by Sarah Lark
She would have liked to grab a coat, but it was better to leave before Gerald came up with any objections.
“It was exceedingly in…vigorating chatting with you, Mr. Warden,” she informed her fiancé with a smile. “Shall we see each other at dinner?”
Lucas nodded and squared himself for another bow. “But of course, my lady. In just about an hour, dinner will be served in the dining room.”
Gwyneira ran through the rain. She dared not think about what the moisture was doing to her silk dress. The weather had been so lovely earlier. Oh well, no rain, no grass. The moist climate of her new homeland was ideal for raising sheep, and of course she was used to such weather in Wales. It was just that she wouldn’t have been traipsing through the mud in such elegant clothing there, since the paths leading between the farm buildings had been paved. On Kiward Station, in contrast, this had so far been neglected; only the approach was paved. If it had been up to Gwyneira, she would have paved the area in front of the stalls rather than the splendid but rarely used path to the front door. But Gerald probably had other priorities—and Lucas most definitely did. No doubt he was already planning a rose garden too. Gwyneira was happy to see bright light shining from the stalls, as she wouldn’t have known where to find a stable lantern. Voices now issued from the sheds and stalls as well. Obviously the shepherds had indeed gathered here.
“Blackjack, James!” someone called with a laugh. “Drop your pants, my friend! I’m taking your pay today.”
As long as the men don’t place other people as bets, Gwyneira thought, catching her breath and opening the stable door. The path before her led left to the horse stalls; to the right it widened into a depot where the men were sitting around a fire. Gwyneira counted five in all, rough-looking fellows who did not appear to have washed yet that day. Some had beards, while others looked like they’d gone three days without their razors. Three of the young sheepdogs had curled up next to a tall, thin man with an angular, darkly bronzed face that was deeply creased by laugh lines.
Another man handed him a bottle of whiskey.
“Here, as consolation.”
So that was the “James” who had lost the hand.
A blond giant who was shuffling the cards looked up by chance and caught sight of Gwyneira.
“Hey, boys, are there ghosts around here? Normally I don’t see such pretty ladies till after the second bottle of whiskey.”
The men laughed.
“What radiance in our humble abode,” said the man who had just handed the whiskey bottle around, with a voice that was failing him. “A…an angel!”
Renewed laughter.
Gwyneira did not know how to respond.
“Now be quiet, boys, you’re embarrassing the poor girl.” The oldest among them now spoke up. He was apparently still sober and was stuffing his pipe at the moment. “That’s neither an angel nor a ghost, just the young mistress. The one Mr. Warden brought back for Lucas to…well, you know already.”
Embarrassed tittering.
Gwyneira decided to take the initiative.
“Gwyneira Silkham,” she said, introducing herself. She would have extended her hand to the men but so far none of them had made the effort to stand up. “I wanted to check on my horse.”
Cleo, meanwhile, had toured the stalls, greeted the sheepdog pups, and waggled from one man to the next. She paused by James, who petted her with adept hands.
“And what’s this little lady’s name? A beautiful animal. I’ve already heard about her, and just as much about her mistress’s wondrous skill at driving sheep. By your leave, James McKenzie.” The young man stood up and stretched out his hand to Gwyneira, looking at her steadily with brown eyes. His hair was likewise brown, plentiful, and unkempt as though he’d been fussing with it nervously during the card game.
“Hey, James! Don’t get too worked up,” one of the others teased him. “She’s the boss’s; didn’t you hear?”
McKenzie rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to the scoundrels; they don’t have any class. But they were baptized at any rate: Andy McAran, Dave O’Toole, Hardy Kennon, and Poker Livingston. He’s pretty lucky at blackjack too.”
Poker was the blond, Dave the man with the bottle, and Andy the dark-haired, somewhat older giant. Hardy seemed to be the youngest of the lot and had already partaken a bit too much of the bottle to show any signs of life.
“I’m sorry that we’re all already a bit tipsy,” McKenzie said frankly. “But if Mr. Warden’s gonna send over a bottle to celebrate his return…”
Gwyneira smiled benevolently. “It’s all right. But be sure to put the fire out properly afterward. Not that you would set my stables on fire.”
