by Sarah Lark
Helen swallowed convulsively as all eyes turned to her.
“Oh, really?” Robert Greenwood asked calmly. “Are you considering emigrating?” he smiled. “New Zealand is a good choice. No excessive heat and no malaria-infested swamps like in India. No bloodthirsty natives like America. No offspring of criminal settlers like Australia…”
“Really?” Helen asked, happy to have the conversation brought back around to neutral ground. “Was New Zealand not also settled by convicts?”
Robert Greenwood shook his head. “Not at all. The communities there were almost entirely founded by good Christian Brits, and so it remains today. I don’t mean to say that there aren’t dubious subjects there. Some crooks might have come ashore, especially in the whaling camps on the west coast, and sheep shearing colonies aren’t likely to consist entirely of good, respectable men. But New Zealand is most assuredly not a catch pit of social scum. The colony there is still quite young. It won’t be able to support itself for a few years yet.”
“But the natives are dangerous!” George interjected. Clearly he now wanted to shine with his knowledge too. He had an affinity for military confrontations, Helen knew from lessons, and an outstanding memory. “There was fighting not long ago, right, Dad? Didn’t you tell us about how one of your business partners had all his wool burned up?”
Robert Greenwood nodded at his son, pleased. “That’s right, George. But that’s in the past—over ten years ago now. Even if skirmishes do occasionally still flare up, they aren’t due to the presence of the colonists. The natives have always been tractable. No, it was the sale of land that was the issue, and, who can say, it’s entirely possible that our people cheated this or that tribal chieftain. But since the queen sent our good Captain Hobson over there as lieutenant general, those conflicts have let up. The man is an ingenious strategist. In 1849 he had forty-six chieftains sign a treaty in which they declared themselves subjects of the queen. The Crown has had right of preemption for land sales ever since. Unfortunately, not everyone has played along, and not all the colonists maintain the peace. That’s why there are still occasional disturbances. But in general the country is safe—so no need to fear, Miss Davenport.” Robert Greenwood winked at Helen.
Lucinda Greenwood knit her brow. “You’re not really considering leaving England, Miss Davenport?” she asked sullenly. “You can’t seriously be thinking of answering that unspeakable notice our pastor published in the parish leaflet? Against the express recommendation of our ladies’ committee, I might add!”
Helen fought not to blush again.
“What sort of notice?” inquired Robert, turning to Helen, who merely hemmed and hawed.
“I…I don’t know exactly what it was about. There was just a notice…”
“A community in New Zealand is seeking girls willing to marry,” George apprised his father. “It seems that this South Sea paradise suffers from a lack of women.”
“George!” his mother chided, horrified.
Robert Greenwood laughed. “South Sea paradise? Well, the climate is rather like that of England,” he corrected his son. “But it’s certainly no secret that there are more men than women in the colonies. With the exception of Australia, perhaps, where the female dregs of society have washed ashore: cheats, thieves, whor…ahem, women of easy virtue. But when it comes to voluntarily emigrating, our ladies are less adventurous than our lords of creation. Either they go with their husbands or not at all. A typical trait of the weaker sex.”
“Indeed!” Lucinda Greenwood agreed with her husband, while Helen bit her tongue. She was far from convinced of male superiority. She merely had to look at William or think of the endlessly dragging studies of her brothers. Well hidden in her room, Helen even kept a copy of a book by women’s rights advocate Mary Wollstonecraft, but she knew she had best keep that to herself. Lucinda Greenwood would have let her go immediately. “It is against the female nature to board dirty, foreign-bound ships without male protection, take up quarters in hostile lands, and possibly perform tasks God has reserved for men. And sending Christian women overseas to marry them off there borders on white slavery!”
“Now, now, they don’t send the women off unprepared,” Helen interrupted. “The advertisement clearly envisions previous correspondence. And it expressly mentioned highly esteemed, well-positioned men.”
“I thought you hadn’t even noticed the advertisement,” Robert teased, though his indulgent smile softened the sharpness of his words.
