In the Land of the Long White Cloud

outbuildings. Gerald had had shelters and shearing stations for his sheep set up all over his property. Gwyneira found that very prudent of him but was astounded by the scope of the grounds. In Wales, her father’s stock of some four hundred sheep had been considered large. But here they counted by the thousands.
    “So, Gwyneira, I’m curious what you think.”
    It was late afternoon and Gerald’s whole face shone as he guided his horse alongside Igraine. The mare had just stepped from the usual muddy path onto a paved trail that led from a little lake around a hill. A few more steps revealed the farm’s main house.
    “Here we are, Lady Gwyneira,” Gerald said proudly. “Welcome to Kiward Station!”
    Gwyneira should have been prepared, but she almost fell from her horse in surprise. In front of her, in the sun, in the middle of an endless grassland, with the mountains rising up in the background, was an English manor house. Not as large as Silkham Manor and with fewer turrets and side buildings, but otherwise comparable in every way. Kiward Station was even more beautiful in some ways, having been perfectly planned by a single architect instead of being rebuilt and added onto like most English manors. The house was constructedof gray sandstone as Gerald had mentioned. It had oriels and large windows, which were partially adorned with small balconies; an ample path led up to it with flower beds that had not yet been planted. Gwyneira decided to sow rata bushes. That would highlight the facade and, moreover, they were easy to take care of.
    Everything seemed as though it were out of a dream. Surely she would wake up anytime now and realize that peculiar game of blackjack had never happened. Instead, her father had married her off with a dowry from the sale of the sheep to some Welsh nobleman and now she was to take possession of some manor house near Cardiff.
    Only the help, who were lined up before the front door to receive their master just as in England, didn’t fit the picture. Though the male servants were wearing livery and the housemaids wore aprons and little bonnets, their skin was dark, and many of their faces were emblazoned with tattoos.
    “Welcome home, Mr. Warden!” A short, compact man greeted his master, smiling across his broad face, which made the perfect canvas for his tattoo designs. He gestured to the sky, which remained blue despite the hour, and the sunny landscape. “And welcome, miss! As you see—the
rangi
, the sky, beams with joy at your arrival, and
papa
, the earth, smiles because you wander over it.”
    Gwyneira was touched by his hearty welcome. She impulsively extended her hand to the short man.
    “This is Witi, our butler,” Gerald said. “And that’s our gardener, Hoturapa, and the housemaid and cook, Moana and Kiri.”
    “Miss…Sil…ha…” Moana wanted to greet Gwyneira properly as she curtsied, but apparently, she found the British name unpronounceable.
    “Miss,” Gwyneira shortened it. “Just call me
miss
.”
    She herself did not find it difficult to note the Maori’s names, and she decided to learn a few polite phrases in their language as soon as possible.
    So that was the staff. It struck Gwyneira as rather small for such a big house. And where was Lucas? Why wasn’t he standing here to greet her and make her feel welcome?
    “Now, where is…” Gwyneira launched into the pressing question of her fiancé’s whereabouts, but Gerald beat her to it. He seemed just as vexed by his son’s absence as Gwyneira.
    “Where is that son of mine, Witi? He ought to be dragging his hide out here to meet his fiancée…ahem, I mean to say…Lady Silkham is naturally awaiting his appearance with great anticipation.”
    The butler smiled. “Young master rode out, checking on pastures. Mr. James say, someone from house must authorize buying material for horse pen. As it is now, horses not staying in. Mr. James very angry. That why young master rode away.”
    “Instead of receiving his father and bride? Now what a great way to start things!” roared Gerald.
    Gwyneira, however, found it excusable. She would not have had a moment’s peace if Igraine had been put in a stall that wasn’t secure. And a ride to check up on the pastures was more fitting for her dream man than reading or playing the piano.
    “Well, Gwyneira, it looks like there’s nothing to do but have patience,” Gerald said, finally calming down himself. “But maybe it’s not as bad as all that.