In the Land of the Long White Cloud

EST C OAST
1852–1854

1
    G erald Warden and his baggage did little more than creep forward, though Cleo and the young flock kept a brisk pace. Gerald had needed to rent three wagons to transport his European purchases to Kiward Station, as well as Gwyneira’s comprehensive dowry of occasional furniture, silver, and fine linen. Lady Silkham had not scrimped in that regard, going so far as to reach into the contents of her own trousseau. It first struck Gwyneira when they were unpacking how many useless extravagances her mother had packed in her chests and baskets—items that no one at Silkham Manor had needed for thirty years. What Gwyneira was supposed to do with them here at the edge of the world was a mystery, though Gerald seemed to hold the bric-a-brac in high regard and wanted to bring it all to Kiward Station straightaway. So three teams of sturdy horses and mules lurched across the Canterbury Plains. The rains had made the trails muddy in places, which dragged the trip out considerably. The spirited riding horses did not like the slow pace, and Igraine had been pulling at her reins all morning. Yet, to her own surprise, Gwyneira wasn’t at all bored: she was enthralled by the endless landscape through which they rode, the silky carpet of grass on which the sheep would gladly have paused, and the view of the towering and majestic mountains in the background. After the past few days of rain, it was as clear as the day after they had arrived, and the mountains appeared once more to be close enough to touch. Near Christchurch, the land had been mostly flat, but it was becoming noticeably hillier. It consisted primarily of grassland, stretching as far as the eye could see, and was broken only occasionally by hedges or boulders that protruded so sharply from the green that it was as though a giant child had thrown them into thelandscape. Now and then they crossed streams and rivers whose currents were so mild that they could be waded through without danger. Now and then they rounded inconspicuous hills—suddenly to be rewarded with the sight of a small, crystal-clear lake in whose water the sky or the rock formations above were reflected. The majority of these lakes, Warden revealed, had volcanic origins, although there were no longer active volcanoes in the area.
    Not far from the lakes and rivers stood the occasional humble farmhouse with sheep grazing in the meadows beside it. When the settlers noticed the riders, they came out from their farmhouses, hoping for a chat. Gerald spoke only briefly with them, however, and took none of them up on their offers of rest and refreshment.
    “If we start accepting their invitations, we won’t reach Kiward Station for another two days,” he explained when Gwyneira found fault with his gruffness. She would have liked to have a look inside one of these sweet little houses because she assumed that her own future home would look similar. But Gerald allowed only short rests on riverbanks or at hedges, and otherwise insisted on maintaining a rapid pace. Only in the evening of the first day did he accept accommodations at a farm, which appeared considerably larger and neater than the houses of the roadside settlers.
    “The Beasleys are wealthy. For a while, Lucas and their eldest son shared a tutor, and we invite them over every now and then,” Gerald explained to Gwyneira. “Beasley spent many years at sea as a first mate. An exceptional seaman. Just doesn’t have a knack for sheep breeding, or they’d have even more. But his wife wouldn’t settle for anything but a farm. She comes from rural England. And that’s why Beasley’s having a go at agriculture. A gentleman farmer.” Coming from Gerald’s mouth it sounded a bit derogatory. But then he smiled. “With an emphasis on the ‘gentleman.’ But they can afford it, so what’s the harm? And they provide a little culture and social life. Last year they even put together a fox hunt.”
    Gwyneira wrinkled her brow. “Didn’t you say that there weren’t any foxes here?”
    Gerald smirked. “The whole thing suffered a little because of that. But his sons are prodigious runners. They provided the bait.”
    Gwyneira had to laugh. This Mr. Beasley sounded quite original, and he appeared to have a good eye for horses. The thoroughbreds resting in the paddock in front of his house were definitely imported from England, and the composition of the garden along the approach struck her as classically English. Indeed,