Helen blushed anew. “I…ahem, it might be that I briefly skimmed it…”
George smirked.
His mother did not seem to have caught the brief exchange. She had already moved on to a different aspect of the New Zealand problem.
“The servant issue in the colonies strikes me as much more problematic than any lack of women,” she explained. “We debated the issue thoroughly at the orphanage committee today. Apparently, the better families in…what’s the name of that town again? Christchurch? At any rate, they can’t find any good domestics there. Maids are almost impossible to come by.”
“Which could be entirely the result of a general lack of women,” Robert Greenwood remarked. Helen stifled a smile.
“In any case, our committee will be sending over a few of our orphan girls,” Lucinda continued. “We have four or five good little ones who are around twelve years old, old enough to earn their living themselves. In this country we’d be hard-pressed to find a position for them. People here prefer somewhat older girls. But over there they should be smacking their lips.”
“Now that sounds more to me like white slavery than marriage brokering,” objected her husband.
Lucinda shot him a poisonous glance.
“We only have the best interests of the girls in mind,” she maintained, folding her napkin together primly.
Helen had her doubts. It was unlikely that anyone had made any effort to prepare the girls for the kind of polished manners expected of maids in good houses. They could always be used as kitchen help, but even there the cooks would naturally prefer strong farm girls over poorly nourished twelve-year-olds from the poorhouse.
“In Christchurch the girls stand a chance of finding a good placement. And, naturally, we’ll only send them to well-reputed families.”
“Naturally,” Robert remarked derisively. “I’m sure you’ll carry out at least as extensive a correspondence with the girls’ future employers as these young girls who want to marry will with their future spouses.”
Lucinda Greenwood knit her brow, indignant. “You’re not taking me seriously, Robert,” she reproved her husband.
“Of course I am taking you seriously, my love.” He smiled. “How could I ascribe anything but the best and most laudable intentions to the honorable orphanage committee? Besides, I’m sure you don’t plan to send your little wards overseas without supervision. Maybe among those ladies looking to marry there’s a trustworthy person who could look after the girls during the journey for a pittance from the committee…”
Lucinda did not respond, and Helen looked involuntarily down at her plate. She had hardly touched the delicious roast, which the cook had probably spent half the day preparing. But Helen had noticed Robert Greenwood’s searching, amused side-glance when he made his last remark. Her mind bubbled with questions. Helen had never really considered that a trip overseas had to be paid for. Could a person in good conscience ask her future spouse to take care of that? Or did that give him rights that he should really only be entitled to when the “I dos” were said face-to-face?
No, the whole New Zealand idea was mad. Helen had to put it out of mind. She wasn’t meant to have her own family. But what if?
No, she mustn’t think any more of it.
Yet over the following days, Helen Davenport thought of nothing else.
2
“Would you like to see the flock straightaway, or shall we have a drink first?”
Lord Terence Silkham greeted his guests with a powerful han
dshake, which Gerald Warden returned equally firmly. Terence Silkham had not been sure how to picture this man from overseas, who was referred to by the breeders association in Cardiff as the “sheep baron.” What he saw pleased him a good deal. The man was suitably dressed for the weather in Wales but was also entirely fashionable. His breeches were elegantly cut and made of good material, and his raincoat was of English manufacture. Clear blue eyes looked out from a broad, somewhat angular face partially covered by a wide-brimmed hat typical of those worn in the region. A full, brown head of hair shot out beneath it, neither shorter nor longer than was customary in England. In short, nothing in Gerald Warden’s appearance reminded him in the least of the “cowboys” in the penny dreadfuls that a few of his lordship’s servants—and to his wife’s horror, even his unfilial daughter Gwyneira—occasionally perused. Depicting bloody battles between American settlers and hate-filled natives, that literary rubbish was full of clumsy drawings of youths with long, untamed heads of hair, wide-brimmed hats, chaps, and strangely shaped boots to which were affixed long, showy spurs. To top it off, the drovers always had their weapons ready at hand—“Colts,” as they were called—which they wore in holsters on loose belts.
