In the Land of the Long White Cloud

George learned his first few Maori words. By the end of the lesson, he could even read the first section of the creation story, though the children were constantly laughing and correcting him. Later the older students were allowed to ask him questions, and George told stories from his own school days—first with Helen in his London home, then at college in Oxford.
    “Which did you like better?” one of the oldest boys asked cheekily. Helen called him Reti, and he spoke English very well.
    George laughed. “Lessons with Miss O’Keefe, of course. When the weather was nice, we sat outside, just like this. And my mother insisted that Miss O’Keefe play croquet with us, but she was never very good and always lost.” He winked at Helen.
    Reti did not seem surprised. “When she first got here, she couldn’t milk a cow either,” he revealed. “What is croquet, Mr. Greenwood? Do you have to be able to play it to work in Christchurch? You see, I want to work with the Englishmen one day and become rich.”
    George registered this remark and made a mental note of it. He would have to speak to Helen about this promising young man. A perfectly bilingual Maori could be of great use to Greenwood Enterprises. “If you’re considered a gentleman and want to get to know a lady, you should at least be good enough at croquet to lose with dignity,” he replied.
    Helen rolled her eyes. Gwyneira noticed how young she suddenly seemed.
    “Can you teach it to us?” Rongo Rongo asked. “As a lady one surely also has to be able to play.”
    “Certainly,” George said seriously. “But I don’t know if I have enough time. I…”
    “
I
can teach you how to play,” Gwyneira interjected. The game was an unexpected chance to pull Helen away from her lesson. “What would you think if we left the reading and arithmetic for today and instead made mallets and hoops? I’ll show you all how, and Miss O’Keefe will have time to see to her visitor. No doubt she wants to show him the farm.”
    Helen and George shot her grateful looks. Helen rather doubted that Gwyneira was all that excited about such a slow-paced game, but she was likely better at it than Helen and George together.
    “So, we need a ball…no, not such a big ball, Ruben, a little one…yes, we could also use that rock. And little hoops…good idea, braiding them, Tani.”
    As the children launched into their task, Helen and George moved away. Helen led him back to the house the same way that he had just come with Gwyneira.
    She seemed to be ashamed of the condition of the farm.
    “My husband hasn’t had time to fix the pens after this past winter,” she said apologetically as they passed the paddocks. “We have a lot of livestock in the highlands, spread across the pastures, and now that it’s spring, the lambs are being born.”
    George did not comment, though he knew how mild the New Zealand winters were. Howard should have had no trouble repairing the pens even during the coldest months of the year.
    Naturally, Helen knew that too. She was silent for a moment, then turned to him suddenly.
    “Oh, George, I’m so ashamed! What must you think of me after you’ve seen all this, compared with my letters.”
    The expression on her face pained his heart.
    “I don’t know what you mean, miss,” he said softly. “I see a farmhouse…not big, not luxurious, but well-built and lovingly furnished. True, the livestock won’t be winning any prizes, but they’ve been fed and the cows milked.” He winked. “And that mule really seems to love you.”
    Nepumuk let out his customary piercing neigh as Helen passed his pen.
    “Of course I’ll also come to know your husband as a gentleman who makes every effort to support his family well and work his farm in an exemplary manner. You can rest assured, miss.”
    Helen looked at him incredulously. Then she smiled. “You’re wearing rose-colored glasses, George.”
    He shrugged. “You make me happy, miss. Wherever you are I can only see goodness and beauty.”
    Helen turned a burning red. “George, please. You should really have put that behind you.”
    George grinned at her. Had he put it behind him? To an extent, yes; he couldn’t deny that. His heart had raced when he had laid eyes on Helen again; he rejoiced at the sight of her, at her voice, at her ongoing balancing act between decorum and authenticity. But he no longer struggled with longing to know what it would be like to kiss her and make love to her. That