In the Land of the Long White Cloud (51 page)

Helen and Gwyneira looked at each other helplessly. Then they laughed, and George joined in.

“When can I meet the groom’s father?” he asked finally, glancing at the sun’s position in the sky. “I promised Mr. Warden I’d be back for dinner, and I’d like to keep my word. It looks like the discussion with Mr. O’Keefe will have to wait until tomorrow. Is there a possibility that he’ll meet me in the morning, miss?”

Helen bit her lip. “I’ll gladly give him the message, but sometimes Howard is…well, stubborn. If he gets the idea that you want to impose a time on him…” It was visibly difficult for her to talk about Howard’s stubbornness and bravado, and she couldn’t even admit how often his moods and decisions were guided by caprice or whiskey.

As always, she spoke with calm and restraint, but George could read her eyes—just as he’d done at the Greenwoods’ dinner table. He saw anger and revulsion, desperation and disdain. Back then these feelings had been directed toward his superficial mother—now they were reserved for the husband Helen had once believed she could love.

“Don’t worry, miss. You don’t have to tell him I’m coming from Kiward Station. Simply tell him I’m stopping by on the way to Haldon—and I would like to see the farm and make a few business suggestions.”

Helen nodded. “I’ll try.”

Gwyneira and the children had already gone outside to hitch up her horse. Helen heard the children fighting over the currycomb and brush. George did not seem to be in much of a hurry. He looked around the hut before he made a move to say good-bye. Helen struggled inside herself. Should she speak to him frankly, or would he misunderstand her request? Finally she decided to broach the topic of Howard one last time. When George took over the local wool trade, her entire welfare would depend on him. And Howard would probably snub the visitor from England.

“George…” she began hesitantly. “When you talk to Howard tomorrow, please be indulgent. He is very proud and is quick to take offense. Life dealt him bad cards, and it’s hard for him to control himself. He is…he’s…”

“Not a gentleman,” she wanted to say, but could not get the words out.

George shook his head and laughed. In his usually teasing eyes, she saw a gentleness and an echo of his old love. “No need to say a thing, miss! I’m sure that I’ll come to a mutually satisfactory agreement with your husband. I did attend the best school for diplomacy, after all.” He winked at her.

Helen smiled, faint of heart. “Then, I’ll see you tomorrow, George.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Helen.” George wanted to shake her hand, but then had another thought. Once, just this once, he would kiss her. He put his arm around her and brushed her cheek with his lips. Helen let him—and then gave in and leaned for a few seconds on his shoulder. Perhaps someday, someone aside from herself could be strong. Perhaps someday someone would keep his word.

“N
ow, look, Mr. O’Keefe, I’ve visited several farms in this area,” George said. He sat with Howard O’Keefe on the veranda of Helen’s hut, and Howard had just poured himself some whiskey. Helen found that reassuring: her husband only drank with men he liked. So the tour of the farm earlier must have gone well. “And I have to admit,” George continued in a measured tone, “that I’m a little concerned.”

“Concerned?” grumbled Howard. “How do you mean? There’s plenty of wool here for your business. You certainly don’t need to worry about that. And if you don’t like what I’ve got…just as well, you don’t need to pretend with me. Then I’ll just look for another buyer.” He emptied his glass in one go and poured himself another.

George arched his eyebrows in confusion. “Why should I reject your product, Mr. O’Keefe? On the contrary, I’m very interested in working together. Precisely because of my concern. You see, I’ve visited several farms now, and it seems to me that a few sheep breeders are striving for a monopoly, Gerald Warden of Kiward Station first and foremost.”

“You can say that again!” O’Keefe replied, working himself up and taking another slug. “Those fellows want the whole market for themselves…only the best price for the best wool…even what they call themselves: sheep barons! Delusions of grandeur, that lot.”

Howard reached for the whiskey.

George nodded and sipped from his glass. “I would put it more mildly, but in principle, you’re not wrong. And it’s very astute of you to mention prices—Warden and the other top producers are driving them high. Of course, they’re also raising the expectations of quality,
but as far as I’m concerned…well, my negotiating position would naturally be stronger if there were more variety.”

“So you’ll be buying more from smaller breeders?” Howard asked hungrily. His eyes shone with interest but also with suspicion. What trader would knowingly buy lower-quality wool?

“I would like to, Mr. O’Keefe. But the quality has likewise to match. If you ask me, the little farms are stuck in a vicious circle that must be broken. You know it yourself—you don’t have much land, and you have too many rather low-quality animals; the yields are quantitatively acceptable but qualitatively poor. So there’s not enough revenue left over to buy better livestock and increase the quality of the results long term.”

O’Keefe nodded avidly. “You’re completely right there. That’s what I’ve been trying to make these bankers in Christchurch understand for years. I would need a loan.”

George shook his head. “You need first-class breeding material. And it’s not just you, but other small farms as well. An injection of money can help, but it’s not always the answer. Imagine you buy a prize-winning ram and the next winter he dies on you.”

George’s real fear was that a loan for Howard would more likely be gambled away in the pub than invested in a ram, but he had thought over his arguments at some length.

“Well, that’s exactly the ri…risk,” said Howard, who was gradually losing full command of his tongue.

