In the Land of the Long White Cloud (45 page)

Even the Bridle Path had become less treacherous than what Helen had described to George in her first letter. It had been expanded and could now be crossed with wagons. George could easily have spared himself the arduous trip on foot, but after the long trip aboard the ship, he was yearning for movement. Besides, it was exciting for
him to retrace Helen’s experiences on her arrival. George had been obsessed with New Zealand during his studies. Even when he received no letters from Helen for long periods, he devoured all the available information on the country in order to feel closer to her.

Now refreshed, he began the descent. Maybe he would even see Helen the next day. If he could rent a horse and the farm lay as near to the city as Helen’s letters implied, there was nothing to stop him making a little courtesy visit. In any case, he would soon be headed to Kiward Station, which had to be near Helen. After all, she and the farm’s mistress, Gwyneira Warden, were friends. So the two estates could hardly be more than a short coach ride apart.

After taking the ferry across the Avon River, George walked the last few miles into Christchurch and took a room at the local hotel. It was simple but clean—and unsurprisingly, the manager knew the Wardens.

“Naturally. Gerald and Lucas Warden always stay here when they have business in Christchurch. Very cultivated gentlemen, especially the younger Warden and his lovely wife. Mrs. Warden has her clothes tailored in Christchurch, so we see her two or three times a year.”

However, the hotelier had not heard of Howard and Helen O’Keefe. Neither one of them had ever stayed there, nor did he know them to be members of the church community.

“But they wouldn’t be part of our community, if they’re the Wardens’ neighbors,” the hotelier explained. “They must belong to the Haldon congregation, which recently got its own church. It’s much too far to ride here every Sunday.”

George absorbed this news with astonishment and inquired about a rental stable. First thing the next day he planned to pay a visit to the Union Bank of Australia, the first bank office in Christchurch.

The bank director was exceedingly polite and happy about the Greenwoods’ plans in Christchurch.

“You should talk to Peter Brewster,” he advised. “Up until now he’s been handling the local wool trade. But from what I hear, he’s moving to Queenstown—the gold rush, you know. Brewster surely won’t be doing any digging himself, but likely has the gold trade in mind.”

George frowned. “Do you think that will be much more lucrative than wool?”

The banker shrugged. “If you ask me, wool is growing every year. But how much gold is lying in the earth over there in Otago, no one knows. Brewster is young and entrepreneurial though. Besides, he has family reasons. His wife’s family comes from there. They’re Maori, and she’s inherited some land. He shouldn’t be upset if you take over his clients here. That would certainly make founding your business much easier.”

George could only agree with him and thanked him for the tip. He also used the opportunity to make inquiries about the Wardens and the O’Keefes. The director was naturally full of praise when it came to the Wardens.

“The elder Warden is an old warhorse, but he knows a thing or two about sheep breeding! The younger is more of an aesthete and isn’t much for farm work. That’s why the old man was hoping for a grandchild who would make more of a go of it, but so far without any luck. Still, his young wife is pretty as a picture. A crying shame that she has trouble having children. So far just one girl in almost six years of marriage. Oh well, they’re young; there’s still hope. As for the O’Keefes…” The bank director was clearly searching for words. “What can I say? It’s a bank secret, you understand.”

George understood. Howard O’Keefe was evidently not a well-loved client. He probably had debts. The farms lay a two-day ride from Christchurch, so Helen had lied in her letters about life in town—or at least exaggerated it. Haldon, the closest large settlement to Kiward Station, was hardly more than a village. What else might she have kept secret and why? Was she embarrassed about the way she lived? Was it possible she wouldn’t be pleased to see him? But he had to see her. By God, he had traveled eighteen thousand miles to see her!

Peter Brewster proved to be quite affable and immediately invited George to lunch for the following day. George had to push his plans back, but it would have been unsociable to refuse. The meeting went very harmoniously. Brewster’s ravishing wife served a traditional Maori meal of fresh fish from the Avon and artfully prepared sweet potatoes. His children barraged their visitor with questions about good old England, and naturally, Peter knew the Wardens as well as the O’Keefes.

“Just don’t talk to one about the other,” he warned, laughing. “They’re like cats and dogs, and to think they used to be partners. Kiward Station once belonged to both of them, hence the name: ‘Kee’ and ‘Ward.’ But they were also both gamblers, and Howard O’Keefe lost his share. No one knows anything more, but the both of them still take the whole thing hard.”

“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.