by Sarah Lark
George arched his eyebrows in confusion. “Why should I reject your product, Mr. O’Keefe? On the contrary, I’m very interested in working together. Precisely because of my concern. You see, I’ve visited several farms now, and it seems to me that a few sheep breeders are striving for a monopoly, Gerald Warden of Kiward Station first and foremost.”
“You can say that again!” O’Keefe replied, working himself up and taking another slug. “Those fellows want the whole market for themselves…only the best price for the best wool…even what they call themselves: sheep barons! Delusions of grandeur, that lot.”
Howard reached for the whiskey.
George nodded and sipped from his glass. “I would put it more mildly, but in principle, you’re not wrong. And it’s very astute of you to mention prices—Warden and the other top producers are driving them high. Of course, they’re also raising the expectations of quality, but as far as I’m concerned…well, my negotiating position would naturally be stronger if there were more variety.”
“So you’ll be buying more from smaller breeders?” Howard asked hungrily. His eyes shone with interest but also with suspicion. What trader would knowingly buy lower-quality wool?
“I would like to, Mr. O’Keefe. But the quality has likewise to match. If you ask me, the little farms are stuck in a vicious circle that must be broken. You know it yourself—you don’t have much land, and you have too many rather low-quality animals; the yields are quantitatively acceptable but qualitatively poor. So there’s not enough revenue left over to buy better livestock and increase the quality of the results long term.”
O’Keefe nodded avidly. “You’re completely right there. That’s what I’ve been trying to make these bankers in Christchurch understand for years. I would need a loan.”
George shook his head. “You need first-class breeding material. And it’s not just you, but other small farms as well. An injection of money can help, but it’s not always the answer. Imagine you buy a prize-winning ram and the next winter he dies on you.”
George’s real fear was that a loan for Howard would more likely be gambled away in the pub than invested in a ram, but he had thought over his arguments at some length.
“Well, that’s exactly the ri…risk,” said Howard, who was gradually losing full command of his tongue.
“A risk you cannot afford, O’Keefe. You have a family. You can’t risk someone chasing you out of house and home. No, my proposal looks a little different. I’m considering having my company, Greenwood Enterprises, acquire a stock of first-class sheep and then offering them to the breeders on loan. As for reimbursement, we can work out an agreement. You would care for the animals, and return them in good health a year later—a year during which a ram mates with all the ewes in your flock or a purebred ewe delivers two lambs to you, which provide the foundation for a new flock. Would you be interested in such an arrangement?”
Howard grinned. “And Warden will start to look shabby when he suddenly finds farmers all around him with purebreds.” He raised his glass as though to toast George.
George nodded at him seriously. “Well, Mr. Warden won’t starve as a result. But you and I will have better business opportunities ahead. Agreed?” He held out his hand to Helen’s husband.
Helen saw from the window that Howard took it. She had not heard what they said, but Howard had rarely looked so pleased. And George had that old clever-as-a-fox look on his face, winking in her direction no less. Yesterday she had reproached herself, but now she wished she had kissed him.
George was very pleased with himself when he left Kiward Station the next day to ride back to Christchurch. Not even the dirty looks of that impertinent stable boy James McKenzie could spoil his mood. The fellow had neglected to saddle his horse for him, and that after there had nearly been an incident the day before when George had set off for Helen’s farm with Gwyneira. James had led Gwyneira’s mare out equipped with a sidesaddle after Gwyneira had asked him to prepare her mare for another ride with her visitor. Mrs. Warden had made an angry remark, to which he had offered a barbed reply, the only word of which George heard was “ladylike.” At that, Gwyneira had reached for little Fleur in a rage, whom McKenzie had been lifting up to set behind her on Igraine, and forced the girl to ride in front of George.
“Would you please let Fleur ride with you?” she asked sweet as sugar, casting an almost triumphant look at the shepherd. “I can’t have her with me on the sidesaddle.”
James McKenzie had stared at George with near murderous rage when he wrapped his arm around the little girl so that she would be secure. There was something brewing between that man and the lady of Kiward Station…but he had no doubt that Gwyneira could take care of herself if she felt put upon. George decided not to get involved and moreover not to say anything to Gerald or Lucas Warden. It didn’t concern him—and besides, he needed to keep Gerald in the best possible spirits. After an ample farewell meal and three glasses of whiskey, George made his offer for a flock of purebred Welsh Mountain sheep. An hour later, he was a small fortune poorer, but Helen’s farm would soon be populated with the best breeding stock New Zealand had to offer. Now George only needed to find a few other small farms in need of start-up help to keep Howard from becoming suspicious. But that wouldn’t be difficult; Peter Brewster could give him a few names.
