In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

  “You can still back out,” Gerald offered.

  Terence laughed. “Oh no, my friend, that wasn’t the bet. Now play your card! A Silkham keeps his word.”

  Gerald took another card.

  Terence suddenly wished he’d shuffled the deck himself. On the other hand…he’d watched Gerald shuffle; he hadn’t tried anything. Whatever happened next, he couldn’t accuse Warden of cheating.

  Gerald Warden turned the next card over.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  The lord stared at the ten of hearts lying in front of him on the table as though hypnotized. The ace counted for eleven; the ten made an even twenty-one.

  “Then I can only congratulate you,” he said stiffly. There was still whiskey in his glass, and he threw it back quickly. When Gerald moved to refill it, he covered the glass with his hand.

  “I’ve already had too much, thank you. It’s time that I stop…drinking and playing before I not only cheat my daughter out of her dowry but my son out of house and home as well.” His voice sounded choked. He attempted to stand up again.

  “I thought that might be the case,” Gerald remarked in a conversational tone, filling his own glass. “The girl is your youngest, is that right?”

  Terence nodded bitterly. “Yes. I’ve already married off two other daughters. Do you have any idea what that costs? This last wedding will ruin me. Especially now that I’ve lost half my capital at the gambling table.”

  Lord Silkham wanted to go, but Gerald shook his head and raised the whiskey bottle. Slowly the golden temptation flowed into Terence Silkham’s glass.

  “No, my lord,” said Gerald, “we can’t leave things like this. It wasn’t my intention to ruin you, nor to rob poor Gwyneira of her dowry. Let’s play a final hand, my lord. I’ll bet the sheep again. If you win this time, then everything will be as it was.”

  Terence laughed derisively. “And what would I bet against that? The rest of my flock? Forget it!”

  “How about…how about your daughter’s hand?”

  Gerald Warden spoke softly and calmly, but Terence reeled as though Warden had struck him.

  “You’re out of your mind! You don’t seriously mean to woo Gwyneira? The girl could be your daughter.”

  “I would wish for just that with all my heart.” Gerald tried to imbue his voice and gaze with as much sincerity and warmth as he could muster. “Because my proposal is not for myself, naturally, but for my son, Lucas. He is twenty-two years old, my only heir, well bred, full grown, and clever. I could easily picture Gwyneira at his side.”

  “But not I,” Terence retorted rudely, stumbling and seeking support from his chair. “Gwyneira belongs to the high nobility. She could marry a baron!”

  Gerald Warden laughed. “With almost no dowry? And don’t fool yourself; I’ve seen the girl. She’s not exactly what the mothers of baronets dream of.”

  Terence Silkham was incensed. “Gwyneira is a beauty!”

  “That’s true,” Gerald reassured him. “And no doubt she’s the jewel of every fox hunt. I wonder if she’d shine as brightly in a palace though. She’s a wild young thing, my lord. It’ll cost you twice as much to fetch the girl a husband.”

  “I should challenge you to a duel!” Terence Silkham exclaimed in a rage.

  “I’ve already challenged you to one.” Gerald Warden raised the cards. “Let’s play. You shuffle this time.”

  The host reached for his glass. His thoughts were racing. This was entirely contrary to custom. He couldn’t bet his daughter in a card game. This Warden had lost his mind. On the other hand…such a transaction wouldn’t hold up. Gaming debts were honorable debts, but a girl was not an acceptable wager. If Gwyneira said no, no one could force her aboard a ship bound for faraway shores. Then again, it wouldn’t even have to come to that. He would win this time. His luck had to turn sometime.

  Terence shuffled the cards—not ponderously as usual, but fast, as though he wanted to put this debasing game behind him as quickly as possible.

  Almost in a rage he dealt Gerald a card. He gripped the rest of the deck with trembling hands.

  The New Zealander turned over his card without showing any reaction. The ace of hearts.

  “That’s…” Terence didn’t say another word. Instead, he drew a card himself. Ten of spades. Not bad at all. The lord attempted to deal with a steady hand but shook so much that the card fell onto the table in front of Gerald before he could reach for it.

