In the Land of the Long White Cloud

have escaped my notice. A gentleman farmer from the Christchurch area who shares a name with this damned son of a bitch…oh, forgive me, ladies…who has the misfortune of sharing a name with this dubious fellow O’Keefe should really be known to me.”
    “O’Keefe is a very common name,” Mr. Brewster said in an effort to appease him. “It’s entirely possible that there are two O’Keefes in Christchurch.”
    “And Helen’s Mr. O’Keefe writes such lovely letters,” Gwyneira added. “He must be well educated.”
    Gerald laughed loudly. “Well, then it’s definitely someone else. Old Howie can hardly put his name to paper without making a mistake! But it doesn’t suit me, Gwyn, that you’re running around in steerage. Keep your distance from those people down there, even from this so-called governess. Her story sounds suspect to me, so don’t talk to her anymore.”
    Gwyneira frowned. Angry, she did not say a word the rest of the night. Later, in her cabin, she let her anger out properly.
    Who did Gerald Warden think he was? The transition from “my lady” to “Lady Gwyneira” and now plain “Gwyn” had been awfully quick, and now he spoke so cavalierly and informally, ordering her around. Like hell she’d break off contact with Helen! Helen was the only person she could speak frankly with. Despite their different social pedigrees and interests, the two were becoming better and better friends.
    Besides, Gwyneira had taken a liking to the six girls. She had warmed to serious little Dorothy in particular, but daydreaming Elizabeth too, tiny Rosie, and even the occasionally shady but doubtlessly clever Daphne, hungry for life. She would have liked best totake them all to Kiward Station straightaway, and had planned on speaking with Gerald about taking on at least one new serving girl. It didn’t look that promising, true, but the journey was still long, and Warden would no doubt calm down. The things she had learned about Howard O’Keefe caused Gwyneira much more of a headache. Sure, the name was common, and two O’Keefes in a region was not unheard of. But two Howard O’Keefes?
    What exactly did Gerald have against Helen’s future spouse?

    Gwyneira would gladly have shared her thoughts with Helen, but then thought it best to keep them to herself. What good would it do to ruin Helen’s happiness and give her things to worry about? All speculation was ultimately useless.
    In the meantime it had become warm, almost hot, on board the
Dublin
. The sun now scorched the ship mercilessly from the sky. The immigrants had enjoyed the heat at first, but after almost eight weeks on board, the mood was shifting. While the cold of the first few weeks had made everyone listless, the heat and stifling air in the cabins put them increasingly on edge.
    In steerage, people grated on each other’s nerves and got annoyed at even the flies on the walls. The men were the first to come to blows, passengers and crew members alike, when someone felt swindled at the food or water distribution. The ship’s doctor used a lot of gin to clean wounds and calm tempers. In addition, almost every family was fighting; the forced indolence got on everyone’s nerves. Helen alone enforced peace and quiet in her cabin. She kept the children busy from dawn until dusk with their never-ending lessons on working in a grand house. Gwyneira’s own head spun whenever she listened in.
    “Goodness, I’m lucky to have escaped all that.” She thanked her good fortune, laughing. “I would never have been suited to managing such a house. I would constantly have forgotten half of it. And it would never have dawned on me to have the servants polish thesilver every day. It’s such superfluous work. And why do you have to fold the napkins in such a complicated manner? They get used every day as well.”
    “It’s a question of beauty and decorum,” Helen informed her strictly. “Besides, you will still have to see to all of that. According to what I’ve heard, you’re expected at Kiward Station, a manor house. You said yourself that Mr. Warden is supposed to have modeled his home’s architecture after English country manors and had the rooms decorated by a London designer. Do you think he scrimped on the silverware, lamps, trays, and fruit bowls? You even have table linen packed in your trousseau.”
    Gwyneira sighed. “I should have married my way to Texas. But seriously, I believe…I hope…Mr. Warden exaggerates. True, he