In the Land of the Long White Cloud

child’s presence in the bedroom, and Howard’s increased drinking did not exactly set the proper mood. Howard now more often sought his pleasures at the gambling table in the Haldon pub than in bed with his wife. If there were women there too—and maybe some of his winnings went into a whore’s purse—Helen did not want to know.

    Still, today was a good day. Howard had remained sober the day before and had ridden out into the mountains before dawn to check on the ewes. Helen had milked the cows, Ruben had collected the eggs, and the Maori children would be arriving for school shortly. Helen was also hoping for a visit from Gwyneira. Fleurette would throw a fit if she wasn’t allowed to come to school again—though she was still much too little, she was eager to learn to read so as not to have to rely on her mother’s failing patience to read aloud. Her father was certainly more patient in that regard, but Fleur did not like his books. She didn’t like hearing about good little girls who fell into bad luck and poverty only to make it through thanks to luck or chance. She would have been more likely to burn down the horrible stepmothers’, foster parents’, or witches’ houses than light their fireplaces. She preferred reading about Robin Hood and his merry men or going with Gulliver on his travels. Helen smiled at the thought of the little whirlwind. It was hard to believe that quiet Lucas Warden was her father.

    George Greenwood had a pain in his side from the rapid trotting. This time Gwyneira had given in to the demands of propriety and had her horse hitched to the carriage. The elegant mare, Igraine, pulled the two-seater with élan; she could easily have won any coach race. George’s rental horse could only keep up with great effort and by occasionally galloping, which jangled George to the bone in the process. However, Gwyneira was in a chatty mood and revealed a great deal about Howard and Helen O’Keefe that was of serious interest to George—which was why he tried to keep up despite the fact that it hurt to do so.
    Shortly before reaching the farm, Gwyneira reined in her horse. She didn’t want to run over one of the Maori children on their way to school. Nor could anyone pass by the little highwayman who was waiting for them just beyond the ford in the stream. Gwyneira seemed to have expected something like this, but George was properly surprised when a small, dark-haired boy, his face painted green, leaped from the underbrush with a bow and arrow in his hands.
    “Halt! What are you doing in my woods? State your names and purpose!”
    Gwyneira laughed. “But you know me, don’t you, Master Robin?” she exclaimed. “Look at me. Am I not the lady-in-waiting to Lady Fleurette, the lady of your heart?”
    “That’s not right at all! I’m Little John!” crowed Fleur. “And this is a messenger of the queen.” She indicated George. “He’s come from London!”
    “Did our good King Richard send you? Or do you come from John, the usurper?” Ruben inquired suspiciously. “Perhaps from Queen Eleanor with the treasure for the king’s deliverance?”
    “Precisely,” said George seriously. The boy was adorable, with his bandit’s outfit and serious diction. “And I must continue on today to the Holy Land. So, wilt thou let us pass now? Sir…”
    “Ruben!” declared the little boy. “Ruben Hood, at your service.”
    Fleur leaped from the carriage.
    “He doesn’t have any treasure,” she snitched. “He just wants to visit your mummy. But he really did come from London!”
    Gwyneira drove on. The children could find their own way back to the farm. “That was Ruben,” she explained to George. “Helen’s son. Quite a bright boy, don’t you think?”
    George nodded.
She’s done well in that respect
, he thought. He once again recalled that endlessly dull afternoon with his hopeless brother, William; the one when Helen made up her mind. Before he could say anything, though, the O’Keefes’ farm came into view. George was just as horrified at the sight of it as Helen had been six years before. What’s more, the hut wasn’t even new anymore as it had been then, and now showed the first signs of dilapidation.
    “This isn’t how she pictured it,” he said softly.

    Gwyneira stopped her dogcart in front of the cabin and unhitched the mare. George had a chance while she did so to look around, taking in the small stables sparsely strewn with hay, the thin cow, and the mule