In the Land of the Long White Cloud

poisonous glance.
    “We only have the best interests of the girls in mind,” she maintained, folding her napkin together primly.
    Helen had her doubts. It was unlikely that anyone had made any effort to prepare the girls for the kind of polished manners expected of maids in good houses. They could always be used as kitchen help, but even there the cooks would naturally prefer strong farm girls over poorly nourished twelve-year-olds from the poorhouse.
    “In Christchurch the girls stand a chance of finding a good placement. And, naturally, we’ll only send them to well-reputed families.”
    “Naturally,” Robert remarked derisively. “I’m sure you’ll carry out at least as extensive a correspondence with the girls’ future employers as these young girls who want to marry will with their future spouses.”
    Lucinda Greenwood knit her brow, indignant. “You’re not taking me seriously, Robert,” she reproved her husband.
    “Of course I am taking you seriously, my love.” He smiled. “How could I ascribe anything but the best and most laudable intentions to the honorable orphanage committee? Besides, I’m sure you don’t plan to send your little wards overseas without supervision. Maybe among those ladies looking to marry there’s a trustworthy person who could look after the girls during the journey for a pittance from the committee…”
    Lucinda did not respond, and Helen looked involuntarily down at her plate. She had hardly touched the delicious roast, which the cook had probably spent half the day preparing. But Helen had noticed Robert Greenwood’ssearching, amused side-glance when he made his last remark. Her mind bubbled with questions. Helen had never really considered that a trip overseas had to be paid for. Could a person in good conscience ask her future spouse to take care of that? Or did that give him rights that he should really only be entitled to when the “
I do
s” were said face-to-face?
    No, the whole New Zealand idea was mad. Helen had to put it out of mind. She wasn’t meant to have her own family. But what if?
    No, she mustn’t think any more of it.
    Yet over the following days, Helen Davenport thought of nothing else.

2
    “W ould you like to see the flock straightaway, or shall we have a drink first?”
    Lord Terence Silkham greeted his guests with a powerful handshake, which Gerald Warden returned equally firmly. Terence Silkham had not been sure how to picture this man from overseas, who was referred to by the breeders association in Cardiff as the “sheep baron.” What he saw pleased him a good deal. The man was suitably dressed for the weather in Wales but was also entirely fashionable. His breeches were elegantly cut and made of good material, and his raincoat was of English manufacture. Clear blue eyes looked out from a broad, somewhat angular face partially covered by a wide-brimmed hat typical of those worn in the region. A full, brown head of hair shot out beneath it, neither shorter nor longer than was customary in England. In short, nothing in Gerald Warden’s appearance reminded him in the least of the “cowboys” in the penny dreadfuls that a few of his lordship’s servants—and to his wife’s horror, even his unfilial daughter Gwyneira—occasionally perused. Depicting bloody battles between American settlers and hate-filled natives, that literary rubbish was full of clumsy drawings of youths with long, untamed heads of hair, wide-brimmed hats, chaps, and strangely shaped boots to which were affixed long, showy spurs. To top it off, the drovers always had their weapons ready at hand—“Colts,” as they were called—which they wore in holsters on loose belts.
    Terence Silkham’s guest that day carried no weapon on his belt, but rather a flask of whiskey, which he now opened and offered to his host.
    “I daresay this here’ll suffice to fortify a man,” Gerald Warden said in a deep, pleasant voice accustomed to giving commands. “We’ll raise a few more glasses to our dealings after I’ve seen the sheep. Let’s be on our way quickly before it starts raining again. Here, help yourself.”
    Terence Silkham nodded and took a healthy swig from the flask. First-class scotch. Not cheap rotgut. That further secured his visitor’s favor in the eyes of the tall, red-haired lord. He nodded at Gerald, reached for his hat and riding whip, and let out a soft whistle. As if they had been waiting for that sound, three lively black and mixed brown and