  Gerald Warden did not even make an attempt to keep the card hidden from view. He serenely laid the jack of hearts next to his ace.

  “Blackjack,” he said calmly. “Will you keep your word, my lord?”

  3

  Though this was not her first time here, Helen’s heart raced as she stood before the office of St. Clement’s parish priest. She usually felt quite comfortable inside these walls, so like those of her father’s parish. Reverend Thorne was, moreover, an old friend of the late Reverend Davenport. A year earlier, he had helped Helen secure the position at the Greenwoods’ and had even taken her brothers in for a few weeks before Simon first, and then John, found rooms through their student fraternity. Though the boys had been happy to move out, Helen had been less pleased about it. Thorne and his wife not only let her brothers live with them for free but even helped out a little, while room and board in the fraternity house cost money and offered the students distractions not necessarily conducive to their academic progress. Helen often aired her grievances to the reverend over that. In fact, she spent many of her free afternoons in the Thornes’ house.

  However, she didn’t expect to enjoy a relaxing cup of tea with the reverend and his family on her visit that day, and the booming, joyful “Enter with God!” with which he usually greeted his flock did not sound from his rectory either. Instead, Helen could hear a woman’s voice, one that sounded accustomed to giving commands, coming from inside the office after Helen finally worked up the nerve to knock. This afternoon in the reverend’s rooms Lady Juliana Brennan awaited her. The wife of a pensioned lieutenant from William Hobson’s staff, she was formerly a founding member of the Anglican parish in Christchurch and more recently a patron of the London congregation once again. Lady Brennan had answered Helen’s letter and arranged this meeting in the parish rectory. She was eager to see in person the “decent women, well-versed in housekeeping and child rearing” who had answered her advertisement before she introduced them to the “highly esteemed, well-situated members” of the Christchurch community. Fortunately she was flexible and able to meet them at their convenience. Helen had only one afternoon free every two weeks, and she was loath to ask Lucinda Greenwood for additional time off. Lady Brennan had agreed immediately to Helen’s suggestion that they meet that Friday afternoon.

  When she called the young woman into the room, she observed with pleasure that Helen curtsied respectfully upon entering.

  “Leave that, girl, I’m not the queen,” she remarked coolly, causing Helen to blush.

  She was struck by the similarities between the austere Queen Victoria and the equally round and darkly clad Lady Brennan. Both smiled rarely and seemed to view life above all as a God-given burden that one was to suffer through as publicly as possible. Helen made an effort to look just as austere and expressionless. She had checked in the mirror to make sure that not a single hair had fallen from her tightly wound bun in the London streets. The better part of her prim hairstyle was covered by her plain dark blue hat anyway, which Helen had worn as necessary protection from the rain and which was now completely soaked through. She had at least been able to deposit her equally wet coat in the antechamber. She wore a blue skirt and a carefully starched, light-colored quilled shirt. Helen wanted more than anything to make as good and distinguished an impression as possible. Lady Brennan could under no circumstances take her for a flighty thrill-seeker.

  “So you want to emigrate?” Lady Brennan asked straightaway. “A pastor’s daughter, moreover with a good job, I see. What calls
you overseas?”

  Helen considered her answer carefully. “It’s not adventure that calls me, my lady,” she stated. “I’m happy with my job, and my employers treat me well. But every day I see their family’s happiness, and my heart burns with longing to someday stand in the center of such a loving body.”

  Hopefully Lady Brennan didn’t think that overstated. Helen herself had almost laughed as she put that sentence together. After all, the Greenwoods weren’t exactly the model of harmony—and the absolute last thing Helen wanted was progeny like William.

  Lady Brennan, however, did not seem put off by Helen’s response. “And you don’t see any possibility of that here at home?” she inquired. “You don’t think you will find a husband here who will meet your expectations?”

  Helen wanted to ask a few questions about the “highly esteemed, well-situated members” of the Christchurch community, but that would clearly have to wait. “I don’t know if my expectations are too high,” she said carefully, “but my dowry isn’t large. I can save very little, my lady. I’ve been supporting my brothers during their studies, so there’s nothing left over. And I’m twenty-seven. There’s just not much time left for me to find a husband.”

