In the Land of the Long White Cloud

George had to push his plans back, but it would have been unsociable to refuse. The meeting went very harmoniously. Brewster’s ravishing wife served a traditional Maori meal of fresh fish from the Avon and artfully prepared sweet potatoes. His children barraged their visitor with questions about good old England, and naturally, Peter knew the Wardens as well as the O’Keefes.
    “Just don’t talk to one about the other,” he warned, laughing. “They’re like cats and dogs, and to think they used to be partners. Kiward Station once belonged to both of them, hence the name: ‘Kee’ and ‘Ward.’ But they were also both gamblers, and Howard O’Keefe lost his share. No one knows anything more, but the both of them still take the whole thing hard.”
    “Understandable on the part of O’Keefe,” George remarked. “But the winner certainly shouldn’t have any reason to brood on it.”
    “Like I said, I don’t know the specifics. And in the end, Howard still kept enough for a farm. But he doesn’t have the know-how. This year he lost practically all of his lambs—herded them up too soon, before the last storms. A few always freeze to death, even when there isn’t a late winter storm. But herding up to the highlands at the beginning of October? God help you!”
    George recalled that October here was the equivalent of March, when it was also appreciably cold in the Welsh highlands.
    “Why would he do that?” he asked, uncomprehending. Though what really bothered him was why Helen let her husband go through with such nonsense. It was true that she had never taken an interest in agricultural work, but if her economic survival depended on it, she would certainly have gotten involved.
    “Oh that’s a vicious circle,” Brewster sighed, offering a cigar. “The farm is too small or the land too poor for the large number of animals. But keeping fewer animals wouldn’t bring in enough to live on, so you have to rely on luck. In good years there’s enough grass; in bad, yourun out of fodder for winter. Then you have to buy more—and then you don’t have enough money again. Or you herd the animals into the highlands and hope it doesn’t snow anymore. But let’s talk about more pleasant things. You were interested in taking over my clients. Very well, I would be glad to introduce you to all of them. We’ll no doubt come to an agreement on a transfer fee. Could I possibly interest you in our offices? Bureaus and storehouses in Christchurch and Lyttelton? I could rent the buildings to you and guarantee right to buy…or we could form a partnership, and I would maintain part of the business as a silent partner. That would provide me with some insurance in case the gold rush dries up.”
    The men spent the afternoon visiting the properties, and George was very taken with Brewster’s operation. They agreed to negotiate the terms of the takeover after George’s excursion to the Canterbury Plains. George left his business partner in good spirits and wrote a letter straightaway to his father. Greenwood Enterprises had yet to acquire a branch in a new country with such speed and so little hassle. Now there only remained the question of a capable manager. Brewster himself would have been ideal, but of course he planned to leave.
    George set these considerations aside for the time being. Now he could set out for Haldon the following day without any worries. He would soon be seeing Helen again.

    “More guests so soon?” Gwyneira asked reluctantly. She had been planning to use the gorgeous spring day for a visit to Helen. Fleurette had been whining for days about wanting to play with Ruben; besides, mother and child were running out of reading material. Fleurette was crazy for stories. She loved it when Helen read aloud to her, and was already making her own first attempts at copying letters when she sat in on Helen’s lessons.
    “Just like her father,” said the people in Haldon whenever Gwyneira ordered new books to read aloud to her little one. Mrs. Candler continually found physical similarities to Lucas. The girl was gracileand red-haired like Gwyneira, but the original blue of her irises had given way to a light brown flecked with amber. In their own way, Fleur’s eyes were just as captivating as Gwyneira’s. The amber in them seemed to spark whenever she got excited and flared up properly when the little girl grew upset—which happened easily, as even her loving mother had to admit. Fleurette was