In the Land of the Long White Cloud

by Sarah Lark

  Gerald Warden shook his head. “Regrettably not, my lady. But you’ll like Lucas. My wife, may she rest in peace, was a beauty, and everyone says Lucas was cut from the same cloth. And he’s tall, taller than I am, but of a thinner build. He’s tow-headed, has gray eyes…and was very well brought up, Lady Gwyneira. Which cost me a fortune, one private tutor from England after another…Sometimes I think, we…ahem, overdid it. Lucas is…well, society is charmed by him at any rate. And you’ll like Kiward Station just as much. The house is built after English models. It’s not one of the usual wood huts, but rather, a manor house built from gray sandstone. Nothing but the best! And I had the furniture sent from London, made by the best joiners. I even entrusted a decorator with the selection so as not to do anything wrong. You won’t miss a thing, my lady. Naturally, the help is not as well trained as your maids here, but our Maori are willing and ready to learn. We could add a rose garden on quite easily, if you want…”

  He stopped short when Gwyneira made a face. The rose garden seemed to scare her off.

  “Could I bring Cleo along?” the girl asked. The little dog had been lying under the table but raised her head when she heard her name. With that adoring collie gaze that Gerald was by now familiar with, she looked up at Gwyneira.

  “And Igraine too?”

  Gerald Warden had to think a moment before he realized Gwyneira was talking about her mare.

  “Gwyneira, not the horse too,” her father interrupted moodily. “You’re acting like a child. Here we’re talking about your future, and you can only think of your toys!”

  “You think my pets are toys?” Gwyneira snapped, visibly hurt by her father’s remark. “A sheepdog that wins every competition and the best hunting horse in Powys?”

  Gerald Warden saw his chance. “My lady, you can bring along anything you want,” he said, appeasing her by taking her side. “Your mare will be the jewel of my stables. We need only think about acquiring a suitable stallion. And the dog…well, you know I already expressed my interest in her yesterday.”

  Gwyneira still seemed angry at her father’s comment, but she steeled herself and even managed a joke.

  “So that’s what you’re up to,” she said with a mischievous grin, but rather cold eyes. “This whole proposal is really only aimed at wrangling away my father’s prize-winning sheepdog. Now I get it. But I will nevertheless consider your offer in a positive light. I’m probably worth more to you than to my father. At the very least, Mr. Warden, you seem able to tell a riding horse from a toy. Now allow me please to withdraw. And I must ask that you excuse me likewise, Father. I must give this all some thought. We’ll see each other at tea, I think.”

  Gwyneira swept out of the room, still filled with a vague but glowing rage. Her eyes filled with tears, but she would not let anyone see that. As always, when she was angry and hatching schemes of revenge, she sent her maids away and curled up in the farthest corner of her canopy bed, pulling the curtains closed. Cleo made sure that the servants had really gone. Then she slipped through a fold and snuggled up to her mistress consolingly.

  “Now at least we know what my father thinks of us,” Gwyneira said, scratching Cleo’s soft fur. “You’re just a toy, and I’m a blackjack bet.”

  Before, when her father had admitted what had transpired over cards, she hadn’t thought the bet was all that bad. It was even amusing that her father had gone wild like that, and surely the proposal wasn’t something to be taken seriously. On the other hand, it wouldn’t have been a good thing for Terence Silkham’s honor if Gwyneira had refused outright to consider Warden’s suggestion. Then there was the fact that her father had gamed away her future; after all, Warden had won the sheep with or without Gwyneira. And the revenue from the flock was supposed to have been her dowry. Now Gwyneira didn’t have a shot at a marriage. Then again, she was fond of Silkham Manor and would have liked best to take over the farm one day. She would undoubtedly handle it better than her brother, who, when it came to country living, was interested only in hunting and the occasional race. As a child, Gwyneira had painted herself a brightly colored future: she would live on the farm with her brother and take care of everything while John Henry pursued his pleasures. At the time, both children had thought it a good plan.

  “I’ll be a jockey!” John Henry had declared. “And breed horses!”