Terence Silkham’s guest that day carried no weapon on his belt, but rather a flask of whiskey, which he now opened and offered to his host.
“I daresay this here’ll suffice to fortify a man,” Gerald Warden said in a deep, pleasant voice accustomed to giving commands. “We’ll raise a few more glasses to our dealings after I’ve seen the sheep. Let’s be on our way quickly before it starts raining again. Here, help yourself.”
Terence Silkham nodded and took a healthy swig from the flask. First-class scotch. Not cheap rotgut. That further secured his visitor’s favor in the eyes of the tall, red-haired lord. He nodded at Gerald, reached for his hat and riding whip, and let out a soft whistle. As if they had been waiting for that sound, three lively black and mixed brown and white sheepdogs hurried over from the end of the stable where they had sought shelter from the fickle weather. Clearly they were burning with desire to join the riders.
“Not used to the rain?” inquired Terence Silkham as he mounted his horse. A hand had brought his powerful horse, Hunter, out to him while he greeted Gerald Warden. Gerald’s horse still appeared fresh despite having already ridden the long stretch from Cardiff to Powys that morning. Surely a rented horse, but undoubtedly from one of the best stables in the city. It was another hint as to where the moniker “sheep baron” came from. Although Gerald Warden wasn’t of noble birth, he certainly appeared to be rich.
Gerald laughed as he slid into the saddle of his elegant bay. “On the contrary, Silkham, on the contrary.”
The lord swallowed but then decided not to hold Warden’s disrespectful form of address against him. Wherever the man came from, “my lord” and “my lady” were clearly unknown species.
“We have around three hundred rainy days a year. The weather in the Canterbury Plains is quite similar to here, at least in the summer. The winters are milder, but it’s sufficient for first-class quality wool. And the grass is good for fattening the sheep. We have an abundance of grass, Silkham. Acres and acres. The plains are a paradise for grazers.”
At that time of year one could not complain about a shortage of grass in Wales either. The hills were covered in a lush green velvet carpet as far as the mountains. Even the wild ponies could enjoy it without having to come down into the valleys to feed on Terence Silkham’s land. His sheep, not yet shorn, ate until they were round as balls. In fine spirits, the men observed a flock of ewes, which were housed near the manor for birthing.
“Splendid animals!” Gerald Warden praised the sheep. “More robust than Romneys or Cheviots. They should provide wool of at least as high quality.”
Terence Silkham nodded. “Welsh Mountain sheep. In the winter they run free in the mountains sometimes. They’re a hardy breed. So, tell me, where is this ruminant paradise of yours? You must forgive me, but Lord Bayliff only mentioned ‘overseas.’”
Lord Bayliff was the president of the sheep breeders association and had facilitated the meeting between Gerald Warden and Terence Silkham. The sheep baron, as it said in his letter, was considering acquiring a few studbook sheep in order to refine his own breed overseas.
Gerald let out a booming laugh. “And that’s a broad term. Let me guess…you were probably imagining your sheep struck through with Indian arrows somewhere in the Wild West. No need to worry about any of that. The animals will remain safe and sound on British imperial soil. My property lies in New Zealand on the Canterbury Plains of the South Island. Grassland as far as the eye can see. Looks a lot like it does here, only bigger, Silkham, so much bigger!”
“This is hardly a peasant’s farm,” the lord chimed in indignantly. Who did this fellow think he was, treating his farm like a cliché? “I have nearly seventy-five acres of pastures.”
Gerald Warden grinned again. “Kiward Station has nearly four hundred,” he crowed. “Though not everything’s been cleared yet. We still have our work cut out for us. Nevertheless it’s a glorious estate. Add to that a stock of the best sheep studs, and it should prove a gold mine one of these days. Romneys and Cheviots crossed with Welsh Mountain sheep—that’s the future, believe me!”
Terence did not want to contradict him. He was considered one of the best sheep breeders in Wales, if not all of Britain. The animals he bred would improve any population. As he was thinking this, he caught sight of the first sheep in the flock he intended for Gerald. They were all young ewes that had not yet given birth. In addition, there would be two young rams of the highest pedigree.
