In the Land of the Long White Cloud

engagement.”
    “I’m not engaged to you!” Fleur said with a quaking voice. “I can’t even, I…”
    Gwyneira pulled the girl away. “Your decision pleases me and honors you,” she informed Reginald Beasley with a forced smile. “Perhaps you would be so good as to share this decision with my father-in-law so that we might forget this painful incident ever happened. I have always held you in high regard and would hate to lose you as a friend of this house.”
    She strode regally past Reginald Beasley. Fleurette stumbled behind her. She seemed to want to say something more, but Gwyneira would not let her.
    “Don’t you dare tell him anything about Ruben; otherwise, you’ll wound his pride,” she hissed to her daughter. “Now stay in your room—preferably until he’s gone. And for the love of God, don’t come out of your room while your grandfather is still drunk!”
    Trembling, Gwyneira shut the door behind her daughter. For the time being, disaster had been averted. Gerald would drink with Reginald that evening; there was no need to fear further outbursts. And tomorrow he would be dreadfully ashamed of his attack today. But what would come next? How long would Gerald’s self-recriminations keep him away from his granddaughter? And would the safety of a door be enough to prevent him when he was drunk and had perhaps convinced himself that he needed to “break the girl in” for her future husband?
    Gwyneira had made up her mind. She had to send her daughter away.

4
    P utting this plan into action proved difficult. Gwyneira could find neither an excuse to send the girl away nor a suitable family to take her in. Gwyneira had been thinking she might be able to take up residence in a household with children—there was a lack of governesses in Christchurch at the moment, and an au pair as attractive and educated as Fleur should have been a welcome addition to any young family. In practice, though, only the Barringtons and Greenwoods were possibilities—and Antonia Barrington, a rather nondescript young woman, rejected the idea right away when Gwyneira carefully sounded her out. Gwyneira could not hold it against her. The young lord’s first sight of Fleurette convinced her that her daughter would be stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire.
    Elizabeth Greenwood would have loved to take Fleur in. George Greenwood’s loyalty and affection for her were above reproach. Fleur saw him as an “uncle,” and moreover in his house she would learn about bookkeeping and business management. Unfortunately, the Greenwoods were about to embark on a visit to England. George’s parents wanted to finally see their grandchildren, and Elizabeth was so excited she could hardly contain herself.
    “I just hope his mother doesn’t recognize me,” she confided to Gwyneira. “She has always thought I was from Sweden. If she were to realize that…”
    Gwyneira shook her head, smiling. It was utterly impossible to see the bashful, half-starved orphan girl who had left London nearly twenty years earlier in the prim, lovely lady of today, whose impeccable manners had made her a pillar of Christchurch society.
    “She’ll love you,” she assured the younger woman. “Don’t do anything foolish like trying to fake a Swedish accent. Just say you grew up in Christchurch, which is true anyway. And there you have it: that’s why you speak English.”
    “But they will not be able to help hearing that I speak Cockney,” Elizabeth fretted.
    Gwyneira laughed. “Elizabeth, compared to you, we all speak terrible English—aside from Helen, of course, from whom you get it anyway. So there’s no reason to worry.”
    Elizabeth nodded, uncertain. “Well, George says I won’t need to speak all that much anyway. Apparently, his mother prefers to carry on conversations all by herself.”
    Gwyneira laughed. Meeting with Elizabeth was always a breath of fresh air. She was more intelligent than the well mannered but somewhat dull Dorothy in Haldon or adorable little Rosemary, who had engaged herself to her foster father’s journeyman baker. She often wondered what had become of the other three girls who had traveled with them aboard the
Dublin
. Helen had received word from Westport from a Madame Jolanda, who had explained peevishly that Daphne, along with the twins—and a whole week’s earnings—had disappeared without a trace. The lady had had the nerve to demand the missing money from Helen, who had left her letter