In the Land of the Long White Cloud

the level of a light exchange of compliments and banter after all. That would have suited her much better than this discussion of art and culture. Lucas, however, did not take the bait.
    “Why not, my lady? Chorales should mimic the exultation of the choirs of angels as they praise God. And who wouldn’t want to praise God for such a beautiful creature as you? What especially fascinates me about Bach is the almost mathematical clarity of his compositions, united with his undoubtedly deeply felt faith. Naturally, the music can only come to life in its proper element. What I wouldn’t give to listen just once to one of his organ concertos in one of Europe’s great cathedrals! That would be…”
    “Illuminating,” Gwyneira remarked.
    Lucas nodded enthusiastically.
    After discussing music, he moved on eagerly to contemporary literature, the works of Bulwer-Lytton above all—“Edifying,” Gwyneira commented—and then it was time to exchange ideas on his favorite topic: painting. He was most inspired by the mythological motifs of the renaissance artists—“Sublime,” Gwyneira responded—as well as the light and shadow play in the works of Velasquez and Goya. “Refreshing,” Gwyneira improvised, who had never heard the first thing about them before.
    After two hours, Lucas seemed enthusiastic about her, Gerald was battling with exhaustion, and Gwyneira just wanted to get out. Finally she lightly touched her temples and looked at the men apologetically.
    “I’m afraid I’m getting a headache after the long ride and now the warmth from the fire. I think I need a little fresh air.”
    As she prepared to stand, Lucas sprang to his feet. “But of course, you’ll want to relax before dinner. It was my fault! We’ve stretched our teatime out too long with our stimulating conversation.”
    “Really I’d rather take a short stroll,” Gwyneira said. “Not far, just to the stables to look in on my horse.”
    Cleo was already dancing around her with excitement. Even the dog had been bored. Her happy barking roused Gerald’s spirits.
    “You should accompany her, Lucas,” he prompted his son. “Show Lady Silkham the stables and make certain the farmhands don’t drool over her.”
    Lucas blinked, indignant. “Please, don’t speak like that in the presence of a lady.”
    Gwyneira attempted to blush, but deep down she was looking for an excuse to refuse Lucas’s company.
    Fortunately, Lucas also had his reservations. “I think perhaps that such an outing may overstep the boundaries of decency, Father,” he said. “It would be inappropriate for me to linger alone in the horse stables with Lady Silkham.”
    Gerald snorted. “The horse stables are probably as busy as a pub right now. When the weather’s like this, the shepherds hang around where it’s warm and play cards.” Rain had set in late that afternoon.
    “Just so, Father. Tomorrow they would be flapping their mouths about how their masters retreat to the stables to perform indecent acts.” Lucas seemed unpleasantly struck by the mere thought of becoming the target of such a rumor.
    “Oh, I’ll be all right alone,” Gwyneira said. She wasn’t afraid of the hands. After all, she’d earned the respect of her father’s shepherds. And the shepherds’ crude speech was much more appealing to her at the moment than any further edifying conversation with a gentleman. On the way to the stalls he was likely to examine her knowledge of architecture too. “I should have no trouble finding the stall myself.”
    She would have liked to grab a coat, but it was better to leave before Gerald came up with any objections.
    “It was exceedingly in…vigorating chatting with you, Mr. Warden,” she informed her fiancé with a smile. “Shall we see each other at dinner?”
    Lucas nodded and squared himself for another bow. “But of course, my lady. In just about an hour, dinner will be served in the dining room.”

    Gwyneira ran through the rain. She dared not think about what the moisture was doing to her silk dress. The weather had been so lovely earlier. Oh well, no rain, no grass. The moist climate of her new homeland was ideal for raising sheep, and of course she was used to such weather in Wales. It was just that she wouldn’t have been traipsingthrough the mud in such elegant clothing there, since the paths leading between the farm buildings had been paved. On Kiward Station, in contrast, this had so far been neglected; only the approach was