In the Land of the Long White Cloud

thoroughly honest men. But most of the settlers…simply lack class, education, culture. For that reason, I am more than happy to have agreed to this unconventional marriage proposal, which has brought me such a charmingly unconventional bride. Might I hope that I too meet your expectations, Gwyneira?”
    Gwyneira nodded, though she had to force herself to smile. “I was pleasantly surprised to find such a perfect gentleman as yourself here,” she said. “Even in Britain I could not have found a more cultured and better-educated husband.”
    That was no doubt true. In the circles of landed Welsh gentry in which Gwyneira had moved, everyone had a basic education, but the talk in the salons centered more on horse races than Bach cantatas.
    “Naturally, we should get to know each other better before we decide on the wedding day,” Lucas said. “Anything else would be improper. I told Father that as well. He would have liked to fix the date for the day after tomorrow.”
    Gwyneira herself thought that enough words had been exchanged and that they knew each other well enough already, but she agreed, of course, and acted charmed when Lucas invited her to visit him in his studio that afternoon.
    “Naturally, I’m just an unknown painter, but I hope to continue to improve,” he explained to her as they rode along at a welcome gallop. “Right now I’m working on a portrait of my mother. It’ll have a home in the salon. Unfortunately, I have to work from daguerreotypessince I can hardly remember her. She died when I was still young. However, as I work, more memories come to me, and I feel that I’m becoming closer to her. It’s a very interesting experience. I would love to paint you too sometime, Lady Gwyneira!”
    Gwyneira agreed only halfheartedly. Before her departure, her father had commissioned a portrait of her, and she had almost died of boredom sitting as a model.
    “I’m anxious to hear your opinion of my work. Surely you’ve visited many galleries in England and are far better informed about the latest developments than those of us here at the ends of the earth.”
    Gwyneira could only hope that a few impressive words would come to mind for that purpose. She had depleted her reserve of appropriate remarks the day before, but hoped that perhaps the pictures would give her some fresh ideas. In truth, she had never been inside a gallery, and she was completely indifferent to the latest developments in art. Her ancestors—and those of her neighbors and friends—had over the course of many generations amassed countless paintings, which decorated their walls. The pictures primarily depicted forebears and horses, and their quality was judged only on the criterion of likeness. Terms like “play of light” and “perspective,” which Lucas ranted about endlessly, were entirely new to Gwyneira.
    Still, the landscapes through which they were riding enchanted her. That morning it had been foggy; however, the sun was burning off the fog, and as it cleared, Kiward Station was revealed as though nature were making Gwyneira a special present of it. Lucas did not lead her far out to the mountains’ foothills where the sheep grazed free, but even the land right next to the farm was beautiful. The lake reflected the sky’s cloud formations, and the rocks in the meadows looked as though they had just punctured the carpet of grass like powerful teeth, or like an army of giants that could spring to life at any moment.
    “Isn’t there a story where the hero sows rocks and soldiers for his army then grow from them?” Gwyneira asked.
    Lucas seemed excited at her knowledge. “They weren’t stones, but dragon’s teeth that Jason puts in the earth in Greek mythology,”he corrected her. “And the army of iron that grew out of them rose up against him. Oh, it is wonderful to be able to talk with classically educated people on the same level, don’t you think?”
    Gwyneira had been thinking instead of the stone circles in her homeland about which her nanny used to tell her adventure stories. If she remembered correctly, priestesses had burned Roman soldiers there, or something like that. But that story wouldn’t be classical enough for Lucas.
    A flock of Gerald’s sheep grazed among the stones, including ewes who had just lambed. Gwyneira was taken with the unquestionably beautiful lambs. Gerald had been right, though: a drop of Welsh Mountain sheep blood would improve their wool quality.
    Lucas frowned as