In the Land of the Long White Cloud

James was vexed as well. Above all, it became clear to both of them that it wasn’t truly over between them. Gwyneira’s heart still ached when she saw how desperately James looked at her, and James could not bear to picture Gwyneira in the arms of another. Yet a fresh start for their relationship was impossible—Gwyneira knew that she would never let go of James again if she touched him even once more.
    Life on Kiward Station was gradually becoming unbearable. Gerald got drunk every day and did not give Lucas and Gwyneira a moment’s peace. He did not even rein in his attacks when guests were present. Gwyneira became so distraught that she worked up the nerve to talk to Lucas about his sexual difficulties.
    “Look, dearest,” she said one evening in a low voice as Lucas lay beside her once again, exhausted by his efforts and sick with shame. Gwyneira shyly suggested that she try arousing him by touching his member—just about the least proper thing a lady and gentleman could do together, but Gwyneira’s experiences with James gave her hope in this regard. However, Lucas was hardly aroused, even when she stoked the smooth, tender skin and massaged it gently. She had to do something. Gwyneira decided to appeal to Lucas’s imagination. “If you don’t like how I look…because I have red hair or because you prefer more full-bodied women…why not picture someone else? I wouldn’t be upset.”
    Lucas kissed her gently on the cheek. “You’re so sweet.” He sighed. “So understanding. I don’t deserve you. I’m horribly sorry about everything.” He wanted to turn away, ashamed.
    “Being sorry won’t get me pregnant,” Gwyneira said curtly. “Just picture something that excites you.”
    Lucas tried it. But he was so horrified by the arousing image that popped into his head that the shock sobered him up straightaway. It couldn’t be! He could not be sleeping with a woman and thinking about the slender, well-cut George Greenwood.

    The situation escalated one evening in December, a scorching summer day without even the smallest breeze. That was a rare thing in the Canterbury Plains, and the heat had frayed the nerves of all the residents of Kiward Station. Fleur whined, and Gerald had been insufferable all day. In the morning he had blown up at the workers because the ewes weren’t in the mountains yet—and that after having already directed James to herd the flock into the highlands only after the last lamb was born. That afternoon he cursed Lucas for sitting in the garden with Fleur drawing instead of making himself useful in the stables—and thereafter fought with Gwyneira, who explained that nothing could be done with the sheep at the moment. In the afternoon heat, it was best to leave the animals in peace.
    Everyone longed for rain, and there was no doubt that a storm was coming. But as the sun went down and dinner was called, there was still not a cloud in the sky. Gwyneira sighed as she entered her overheated room to change. She was not the least bit hungry; she would have preferred to sit on the veranda in the garden and wait for the evening to bring a little relief. Perhaps she would have felt the first storm winds—or conjured them herself, since the Maori believed in weather magic—and Gwyneira had walked around all day with the strange feeling of being part of heaven and earth, mistress of life and death. An exaltation always seized her when she was present for and helped with the arrival of new life. She remembered precisely that she had felt it for the first time during Ruben’s birth. Today Cleo was the reason for it. The little dog had given birth to five beautiful, healthy puppies. Now she lay in her basket on the terrace suckling thepuppies. No doubt she would have welcomed Gwyneira’s company and admiration, but Gerald insisted on her presence at the table—three long courses in a tense atmosphere of constant uncertainty as to what Gerald would say or do. Gwyneira and Lucas had learned long ago to weigh their words carefully when dealing with Gerald; thus, Gwyneira knew that it was better not to speak of Cleo’s puppies, and Lucas knew not to mention the watercolors he had sent to Christchurch the day before. George Greenwood wanted to send them to a gallery in London; he was sure that Lucas’s talent would be recognized there. However, they had to have something to discuss at the table—otherwise, Gerald would select his own subjects, and those were certain to be