  “And your brothers no longer need your support?” Lady Brennan wanted to know. Clearly she was implying that Helen wanted to escape her familial obligations by emigrating. She wasn’t entirely wrong either. Helen had had more than enough of financing her brothers.

  “My brothers have almost finished their studies,” she said. That wasn’t even a lie: if Simon failed one more class, he would be expelled from the university, and John wasn’t in much better shape. “But I don’t think it likely that they will be able to come up with my dowry afterward. Neither legal nor medical assistants make much money.”

  Lady Brennan nodded. “Won’t you miss your family?” she inquired acerbically.

  “My family will consist of my husband and—God willing—our children,” Helen explained firmly. “I will stand by my husband in making a home overseas. There won’t be much time left over to mourn my lost homeland.”

  “You sound very determined,” the lady remarked.

  “I hope God will lead me,” Helen said humbly, bowing her head. Questions about the men would have to wait. The main thing was to get this dragon in black on her side. And if the gentlemen in Christchurch were put through their paces like the women here, nothing could possibly go wrong. Lady Brennan now became more gracious. She even let slip some details about the Christchurch community: “a budding colony, founded by settlers handpicked by the Church of England. The city will be made a bishopric in the foreseeable future. The construction of a cathedral is planned, as is a university. You won’t miss anything, child. The streets were even named after the English diocese.”

  “And the river that runs through the city is called the Avon, like the one in Shakespeare’s hometown,” Helen added. She had been busy the last few days tracking down all the literature she could get her hands on. In doing so, she had aroused Lucinda Greenwood’s anger, as William had been bored to death in the London Library while Helen explained to the boy how to navigate the massive stacks. George must have guessed that the reason for their visit to the library was only a pretense, but he hadn’t given Helen away and had even offered to return her books for her.

  “Quite right,” Lady Brennan confirmed, satisfied. “You should see the Avon on a summer night sometime, child, when the people are standing on the banks watching the rowing regattas. You feel as though you’re back in good old England.”

  These images reassured Helen. Indeed, she was quite determined to undertake the adventure, which is not to say that some true pioneer spirit stirred within her. She simply hoped for a peaceful, urban home and the chance to cultivate a circle of friends. Everything would be a bit smaller and less ostentatious than life at the Greenwoods’, but intimate nevertheless. Perhaps her “highly esteemed” man would even be an official of the Crown or a small-business owner. Helen was ready to give anyone a chance.

  However, when she left the office with a letter and address of a certain Howard O’Keefe, a farmer in Haldon, Canterbury, Christchurch, she was a little unsure. She had never lived in the country; her experience outside the city was limited to a vacation stop with the Greenwoods in Cornwall. They had visited friends there, and everything had proceeded very civilly. However, no one at Mr. Mortimer’s country home had spoken of a “farmyard,” and Mr. Mortimer had not called himself a “farmer” but instead a…

  “Gentleman farmer,” it finally occurred to Helen, at which she immediately felt better. Yes, that was how the Greenwoods’ acquaintance had spoken of himself. And that would surely fit Howard O’Keefe as well. Helen could hardly imagine a simple farmer being a “well-situated” member of society in Christchurch.

  Helen would have much preferred to read Howard O’Keefe’s letter on the spot, but she forced herself to be patient. There was no way she could rip open the missive in the reverend’s antechamber, and it had turned wet out on the street. So she bore her unopened treasure back home and merely cheered herself with the sharp, clear penmanship on the envelope. No, surely no uneducated farmer wrote like that. Helen briefly considered taking a cab back to the Greenwoods’, but she did not find any and in the end told herself it was not worth it. It was late by the time she got back, and she had just enough time to put her hat and coat away before dinner was served. With the precious letter in her pocket, she hurried to the table, attempting to ignore George’s curious glances. The boy could certainly put two and two together. No doubt he suspected where Helen had spent her afternoon.

  Lucinda Greenwood, on the other hand, nursed no such suspicions and inquired further when Helen reported her visit to the pastor’s.