This new business venture—since that’s how George would have to explain this foray into sheep breeding—meant that George had to prolong his stay on the South Island. The sheep needed to be distributed and the breeders involved in the project observed. The latter was perhaps not necessary since Brewster could probably have recommended partners who knew their work and had come into debts through no fault of their own. But if Helen was to be helped over the long term, Howard O’Keefe would require constant guidance and supervision—diplomatically packaged as help and advice against his archenemy Warden—since O’Keefe was unlikely to follow simple directions. Least of all if they came from the mouth of a manager employed by the Greenwoods. So George would have to stay—a thought that pleased him more and more as he rode through the clear air of the Canterbury Plains. The many hours in the saddle gave him time to think over his situation in England as well. After just a single year of working together, his brother, William, had driven him to despair. While his father deliberately looked the other way, even during George’s rare visits to London he could see his brother’s mistakes and the sometimes horrendous losses the company had to contend with as a result. The pleasure George derived from traveling could in part be traced back to his inability to watch passively. He’d hardly set foot on English soil before chief clerks and managers had come to the junior executive with concerns: “You have to do something, Mr. Greenwood!”—“I’m afraid of being charged with breach of trust, Mr. Greenwood, if things continue like this, but what am I supposed to do?”—“Mr. Greenwood, I gave Mr. William the balance sheets, but I almost get the impression he can’t read them.”—“Please speak to your father, Mr. Greenwood!”
Naturally, George had tried to do just that, but it was hopeless. Their father attempted again and again to successfully employ William in the company. Instead of limiting his son’s influence, he tried to give him ever more responsibility, hoping that it would guide him onto the right path. But George had had enough of that and, what’s more, feared having to clean up the mess when his father retired.
This New Zealand branch, however, offered an alternative—if he could only convince his father to leave the Christchurch business entirely in his hands, as an advance of sorts on his inheritance, then he could build up something here that would be safe from William’s escapades. He would have to live more humbly than in England at first, since manor houses like Kiward Station seemed out of place in this newly developed land. Besides, George had no need for luxury. He would be fine with a comfortable townhouse, a good horse for his trips around the area, and a nice pub where could find relaxation and stimulating conversation in the evening—all of which could no
doubt be found in Christchurch. Naturally, a family would be even better. Until that moment, George had never thought about starting a family—at least not since Helen had turned him down so long ago. But now, having seen his first love again and left his romantic ideals behind, he could think of little else. A marriage in New Zealand—a “love story” that could touch his mother’s heart and encourage her to support his plans…above all, though, it was a good excuse to remain here. George decided to look around Christchurch in the coming days and perhaps ask the Brewsters and the bank director for some advice as well. They might even know of a suitable girl. But first he needed a place to live. The White Hart was a passable hotel, but unsuitable as a permanent residence in his new homeland.
George employed the services of the local real estate office the next day. He had spent a restless night at the White Hart. A band had been playing dances in the room below, and the men had fought over the girls—which gave George the impression that looking for a wife in New Zealand did not come without peril. He suddenly found himself thinking of the advertisement that Helen had responded to in a whole new light. Even the search for a home did not prove easy. Those who moved here did not generally buy houses, but built them. Finished houses were rarely up for sale and were correspondingly valuable. Even the Brewsters had long since rented out their home before George arrived. They didn’t want to sell it, as their future in Otago remained uncertain.
Though George toured the few addresses that people had mentioned to him at the bank, the White Hart, and in the pubs, the majority were shabby. A few families and older ladies living alone were seeking subletters. This was no doubt an appropriate and reasonable alternative to the hotel for colonists who were getting their feet on the ground in their new country, but there was nothing suitable for George, accustomed as he was to more upscale accommodations.
Frustrated, he ended up strolling through the new parks along the Avon’s banks. In the summer, boat regattas took place here, and there were viewpoints and scenic picnic spots. For the time being, though, it being spring, they were quite empty. The still-fickle spring weather only allowed for a short spell on the riverfront benches, and only the main paths had people on them. Yet a stroll here gave George the impression that he could almost be in Oxford or Cambridge. Nannies led their charges on walks, children played ball on the grass, and a few couples modestly sought the shade of trees. Though it did not pull him entirely out of his reverie, the scene had a calming effect on George. He had just looked at the last building for rent on his list, a shack that it took a good deal of imagination to call a house and which would gobble up at least as much time and money in renovations as building a new house. Moreover it was not well situated. Short of a miracle, George would have to begin looking for land plots the next day and consider building a new house after all. How he was supposed to explain such a thing to his parents was beyond him.
Tired and in low spirits, he continued to stroll aimlessly, watching the ducks and swans on the river. Suddenly he became aware of a young woman who was watching two children nearby. The little girl might have been seven or eight years old, a little plump, with thick, almost black locks. She was chatting happily with her nanny while tossing old bread to the ducks from a pier. The little boy, a blond cherub, was, in contrast, a real menace. He had left the pier and was playing in the mud on the bank.
The nanny expressed her concern. “Robert, don’t go so near the river! How often do I have to tell you? Nancy, look out for your brother!”