  “And I’ll take care of the sheep and ponies!” Gwyneira had revealed to their father.

  As long as the children were little, their father had laughed and called his daughter “my little forewoman.” But as the children grew older and the farmhands spoke more respectfully of Gwyneira, and Cleo often beat John Henry’s dog in competitions, Terence Silkham became increasingly displeased to see his daughter in the stables.

  Today he had even admitted he viewed her work as mere child’s play. Gwyneira squeezed her pillow with rage. But then she began to think it through more carefully. Had her father really meant it that way? Wasn’t it, in fact, that he saw Gwyneira as competition for his son and heir? At least as a hindrance and obstacle to her brother’s training as a future manorial lord? If that was the case, then she certainly had no future at Silkham Manor. With or without a dowry, her father would marry her off, at the very latest before her brother finished college the following year. Her mother was pushing for that already; she couldn’t wait to exile her wild child to the hearth and embroidery tambour. And given her financial situation, Gwyneira knew she couldn’t make any demands. There would most certainly not be a young lord with an estate comparable to Silkham Manor. She would have to be happy if a man like Colonel Riddleworth condescended to her. She would likely end up being forced to live in a house in the city, married to some second or third son of a noble family who was slogging it out as a doctor or barrister in Cardiff. Gwyneira imagined the daily tea parties, the charity committee meetings…and shivered.

  But then there was still Gerald Warden’s proposal.

  Thus far she had viewed the journey to New Zealand only as a hypothetical question. Very attractive, but wholly impossible. Just the thought of tying the knot with someone on the other side of the world—a man whose own father could come up with only twenty words to describe him—struck her as absurd. But now she found her thoughts turning seriously to Kiward Station: a farm, of which she would be the mistress, a pioneer wife, just like in the penny novels! No doubt Warden was exaggerating in his description of his salon and the grandeur of his manor house. He likely just wanted to make a good impression on her parents. The farming operation must still be in development. It had to be, or Warden wouldn’t be buying any sheep. Gwyneira would work hand in hand with her husband. She could help with herding the sheep and till a garden in which she would grow real vegetables instead of boring roses. She could picture herself sweating behind a plow pulled by a strong cob across land made arable for the first time.

  And Lucas…well, he was young at least and supposedly good looking. She couldn’t ask for much more. Even in England love would hardly have been a consideration in her choice of a husband.

  “What do you think of New Zealand?” she asked her dog, scratching her belly. Cleo looked at her, rapt, and gave her a collie smile.

  Gwyneira smiled back.

  “Well all right. Agreement duly noted!” She giggled. “That means…we still have to ask Igraine. But what’ll you bet she says yes when I tell her about the stallion?”

  The selection of Gwyneira’s trousseau turned into a long, hard struggle between Gwyneira and her mother. After Lady Silkham recovered from her many fainting spells following Gwyneira’s decision, she set about making wedding preparations with her usual fervor. She lamented endlessly and verbosely that the event wouldn’t be taking place at Silkham Manor this time but instead somewhere out “in the wilderness.” Gerald Warden’s grand descriptions of his manor house on the Canterbury Plains always found considerably more approbation with her than with her daughter. It likewise contributed to Lady Silkham’s relief that Gerald took a healthy in
terest in all matters relating to her daughter’s trousseau.

  “But, of course, your daughter needs a splendid wedding dress,” he declared, for example, after Gwyneira had rejected her mother’s vision of white quilling and a yard-long train, saying she would surely have to ride to the wedding and those would just get in the way.

  “We will either celebrate the big day in the Christchurch chapel or—what I would personally prefer—in a ceremony at home on the farm. In the former case, the wedding itself would, of course, be more festive, but it would be difficult to rent out the necessary space and personnel for the reception afterward. So I hope I can talk Reverend Baldwin into a visit to Kiward Station. Then I can host the guests in greater style. Illustrious guests, you understand. The lieutenant general will attend, leading representatives of business and the Crown…all the better society of Canterbury. For that reason, Gwyneira’s dress can’t be costly enough. You’ll look marvelous, my child!”