Terence whistled to the dogs, who immediately set about herding the scattered sheep who were grazing across the huge meadow. They encircled the animals from a distance, managing almost imperceptibly to make the sheep move toward the men. They never gave the flock cause to run; as soon as they were moving in the right direction, the dogs lowered themselves down onto the grass in a sort of stalking posture, ready to leap into action in case any sheep fell out of line.
Gerald Warden watched, fascinated by how independently the dogs operated.
“Unbelievable. What sort of breed are they? English sheepdogs?”
Terence nodded. “Border collies. They have herding in their blood and hardly require any instruction. And that was nothing. You must see Cleo in action—an amazing dog. She’s won one award after another.” Terence looked around searchingly. “Where is she hiding anyway? Actually, I wanted to take her along. I promised my lady I would. So that Gwyneira doesn’t once more…oh no!” The lord had been looking about, searching for the dog, but now his gaze rested on a horse and its rider, approaching quickly from the living quarters. They did not bother to use the paths between the sheep paddocks or to open the gates and ride through. Instead, without hesitation, the powerful brown horse cleared all of the fences and walls that bordered the paddocks. A dog accompanied them, leaping over obstacles, hopping up and over walls like they were steps, and ducking beneath fences. The energetic, tail-wagging creature was finally ahead of the rider in the sheep paddock, in the lead of the trio. The sheep seemed almost able to read the dog’s thoughts. As though responding to a single command from the bitch, they formed a tight group and stopped obediently in front of the men, without getting worked up for even a moment. Unperturbed, the sheep’s heads sank once more into the grass, attended by Terence’s three sheepdogs. The new arrival approached Terence at his command and seemed to beam at him from her whole friendly collie face. However, the dog did not look at the men directly. Her gaze was focused on the brown horse’s rider, who slowed the horse to a trot and then came to a complete stop behind the men.
“Good morning, Father!” a bright voice said. “I wanted to bring Cleo to you. I thought you might need her.”
Gerald Warden looked over at the boy, about to say a few words of praise about his elegant full-speed ride. He stopped short when he noticed the lady’s s
addle, the worn, dark-gray riding dress, and the rider’s mass of fiery red hair carelessly tied at the nape. It was possible that the girl had pinned her locks up primly as was customary, but she couldn’t have spent much time on it. Then again, during that wild ride almost any sort of braid would have come undone.
Terence Silkham looked on, less impressed. Then he remembered to introduce the girl to his guest.
“Mr. Warden—my daughter, Lady Gwyneira. And her dog, Cleopatra, the excuse she has given me for her presence here. What are you doing here, Gwyneira? If I recall correctly, your mother spoke of a French lesson this afternoon.”
Usually Terence did not have his daughter’s schedule committed to memory, but Madame Fabian, Gwyneira’s French tutor, suffered from a severe dog allergy. Lady Silkham therefore always reminded her spouse to keep Cleo away from his daughter before her lessons, not an easy task. The dog stuck to her mistress like glue and could be lured away only by particularly interesting herding tasks.
Gwyneira shrugged charmingly. She sat impeccably straight, but loose and confident on her horse as she held her small, powerful mare serenely by the reins.
“Yes, that was the original plan. But poor Madame Fabian had a bad asthma attack. We had to put her to bed; she couldn’t say a word. Where could it have come from? Mother is so careful that no animal comes near her.”
Gwyneira tried to look indifferent and feign remorse, but her expressive face couldn’t help but reveal a certain triumph. Warden now had a chance to observe the girl more closely: she had a very light complexion that tended to freckle and a heart-shaped face that would have appeared sweet and innocent if it weren’t for her somewhat large mouth, which lent a certain sensuality to Gwyneira’s appearance. More than anything else, though, her face was defined by her large, unusually blue eyes. Indigo blue, Gerald Warden thought. That’s what that color was called in the paint box that his son frittered away much of his time with.