  “Oh yes, I need to track the reverend down in the coming weeks as well,” Lucinda said in a distracted manner. “Regarding the orphans for Christchurch. Our committee has selected six girls, but the reverend believes half of them are too young to send on such a journey alone. I don’t mean to question the reverend, but sometimes he’s a bit naïve. He doesn’t consider what the children cost here when they could be happy over there.”

  Helen let her carry on without interruption, and Robert Greenwood seemed disinclined to fight that evening as well. He was probably enjoying the pleasant atmosphere at the table, which could be traced to William’s state of exhaustion. Since the school lessons had been called off and the nanny had found other tasks to excuse herself with, the youngest servant girl had been tasked with playing with him in the garden. The quick little thing had worked him up into a proper sweat playing ball, astutely letting him win in the end. Consequently, he was now calm and content.

  Helen excused herself right after dinner. Out of politeness, she usually spent an additional half hour with the Greenwoods, working on whatever sewing she had while Lucinda reported on her endless committee meetings. Tonight, though, she left immediately, fumbling in her pocket for the letter on her way to her room. Finally she took a seat triumphantly in her rocking chair, the only piece of furniture she had brought with her to London from her father’s house, and opened the missive.

  As soon as she’d read the first words, Helen’s heart warmed.

  Dearest Lady,

  I hardly dare send you word, so unimaginable is it to me that I should attract your precious attention. The path I’ve chosen is no doubt unconventional, but I live in a still young land in which we do revere the old customs but must find new and extraordinary solutions to problems that pull at our hearts. In my case it is a profound loneliness and longing that often keeps me up at night. True, I live in a cozy house, but what it’s missing is the warmth that only a woman’s touch can bring. The country around me is endlessly expansive and beautiful, but all this splendor seems to lack that center that would bring light and love into my life. Short and sweet, I dream of a girl who would like to share in all that I am, who would share in my success as my farm grows, and who is prepared to help m
e endure any setbacks. Indeed, I yearn for a woman who would be prepared to tie her fate to mine. Could you be this woman? I pray to God for a loving woman, whose heart my words can soften. But she would, of course, want more from me than a mere glimpse into my thoughts and longings. Well then, my name is Howard O’Keefe, and as my name suggests, I have Irish roots. But that was long ago. I can hardly count the years now that I’ve toiled in this often unfriendly world. I am no longer an inexperienced youth, my dear. I have lived and suffered much. But now, here on the Canterbury Plains, in the foothills of New Zealand’s Alps, I have found a home. My farm is small, but this country’s breed of sheep has a future, and I am sure that I can support a family. I’d wish for the woman at my side to be practical and sincere, skilled in all household matters, and willing to raise our children according to Christian principles. I would support her in that to the best of my abilities with all the strength of a loving spouse.

  Could it be, my dear reader, that you share but a part of these wishes and desires? Then write me! I will lap up each word of yours like water in the desert, and already, for the courtesy of reading my words, you’ve received a permanent place in my heart.

  Your most obedient servant,

  Howard O’Keefe

  After finishing the letter, Helen had tears in her eyes. How wonderfully this man could write! How precisely he expressed those feelings that stirred so often in Helen. She too felt the lack of a center in her life. She too wanted to feel at home somewhere, to have her own family, and a home that she not only governed for someone else but that was part of who she was. True, she hadn’t exactly been picturing a farm, more like a house in town. But life was full of little compromises, especially when undertaking such adventures. And in the Mortimers’ country house, she had felt completely at home. It had been especially pleasant when Mrs. Mortimer had come smiling into the salon in the morning with a basket of fresh eggs in one hand and a bouquet of bright flowers from the garden in the other. Helen, who usually got up early, had helped her set the breakfast table and had relished the fresh butter and creamy milk from the Mortimers’ own cows. Mr. Mortimer had made a good impression too when he returned from his morning ride across the fields, fresh and hungry from the cool air, bronzed by the sun. Helen imagined her Howard to be just as vibrant and attractive. Her Howard. The sound of it! The feel of it! Helen almost danced across her little room. Would she be able to take the rocking chair with her to her new homeland? It would be exciting to someday tell her children about this moment when their father’s words had first found her and immediately touched the innermost parts of her.