, her driver, on the coach box. Jones beamed at her and helped her into the coach with perfect form. He even complimented her on her smart appearance in her new lilac-colored afternoon dress. Then he sang Elizabeth’s praises the entire way.