by Sarah Lark
“You don’t need to do anything more than count, damn it!” Gerald raged. “Otherwise, the shearers charge too much! In warehouse three, two of the boys just got into a fight because both laid claim to the pay for shearing a hundred sheep, and no one can arbitrate because no one was comparing their counts. You were assigned to warehouse three, Lucas! Now go see you put things in order.”
Gwyneira would have been glad to take over warehouse three, but as housewife, the food, and not the oversight of the migrant workers who had been hired on to shear the sheep, fell to her. For that reason, outstanding care was taken of the men: Gwyneira appeared again and again with refreshments because she could not get enough of seeing the shearers at work. At home in Silkham sheep shearing had been a rather leisurely affair; the few hundred sheep were sheared by the shepherds themselves over the course of a few days. Here, however, they had thousands of sheep to shear, which first had to be fetched from the extensive pastures and then penned together. The shearing itself was the work of specialists. The best work groups managed eight hundred animals a day. On big operations like Kiward Station there was always a competition—and this year James McKenzie was well on his way to winning it. He was neck and neck with a top shearer from warehouse one, even though he was also responsible for supervising the other shearers in warehouse two. Whenever Gwyneira came by, she took over the supervision for him, lightening his load. Her presence seemed to redouble his energy; his shears moved so quickly and smoothly over the sheep’s bodies that the animals hardly had time to bleat in protest at their rude treatment.
Lucas found the handling of the sheep barbaric. He felt for them when the animals were seized, thrown on their backs, and shorn, often getting cuts on their skin if the shearer was inexperienced or the sheep fidgeted excessively. Lucas also couldn’t stand the overwhelming odor of lanolin that pervaded the shearing warehouses. As a result, he was constantly letting sheep escape instead of pushing them through a bath after the shearing, which was supposed to clean out any cuts and kill off parasites.
“The dogs don’t listen to me,” he said, defending himself against a new fit of anger from his father. “They answer to McKenzie, but when I call—”
“You don’t call these dogs, Lucas! You whistle for them,” Gerald exploded. “There are only three or four whistles, all of which you should have learned long ago. You think so highly of your musical abilities!”
Lucas recoiled, insulted. “Father, a gentleman—”
“Don’t tell me a gentleman doesn’t whistle. These sheep finance your painting, piano playing, and so-called studies.”
Gwyneira, who caught this conversation by chance, fled into the nearest warehouse. She hated it when Gerald took her husband to task in front of her—and it was even worse when James McKenzie or the other farmworkers witnessed the confrontations. They not only embarrassed Gwyneira, but moreover, they seemed to have a negative effect on her and Lucas’s nightly “attempts,” which went awry with increasing frequency. Gwyneira had taken to viewing their efforts together only as the first stage of reproduction, since ultimately it was no different from what took place between a stallion and mare. Yet she harbored no illusions: luck would have to be very much on her side. She gradually began thinking of alternatives, though the image of her father’s old ram—one that he had had to retire due to a lack of success in mating—came back to her time and again.
“Try with other man,” Matahorua had said. Every time Gwyneira recalled those words, she felt a pang of guilt. It was inconceivable for a Silkham to cheat on her husband.
Then came the garden party. Lucas devoted himself energetically to the preparations. Planning the fireworks show alone required days, which he spent poring over the catalogs before placing the order in Christchurch. He took on the landscaping of the garden, as well as the arrangements of the tables and chairs. Instead of a grand banquet, lamb and mutton were going to be roasted over the fire; vegetables, poultry, and mussels would be prepared on cooking stones, according to Maori tradition. Salads and other dishes rested on long tables and were to be presented to guests on request. Kiri and Moana had mastered this task and were once again to wear the uniforms that had been made for them for the wedding. Gwyneira made them promise to wear shoes.
Otherwise, they kept out of the preparations; between father and son, it required great tact and diplomacy to get any decisions made. Lucas enjoyed the preparations and longed for recognition. Gerald, however, felt that his son’s efforts were “unmanly” and would have preferred to leave everything to Gwyneira. Nor did the workers approve of Lucas’s domestic occupations, which did not go unnoticed by Gerald or Gwyneira.
“Limp dick’s folding napkins,” Poker Livingston replied when James McKenzie asked him where Lucas was hiding this time.
Gwyneira pretended not to understand. She had developed a rather precise idea of what the term “limp dick” meant but could not fathom how the men in the stables were drawing their conclusions about Lucas’s failures in bed.
