by Sarah Lark
“And Cleo did not, by chance, have another walk through the salon after the maid had removed every dog hair one by one, so that Madame Fabian might dare to step out of her room?” Terence asked sternly.
“Oh, I don’t believe so,” Gwyneira said with a soft smile that lent a warmth to her blue eyes. “I brought her to the stable personally and made sure she knew that she was to wait for you there. She was sitting in front of Igraine’s stall when I went back. Maybe she sensed something? Dogs can be so perceptive.”
The lord remembered the navy-blue velvet dress that Gwyneira had worn to lunch. If she had taken Cleo to the stables in that and crouched down to give her commands, plenty of dog hair might have stuck to it, enough to put the poor woman out of commission for three weeks.
“We’ll discuss this later,” Terence remarked, hoping that his wife would take on the role of judge and prosecutor. He didn’t want to cross-examine Gwyneira further in front of his visitor. “How do you like the sheep, Warden? Are they everything you imagined they’d be?”
Gerald Warden knew that he should, at least as a matter of form, go from animal to animal and confirm the quality of their wool, build, and feeding. However, he entertained no doubts about the first-class quality of the ewes. All of them were large and appeared healthy and well fed, and it appeared that their wool grew right back after being shorn. Above all, he knew that Terence Silkham’s sense of honor would not allow him under any circumstances to betray an overseas buyer. He would rather offer him his best sheep to secure his name as a top breeder, even in New Zealand. For that reason, Gerald’s gaze remained fixed on Terence Silkham’s extraordinary daughter. She was far more interesting to him than the breeding animals.
Gwyneira had by then slid from her saddle without any assistance. A spirited rider like her could probably also climb into the saddle without any help. Gerald wondered why she had even chosen a sidesaddle; likely she preferred to ride in the male position. But he guessed that might be too much for her father—the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. He appeared unenthusiastic about seeing the girl, and her behavior toward the French governess seemed anything but ladylike.
Gerald, however, liked the girl. He observed Gwyneira’s figure with pleasure, noting that it was petite but filled out in all the right places. Although she was quite young, surely no older than seventeen, the girl looked to be fully grown. However, she still seemed rather childlike; grown women generally did not display such an interest in horses and dogs. In any case, Gwyneira’s rapport with the animals was a far cry from mere feminine sentimentality. Laughing, she pushed the horse away, which had just been attempting to nuzzle her shoulder expressively with its head. The mare was markedly smaller than Terence Silkham’s horse, Hunter, and extremely stocky, but still elegant. Her rounded throat and short back reminded Gerald of the Spanish and Neapolitan horses that he had occasionally been offered on his travels through the continent. He had found most of the horses he’d ridden on his travels altogether too big and maybe even too sensitive for Kiward Station. He wouldn’t even have trusted them to make the Bridle Path from the docks to Christchurch. This horse, on the other hand…
“You have a lovely pony, my lady,” Gerald Warden remarked. “I caught myself admiring his jumping form. Do you take that horse hunting as well?”
Gwyneira nodded. At the mention of her mare, her eyes beamed just as they had when the dog was the topic of discussion.
“This is Igraine,” she offered. “She’s a cob. The breed typical of this region, very sure-footed and just as good for a coach as to ride. They grow up wild in the mountains.” Gwyneira pointed to the jagged mountains rising up beyond the pastures, a tough landscape that no doubt required a robust nature.
“But not exactly a typical lady’s horse, am I right?” Gerald asked, chuckling. He had already seen other women riding in England and knew that most of them preferred light thoroughbreds.
“That depends on whether the lady can ride,” Gwyneira answered him. “I can’t complain…Cleo, now keep away from my feet!” she called down to the little dog after she almost tripped over the animal. “Yes, you’ve been a good girl. All the sheep are there. But that wasn’t a hard job, now was it?” She turned to her father. “Should Cleo fetch the rams, Father? She’s getting bored.”
The lord had wanted to show off the ewes first. Gerald now forced himself to take a closer look at the animals while Gwyneira let her horse graze and scratched her dog. Finally her father nodded to her.
