In the Land of the Long White Cloud

announced that she was going to have Igraine saddled. It was only when Mrs. Brewster observed with horror that one couldn’t possibly let a lady go out on horseback without accompaniment that the sheep baron made an about-face. Under no circumstances would he allow his future daughter-in-law to do anything considered unbecoming in the best circles. Unfortunately, there were no stable boys and, naturally, not yet any ladies’ maids who could accompany the girl on her ride. The request itself seemed foreign to the hotelier: in Christchurch, as he made absolutely clear to Mrs. Brewster, people did not ride for pleasure, only to get from one place to another. The man could certainly understand Gwyneira’s reasoning that she wanted to get her horse moving after the long period of immobility on the ship, but he was neither willing nor able to provide her with an escort. In the end, Lady Barrington suggested her son, who immediately declared that he was prepared to ride along on Madoc. The fourteen-year-old viscount was not the ideal chaperone, but Gerald did not seem to notice, and Mrs. Brewster held her tongue so as not to offend Lady Barrington. Gwyneira had thought young Charles rather dull on the trip, but he proved to be a spirited rider—and sufficiently discreet. Thus he did not reveal to his horrified mother that Gwyneira’s ladies’ saddle had long since arrived but instead confirmed that only men’s saddles were available. Then he pretended that he could not control Madoc and let the stallion storm off from the hotel’s yard, which gave Gwyneira the opportunity to follow him without any further discussion about propriety. They both laughed as they left Christchurch behind at a brisk trot.
    “Whoever makes it to that house over there first!” Charles called, spurring Madoc to a gallop. He did not have eyes for Gwyneira’s high-riding skirts. A horse race over endless grasslands was still more intoxicating to him than a woman’s figure.
    Around noon the pair of riders returned, having amused themselves terrifically. The horses snorted contentedly, Cleo seemed once more to be smiling from ear to ear, and Gwyneira even managed to adjust her skirts before they rode into town.
    “In the long run I’m going to have to think of something,” she murmured, draping the right side of her skirt modestly over her ankle—at which her dress naturally rose higher on the left side. “Maybe I’ll just cut a slit into the back.”
    “That would only work as long as there wasn’t any wind.” Her young chaperone grinned. “And as long as you don’t gallop. Otherwise, your skirt will fly up and people will be able to see your…ahem…well, whatever you have on underneath. My mother would probably faint!”
    Gwyneira giggled. “That’s true. Ah, I wish I could just wear pants. You men don’t know just how good you have it.”

    That afternoon, at teatime, Gwyneira ventured out to find Helen. Of course, in doing so, she risked crossing paths with Howard O’Keefe, which Gerald would not appreciate. But she was burning with curiosity, and Gerald really couldn’t dispute her presenting herself to the parish pastor. After all, this was the man who was supposed to preside at her wedding, so this was less a courtesy call than an obligation.
    Gwyneira found the parsonage right away and was cheerfully shown in. Indeed, Mrs. Baldwin treated her guest as obsequiously as she would a member of the royal family. Gwyneira did not believe that this was due to her noble lineage—the Baldwins weren’t fawning over the Silkhams—to them, Gerald Warden was the social giant. Likewise, they seemed to know Lucas. And though they had thus far been rather reticent about Howard O’Keefe, they could not praise Gwyneira’s fiancé highly enough.
    “An extremely cultivated young man,” Mrs. Baldwin lauded.
    “Impeccably raised and highly educated. A very mature and serious man,” the reverend added.
    “Very interested in art!” Vicar Chester declared with beaming eyes. “Well-read and intelligent. The last time he was here, we passed the whole night in such exciting conversation that I almost missed service in the morning.”
    Gwyneira became increasingly nauseated at these descriptions. Where was her farmer, her cowboy? Her hero out of the penny romances? Although there weren’t any women here who needed to be rescued from the hands of the redskins, would an adventurous six-shooter hero have stayed up half the night