“A risk you cannot afford, O’Keefe. You have a family. You can’t risk someone chasing you out of house and home. No, my proposal looks a little different. I’m considering having my company, Greenwood Enterprises, acquire a stock of first-class sheep and then offering them to the breeders on loan. As for reimbursement, we can work out an agreement. You would care for the animals, and return them in good health a year later—a year during which a ram mates with all the ewes in your flock or a purebred ewe delivers two lambs to you, which provide the foundation for a new flock. Would you be interested in such an arrangement?”

Howard grinned. “And Warden will start to look shabby when he suddenly finds farmers all around him with purebreds.” He raised his glass as though to toast George.

George nodded at him seriously. “Well, Mr. Warden won’t starve as a result. But you and I will have better business opportunities ahead. Agreed?” He held out his hand to Helen’s husband.

Helen saw from the window that Howard took it. She had not heard what they said, but Howard had rarely looked so pleased. And George had that old clever-as-a-fox look on his face, winking in her direction no less. Yesterday she had reproached herself, but now she wished she had kissed him.

George was very pleased with himself when he left Kiward Station the next day to ride back to Christchurch. Not even the dirty looks of that impertinent stable boy James McKenzie could spoil his mood. The fellow had neglected to saddle his horse for him, and that after there had nearly been an incident the day before when George had set off for Helen’s farm with Gwyneira. James had led Gwyneira’s mare out equipped with a sidesaddle after Gwyneira had asked him to prepare her mare for another ride with her visitor. Mrs. Warden had made an angry remark, to which he had offered a barbed reply, the only word of which George heard was “ladylike.” At that, Gwyneira had reached for little Fleur in a rage, whom McKenzie had been lifting up to set behind her on Igraine, and forced the girl to ride in front of George.

“Would you please let Fleur ride with you?” she asked sweet as sugar, casting an almost triumphant look at the shepherd. “I can’t have her with me on the sidesaddle.”

James McKenzie had stared at George with near murderous rage when he wrapped his arm around the little girl so that she would be secure. There was something brewing between that man and the lady of Kiward Station…but he had no doubt that Gwyneira could take care of herself if she felt put upon. George decided not to get involved and moreover not to say anything to Gerald or Lucas Warden. It
didn’t concern him—and besides, he needed to keep Gerald in the best possible spirits. After an ample farewell meal and three glasses of whiskey, George made his offer for a flock of purebred Welsh Mountain sheep. An hour later, he was a small fortune poorer, but Helen’s farm would soon be populated with the best breeding stock New Zealand had to offer. Now George only needed to find a few other small farms in need of start-up help to keep Howard from becoming suspicious. But that wouldn’t be difficult; Peter Brewster could give him a few names.

This new business venture—since that’s how George would have to explain this foray into sheep breeding—meant that George had to prolong his stay on the South Island. The sheep needed to be distributed and the breeders involved in the project observed. The latter was perhaps not necessary since Brewster could probably have recommended partners who knew their work and had come into debts through no fault of their own. But if Helen was to be helped over the long term, Howard O’Keefe would require constant guidance and supervision—diplomatically packaged as help and advice against his archenemy Warden—since O’Keefe was unlikely to follow simple directions. Least of all if they came from the mouth of a manager employed by the Greenwoods. So George would have to stay—a thought that pleased him more and more as he rode through the clear air of the Canterbury Plains. The many hours in the saddle gave him time to think over his situation in England as well. After just a single year of working together, his brother, William, had driven him to despair. While his father deliberately looked the other way, even during George’s rare visits to London he could see his brother’s mistakes and the sometimes horrendous losses the company had to contend with as a result. The pleasure George derived from traveling could in part be traced back to his inability to watch passively. He’d hardly set foot on English soil before chief clerks and managers had come to the junior executive with concerns: “You have to do something, Mr. Greenwood!”—“I’m afraid of being charged with breach of trust, Mr. Greenwood, if things continue like this, but what am I supposed to do?”—“Mr. Greenwood, I gave Mr. William the balance
sheets, but I almost get the impression he can’t read them.”—“Please speak to your father, Mr. Greenwood!”

Naturally, George had tried to do just that, but it was hopeless. Their father attempted again and again to successfully employ William in the company. Instead of limiting his son’s influence, he tried to give him ever more responsibility, hoping that it would guide him onto the right path. But George had had enough of that and, what’s more, feared having to clean up the mess when his father retired.

This New Zealand branch, however, offered an alternative—if he could only convince his father to leave the Christchurch business entirely in his hands, as an advance of sorts on his inheritance, then he could build up something here that would be safe from William’s escapades. He would have to live more humbly than in England at first, since manor houses like Kiward Station seemed out of place in this newly developed land. Besides, George had no need for luxury. He would be fine with a comfortable townhouse, a good horse for his trips around the area, and a nice pub where could find relaxation and stimulating conversation in the evening—all of which could no doubt be found in Christchurch. Naturally, a family would be even better. Until that moment, George had never thought about starting a family—at least not since Helen had turned him down so long ago. But now, having seen his first love again and left his romantic ideals behind, he could think of little else. A marriage in New Zealand—a “love story” that could touch his mother’s heart and encourage her to support his plans…above all, though, it was a good excuse to remain here. George decided to look around Christchurch in the coming days and perhaps ask the Brewsters and the bank director for some advice as well. They might even know of a suitable girl. But first he needed a place to live. The White Hart was a passable hotel, but unsuitable as a permanent residence in his new homeland.