In the Land of the Long White Cloud (27 page)

“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 them. 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.”

Helen fondled the letters he’d sent, which she always kept with her. When would her husband finally open up enough to repeat those beautiful words to her face?

The wedding itself was very festive. Reverend Baldwin proved to be an excellent speaker who knew how to captivate his parish. As he spoke of love “in good times and bad,” every last woman in the church was in tears and even the men were sniffling. The choice of maid of honor was the only bitter note for Helen. She had wanted to ask Mrs. Godewind, but Mrs. Baldwin had forced herself on Helen, and it would have been impolite to refuse her. Besides, she was very happy with the best man, Vicar Chester.

Howard surprised her when he spoke his vows freely and with a steady voice, looking at Helen almost lovingly as he did. Helen did not manage it quite so perfectly herself—she cried as she spoke.

But then the organ sounded, the parish sang, and Helen felt overjoyed as she strode from the church on her husband’s arm. Outside, the well-wishers were already waiting.

Helen kissed Elizabeth and let herself be embraced by a sobbing Mrs. McLaren. To her surprise, Mrs. Beasley and the whole O’Hara family had appeared, although the latter did not belong to the Anglican Church. Helen shook hands and laughed and cried until in the end only one young woman remained whom Helen had never seen before. She
looked over at Howard—maybe the woman had come for him—but Howard was talking with the pastor and seemed to have missed this last well-wisher.

Helen smiled at her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but may I ask where I know you from? There have been so many new things over the last few days that…”

The woman gave her a friendly nod. She was petite, with a plain, childlike face and thin blonde hair that she had pinned up primly under a hat. She wore the simple clothing typical of a Christchurch housewife going to church. “There’s no need to apologize; you don’t know me,” she said. “I wanted to introduce myself because…we have a few things in common. My name is Christine Lorimer. I was the first.”

Helen looked at her, confused. “The first what? Come, let’s step into the shade. Mrs. Baldwin has prepared some refreshments in the house.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Mrs. Lorimer said quickly. “But you could say I’m your predecessor. The first who came from England to be married here.”

“That is interesting indeed,” Helen said, surprised. “I thought I was the first. They said the other women had yet to receive any replies to their letters, and I came without any explicit agreement.”

The young woman nodded. “Me too, more or less. I didn’t answer an advertisement though. I was twenty-five and had no prospects for a husband. And how would I, without a dowry? I lived with my brother and his family, which he supported more poorly than properly. I tried to earn enough as a seamstress to help out, but I’m not much use. I have bad eyes; they didn’t want me in the factory. Then my brother and his wife had the idea to emigrate. But what would have become of me? We stumbled on the idea of writing a letter to the pastor here. Was there perchance a proper Christian man in Canterbury looking for a bride? We received an answer from a Mrs. Brennan. It was very stern, and she wanted to know everything about me. She must have enjoyed it. At any rate, I received a letter from Mr. Thomas Lorimer. And what can I say—I fell in love at once!”

“Seriously?” Helen asked, not wanting to admit that she had felt no differently. “After one letter?”

Mrs. Lorimer giggled. “Of course. He wrote so beautifully. I can still repeat his words by heart: ‘I yearn for a woman who would be prepared to tie her fate to mine. I pray to God for a loving woman, whose heart my words can soften.’”