The day before the party, Kiward Station’s garden shone in full splendor. Lucas had had lampions brought out, and the Maori set up torches. As the guests were being received, there was still enough light for them to marvel at the rose borders, the cleanly cut hedges, and the twisting paths and lawns, laid out according to the classic model of an English garden. Gerald had also arranged a new dog demonstration—this time not only to show off the now legendary talents of his dogs but also as a sort of promotion. Daimon and Dancer’s first offspring were available for sale, and the local sheep breeders would pay handsomely for purebred border collies. Even the mixed breeds with Gerald’s old sheepdogs were in high demand. Gerald’s employees no longer needed Gwyneira’s and Cleo’s help to stage a perfect show. At James McKenzie’s whistle, the young dogs herded the sheep through the obstacle course without incident. Gwyneira’s elegant party dress, a dream in sky-blue silk with gold-colored eyelet appliqué, remained clean, and Cleo too merely followed the show from the sidelines, whimpering as though insulted. Her whelps had finally been weaned, and the little dog was looking for new tasks. Today, however, she had been exiled to the stables again. Lucas did not want any dogs capering about, and Gwyneira was occupied with entertaining the guests—though her strolls among the guests and chats with the ladies of Christchurch increasingly resembled a gauntlet. She felt people’s eyes on her as the guests observed her still slender figure with a mixture of curiosity and sympathy. Early on she heard only a few comments, but then the gentlemen—Gerald above all—started knocking back the whiskey, which rapidly loosened their tongues.
“Well, my lady, you’ve been married almost a year now,” intoned Lord Barrington. “How long until there are little ones?”
Gwyneira did not know how to reply. She blushed as deeply as the viscount, whose father’s behavior embarrassed him too. He changed the subject, asking Gwyneira about Igraine and Madoc, whom he still remembered fondly. He had yet to find comparable horses in this new homeland of theirs. Gwyneira came alive at once. The breeding of the horses had been successful, and she would be happy to sell young Barrington a foal. She seized the opportunity to escape Lord Barrington by leading the viscount over to the pasture. A month before, Igraine had given birth to a black colt as pretty as a picture, and Gerald had put the horses’ pen close enough to the house for the guests to marvel at them.
Next to the paddock where the mare and foal were grazing, James McKenzie was overseeing the preparations for the help’s party. The employees of Kiward Station still had work to do, but when the meal was over and the dancing had started, they could then have their fun. Gerald had been happy to provide two sheep and plenty of beer and whiskey for their party, and the fire for cooking the meat was just being lit.
James greeted Gwyneira and the viscount, and she used the opportunity to congratulate him on his successful presentation.
“I believe Mr. Warden sold five dogs today,” she said in recognition.
James returned her smile. “Sti
ll not to be compared to the show with your Cleo, miss. But naturally, I miss the charms of the dog’s mistress too.”
Gwyneira turned her gaze away. His eyes once again sparkled in that way that she found simultaneously so delightful and unsettling. And why was he paying her compliments in front of the viscount? She entertained an apprehension that it wasn’t very proper.
“Try wearing a wedding dress next time,” Gwyneira said to draw out the humor in the situation.
The viscount chuckled. “Why, he’s in love with you, my lady.” He giggled, with all the insolence of his fifteen years. “Watch out that your husband doesn’t challenge him to a duel.”
Gwyneira cast a chastising look at the boy. “Don’t say such nonsense, viscount! You yourself know how quickly gossip spreads here. If a rumor like that were to come out…”
“Not to worry, your secret is safe with me!” The rascal laughed. “By the way, did you ever cut a slit into your riding dress?”
Gwyneira was happy when the dancing finally began, releasing her from the obligations of conversation. Perfectly led as always, she floated with Lucas across the dance floor that had been specially set up in the garden. The musicians, hired by Lucas this time, were a good deal better than those who had played at their wedding. The dance selection was more conventional. Gwyneira was almost a bit envious when she heard the happy ditties wafting over from the employees’ party. Someone was fiddling over there—not always perfectly, it was true, but with no lack of spirit.
Gwyneira danced with the most important guests, one after the other. She was spared Gerald, at least, who had long since drunk too much to hold himself upright for a waltz. The party was a complete success, but Gwyneira nevertheless hoped it would soon be over. It had been a long day, and the guests would have to be entertained again from morning until at least noon the following day. Many of them planned to stay beyond that, until the day after next. Still, Gwyneira had to stay through the fireworks before she could retire. Lucas had excused himself an hour earlier in order to review the setup one last time. Young Hardy Kennon was to help him with it if he wasn’t too drunk already. Gwyneira went to check on the champagne stores. She found Witi just taking a bottle from the ice bucket where they were being kept cool.
“Hopefully not shoot someone,” he said with concern. The pop of the cork when the champagne bottles were opened still made the Maori servant nervous.
“It’s totally harmless, Witi,” Gwyneira said in an effort to calm him. “When you’ve done it a few more times…”
“Yes, whe…when…there was mo…more often a reason!” That was Gerald, who had just tottered back up to the bar to uncork a new bottle of whiskey. “But you don’t give us an…any reason to celebrate, my Wel…Welsh princess! Thought you weren’t so prudish, loo…look like you got fire enough for ten and could even get Lu…Lucas hot, that limp…that block of ice!” Gerald slurred, catching himself before he said something even more inappropriate as he stared at the champagne. “But now…a year, Gwyn…Gwyneira, and still no grand…”
Gwyneira breathed a sigh of relief when Gerald was interrupted by a fireworks rocket climbing into the sky with a hiss—a test shot for the later spectacle. Witi popped the corks, squeezing his eyes shut anxiously as he did so. Gwyneira thought about the horses in a searing flash. Igraine and the other mares had never experienced fireworks before, and the paddock was relatively small. What if the animals panicked?
