In the Land of the Long White Cloud

retreated.
    “Yes, Howard? Forgive me if I’m being pushy, but I…” Helen was desperate for some emotion from this man that would make it a little easier for her to size up this Howard O’Keefe.
    The farmer grinned widely. “That’s all right, Helen. You want to get to know me. Well, there’s not much to say. She married another…which might be the reason I want to wrap this business up quickly. This business with us, I mean.”
    Helen was touched. So it wasn’t a lack of feeling on his part but rather an understandable fear that she might run off just like the first girl he had loved back then. She still could not understand how this taciturn, hard-seeming man could write such beautiful letters, but she thought she understood him better now. Howard O’Keefe was a still water.
    But did she want to dive in blindly? Helen feverishly considered her options. She could not live with the Baldwins any longer; they would never understand why she had deferred her marriage. And Howard himself would take any delay as a rejection and perhaps withdraw entirely. And then what? Would she take a position at the school here—which was by no means guaranteed? Would she spend the rest of her life teaching children like Belinda Baldwin and slowly becoming an old spinster? She couldn’t take that risk. Perhaps Howard was not exactly what she had in mind, but he was honest and direct, was offering her a house and a home, wanted a family, and worked hard to grow his farm. She couldn’t ask for more.
    “All right, Howard. But you will need to give me a day or two to prepare. A wedding like this…”
    “Of course we’ll throw a little party,” Mrs. Baldwin declared, sweet as sugar. “No doubt you’ll want to have Elizabeth and the other girls who are still in Christchurch at your side. Your friend Lady Silkham has already left, though.”
    Howard frowned. “Silkham? As in the noblewoman? Gwenevere Silkham who’s supposed to marry old Warden’s son?”
    “Gwyneira,” Helen corrected him. “That’s right. We became friends during the voyage here.”
    O’Keefe turned to her, and his previously amiable face contorted with rage.
    “Just so we’re clear, Helen—you will never receive a Warden in my house! Not as long as I live. Keep far away from that clan. The old man is a crook and the son is a dandy! And the girl can’t be any better or she wouldn’t have let herself be bought. The whole brood ought to be weeded out. Don’t you dare invite them onto my farm. Sure, I don’t have the old man’s money, but my gun shoots just as straight!”

    Gwyneira had been making conversation for two hours now, which was more of a strain than if she had spent all that time in the saddle or at a dog show. Lucas Warden covered every topic, one after another, that she had been trained to discuss in her mother’s salon, but his expectations were markedly higher than Lady Silkham’s.
    Yet things had begun well. Gwyneira had managed to pour the tea impeccably—even though her hands shook the whole time. The first sight of Lucas had simply been too much for her. Now, however, her heart no longer raced out of control, as the young gentleman gave her no cause for further excitement. He made no move to undress her with his eyes, to brush her fingers as though by accident as the two both reached—purely by coincidence—for the sugar, or to look her in the eye for a heartbeat too long. Instead, Lucas’s neutral gaze appeared to rest on her left earlobe while they conversed, his eyes lighting up only when he asked a question that particularly interested him.
    “I heard that you play piano, Lady Silkham. What’s the latest thing you’ve been working on?”
    “Oh, my mastery of the piano is incomplete at best. I only play for fun, Mr. Warden. I…I’m afraid I’m terribly untalented.” She looked bashfully down, then up, and made a slight frown. Most men would have said something complimentary and let the subject drop. Not Lucas.
    “I can’t imagine that, my lady. Not if you enjoy it. Everything we do with joy we’ll succeed at; I’m convinced of it. Do you know Bach’s ‘Notebook’? Minuets and dances—it would suit you!” Lucas smiled.
    Gwyneira tried to remember who had composed the etudes that Madame Fabian had tortured her with. She had heard the name “Bach” somewhere. Had he composed the church music?
    “I make you think of chorales?” she asked playfully. Maybe she could bring the conversation down to