  Gerald patted Gwyneira lightly on the shoulder and then went off to discuss the shipment of the horses and sheep with her father. Both men had come to a mutually agreeable understanding never to mention the fateful card game again. The lord sent the flock of sheep and the dogs as Gwyneira’s dowry overseas while Lady Silkham framed the engagement with Lucas Warden as an entirely suitable alliance with one of New Zealand’s oldest families. And, in fact, that was true: Lucas’s mother’s parents had been among the very first settlers to the South Island. If people still whispered about it in the salons anyway, it did not reach the lady’s or her daughters’ ears.

  Gwyneira would not have cared anyway. She only reluctantly dragged herself to the many tea parties where her supposed “friends” duplicitously celebrated her “exciting” departure, only then to swoon over their own future spouses in Powys or the city. If she had a moment free from visiting, Gwyn’s mother insisted that she give her opinion on cloth samples and then stand for hours modeling for the dressmaker. Lady Silkham had her measured for holiday and afternoon dresses, fussed over elegant traveling clothes, and could hardly believe that Gwyneira would need more light summer dresses than winter apparel. Yet on the other side of the globe, as Gerald tirelessly reminded her, the seasons were indeed reversed.

  Additionally, he always had to arbitrate when the “another afternoon dress or third riding dress” fight escalated anew.

  “There’s no way,” Gwyneira said, becoming agitated, “that in New Zealand I’ll be passed from one tea party to another like in Cardiff. You said it was a new country, Mr. Warden. Parts of it still unexplored! I won’t need any silk dresses there.”

  Gerald Warden smiled at both adversaries. “Lady Gwyneira. At Kiward Station you’ll find the same social structure as you have here, so don’t worry,” he began, although he knew, of course, that it was really Lady Silkham who had reservations. “However, the distances are much greater. The closest neighbor we call on lives forty miles away. So you don’t drop in for afternoon tea. Besides, road construction there is still in its infancy. For that reason we prefer to ride to visit our neighbors rather than taking a coach. That doesn’t mean, however, that we approach our social contacts in any less civilized a fashion. You merely need to accustom yourself to multiple-day visits since short ones aren’t worthwhile, and clearly you’ll need a corresponding wardrobe.

  “By the way, I’ve booked our ship passage. We’ll be leaving for Christchurch from London aboard the Dublin on the eighteenth of July. Part of the cargo hold will be prepared for the animals. Would you like to ride out this afternoon to see the stallion, my lady? It seems to me you’ve hardly been out of the dressing room all week.”

  Madame Fabian, Gwyneira’s French governess, was worried above all about the dearth of culture in the colonies. She lamented in all the languages available to her that Gwyneira wouldn’t be able to continue her musical education, even though playing the piano was the only skill recognized by society for which the girl demonstrated the least bit of talent. However, Gerald could calm these waters too: naturally, there was a piano in his house; his late wife had played beautifully and had even taught their son how to play. Apparently, Lucas was an exceptional pianist.

  Astoundingly, it was Madame Fabian of all people who was able to draw more information out of the New Zealander about Gwyneira’s future spouse. The artistically inclined teacher simply asked the right questions—whenever concerts, books, theaters, and galleries in Christchurch were mentioned, Lucas’s name came up. It appeared that Gwyneira’s fiancé was extremely cultivated and artistically gifted. He painted, played music, and maintained an exhaustive correspondence with British scientists, mostly concerning the ongoing research of New Zealand’s unusual animal kingdom. Gwyneira hoped to share this interest with him, since the depiction of the rest of Lucas’s proclivities seemed almost uncanny. She had expected fewer highbrow activities from the heir to a sheep farm. The cowboys in the penny novels would never have mixed with knights, guaranteed. But perhaps Gerald Warden was exaggerating. No doubt the sheep baron wanted to depict his home and family in the best light. The reality would be wilder and more exciting! In any case, Gwyneira managed to forget her sheet music when the time finally came to pack her trousseau in chests and suitcases.

  Lucinda Greenwood took Helen’s announcement with astounding calm. George, who would be attending college after the summer anyway, no longer needed a tutor, and William…

  “As for William, perhaps I’ll look about for somewhat more indulgent help,” she said. “He is still such a child, and one has to take that into account.”

