In the Land of the Long White Cloud

admonishments, Fleurette had borne her restrictions with grace, butit was irksome nevertheless. Still, the girl took real pleasure in her new horse. Gwyneira had entrusted her with Igraine’s last daughter, Niniane. The four-year-old mirrored the temperament and appearance of her mother—and when Gwyneira saw her daughter riding across the meadows on Niniane’s back, the uneasiness she had felt in the salon washed over her again: Gerald too must have found himself looking at a young Gwyneira. So pretty, so wild, and so completely out of her depth as only a girl could be.
    His behavior in response to this revelation awoke her old fears. He was in even blacker spirits than usual, seemed to nurse an inexplicable anger for anyone who crossed his path, and consumed more whiskey than he normally did. Only Paul seemed to be able to calm him on such nights.
    Gwyneira’s blood would have turned to ice if she had known what the two of them discussed in the study.
    It generally began with Gerald asking Paul to tell him about school and his adventures in the wilderness; it always ended with the boy talking about Fleur—whom he naturally did not describe as the enchanting, innocent wild thing Gwyneira had been in her day, but rather as spoiled, untrustworthy, and cruel. Gerald could bear his forbidden fantasies about his granddaughter when they were aimed at such a small beast—but he knew that he had to be rid of the girl as soon as possible.
    An opportunity to do just that materialized in Christchurch. On their way back from the livestock farmers’ conference, they were accompanied by Reginald Beasley.

    Gwyneira greeted the old family friend amiably and expressed her condolences on the death of his wife. Mrs. Beasley had passed on suddenly at the end of the year before—a stroke in her beloved rose garden. Gwyneira thought that, as these things went, the old lady could not have had a more beautiful death, which did not, of course, stop her husband from missing her dreadfully. Gwyneira asked Moanato prepare a special meal and went to find a bottle of first-class wine. Reginald Beasley was known as a gourmand and a wine connoisseur, and his whole round, red face lit up when Witi uncorked the bottle at the table.
    “I too just received a shipment of the best wine from Cape Town,” he explained, turning to Fleurette as he spoke. “Among them are some very delicate ones; the ladies are sure to love them. What do you prefer, Miss Warden? White or red wine?”
    Fleurette had never really thought about it before. She rarely drank wine, and when she did, she tasted whatever was set on the table. Helen, however, had naturally taught her how to behave like a lady.
    “That depends very much on the type, Mr. Beasley,” she replied politely. “Red wines are often very heavy, and white wines can be very acidic. I would rather simply leave it to you to select the right wine.”
    Mr. Beasley seemed to be very pleased with this response and proceeded to describe in great detail why he had come to prefer South African wines to French varietals.
    “Cape Town is also much closer,” Gwyneira finally said to close the subject. “And the wine is also much more reasonably priced.”
    Fleur smirked inwardly. This was the first argument that had come to her, but Helen had taught her that a lady under no circumstances mentioned money when speaking to a gentleman. Obviously her mother had not attended the same school of etiquette.
    Reginald Beasley then explained verbosely that financial considerations did not really play a role, and segued right into describing other, considerably costlier investments that he had made lately. He had imported more sheep this, he had expanded his cattle stock that…
    Fleurette wondered why the little sheep baron kept fixing his eyes on her as though she had a personal interest in the number of Cheviot heads in his flock. None of it piqued her interest until the conversation turned to horse breeding. Reginald Beasley had always been a breeder of thoroughbreds.
    “Of course we could always cross them with one of your cobs, Miss Warden, if a thoroughbred would be too much for you,” heexplained to Fleurette eagerly. “That would certainly be an interesting approach.”
    Fleurette frowned. She could hardly imagine a thoroughbred more willing to run than Niniane—though they were naturally faster. But why in heaven’s name was she supposed to show any interest in switching to riding thoroughbreds? In her