“All right then, Gwyneira, show Mr. Warden what your dog can do since you’re so keen to show off. Come along, Warden, we must ride a stretch. The young rams are up in the hills.”
As Gerald had predicted, Terence made no move to help his daughter into the saddle. Gwyneira accomplished the difficult feat on her own, first putting her left foot in the stirrup and then swinging her right leg elegantly over the saddle horn, graceful and self-assured, while her horse stood there as still as a statue. As Gwyneira spurred the horse into motion, Gerald watched her grand, elegant movements. He liked the girl and horse equally, and even the small, three-colored dog fascinated him. During the ride over to the rams, he learned that Gwyneira had trained the dog herself and that they had already won several herding contests together.
“The shepherds can’t stand me anymore,” Gwyneira explained with an innocent smile. “And the women’s association raised the question of whether it was even decent to let a girl present a dog. But what’s indecent about it? I just stand around and maybe open a door now and again.”
A few hand motions and a whispered command sufficed to send out the lord’s well-trained dogs. Gerald Warden did not see any sheep at first as he gazed across the large plot. This time Gwyneira opened the gate to the pasture casually from atop her horse, instead of simply leaping over it. The smaller horse showed its worth in this case, as it would have been difficult for either man to lean that far down from astride their larger horses.
Cleo and the other dogs required only a few minutes to collect the flock, although the young rams were much more recalcitrant than the peaceful ewes. A few tried to get away while they were being herded and even acted aggressively toward the dogs, which did not fluster the sheepdogs one bit. Cleo wagged her tail excitedly as she returned to her mistress in answer to a terse call. All the rams now stood close by. Terence indicated two of them to Gwyneira, which Cleo separated from the others with breathtaking speed.
“These are the ones I picked out for you,” the lord explained to his visitor. “The best animals for your stud book, first-class pedigree. Afterward I can show you their fathers if you want. I would have put them to stud myself and won a great many prizes. But this way…I think you might mention my name in the colonies as their breeder. And that’s more important to me than another award in Cardiff.”
Gerald nodded earnestly. “You can count on that. Marvelous animals! I can hardly wait for their offspring with my Cheviots. But we should talk about these dogs too. Not that we don’t have sheepdogs in New Zealand. But a dog like this one and a male to go with it would be worth some money to me.”
Gwyneira, who had been stroking her dog in praise, heard his comment. She turned toward him angrily and glowered at the New Zealander. “If you’re looking to buy my dog, you’d do better to deal with me, Mr. Warden. But I’ll tell you right away: you won’t get Cleo no matter how much you offer. She belongs to me. She won’t go anywhere without me. Besides, you couldn’t command her anyway because she won’t listen to just anyone.”
Her father shook his head disapprovingly. “Gwyneira, is this any way to behave?” he asked firmly. “Of course we can sell Mr. Warden a few dogs. It doesn’t have to be your favorite.” He looked at Gerald. “I’d recommend a few pups to you from the last litter, Mr. Warden. Cleo isn’t the only dog we have that wins competitions.”
But she’s the best of them, thought Gerald. And for Kiward Station only the best was good enough. In the stables as well as in the house. If only
blue-blooded girls were as easy to woo as studbook sheep. As the three rode back to the house, Gerald Warden was already working on a plan.
