In the Land of the Long White Cloud

necessary papers for you. After that you can take the girl with you.”
    Mrs. Candler turned to Helen, just as chatty as she had been with the pastor’s wife before. Helen did not have to do much to gather information about Daphne’s future employment. In fact, the two of them gave a lengthy synopsis of their life thus far in New Zealand. Mr. Candler told Helen crankily about their first years in Lyttelton, which was still called Port Cooper at the time. Gwyneira, Helen, and the girls listened, raptly, to his stories of whale and seal hunting. Mr. Candler had not, however, braved the seas himself.
    “No, no, that’s for crazies who have nothing to lose. And back then I already had Olivia and the boys—so I wasn’t about to slug it out with giant fish that would have just wanted to get me by the throat! It makes me a little sorry for the critters. The seals especially, they look at you so trustingly.”
    Instead, Mr. Candler had run a general store that was so successful that later, when the first settlers in the Canterbury Plains were beginning to build, he was able to afford a nice piece of farmland.
    “But I realized quickly that I’m completely lost when it comes to sheep,” he admitted freely. “Animal breeding is just not for me, or my Olivia either.” He cast a loving gaze over his wife. “So we sold everything again and opened a store in Haldon. That’s what we like—that’s a life; there’s enough to eat, and the area is growing. It’s the best prospect for our boys.”
    The “boys”—the Candlers’ three sons—ranged in age from sixteen to twenty-three. Helen noticed how Daphne’s eyes lit up when Mr. Candler mentioned them. As long as the girl was clever about it and let her charms work, her allure couldn’t fail to attract one of them. And though Helen could never picture her willful charge as a maid, she would be right where she belonged as a well-esteemed merchant, no doubt adored by the male clientele.
    Helen’s heart was beginning to brim with happiness for Daphne when Mrs. Baldwin returned to the yard from the stables, accompanied this time by a tall, broad-shouldered man with an angular face and inquisitive bright blue eyes. Those eyes took in the scene in the yard quick as a fox, glancing at the Candlers, during which his gaze remained markedly longer on Mrs. Candler than on her husband; then it passed over Gwyneira, Helen, and the girls. It was clear to Helen that she could not hold his attention. He seemed to find Gwyneira, Daphne, and Dorothy far more captivating. Nevertheless, his passing glance was enough to make Helen flush with embarrassment. Maybe it was because he did not look her in the face like a gentleman but rather seemed to be conducting an examination of her figure. But that could be a delusion or just her imagination…Helen sized up the man suspiciously, but could not accuse him of anything else. He even smiled disarmingly, even if it looked a bit masklike.
    Helen, however, was not the only one who seemed ill at ease. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gwyneira instinctively retreat before the man, and Mrs. Candler’s distaste was written all over her face. Her husband put his arm around her as though he wanted to clearly establish his right of ownership. The man leered when he noticed the gesture.
    As Helen turned to the girls, she saw that Daphne looked alarmed and Dorothy appeared fearful. Mrs. Baldwin alone seemed not to sense that anything was amiss.
    “And here we have Mr. Morrison,” she said, introducing him placidly. “The future employer of Dorothy Carter. Say hello, Dorothy. Mr. Morrison will be taking you along right away.”
    Dorothy did not budge. She seemed to be paralyzed with fear. Her face turned pale, and her pupils widened.
    “I…” the girl choked when she began to speak, but Mr. Morrison interrupted her with a booming laugh.
    “Not so fast, Mrs. Baldwin, I want to look the little minx over first. After all, I can’t bring just any girl home to my wife. So you’re Dorothy.”
    The man approached the girl, who still did not budge—not even when he brushed a strand of hair from her face, stroking the tender flesh on her neck as if by accident in the process.
    “A pretty little thing. My wife will be delighted. Tell me, are you good with your hands, little Dorothy?” The question seemed harmless enough, but even to Helen, who was completely ignorant in all things sexual, it was clear that she was being asked about more than