In the Land of the Long White Cloud

to do about the sheep here in Lyttelton. His incompetent son had once again failed to make arrangements for their accommodation at the harbor, and now there was guaranteed to be no one available to set up a pen before nightfall. Gerald’s fingers clamped around the reins in rage. When would Lucas finally learn to think beyond the walls of his study?
    Angrily, Gerald put a foot in the stirrup. He had naturally learned over the course of his eventful life to handle a horse reasonably well, but it was still not his favorite mode of transport. To take the Bridle Path on a young stallion felt like a test of courage to Gerald—and he nearly hated Gwyneira for forcing him into it. Her rebellious spirit, which had so pleased Gerald when it was directed against her father, was becoming a source of frustration that was hard to ignore.
    Sitting on her mare, pleased with herself and entirely at ease, Gwyneira had no inkling of Gerald’s thinking. No, she was simplydelighted that her future father-in-law had not said anything about the man’s saddle she had put on Igraine. Her father would certainly have thrown a fit if she had dared to ride astride a horse with her legs apart in society. Gerald, however, did not seem to notice how unbecoming it looked, with the skirt of her riding dress riding up, exposing her ankles. Gwyneira attempted to pull the skirt down, but then forgot all about it. She had enough to do with Igraine, who would have liked to overtake the mules and take the pass at a gallop. The dogs, thankfully, did not require any attention. Cleo knew what to do and drove the sheep deftly toward the pass even when the path narrowed. The pups followed her in order from biggest to littlest, causing Mrs. Brewster to joke, “Looks a bit like Miss Davenport and her orphan girls.”

    Two hours after setting out, Helen was at the end of her strength when she heard the sound of hooves behind her. The path still led upward, and now, just as before, there was nothing to see but barren, inhospitable mountains. However, one of the other immigrants had spoken a few encouraging words to them. He had spent some years at sea and had been present in 1836 for one of the first expeditions to this area. With a group belonging to Captain Rhodes, one of the first settlers, he had climbed up the Port Hills and fallen so in love with the view of the Canterbury Plains that he had now returned with his wife and child to settle here. He now told his exhausted family that after just a few more curves in the road, they would reach the top.
    Still the path remained narrow and steep, and the riding mules could not overtake the hikers. Grumbling, the riders fell in line behind them. Helen wondered whether Gwyneira was among them. She had heard the altercation between Gerald and Gwyneira and was anxious to see who had won the dispute. Her sensitive nose told her that Gwyneira must have won the day. The air suddenly smelled distinctly of sheep, and she could hear
baa
s of protest behind her.
    At long last, they reached the pass’s highest point. Merchants awaited the hikers on a sort of platform, on which they had built stands and now offered refreshments. This was where people traditionally rested—if only to enjoy the first vista of their new country in peace. But for the moment Helen had no interest in the view. She could only drag herself to one of the stands, where she purchased a large tankard of ginger beer. Only after she’d drunk it did she make her way to the overlook, where many of the others had already paused as though in prayer.
    “It’s so pretty,” whispered Gwyneira, enraptured. Sitting on her horse, she could see out over the others. Helen had to make do with a limited view from the third row. That was enough, however, to put a damper on her enthusiasm. Far below them, the mountainous landscape gave way to tender green grassland through which wound a small river. On the opposite bank lay the Christchurch settlement, which was anything but the burgeoning city Helen had expected. True, one could make out a tiny church steeple, but hadn’t there been talk of a cathedral? Wasn’t it supposed to become a bishopric? Helen had at least expected a construction site, but no such thing was visible. Christchurch was nothing more than a cluster of brightly colored houses, mostly made of wood; only a few were built from the sandstone Mr. Warden had spoken of. It reminded her very much of Lyttelton, the port town they had just left