In the Land of the Long White Cloud

going to check on the pens for the ewes.”
    “Well, that’s on the way,” James explained, winking at her. The pens did not lie on the main road to Haldon, but alongside Gwyneira’s secret shortcut through the wild. “Naturally, we’ll have to ride. I’ll waste time if I hook up the carriage.”
    “Please, Mummy,” Fleur entreated, preparing herself for a tantrum should Gwyneira dare to refuse her.
    Fortunately, her mother was not difficult to convince. Without the disappointed, grouchy child at her side, the work, which she didn’t care for under the best of circumstances, would go much more smoothly. “Very well,” she said. “Have fun. I wish I could come along.”
    Gwyneira watched enviously as James led his gelding out and lifted Fleur in front of the saddle. She sat lovely and upright on the horse, and her red locks bounced in time with the horse’s steps. James took his place in the saddle just as easily. Gwyneira was almost a little worried when the pair rode away.
    Was she the only one who noticed the resemblance between man and girl?
    Lucas Warden, painter and trained observer, watched the riders from his window. Noticing Gwyneira’s lonely figure in the yard, he believed he could read her thoughts.
    He was happy in his own world, but sometimes…sometimes he would have liked to love that woman.

2
    G eorge Greenwood received a friendly welcome in the Canterbury Plains. Peter Brewster’s name quickly opened the farmers’ doors to him, but they probably would have welcomed him even without a reference. He was familiar with the phenomenon from the farms he’d visited in Australia and Africa—anyone who lived in such isolation was generally happy for a visit from the outside world. For that reason, he listened patiently to Mrs. Beasley’s complaints about the help, admired her roses, and rode out across the pastures with her husband to admire the sheep as well. The Beasleys had gone to great lengths to turn their farm into a little piece of England, and George had to smile when Mrs. Beasley told him about her efforts to permanently ban sweet potatoes from her kitchen.

    Kiward Station, he quickly realized, was very different. House and garden presented a unique combination: though someone here had clearly made every effort to recreate the life of the English country gentry, there was evidence of Maori culture here as well. In the garden, for example, rata and roses bloomed peacefully next to each other; beneath the cabbage trees were benches adorned with typical Maori carvings; and the tool shed was covered in nikau leaves, following Maori tradition. The housemaid who opened the door for George wore a demure servant’s uniform, but no shoes, and the butler greeted him with a friendly
haere mai
, the Maori phrase for “welcome.”
    George recalled what he had heard about the Wardens. The young woman descended from an English noble family—and judging fromthe furnishings, she evidently had good taste. It appeared that she was pushing for Anglicization with even more perseverance than Mrs. Beasley; after all, how often did a visitor leave his calling card on the silver tray resting on the dainty little table in the front hall? George took the trouble to do so, which brought a radiant smile to the face of the young redheaded woman who was just entering. She wore an elegant beige tea gown embroidered with a bright indigo that matched the color of her eyes. Yet her skin tone did not match the fashionable pallor of the ladies in London. Her face was lightly bronzed, and she clearly made no effort to whiten her freckles. Nor was her elaborate hairstyle especially proper, given that a few tresses had already come loose.
    “We’ll keep that there forever,” she declared, looking at the calling card. “It will make my father-in-law so happy. Good day and welcome to Kiward Station. I’m Gwyneira Warden. Come in and make yourself comfortable. My father-in-law will be back shortly. Or would you like to freshen up first and change for dinner? It looks to be quite a meal.”
    Gwyneira knew she was crossing the boundaries of good decorum by dropping such a big hint. But this young man simply did not look like he was expecting a multicourse dinner during his visit to the bush for which his hosts planned to squeeze into evening wear. If he appeared in the breeches and leather jacket he was wearing at the moment, Lucas would be consternated and Gerald quite possibly insulted.
    “George Greenwood,”