While they were talking, Cleo leaped up at McKenzie, who immediately set about scratching her. Gwyn remembered that McKenzie had asked for the dog’s name.
“That is Cleopatra Silkham. And the little ones are Daisy Silkham, Dorit Silkham, Dinah Silkham, Daddy, Daimon, and Dancer.”
“Whoa, they’re all noble,” Poker said, alarmed. “Do we have to bow whenever we see them?” He pointed in a friendly way to Dancer, who was just then trying to gnaw on his cards.
“You should have already when you received my horse,” Gwyneira returned nonchalantly. “She has a longer family tree than any of us.”
James McKenzie laughed, and his eyes gleamed. “But I don’t always have to address the critter by her full name, right?”
Gwyneira’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’ll have to decide on that among yourselves with Igraine,” she explained. “But the dog doesn’t put on airs at all. She answers to the name Cleo.”
“And what do you answer to?” McKenzie asked, passing his gaze appreciatively, but not lasciviously, over Gwyneira’s figure. She shivered. After that run through the rain, she was beginning to freeze. McKenzie saw that at once. “Wait a moment, miss, I’ll grab you a shawl. It’s getting to be summer, but it’s still pretty miserable outside.”
He reached for a waxed coat.
“Here you go, Miss…”
“‘Miss’ will do,” Gwyneira said. “Thank you. Now, where’s my horse?”
Igraine and Madoc were well put up in clean stalls, but her mare stamped with impatience when Gwyneira came up to her. The slow ride that morning had not tired her, and she was burning for more action.
“Mr. McKenzie,” Gwyneira said, “I would like to go for a ride tomorrow morning, but Mr. Warden thinks it would be improper for me to go alone. I would not like to burden anyone, but would it be possible for me to accompany you and your men on some job? Inspecting the pastures, for example? I would be happy to show you how to train the dogs. They have naturally good instincts when it comes to sheep, but there are a few tricks to further improve what they can do.”
McKenzie shook his head regretfully. “In principle, we’d be happy to take you up on your offer, miss. But for tomorrow we’ve already been charged with saddling two horses for your ride. Mr. Lucas will accompany you and show you the farm.” McKenzie grinned. “Surely that sounds a whole lot better than a survey ride with a few unwashed shepherds, eh?”
Gwyn didn’t know how to reply to that—even worse, she didn’t know what she thought. Finally she pulled herself together.
“Wonderful,” she said.
3
Lucas Warden was a good rider, even if he lacked passion. The young gentleman sat properly and at ease in his saddle, managed the reins with confidence, and knew how to keep his horse calmly beside that of his companion in order to chat with her occasionally. To Gwyneira’s astonishment, he did not own a horse of his own, nor did he show any inclination to test the new stallion, something Gwyneira had been dying to do ever since Warden had bought the horse. So far she had been denied a ride on Madoc based on the argument that a stallion was not a lady’s horse—even though that horse was of a considerably calmer temperament than her own stubborn Igraine, if not as used to the ladies’ saddle, of course. However, Gwyneira was optimistic. The shepherds, who,
due to the lack of grooms, also served as stable hands, had no concept of propriety. Hence Lucas had specifically had to ask a confused McKenzie to fit Gwyneira’s mare with the sidesaddle. For himself, he had ordered one of the farm horses, which were bigger but lighter than the cobs. Most of them seemed quite lively, but Lucas chose the calmest among them.
“That way I can intercede if my lady has difficulties without also having to grapple with my own horse,” he explained to the bewildered McKenzie.
Gwyneira rolled her eyes. If she really were to have difficulties, she and Igraine would already be on the horizon before Lucas’s placid gray horse had even taken a step. However, she recognized the argument from the etiquette books and so pretended to appreciate Lucas’s circumspection. The ride across Kiward Station passed rather harmoniously. Lucas chatted with Gwyneira about fox hunts and expressed his astonishment at her participation in dog competitions.
