In the Land of the Long White Cloud

necklace around his neck, from which hung a green stone. His bearing had initially been stiff and unsure, but now that he was loosening up, she saw that he carried himself erectly and in a self-assured manner. His movements were limber, almost graceful.
    “Now tell Miss Davenport a bit about your farm,” the vicar encouraged him. “Maybe about the animals or the house…”
    Howard O’Keefe shrugged. “It’s a lovely house, Helen. Very sturdy, built it myself. And the animals…well, we have a mule, a horse, a cow, and a few chickens. And sheep, of course. Thousands of them.”
    “That…that’s a great many,” Helen remarked, wishing fervently she had listened more closely to Gwyneira’s endless stories about sheep breeding. How many sheep had she said Mr. Warden had?
    “That’s not many, but there’ll be more. And there’s plenty of land; it’ll work out. So how…eh, how do we proceed?”
    Helen wrinkled her brow. “How do we proceed with what?” she asked, feeling for a few strands of hair that had fallen from her chaste hairdo.
    “Well, uh…” Howard played awkwardly with his second cup of tea. “With the wedding…”

    With Gwyneira’s permission, Kiri finally scampered off in the direction of the kitchen to come to Moana’s aid. Gwyneira spent the last few minutes before teatime conducting a more thorough inspection of her rooms. Everything was impeccably arranged, down to the lovingly arrayed toiletries in the dressing room. Gwyneira marveled at the ivory combs and matching brushes. The soap smelled of roses and thyme—surely not a creation of the indigenous Maori tribe; the soap must have been bought in Christchurch or imported from England. A pleasant aroma wafted from a little dish of dried flower petals in her salon. There was no doubt about it—even a perfect housewife in her mother’s or sister Diana’s vein could not have arranged her rooms any more invitingly than…Lucas Warden? Gwyneira simply could not imagine how a man could be responsible for this display.
    She could barely contain her curiosity. She told herself that she didn’t really have to wait for teatime; Gerald and Lucas might already be in the salon. Gwyneira walked over to the stairs, across halls laid out with expensive rugs—and heard raised voices coming from the salon that echoed through half the house.
    “Can you tell me why today of all days you absolutely had to check on the pastures?” Gerald thundered. “Couldn’t it have waited until tomorrow? The girl will think she doesn’t mean anything to you!”
    “Forgive me, Father.” The voice sounded calm and cultivated. “But Mr. McKenzie simply wouldn’t let up. And it was urgent. The horses had already broken out three times.”
    “The horses had
what
?” Gerald bellowed. “Broken out three times? That means that for three days I’ve been paying the men to catch their nags all over again? Why didn’t you step in earlier? McKenzie wanted to make the repairs right away, didn’t he? And while we’re on the subject of pens—why was nothing prepared for the sheep in Lyttelton? If it weren’t for your soon-to-be wife and her dogs, I’d have had to spend the whole night watching the beasts myself!”
    “I had a lot to do, Father. Mother’s portrait for the salon had to be finished. And I had to take care of Lady Gwyneira’s rooms.”
    “Lucas, when will you finally learn that oil paintings don’t run away, unlike horses? And as for Gwyneira’s rooms…
you
arranged her rooms?” Gerald seemed just as unable to comprehend that as Gwyneira herself.
    “Who would have done it otherwise? One of the Maori girls? She would have found palm mats and a fire pit!” Now Lucas sounded a bit heated. Only as much, however, as a gentleman ever allowed himself to become in company.
    Gerald sighed. “All right, fine, let’s hope she knows how to appreciate it. Let’s not fight now; she’ll be coming down any minute.”
    Gwyneira decided to take that as her cue. With even steps, her shoulders squared, and her head raised high, she came down the stairs. She had practiced such entrances for days before her first debutante ball. Now it was finally paying off.
    As expected, her entrance left the men in the salon speechless. Before the background of the dark staircase, Gwyneira’s delicate figure clad in pale blue silk seemed to have stepped out of an oil painting. Her face shone brightly, and the loose strands of hair framing it looked like spun gold