In the Land of the Long White Cloud (73 page)

Fleurette sobbed and was about to reply bravely that she would never and by no means marry a man other than Ruben O’Keefe, but Gwyneira collected herself and silenced her daughter with a shake of her head and a motion of her hand. There was no point in fighting. Besides, finding a “halfway suitable” young man might not be so easy. The Wardens were among the oldest and most respected families on the South Island; only a few others were on par with them socially and financially. Their sons could be counted on two hands—and all of them were either already engaged or much too young for Fleurette. Young Lord Barrington’s son, for example, had just turned ten, and George Greenwood’s oldest was only five years old. As soon as Gerald’s rage had dissipated, this would become clear to him too. The danger in the house itself was much more of a concern to Gwyneira, but she was probably just seeing ghosts. In all their years together, Gerald had only touched her that one time, when he was completely drunk and caught up in the heat of the moment, and he seemed to regret it to this day. There was no reason to get worked up over nothing.

Gwyneira forced herself to calm down and urged Fleurette to relax. The whole painful incident would probably be forgotten in a few weeks.

But she was mistaken. True, nothing happened at first, but eight weeks after Ruben had ridden off, Gerald made his way to the livestock farmers’ conference in Christchurch. The official reason for this “feast with boozing to follow,” as Gwyneira referred to it, was the steadily increasing incidence of livestock theft in the Canterbury Plains. Over the past few months, a thousand sheep had disappeared in that region alone. As always, James McKenzie’s name was being bandied about.

“Heaven knows where he disappears to with the livestock,” Gerald rumbled. “But he’s behind it, no doubt about it. The fellow knows the highlands like the back of his hand. We’ll send out more patrols; we’ll set up a proper militia!”

Gwyneira shrugged and hoped that no one noticed how heavily her heart still beat when she thought of James McKenzie. She smiled inwardly at the thought of his hit-and-run attacks and what he would say to a few more patrols in the mountains. Only parts of the foothills had been explored; the region was massive and might still be hiding entire valleys and pastures. Watching over the animals there was impossible, though the farmers sent shepherds as a formality. Those shepherds spent half the year in primitive cabins erected specifically for the purpose, mostly in pairs so that they did not go crazy with loneliness. They killed time by playing card games, hunting, and fishing, and went largely unchecked by their employers. The more responsible among them kept an eye on the sheep, but others may very well never have seen them. A man with a good sheepdog could herd away dozens of animals a day without its being immediately apparent. If James had found a still unknown refuge and, more importantly, a way to sell the stolen sheep, the sheep barons would never find him—except by chance.

Still, James McKenzie’s activities always offered lively conversation material and a welcome excuse to hold livestock farmers’ conventions or to undertake expeditions into the highlands together. This time too there would be a lot of talk, but little would come of it. Gwyneira was happy that she had never been asked to take part. Although she was the unofficial head of the sheep breeding operation on Kiward Station, only Gerald was taken seriously. She breathed out a sigh of relief when he rode away from the farm, surprisingly with Paul in tow. Since the incident with Ruben and Fleurette, the boy and his grandfather had grown closer. Gerald evidently finally understood that it wasn’t enough simply to produce an heir. The future owner of Kiward Station had to be introduced to the business as well—and to the society of his soon-to-be peers. As Paul rode off proudly beside Gerald, Fleurette finally relaxed a bit. Gerald was still strictly prescribing where she could go and when she had to be home, and Paul spied on her and reported even the smallest infractions against his edicts. After several admonishments, Fleurette had borne her restrictions with grace, but
it was irksome nevertheless. Still, the girl took real pleasure in her new horse. Gwyneira had entrusted her with Igraine’s last daughter, Niniane. The four-year-old mirrored the temperament and appearance of her mother—and when Gwyneira saw her daughter riding across the meadows on Niniane’s back, the uneasiness she had felt in the salon washed over her again: Gerald too must have found himself looking at a young Gwyneira. So pretty, so wild, and so completely out of her depth as only a girl could be.

His behavior in response to this revelation awoke her old fears. He was in even blacker spirits than usual, seemed to nurse an inexplicable anger for anyone who crossed his path, and consumed more whiskey than he normally did. Only Paul seemed to be able to calm him on such nights.

Gwyneira’s blood would have turned to ice if she had known what the two of them discussed in the study.

It generally began with Gerald asking Paul to tell him about school and his adventures in the wilderness; it always ended with the boy talking about Fleur—whom he naturally did not describe as the enchanting, innocent wild thing Gwyneira had been in her day, but rather as spoiled, untrustworthy, and cruel. Gerald could bear his forbidden fantasies about his granddaughter when they were aimed at such a small beast—but he knew that he had to be rid of the girl as soon as possible.

An opportunity to do just that materialized in Christchurch. On their way back from the livestock farmers’ conference, they were accompanied by Reginald Beasley.

Gwyneira greeted the old family friend amiably and expressed her condolences on the death of his wife. Mrs. Beasley had passed on suddenly at the end of the year before—a stroke in her beloved rose garden. Gwyneira thought that, as these things went, the old lady could not have had a more beautiful death, which did not, of course, stop her husband from missing her dreadfully. Gwyneira asked Moana
to prepare a special meal and went to find a bottle of first-class wine. Reginald Beasley was known as a gourmand and a wine connoisseur, and his whole round, red face lit up when Witi uncorked the bottle at the table.