“That seems to me a rather…ahem, unconventional occupation for a young lady,” he admonished her mildly.
Gwyneira bit her lip slightly. Was Lucas already starting to tell her what to do? If so, she had better nip it in the bud.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to get past that,” she said coolly. “Besides, it is also rather unconventional to pursue a marriage proposal in New Zealand. Especially when you don’t even know your future spouse.”
“Touché.” Lucas smiled, but then became serious. “I have to admit that I did not approve of my father’s conduct at first. However, it’s difficult to arrange a suitable match here. Please don’t misunderstand me; New Zealand was not settled by crooks as Australia was but by thoroughly honest men. But most of the settlers…simply lack class, education, culture. For that reason, I am more than happy to have agreed to this unconventional marriage proposal, which has brought me such a charmingly unconventional bride. Might I hope that I too meet your expectations, Gwyneira?”
Gwyneira nodded, though she had to force herself to smile. “I was pleasantly surprised to find such a perfect gentleman as yourself here,” she said. “Even in Britain I could not have found a more cultured and better-educated husband.”
That was no doubt true. In the circles of landed Welsh gentry in which Gwyneira had moved, everyone had a basic education, but the talk in the salons centered more on horse races than Bach cantatas.
“Naturally, we should get to know each other better before we decide on the wedding day,” Lucas said. “Anything else would be improper. I told Father that as well. He would have liked to fix the date for the day after tomorrow.”
Gwyneira herself thought that enough words had been exchanged and that they knew each other well enough already, but she agreed, of course, and acted charmed when Lucas invited her to visit him in his studio that afternoon.
“Naturally, I’m just an unknown painter, but I hope to continue to improve,” he explained to her as they rode along at a welcome gallop. “Right now I’m working on a portrait of my mother. It’ll have a home in the salon. Unfortunately, I have to work from daguerreotypes since I can hardly remember her. She died when I was still young. However, as I work, more memories come to me, and I feel that I’m becoming closer to her. It’s a very interesting experience. I would love to paint you too sometime, Lady Gwyneira!”
Gwyneira agreed only halfheartedly. Before her departure, her father had commissioned a portrait of her, and she had almost died of boredom sitting as a model.
“I’m anxious to hear your opinion of my work. Surely you’ve visited many galleries in England and are far better informed about the latest developments than those of us here at the ends of the earth.”
Gwyneira could only hope that a few impressive words would come to mind for that purpose. She had depleted her reserve of appropriate remarks the day before, but hoped that perhaps the pictures would give her some fresh ideas. In truth, she had never been inside a gallery, and she was completely indifferent to the latest developments in art. Her ancestors—and those of her neighbors and friends—had over the course of many generations amassed countless paintings, which decorated their walls. The pictures primarily depicted forebears and horses, and their quality was judged only on the criterion of likeness. Terms like “play of light” and “perspective,” which Lucas ranted about endlessly, were entirely new to Gwyneira.
Still, the landscapes through which they were riding enchanted her. That morning it had been foggy; however, the sun was burning off the fog, and as it cleared, Kiward Station was revealed as though nature were making Gwyneira a special present of it. Lucas did not lead her far out to the mountains’ foothills where the sheep grazed free, but even the land right next to the farm was beautiful. The lake reflected the sky’s cloud formations, and the rocks in the meadows looked as though they had just punctured the carpet of grass like powerful teeth, or like an army of giants that could spring to life at any moment.
“Isn’t there a story where the hero sows rocks and soldiers for his army then grow from them?” Gwyneira asked.
Lucas seemed excited at her knowledge. “They weren’t stones, but dragon’s teeth that Jason puts in the earth in Greek mythology,” he corrected her. “And the army of iron that grew out of them rose up against him. Oh, it is wonderful to be able to talk with classically educated people on the same level, don’t you think?”
Gwyneira had been thinking instead of the stone circles in her homeland about which her nanny used to tell her adventure stories. If she remembered correctly, priestesses had burned Roman soldiers there, or something like that. But that story wouldn’t be classical enough for Lucas.
