In the Land of the Long White Cloud

London. If the girls don’t like it, they’re back home in three days,” Ruben said in an attempt to appease her.
    “And then people are supposed to take them at their word that they’re just as virtuous and untouched as when they left,” Helen scoffed.
    “Not if they stay at Daphne’s,” said Fleurette. “Nothing against Daphne—but she tried to hire me on when I first got here years ago.” She laughed. “However, if the girls were to stay in a clean, proper hotel, run by Helen O’Keefe, one of the town notables? Word gets around. People will point out to the girls and maybe even their parents that there’s a respectable and wise chaperone with whom they can stay.”
    “And you’ll have the opportunity to set the young things straight, Helen,” Leonard commented, who seemed to think about as highly ofmail-order brides as Helen. “They’ll only see the nuggets the fiery-eyed swashbuckler has in his pocket that day—not the miserable hut she’ll land in when he moves on to the next goldfield.”
    Helen looked grim. “You can be sure of that! I won’t be witnessing at anybody’s wedding after three days.”
    “So you’ll manage the hotel?” Fleur asked fervently. “You think you can do it?”
    Helen gave her an almost insulted gaze. “My dear Fleurette, in my life I’ve learned to read the Bible in Maori, to milk a cow, to slaughter chickens, and even to love a mule. I think I can manage to keep a small hotel running.”
    The others laughed, but then Leonard jingled his keys meaningfully, a sign that it was time to adjourn. Since Helen’s hotel had not yet come into being, he had given his former prisoner permission to spend his last night in town in his old cell. No sinner, no matter how well recovered, could spend a night at Daphne’s without backsliding.
    Normally Helen would have accompanied Leonard to the door so that they could chat for a while on the porch, but this evening Leonard sought Fleurette’s company. He turned somewhat bashfully to the young woman while James was saying good-bye to Helen and Ruben. “I…ahem, I don’t want to be indiscreet, Mrs. O’Keefe, but…you know I’m interested in the elder Mrs. O’Keefe…”
    Fleur listened to his stammering with a wrinkled brow. What in heaven’s name did Leonard want? If this was supposed to be a marriage proposal, it would have been better to go straight to Helen.
    Finally Leonard pulled himself together and got his question out. “Well…ahem, Mrs. O’Keefe: what the devil did Helen mean by ‘mule’?”

15
    P aul Warden had never felt so happy.
    In fact, he did not know what had happened. After all, he had known Marama since childhood; she had always been part of his life—and often a nuisance. It was only with mixed feelings that he had allowed her to accompany him on his flight into the highlands—and on the first day he had been properly angry because her mule trotted so hopelessly slowly behind his horse. He had thought Marama to be a millstone around his neck and was confident that he didn’t need her.
    Now Paul was ashamed of everything he had said to her during their journey. But the girl had not listened; she never seemed to listen when Paul was cruel. Marama only saw his good side. She smiled when he was friendly and was silent when he got riled up. He got no satisfaction from taking his anger out on Marama. Paul had known that as a child, which was why she had never been the object of his pranks. And now…at some point over the last few months, Paul had found out that he loved Marama. Eventually, he realized that she was not patronizing him and not criticizing him, that she did not need to overcome any revulsion when she looked at him. Marama had helped him find a good hideout, far from the Canterbury Plains, in the newly discovered stretch of land they called the McKenzie Highlands—though it was not new to the Maori, Marama pointed out. She had been here with her tribe once before, as a little girl.
    “Don’t you remember how you cried, Paul?” Marama asked in her songlike voice. “We had always been together until then, and you called Kiri ‘Mother,’ just as I did. But then the yield was bad that year, and Mr. Warden drank more and would break out in a rage. Therewere not many men who wanted to work for him, and it was still a long time until the shearing.”
    Paul nodded. Gwyneira liked to give the Maori some advance pay in years like that to hold them over until the spring months