In the Land of the Long White Cloud

children grew older and the farmhands spoke more respectfully of Gwyneira, and Cleo often beat John Henry’s dog in competitions, Terence Silkham became increasingly displeased to see his daughter in the stables.
    Today he had even admitted he viewed her work as mere child’s play. Gwyneira squeezed her pillow with rage. But then she began tothink it through more carefully. Had her father really meant it that way? Wasn’t it, in fact, that he saw Gwyneira as competition for his son and heir? At least as a hindrance and obstacle to her brother’s training as a future manorial lord? If that was the case, then she certainly had no future at Silkham Manor. With or without a dowry, her father would marry her off, at the very latest before her brother finished college the following year. Her mother was pushing for that already; she couldn’t wait to exile her wild child to the hearth and embroidery tambour. And given her financial situation, Gwyneira knew she couldn’t make any demands. There would most certainly not be a young lord with an estate comparable to Silkham Manor. She would have to be happy if a man like Colonel Riddleworth condescended to her. She would likely end up being forced to live in a house in the city, married to some second or third son of a noble family who was slogging it out as a doctor or barrister in Cardiff. Gwyneira imagined the daily tea parties, the charity committee meetings…and shivered.
    But then there was still Gerald Warden’s proposal.
    Thus far she had viewed the journey to New Zealand only as a hypothetical question. Very attractive, but wholly impossible. Just the thought of tying the knot with someone on the other side of the world—a man whose own father could come up with only twenty words to describe him—struck her as absurd. But now she found her thoughts turning seriously to Kiward Station: a farm, of which she would be the mistress, a pioneer wife, just like in the penny novels! No doubt Warden was exaggerating in his description of his salon and the grandeur of his manor house. He likely just wanted to make a good impression on her parents. The farming operation must still be in development. It had to be, or Warden wouldn’t be buying any sheep. Gwyneira would work hand in hand with her husband. She could help with herding the sheep and till a garden in which she would grow real vegetables instead of boring roses. She could picture herself sweating behind a plow pulled by a strong cob across land made arable for the first time.
    And Lucas…well, he was young at least and supposedly good looking. She couldn’t ask for much more. Even in England love would hardly have been a consideration in her choice of a husband.
    “What do you think of New Zealand?” she asked her dog, scratching her belly. Cleo looked at her, rapt, and gave her a collie smile.
    Gwyneira smiled back.
    “Well all right. Agreement duly noted!” She giggled. “That means…we still have to ask Igraine. But what’ll you bet she says yes when I tell her about the stallion?”

    The selection of Gwyneira’s trousseau turned into a long, hard struggle between Gwyneira and her mother. After Lady Silkham recovered from her many fainting spells following Gwyneira’s decision, she set about making wedding preparations with her usual fervor. She lamented endlessly and verbosely that the event wouldn’t be taking place at Silkham Manor this time but instead somewhere out “in the wilderness.” Gerald Warden’s grand descriptions of his manor house on the Canterbury Plains always found considerably more approbation with her than with her daughter. It likewise contributed to Lady Silkham’s relief that Gerald took a healthy interest in all matters relating to her daughter’s trousseau.
    “But, of course, your daughter needs a splendid wedding dress,” he declared, for example, after Gwyneira had rejected her mother’s vision of white quilling and a yard-long train, saying she would surely have to ride to the wedding and those would just get in the way.
    “We will either celebrate the big day in the Christchurch chapel or—what I would personally prefer—in a ceremony at home on the farm. In the former case, the wedding itself would, of course, be more festive, but it would be difficult to rent out the necessary space and personnel for the reception afterward. So I hope I can talk Reverend Baldwin into a visit to Kiward Station. Then I can host the guests in greater style. Illustrious