The young woman—George placed her at no more than eighteen years old—stood seemingly helpless at the edge of the muddy strip of bank. She wore neat black lace-up shoes polished to a shine and a simple navy-blue shift. She would doubtlessly ruin both if she followed the little boy into the brackish water. The little girl in front of her was no different. She was clean and neatly dressed and had surely received instructions not to get dirty.
“He won’t listen to me, missy!” the little girl said dutifully.
The boy had already smeared mud on his sailor suit from top to bottom.
“I’ll come back when you make me a little boat!” he now called back naughtily to his nanny. “Then we’ll go to the lake and watch them float.”
The “lake” was no more than a large pool that remained from the high water in winter. It did not look very clean, but at least there was no dangerous current.
The young woman looked undecided. No doubt she knew that it was wrong to negotiate with him, but she clearly did not want to wade through the muck to retrieve the little boy forcibly. She resorted to a counteroffer.
“But first let’s practice your equations. I don’t want you not to know anything when your father asks you questions.”
George shook his head. Helen would never have given in to George in a similar situation. But this governess was considerably younger and obviously much less experienced than Helen had been when she worked for the Greenwoods. She seemed practically desperate; the child was obviously too much for her. Despite her cross demeanor, she was attractive: she had a delicate heart-shaped face with pale skin, clear blue eyes, and bright pink lips. Her hair was fine and blonde, tied up in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, and was not holding well. Either her hair was too soft to stay pinned up, or the girl was not very good with hair. On her head sat a prim bonnet that suited her dress. Although her attire was simple, it was not a servant’s uniform. George revised his first impression. The girl must be a tutor, not a nanny.
“I’ll solve a problem, then I get the boat!” Robert called out confidently. He had discovered a rather decrepit jetty that led farther out into the river, and was balancing on it, clearly pleased. George was alarmed. Up to this point, the little boy had only been defiant, but now he was in real danger. The current was very strong.
The tutor saw it too but did not want to give up without a fight.
“You’ll solve three problems,” she announced. Her voice sounded strained.
“Two!” The boy, who might have been six years old, rocked back and forth on a board.
That was enough for George. He was wearing heavy riding boots in which he could easily cross the mud. In three strides he was on the jetty, where he swept up the unhappy boy and carried him back to his tutor.
“Here, I believe this one got away from you.” George laughed.
The young woman hesitated at first—unsure of the appropriate response in this situation. Relief won out, and she smiled. Besides, it was funny to watch Robert, tucked under this stranger’s arm, pedaling in the air like an unruly puppy. His sister giggled with delight.
“Three problems, young man, and I’ll let you loose,” said George.
Robert wailed in acquiescence, at which point George set him down. The tutor took him immediately by the collar and pushed him onto the next available park bench.
“Thank you,” she said, with demurely lowered eyes. “I was worried. He is often so badly behaved.”
George nodded his head and wanted to continue on his way, but something held him back. So he sought a bench not far from the tutor, who was now working to calm her charge. Holding him on the bench, she tried to elicit, if not the answer, then at least some response to a math question.
“Two plus three—how many is that, Robert? We did it with building blocks; do you remember?”
“Don’t know. Can we make the boat now?” Robert fidgeted.
“After arithmetic. Look, Robert, here are three leaves. And here are two more. How many are there?”
The boy only had to count. But he was recalcitrant and uninterested. George saw William once more in front of him.
The young tutor remained patient. “Just count, Robert.”
The boy counted against his will. “One, two, three, four…four, missy.”
The tutor sighed, as did little Nancy.
“Count again, Robert.”
The child was not only unwilling but dumb. George’s sympathy for the tutor grew as she inched arduously closer to each
answer. It could not have been easy to remain kind, but the young woman only laughed stoically when Robert yelled, “Make the boat, make the boat!” again and again. She gave in when the boy finally correctly solved the third and easiest problem. However, she showed neither patience nor skill when it came to folding paper boats. The model that Robert finally accepted did not look very seaworthy. In no time, the little boy was back again, interrupting the arithmetic lesson with Nancy that had followed his own. His sister reacted indignantly to the interruption. The little girl was good with numbers, and unlike her tutor, she seemed aware of their audience. Whenever she gave an answer, as though firing it off from a pistol, she cast a triumphant look in George’s direction. George, however, was focusing his attention on the young teacher. She asked her questions in a soft, high-pitched voice, pronouncing her Ss with some affectation—like an aspiring member of the British aristocracy or a girl who had lisped as a child but now consciously controlled her speech. George found it charming; he could have listened to her all day. But here was Robert interrupting her and his sister’s peace and quiet once again. George knew exactly how the little girl felt. And he saw the same strained patience that Helen had so often expressed in the tutor’s eyes.
“It sank, missy! Make a new one,” Robert ordered, tossing his wet boat into his teacher’s lap.
George decided to step in once more.
“Come here; I know how to do it,” Robert offered. “I’ll show you how to fold one, and then you can do it yourself.”
“But you really don’t need to…” the young woman began, giving him a helpless look. “Robert, you’re bothering the gentleman,” she said sternly.