“I too just received a shipment of the best wine from Cape Town,” he explained, turning to Fleurette as he spoke. “Among them are some very delicate ones; the ladies are sure to love them. What do you prefer, Miss Warden? White or red wine?”

Fleurette had never really thought about it before. She rarely drank wine, and when she did, she tasted whatever was set on the table. Helen, however, had naturally taught her how to behave like a lady.

“That depends very much on the type, Mr. Beasley,” she replied politely. “Red wines are often very heavy, and white wines can be very acidic. I would rather simply leave it to you to select the right wine.”

Mr. Beasley seemed to be very pleased with this response and proceeded to describe in great detail why he had come to prefer South African wines to French varietals.

“Cape Town is also much closer,” Gwyneira finally said to close the subject. “And the wine is also much more reasonably priced.”

Fleur smirked inwardly. This was the first argument that had come to her, but Helen had taught her that a lady under no circumstances mentioned money when speaking to a gentleman. Obviously her mother had not attended the same school of etiquette.

Reginald Beasley then explained verbosely that financial considerations did not really play a role, and segued right into describing other, considerably costlier investments that he had made lately. He had imported more sheep this, he had expanded his cattle stock that…

Fleurette wondered why the little sheep baron kept fixing his eyes on her as though she had a personal interest in the number of Cheviot heads in his flock. None of it piqued her interest until the conversation turned to horse breeding. Reginald Beasley had always been a breeder of thoroughbreds.

“Of course we could always cross them with one of your cobs, Miss Warden, if a thoroughbred would be too much for you,” he
explained to Fleurette eagerly. “That would certainly be an interesting approach.”

Fleurette frowned. She could hardly imagine a thoroughbred more willing to run than Niniane—though they were naturally faster. But why in heaven’s name was she supposed to show any interest in switching to riding thoroughbreds? In her mother’s opinion they were far too sensitive for the long and arduous rides through the wilderness.

“It’s often done in England,” interrupted Gwyneira, who was becoming as confused as Fleurette by their guest’s behavior. She was the horse breeder in the family, so why wasn’t he talking to her about crossbreeding? “Some of them become very good hunting mounts. But they often have the harshness and stubbornness of cobs, paired with the explosive nature and tendency to scare of thoroughbreds. That’s not something I would want for my daughter.”

Reginald Beasley smiled amiably. “Oh, it was just a suggestion. Miss Warden should, of course, have a totally free hand with regard to her horse. We could also arrange another hunt. I have completely neglected that sort of thing these last few years, but…would you enjoy a hunt, Miss Warden?”

Fleurette nodded. “Certainly, why not?” she said, mildly interested.

“Although there’s still a dearth of foxes,” Gwyneira said, smiling. “Have you ever considered having some brought in?”

“For heaven’s sake!” Gerald had worked himself into a state over the lack of game, and now turned the conversation to the scant population of native animals in New Zealand.

Fleurette contributed a bit to the subject, and dinner came to an end amid lively conversation. Fleur excused herself immediately afterward to go to her room. She had begun to spend her evenings writing long letters to Ruben; though she dropped them off in Haldon with high hopes, the postman was less optimistic. “Ruben O’Keefe, Gold Mines, Queenstown,” did not strike him as sufficient for an address. But the letters had yet to be returned. At first Gwyneira went to see to the kitchen, but then she decided to join the men for a bit. She poured herself a glass of port in the salon and strolled with it toward
the next room, where the men liked to smoke, drink, and occasionally play cards after dinner.

“You were right; she is enchanting!”

At the sound of Reginald Beasley’s voice, Gwyneira froze in front of the half-open door.

“At first I was a bit skeptical—such a young girl, almost a child still. But now that I’ve seen her, I can see that she is already well developed for her age. And so well bred! A true little lady.”

Gerald nodded. “I told you. She is without a doubt ready for marriage. Just between us, you must bear something in mind. You know yourself how it is with all the men here on the farms. More than one kitty has gotten carried away when in heat.”

Reginald Beasley chuckled. “But she’s only…I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m not hung up on it. Otherwise, I would only have been looking for a…well, perhaps for a widow, closer to my age. But if they’re already having affairs at that age…”

“Reginald, please!” Gerald interrupted him sternly. “Fleur’s honor is above reproach. I’m just thinking of a wedding sooner rather than later so that it remains so. The apple is ripe for the picking, if you know what I mean.”

Reginald laughed again. “A true image of paradise. And what does the girl have to say? Will you convey my proposal to her, or should I…declare my intent myself?”

Gwyneira could hardly believe what she was hearing. Fleurette and Reginald Beasley? The man had to be well over fifty, or perhaps even in his sixties. Old enough to be Fleur’s grandfather.

“Leave it to me; I’ll take care of it. It will come as something of a surprise to her. But she’ll agree; don’t you worry. After all, she is a lady, as you’ve already said.” Gerald poured another round from the whiskey bottle. “To our new ties!” he smiled. “To Fleur!”