Gwyneira picked out her clothes for dinner with great care. After everything that had transpired with Madame Fabian that day, she wanted to be as unobtrusive as possible. Her mother had already given her hell. By now, she knew those lectures by heart: she would never find a husband if she kept behaving so wildly and spent more time in the stables and on horseback than in her lessons. It was no secret that Gwyneira’s French left something to be desired. That was true of her housewifery skills as well. Gwyneira’s handwork never resulted in anything that you would want to decorate your home with—in fact, before each church bazaar, the pastor pushed her projects quietly aside instead of putting them up for sale. The girl also didn’t have much of a knack for planning large dinners or having detailed discussions with the cook on questions like “salmon or pike perch?” Gwyneira ate whatever was on her plate; though she knew which fork and which spoon to use for each dish, she thought it was utter nonsense. Why spend hours decorating the table when everything would be eaten in a few minutes? And then there was the matter of flower arranging. For the past few months, decorating the salon and dining room with flowers had been among Gwyneira’s duties. Unfortunately, however, her taste rarely passed muster. When she had picked wildflowers and distributed them among the vases to her liking, she had thought the effect quite charming, but her mother had almost swooned at the sight. And then all over again when she discovered a spider that had been carried in unintentionally. Ever since, Gwyneira cut the flowers from the rose garden under the gardener’s supervision and arranged them with Madame Fabian’s help. At least she had managed to avoid the annoying task that day. The Silkhams were having not only Gerald Warden but Gwyneira’s oldest sister, Diana, and her husband to dinner as well. Diana loved flowers and had busied herself almost exclusively with the cultivation of the most eccentric and best-tended garden in all England since her wedding. Earlier that day, she had brought over a selection of her garden’s most beautiful flowers for her mother and had immediately distributed them skillfully in vases and baskets. Gwyneira sighed. She would never be able to do that so well. Should men really be looking for those skills when choosing a wife, she would surely die an old spinster. Gwyneira sensed, however, that both her father and Diana’s husband, Jeffrey, were completely indifferent toward the floral decorations. No man—aside from the less than enthusiastic pastor—had ever even bothered to look at her stitching. So why couldn’t she impress the young men with her real talents? She could inspire no end of astonishment on a hunt, for example, since Gwyneira could usually chase the fox faster and more successfully than the rest of the hunting party. That, however, seemed to do as little to win the men over as her skillful handling of the sheepdogs. Sure, the young chaps expressed their admiration, but their gaze was often a little deprecatory, and on ball nights she usually found herself dancing with other girls. But that might also have had to do with Gwyneira’s paltry dowry. She had no illusions about that—as the last of three daughters, she knew that she couldn’t expect much. In addition, her brother was still leeching off her father. John Henry “studied” in London. Gwyneira wondered what subject. For as long as he lived at Silkham Manor, he didn’t get any more out of the sciences than his little sister, and the bills he sent back from London were far too high to have only been for the purchase of books. Her father always paid without question, only occasionally mumbling something about “sowing wild oats,” but Gwyneira was well aware that the money was coming out of her dowry.
Despite all this, she did not worry much about her future. For the present, things were going well, and at some point, her imperturbable mother would scare up a husband for her too. Already her parents’ invitations to dine consisted almost solely of married friends who just happened to have marriageable sons. Sometimes they brought the young men with them, but more often the parents would come alone, and even more often the mothers would come to tea alone. Gwyneira hated that ritual in particular, because then all of the talents that girls supposedly needed to maintain a noble household’s preeminence came under scrutiny. It was expected that Gwyneira would serve the tea artfully, though she had once unfortunately scalded Lady Bronsworth. And she had been shocked during this difficult transaction to hear her mother announce that Gwyneira had made the tea biscuits herself—a big fat lie.
After tea, they reached for their embroidery tambours. Lady Silkham often snuck Gwyneira her own, on which a work of art in petit point was almost finished, while they discussed the latest book by Mr. Bulwer-Lytton. Those books were like a sedative to Gwyneira; she had yet to make it through even one of those tomes. She nevertheless knew a few terms like “edifying” and “sublime power of expression,” which one could make use of again and again in this context. Beyond that, the women naturally discussed Gwyneira’s sisters and their wonderful husbands, at which point her mother would express her hope that Gwyneira too would soon be blessed with a similarly good match. Gwyneira didn’t know herself if she hoped for that. She found her brothers-in-law boring, and Diana’s husband was almost old enough to be her father. There was a rumor that that was why the couple had yet to be blessed with children, though the connection wasn’t entirely clear to Gwyneira. True, one did stop using old studs too… She giggled when she pictured Diana’s stiff husband Jeffrey with Cesar the ram, which her father had just removed from stud duty against his will.