Gwyneira cast a glance at the big clock, which had been specially brought into the garden and placed in a highly visible spot. Maybe there was still enough time to bring the horses into the stables. She could have kicked herself for not having given James McKenzie the directions to do so earlier. Muttering apologies, Gwyneira made her way through the mass of guests and ran to the stables. But the pen was already empty, except for one mare, which McKenzie was just then leading out. Gwyneira’s heart leaped. Had he read her thoughts?
“I thought the animals were looking unsettled, so I thought I’d bring them in,” James said when Gwyneira opened the stable door for him and the mare. Cleo jumped up on her mistress as she did so.
Gwyneira laughed. “That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing.”
McKenzie gave her a rakish look, between flirtation and mischief. “We should think about why that happens,” he said. “Maybe we’re soul mates? In India they believe in the transmigration of souls. Who knows, maybe in a past life we were…” He pretended to think hard.
“As good Christians, we shouldn’t give it a thought,” Gwyneira said, interrupting him sternly, but James just laughed. In perfect harmony, they filled the horses’ hayracks, and Gwyneira tossed a few carrots in the stall for Igraine. After all that, her dress no longer looked quite so clean. Gwyneira looked down at herself ruefully. Oh well, no one would notice in the lantern light.
“Are you done here? I should wish the help a happy New Year while I’m here.”
James smiled. “Maybe you even have time for a dance? When does the big fireworks show start?”
Gwyneira shrugged. “As soon as it strikes twelve and cheering has died down.” She smiled. “Or, better yet, as soon as everyone has wished everyone else all the happiness in the world, even if he doesn’t mean it.”
“Now, now, miss. So cynical today? It’s such a wonderful party!” James looked at her probingly. Gwyneira knew this look too—and it set her on edge.
“Spiced with a good dose of schadenfreude,” she sighed. “Over the next few days, everyone’s mouths will be flapping, and Mr. Warden only makes it worse—with the way he talks.”
“What do you mean ‘schadenfreude’?” James asked. “Kiward Station is in tip-top shape. With the profit Mr. Warden is going to make from the wool, he could throw a party like this every month. How can he be unhappy?”
“Oh, let’s not talk about it,” Gwyneira muttered. “Let’s start the year with something more cheerful. Did you say something about a dance? As long as it’s not a waltz.”
Andy McAran fiddled a rollicking Irish jig. Two Maori servants beat the drum in accompaniment, which did not quite fit but was great fun nevertheless. Poker Livingston and Dave O’Toole swung the Maori girls around. Moana and Kiri let themselves be led in the foreign dance. The other dancers included the servants of the more genteel guests, who either hardly knew Gwyneira or didn’t know her at all. Lady Barrington’s English maid looked over disapprovingly as Kiward Station’s staff greeted Gwyneira with hoots and hollers. James held his hand out to lead her into the dancing area. Gwyneira took it, once again feeling that soft shock that sent waves of arousal through her. It always seemed to happen when she touched James. He laughed, catching her as she stumbled a bit. Then he bowed to her—but that was all this dance had in common with a waltz, which she had been dancing all night.
“She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the queen of Belfast City!” Poker and a few other men sang the melody happily while James spun Gwyneira around so many times she felt dizzy. And every time she flew back into his arms after being energetically spun, she saw that glint in his eye, the admiration, and…well, what? Desire?
In the middle of the dance, the rocket heralding the new year soared into the sky—and then the whole glorious fireworks display fired off. The men around Andy McAran broke off the jig and Poker started “Auld Lang Syne.” All the other immigrants joined in, and the Maori hummed along, enthusiastically if not entirely in tune. Only James and Gwyneira had neither ears for the song nor eyes for the fireworks. Though the music had stopped, they still held each other’s hands, now frozen in midair. Neither wanted to let the other go. They seemed to be standing on an island, far from the tears and laughter. There was only him. There was only her.
Finally Gwyneira pulled herself free. She did not want to break up the moment, but she knew that their feelings could not be consummated here.
“We should…check on the horses,” she said without inflection.
James took her hand on the way to the stables.
> Just before the entrance he stopped her. “Look, miss,” he whispered. “I’ve never seen such a thing. Like it’s raining stars!”
Lucas’s fireworks made for a spectacular effect. But Gwyneira saw only the stars in James’s eyes. What she was doing was stupid, forbidden, and entirely improper. But she leaned on his shoulder nevertheless.
James tenderly brushed away the hair that had fallen into her face during their wild dance. His fingers wandered light as a feather over her cheeks and along her lips.
Gwyneira made a decision. It was New Year’s. So you could kiss someone. She raised herself carefully on tiptoe and kissed James on the cheek.
“Happy New Year, Mr. McKenzie,” she said softly.
McKenzie drew her into his arms, very slowly, very softly—Gwyneira could have freed herself at any time, but she didn’t. Not even when his lips found hers. Gwyneira instinctively and passionately opened herself up to the kiss. She felt like she was coming home—a home where a world of wonder and surprise awaited her.