  Helen checked herself and forced herself to agree, already thinking about her new little charges on the Dublin. Lucinda Greenwood had generously allowed her to extend her Sunday outing to church to meet with the girls in Sunday school. As expected, they were frail, undernourished, and browbeaten. All of them wore clean, gray, oft-patched button-up dresses, but even the oldest, Dorothy, still showed no hint of a woman’s figure beneath her dress. The girl had just turned thirteen and had spent ten years of her short life in the almshouse with her mother. Early on, Dorothy’s mother had had a job, but the girl could no longer remember those days so long ago. She knew only that her mother had eventually gotten sick and then died. She’d been living in the orphanage ever since then. She was scared to death of the journey to New Zealand, but was nevertheless prepared to do anything she could to please her future masters. Dorothy had only first learned to read and write in the orphanage but was trying with all her might to make up for lost time. Helen silently decided to continue teaching her on the ship. She felt sympathy for the delicate, dark-haired girl, who would doubtless grow to be a beauty if she were properly fed and no longer forced to bow and scrape, back bent and cowering like a beaten dog before everyone. Daphne, the next oldest, appeared somewhat braver. She had managed to live alone on the street for a long time; that she hadn’t been caught stealing but rather found sick and exhausted under a bridge was surely thanks to luck and not innocence. She had been treated strictly in the orphanage. The headmistress seemed to have taken her flaming red hair for an unmistakable sign of a lust for life, even a hunger for life, and punished her for every wanton side-glance. Daphne was the only one of the six girls who had volunteered for the journey overseas. For Laurie and Mary, ten-year-old (at most) twins from Chelsea, that certainly was not the case. Neither was especially bright, though they were well behaved and somewhat skillful, when they could figure out what was being asked of them. Laurie and Mary believed every word the malicious little boys in the orphanage had told them about the dangers of the sea voyage, and they could hardly believe that Helen was making the journey without serious reservations. Elizabeth, on the other hand, a dreamy twelve-year-old with long, blonde hair, thought it romantic to set out on a journey to an unknown husband.

  “Oh, Miss Davenport, it’ll be like in the fairy tales!” she whispered. Elizabeth lisped slightly and was constantly teased for it, so she rarely spoke up. “A prince waiting for you! He must be pining
away and dreaming of you every night.”

  Helen laughed and attempted to extricate herself from the grip of her youngest charge, Rosemary. Rosie was supposedly eleven years old, but Helen put the distraught child at no more than nine. Whoever thought this timid creature was ready to make her own way in the world was beyond comprehension. Until Helen arrived, Rosemary had clung to Dorothy. Now that a friendlier grown-up was present, she switched seamlessly to Helen. She was touched by the feel of Rosie’s tiny hand in her own, but knew she couldn’t encourage the girl’s clinginess; employers had already been found for the children in Christchurch, so she knew she mustn’t feed Rosie’s hope to remain with her after the journey.

  Besides, Helen’s own fate was just as uncertain. She still hadn’t heard a word from Howard O’Keefe.

  Regardless, Helen prepared a sort of trousseau for herself. She invested what little there was of her savings in two new dresses and underwear and purchased some linens for her new home. For a small charge, she was allowed to take her beloved rocking chair on the ship, and Helen spent several hours packing it up with care. In order to contain her excitement, she began her preparations for the trip early and was already more or less finished four weeks before the ship was scheduled to depart. She put off the unpleasant task of informing her family of her departure until just before she was to leave. Finally, she could not delay any longer. Their reactions were as she’d expected: Helen’s sister was shocked, her brothers furious. If Helen could no longer provide for their room and board, they would have to seek refuge with Reverend Thorne again. Helen thought that would only do them good and told them so in as many words.

  As for her sister, Helen didn’t take her emotional tirade seriously for a second. Susan went on for pages about how much she would miss her sister, and some of the letter’s pages even had tearstains, but Helen knew that these could be traced to John’s and Simon’s student expenses being thrust on her shoulders now.