A flock of Gerald’s sheep grazed among the stones, including ewes who had just lambed. Gwyneira was taken with the unquestionably beautiful lambs. Gerald had been right, though: a drop of Welsh Mountain sheep blood would improve their wool quality.
Lucas frowned as Gwyneira told him to have the sheep mate with the rams from Wales right away.
“Is it usual in England for young ladies to talk about sexual things so…so unabashedly?” he asked cautiously.
“How else should I say it?” Gwyneira had never made a connection between proper decorum and sheep breeding. She didn’t have any idea how a woman got pregnant, but she had watched sheep mate more than once without anyone finding it problematic.
Lucas blushed slightly. “Well, this…ahem, this whole realm of conversation is off-limits to ladies, isn’t it?”
Gwyneira shrugged. “My sister Larissa raises Highland terriers, my other sister roses. They talk about it all day. Where would you draw the line?”
“Gwyneira!” Lucas turned beet red. “Oh, let’s drop this subject. God knows, it is not proper in our particular situation. Why don’t we just watch the lambs play a bit? Are they not adorable?”
Gwyneira had been assessing them more from the standpoint of wool yield, but like all newborn lambs, they were indeed cute. She agreed with Lucas and made no objections when he suggested they bring their ride to a close.
“I think you’ve seen enough to get around Kiward Station on your own,” he said as he helped Gwyneira off her horse in front of the stables—a comment that made up for all of his stodginess. Apparently, he had nothing against his fiancée riding out alone. At least he had not mentioned a chaperone—whether because he’d skipped that chapter in the etiquette book or because he simply couldn’t imagine a girl might wish to ride alone she didn’t know—and didn’t care.
Gwyneira seized the opportunity straightaway. Lucas had hardly turned away before she said to the older shepherd who took her horse, “Mr. McAran, I’d like to ride out alone early tomorrow. Please make the new stallion available for me at ten o’clock—with Mr. Warden’s saddle.”
Helen’s marriage to Howard O’Keefe was not as spartan as the young woman had feared it would be. In order to avoid performing the ceremony in an empty church, Reverend Baldwin held it alongside the Sunday service. As a result, there ended up being a long line of well-wishers who paraded past Helen and Howard and congratulated th
em. Mr. and Mrs. McLaren had done their part to make the service festive, and Mrs. Godewind had contributed flowers to decorate the church, which they had tied into splendid arrangements. Mr. and Mrs. McLaren had outfitted Rosemary in a pink Sunday dress, which she wore as she strewed flower petals, herself looking like a little rosebud. Mr. McLaren gave the bride away, and Belinda Baldwin and Elizabeth acted as Helen’s bridesmaids. Helen had hoped to see the other girls at Sunday service, but none of the families living out of town showed up. Even Laurie’s employers did not let her come. Helen was unsettled but didn’t want that to ruin her big day. She had by now gotten over the precipitous nature of the marriage and had firmly decided to make the best of it. Moreover, she had been able to observe Howard closely over the last few days since he was staying in town and had joined the Baldwins for almost every meal. Though it was true that his violent reaction to the Wardens had alienated Helen at first, scared her even, he otherwise appeared to be quite collected. He used his stay in the city to stock up on a great many things for the farm, so he didn’t seem to be doing all that bad financially. He looked very dapper in the gray tweed Sunday suit he had picked out for the wedding, though it didn’t fit the season and he was perspiring as a result.
Helen wore a spring-green summer dress that she had been measured for in London with her wedding in mind. Naturally, she would have liked to wear a white lace dress, but she had dismissed that as an unnecessary waste of money. After all, she would never have an occasion to wear such a dream in silk again. Helen’s luminous hair fell freely down her back—a hairstyle that Mrs. Baldwin eyed distrustfully but that Mrs. McLaren and Mrs. Godewind had approved. They had simply pulled Helen’s mane of hair out of her face with a bandeau decorated with flowers. Helen thought that she had never looked so lovely, and even taciturn Howard managed a rare compliment: “You look…uh, very pretty, Helen.”