In the Land of the Long White Cloud

mother’s opinion they were far too sensitive for the long and arduous rides through the wilderness.
    “It’s often done in England,” interrupted Gwyneira, who was becoming as confused as Fleurette by their guest’s behavior. She was the horse breeder in the family, so why wasn’t he talking to her about crossbreeding? “Some of them become very good hunting mounts. But they often have the harshness and stubbornness of cobs, paired with the explosive nature and tendency to scare of thoroughbreds. That’s not something I would want for my daughter.”
    Reginald Beasley smiled amiably. “Oh, it was just a suggestion. Miss Warden should, of course, have a totally free hand with regard to her horse. We could also arrange another hunt. I have completely neglected that sort of thing these last few years, but…would you enjoy a hunt, Miss Warden?”
    Fleurette nodded. “Certainly, why not?” she said, mildly interested.
    “Although there’s still a dearth of foxes,” Gwyneira said, smiling. “Have you ever considered having some brought in?”
    “For heaven’s sake!” Gerald had worked himself into a state over the lack of game, and now turned the conversation to the scant population of native animals in New Zealand.
    Fleurette contributed a bit to the subject, and dinner came to an end amid lively conversation. Fleur excused herself immediately afterward to go to her room. She had begun to spend her evenings writing long letters to Ruben; though she dropped them off in Haldon with high hopes, the postman was less optimistic. “Ruben O’Keefe, Gold Mines, Queenstown,” did not strike him as sufficient for an address. But the letters had yet to be returned. At first Gwyneira went to see to the kitchen, but then she decided to join the men for a bit. She poured herself a glass of port in the salon and strolled with it towardthe next room, where the men liked to smoke, drink, and occasionally play cards after dinner.
    “You were right; she is enchanting!”
    At the sound of Reginald Beasley’s voice, Gwyneira froze in front of the half-open door.
    “At first I was a bit skeptical—such a young girl, almost a child still. But now that I’ve seen her, I can see that she is already well developed for her age. And so well bred! A true little lady.”
    Gerald nodded. “I told you. She is without a doubt ready for marriage. Just between us, you must bear something in mind. You know yourself how it is with all the men here on the farms. More than one kitty has gotten carried away when in heat.”
    Reginald Beasley chuckled. “But she’s only…I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m not hung up on it. Otherwise, I would only have been looking for a…well, perhaps for a widow, closer to my age. But if they’re already having affairs at that age…”
    “Reginald, please!” Gerald interrupted him sternly. “Fleur’s honor is above reproach. I’m just thinking of a wedding sooner rather than later so that it remains so. The apple is ripe for the picking, if you know what I mean.”
    Reginald laughed again. “A true image of paradise. And what does the girl have to say? Will you convey my proposal to her, or should I…declare my intent myself?”
    Gwyneira could hardly believe what she was hearing. Fleurette and Reginald Beasley? The man had to be well over fifty, or perhaps even in his sixties. Old enough to be Fleur’s grandfather.
    “Leave it to me; I’ll take care of it. It will come as something of a surprise to her. But she’ll agree; don’t you worry. After all, she is a lady, as you’ve already said.” Gerald poured another round from the whiskey bottle. “To our new ties!” he smiled. “To Fleur!”

    “No, no, and again, no!”
    Fleurette’s voice screeched, the sound traveling from the study where Gerald had asked her to speak with him, through the salon, and into Gwyneira’s office. She did not sound particularly ladylike—more like young Fleurette was having a full-blown temper tantrum before her grandfather. Gwyneira had preferred not to participate directly in this performance. If Gerald were to go too far while they were alone, she was ready to step in and mediate at any point. After all, Reginald Beasley had to be refused without being hurt. A little rebuff was not likely to do the old man much damage. How could he even consider a sixteen-year-old bride? Gwyneira had made certain that Gerald was not too drunk when he called Fleur in to him, and she had warned her daughter