And then there was Larissa’s husband, Julius. Although he came from one of the best noble families, he was dreadfully colorless. Gwyneira remembered how her father had furtively murmured something about “incest” after their first meeting. At least Julius and Larissa already had a son, but he looked like a ghost. No, those were not the sorts of men Gwyneira dreamed of. Were the offerings overseas any better? This Gerald Warden made a lively impression, though he was too old for her, of course. But he knew his way around a horse, and he hadn’t offered to help her into the saddle. Did women in New Zealand ride like men without reprimand? Gwyneira caught herself dreaming from time to time over the servants’ novellas. What might it really be like to race horses with one of those dashing American cowboys? To watch him in a pistol duel, heart pounding? And the pioneer women over there in the West even reached for guns themselves! Gwyneira would have chosen a fort surrounded by Indians to Diana’s rose garden any day.
She finally forced herself into her corset, which she tied more tightly than the old thing she wore when riding. She hated this torture, but when she looked at herself in the mirror she did like her extremely thin waist. Neither of her sisters was as petite as she was. And her sky-blue velvet dress suited her quite brilliantly. It made her eyes look more radiant and emphasized the luminous red of her hair. What a shame that she had to pin it up. And how troublesome for the maid, who stood waiting nearby with comb and barrettes. Gwyneira’s hair was naturally curly; when there was moisture in the air—as there almost always was in Wales—it frizzed and proved especially difficult to tame. Often she had to sit still for hours before her maid had completely subdued it. And for Gwyneira, sitting still was harder than anything.
Sighing, Gwyneira sat down at her dressing chair and steeled herself for a dull half hour. Then a nondescript paperback lying on the dressing table caught her eye. In the Hands of the Redskins read the lurid title.
“I thought my lady might wish for a little diversion,” commented the young maid and smiled at Gwyneira in the mirror. “But it’s really very scary. Sophie and me couldn’t sleep the whole night after we’d read it to each other!”
Gwyneira had already reached for the paperback. She wasn’t so easily scared.
Meanwhile, Gerald Warden was bored in the salon, where the gentlemen were having a drink before dinner. Terence Silkham had introduced Gerald to his son-in-law, Jeffrey Riddleworth. Lord Riddleworth, Terence Silkham explained, had served in the Indian Crown Colony and had returned to England highly decorated for his servic
es there just two years before. Diana Silkham was his second wife, the first having died in India. Gerald did not dare ask what of, but he was nearly certain that the lady had died of neither malaria nor a snakebite—that is, unless she had possessed a great deal more vim and vigor than her spouse. Jeffrey Riddleworth, in any event, seemed never to have left regimental quarters during his entire posting in India. He couldn’t say anything about the country beyond the fact that it was loud and dirty outside of the English sanctuaries. He thought the natives were all beggars, the maharajahs above all, and everything beyond city limits was infested with snakes and tigers.
“Once we even had a keelback in our quarters,” Jeffrey Riddleworth explained with disgust, twirling his well-groomed mustache. “I shot the beast straightaway, of course, although some coolie said it wasn’t poisonous. But, I ask you, can you trust these people? What’s it like where you are, Warden? Do your servants have these repugnant people under control?”
Gerald thought with amusement that Jeffrey Riddleworth’s shooting in a building had likely caused more damage than even a tiger could have wrought. Besides, he didn’t actually believe that the small, well-fed colonel could hit a snake’s head on the first shot. Regardless, the man had chosen the wrong country to make a name for himself.
“Our servants take…ahem, a little getting used to,” Gerald said. “We mostly employ natives to whom the English lifestyle is rather foreign. But we don’t have to worry about snakes and tigers. There aren’t any snakes in all of New Zealand. Originally there were hardly any mammals either. It was the missionaries who first brought work animals, dogs and horses and the like, to the island.”
“No wild animals?” Jeffrey asked, wrinkling his brow. “Come now, Warden, you don’t mean to tell us that before the settlers came it looked like it did on the fourth day of creation.”