In the Land of the Long White Cloud

never given much thought to children before. Only now that she was helping look after Ruben—and experiencing on a daily basis that the little thing already had rather strict ideas about what he wanted and what he didn’t and what he liked and what he didn’t—was it becoming clear to her that she not only carried the heir to Kiward Station within her; what was growing inside her was a small being with its own individual personality, and it was just as likely to be female as male. Either way, she had already condemned it to live a lie. When Gwyneira thought about it too much, she feltpangs of guilt for the baby, who would never know its real father. It was better not to brood on it, so Gwyneira threw herself into helping Helen with her endless housework. Gwyneira could milk, and the Maori children’s school had continued to grow. Helen now taught two classes, and to her surprise, Gwyneira saw three of the half-naked children who normally splashed around in Kiward Station’s lake.
    “The sons of the chieftain and his brother,” explained Helen. “Their fathers wanted them to learn something, so they sent the children to relatives in the village here. It’s quite an extravagance. It’s rather demanding for the children. Whenever they get homesick, they go home on foot. And the little one is constantly homesick!”
    She indicated a handsome youth with curly black hair.
    Gwyneira recalled James’s remarks about the Maori and that children who were too well educated could be dangerous to whites.
    Helen shrugged when Gwyneira told her about it. “If I don’t teach them, someone else will. And if this generation doesn’t learn, then the next one will. Besides, it’s impossible to deny people an education.”
    “Now don’t get excited,” Gwyneira said, holding up her hand in a placating gesture. “I’d be the last person to try to stop you. But war wouldn’t be a good thing.”
    “Oh, the Maori are peaceful,” Helen said, waving the notion away. “They want to learn from us. I think they’ve recognized that civilization makes life easier. Besides, it’s different here from in the other colonies. The Maori aren’t indigenous. They’re immigrants themselves.”
    “Seriously?” Gwyneira was astounded. She hadn’t heard that before.
    “Yes. Of course, they’ve still been here much, much longer than we have,” Helen said. “But not since time immemorial. They arrived in the early fourteenth century, in seven double canoes. They still remember it. Every family can trace its lineage back to the crew of one of those canoes.”
    Helen had learned to speak Maori quite well and had been listening to Matahorua’s stories with increasing comprehension.
    “So the land doesn’t belong to them either?” Gwyneira asked hopefully.
    Helen rolled her eyes. “When the time comes, both sides will probably claim the right of discovery. Let’s just hope that they get along peacefully. I plan teach them math—whether that suits my husband and Mr. Warden or not.”

    With the exception of the hostility between Gwyneira and James, the mood on Kiward Station was joyful. The prospect of a grandchild had lightened Gerald’s step. He once again paid more attention to his farm and sold several stud rams to other breeders, making good money in the process. James took the opportunity to herd the animals over to their new owners, which enabled him to be away from Kiward Station for a few days. Gerald had ordered for more land to be cleared for pastureland. When it came time to calculate which rivers could be used as a flume and which wood was valuable, Lucas’s mathematical skills proved useful. Though he complained about the loss of the forests, he did not protest with much vehemence—after all, he was just happy that Gerald’s derision had ceased. He never asked where the child could have come from. Perhaps he hoped it was an accident, or it was possible he simply didn’t want to know. In any case, they were not together often enough for such an embarrassing conversation to take place. Lucas abandoned his nightly visits immediately after Gwyneira announced her pregnancy; after all, his “attempts” had not been much fun for him. However, he enjoyed painting his beautiful wife. Gwyneira sat demurely for an oil portrait, and Gerald did not once snicker at this endeavor. As the mother of the next generation, Gwyneira’s portrait deserved a place of honor next to that of his late wife, Barbara. All agreed that