In the Land of the Long White Cloud

Beasley turned out to be a pleasant, red-faced gentleman who reminded Gwyneira vaguely of her father. He too resided on the land rather than working the soil with his own hands, yet he lacked the landed gentry’s aptitude, cultivated over many generations, of running the farm effectively, even from the salon. The path leading up to his farm might have been elegant, but the horse pastures’ fences could have used a fresh coat of paint. Gwyneira also noticed that the meadows were overgrazed and the water troughs were dirty.
    Beasley seemed sincerely pleased by Gerald’s visit. He uncorked his best bottle of whiskey straightaway and fell all over himself with compliments—alternating between Gwyneira’s beauty, the skill of the sheepdogs, and the Welsh Mountain sheep. His wife, a well-groomed middle-aged woman, welcomed Gwyneira heartily.
    “You must tell me about the latest English fashions! But first I’ll show you my garden. My goal is to grow the prettiest roses in the plains. But I won’t be upset if you outdo me, my lady. No doubt you’ve brought the prettiest examples from your mother’s garden and spent the whole trip taking care of them.”
    Gwyneira swallowed. Not even Lady Silkham had thought to give her daughter some of her roses to bring along. But now she felt obliged to marvel at the flowers that so perfectly mirrored her mother’s and sister’s blossoms. Mrs. Beasley almost fainted when Gwyneira casually mentioned this, dropping the name “Diana Riddleworth” in the process. Apparently, it was the crowning achievement of Mrs. Beasley’s life as a rose gardener to be compared to Gwyneira’s famous sister. Gwyneira let her enjoy the moment. She certainly had no plans to outdo Mrs. Beasley. Not especially captivated by the roses, shefound herself instead much more interested in the native plants that grew all around the manicured garden.
    “Oh, those are cabbage trees,” Mrs. Beasley explained, disinterested, when Gwyneira pointed to a palmlike plant. “It looks like a palm, but supposedly belongs to the lily family. They shoot up like weeds. Be careful you don’t get too many of those in your garden, child. Or those over there.”
    She pointed to a blooming bush that Gwyneira actually liked more than Mrs. Beasley’s roses. Its blossoms glowed a fiery red, in handsome contrast to its lush green leaves, which were unfolding beautifully after the rain.
    “A rata,” Mrs. Beasley explained. “They grow wild across the whole island. Can’t get rid of them. I always have to take care that they don’t sneak in with the roses. And my gardener is no great help. He doesn’t understand why you care for some plants and weed out others.”
    As it turned out, the Beasleys’ entire staff was Maori. They had hired only a few white adventurers who claimed to know what they were doing to look after the sheep. Gwyneira saw a pureblooded native for the first time here and was initially a bit frightened. Mrs. Beasley’s gardener was short and stocky. His hair was dark and curly and his skin light brown; his face was marred by tattoos—or at least that’s how Gwyneira saw it. The man must have liked the whirls and zigzags himself, however, since he’d agreed to have them scratched painfully into his skin. Once Gwyneira had gotten used to his appearance, she found she liked his grin. He was very polite too, greeting her with a deep bow and holding the garden gate open for the ladies. His uniform was no different from that of white servants, though Gwyneira assumed that the Beasleys had ordered it. Before the whites had appeared, the Maori had no doubt dressed differently.
    “Thank you, George,” Mrs. Beasley said to him kindly as he shut the door behind her.
    Gwyneira was surprised.
    “His name is George?” she asked, taken aback. “I would have thought…but your help are no doubt baptized and have taken English names, is that right?”
    Mrs. Beasley shrugged. “To be honest, I don’t even know,” she admitted. “We don’t go to church regularly. That would mean a day’s journey to Christchurch every time. So on Sunday I just hold a little devotional here for us and the help. But if they come because they’re Christian or because I demand it…I don’t know.”
    “But if his name is George…” Gwyneira insisted.
    “Oh, child, I gave him that name. I’ll never learn the language of these people. Their names alone are unpronounceable. And he doesn’t seem to care either way, do