In the Land of the Long White Cloud (26 page)

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 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 traipsing
through 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 paved. If it had been up to Gwyneira, she would have paved the area in front of the stalls rather than the splendid but rarely used path to the front door. But Gerald probably had other priorities—and Lucas most definitely did. No doubt he was already planning a rose garden too. Gwyneira was happy to see bright light shining from the stalls, as she wouldn’t have known where to find a stable lantern. Voices now issued from the sheds and stalls as well. Obviously the shepherds had indeed gathered here.

“Blackjack, James!” someone called with a laugh. “Drop your pants, my friend! I’m taking your pay today.”

As long as the men don’t place other people as bets
, Gwyneira thought, catching her breath and opening the stable door. The path before her led left to the horse stalls; to the right it widened into a depot where the men were sitting around a fire. Gwyneira counted five in all, rough-looking fellows who did not appear to have washed yet that day. Some had beards, while others looked like they’d gone three days without their razors. Three of the young sheepdogs had curled up next to a tall, thin man with an angular, darkly bronzed face that was deeply creased by laugh lines.

Another man handed him a bottle of whiskey.

“Here, as consolation.”

So that was the “James” who had lost the hand.

A blond giant who was shuffling the cards looked up by chance and caught sight of Gwyneira.

“Hey, boys, are there ghosts around here? Normally I don’t see such pretty ladies till after the second bottle of whiskey.”

The men laughed.

“What radiance in our humble abode,” said the man who had just handed the whiskey bottle around, with a voice that was failing him. “A…an angel!”

Renewed laughter.

Gwyneira did not know how to respond.

“Now be quiet, boys, you’re embarrassing the poor girl.” The oldest among them now spoke up. He was apparently still sober and was stuffing his pipe at the moment. “That’s neither an angel nor a ghost, just the young mistress. The one Mr. Warden brought back for Lucas to…well, you know already.”

Embarrassed tittering.

Gwyneira decided to take the initiative.

“Gwyneira Silkham,” she said, introducing herself. She would have extended her hand to the men but so far none of them had made the effort to stand up. “I wanted to check on my horse.”

Cleo, meanwhile, had toured the stalls, greeted the sheepdog pups, and waggled from one man to the next. She paused by James, who petted her with adept hands.

“And what’s this little lady’s name? A beautiful animal. I’ve already heard about her, and just as much about her mistress’s wondrous skill at driving sheep. By your leave, James McKenzie.” The young man stood up and stretched out his hand to Gwyneira, looking at her steadily with brown eyes. His hair was likewise brown, plentiful, and unkempt as though he’d been fussing with it nervously during the card game.

“Hey, James! Don’t get too worked up,” one of the others teased him. “She’s the boss’s; didn’t you hear?”

McKenzie rolled his eyes. “Don’t listen to the scoundrels; they don’t have any class. But they were baptized at any rate: Andy McAran, Dave O’Toole, Hardy Kennon, and Poker Livingston. He’s pretty lucky at blackjack too.”

Poker was the blond, Dave the man with the bottle, and Andy the dark-haired, somewhat older giant. Hardy seemed to be the youngest of the lot and had already partaken a bit too much of the bottle to show any signs of life.

“I’m sorry that we’re all already a bit tipsy,” McKenzie said frankly. “But if Mr. Warden’s gonna send over a bottle to celebrate his return…”

Gwyneira smiled benevolently. “It’s all right. But be sure to put the fire out properly afterward. Not that you would set my stables on fire.”

While they were talking, Cleo leaped up at McKenzie, who immediately set about scratching her. Gwyn remembered that McKenzie had asked for the dog’s name.

“That is Cleopatra Silkham. And the little ones are Daisy Silkham, Dorit Silkham, Dinah Silkham, Daddy, Daimon, and Dancer.”

“Whoa, they’re all noble,” Poker said, alarmed. “Do we have to bow whenever we see them?” He pointed in a friendly way to Dancer, who was just then trying to gnaw on his cards.

“You should have already when you received my horse,” Gwyneira returned nonchalantly. “She has a longer family tree than any of us.”

James McKenzie laughed, and his eyes gleamed. “But I don’t always have to address the critter by her full name, right?”

Gwyneira’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’ll have to decide on that among yourselves with Igraine,” she explained. “But the dog doesn’t put on airs at all. She answers to the name Cleo.”

“And what do you answer to?” McKenzie asked, passing his gaze appreciatively, but not lasciviously, over Gwyneira’s figure. She shivered. After that run through the rain, she was beginning to freeze. McKenzie saw that at once. “Wait a moment, miss, I’ll grab you a shawl. It’s getting to be summer, but it’s still pretty miserable outside.”

He reached for a waxed coat.

“Here you go, Miss…”

“‘Miss’ will do,” Gwyneira said. “Thank you. Now, where’s my horse?”

Igraine and Madoc were well put up in clean stalls, but her mare stamped with impatience when Gwyneira came up to her. The slow ride that morning had not tired her, and she was burning for more action.

“Mr. McKenzie,” Gwyneira said, “I would like to go for a ride tomorrow morning, but Mr. Warden thinks it would be improper for me to go alone. I would not like to burden anyone, but would it be possible for me to accompany you and your men on some job? Inspecting the pastures, for example? I would be happy to show you how to train the dogs. They have naturally good instincts when it
comes to sheep, but there are a few tricks to further improve what they can do.”

McKenzie shook his head regretfully. “In principle, we’d be happy to take you up on your offer, miss. But for tomorrow we’ve already been charged with saddling two horses for your ride. Mr. Lucas will accompany you and show you the farm.” McKenzie grinned. “Surely that sounds a whole lot better than a survey ride with a few unwashed shepherds, eh?”

Gwyn didn’t know how to reply to that—even worse, she didn’t know what she thought. Finally she pulled herself together.

“Wonderful,” she said.

L
ucas Warden was a good rider, even if he lacked passion. The young gentleman sat properly and at ease in his saddle, managed the reins with confidence, and knew how to keep his horse calmly beside that of his companion in order to chat with her occasionally. To Gwyneira’s astonishment, he did not own a horse of his own, nor did he show any inclination to test the new stallion, something Gwyneira had been dying to do ever since Warden had bought the horse. So far she had been denied a ride on Madoc based on the argument that a stallion was not a lady’s horse—even though that horse was of a considerably calmer temperament than her own stubborn Igraine, if not as used to the ladies’ saddle, of course. However, Gwyneira was optimistic. The shepherds, who, due to the lack of grooms, also served as stable hands, had no concept of propriety. Hence Lucas had specifically had to ask a confused McKenzie to fit Gwyneira’s mare with the sidesaddle. For himself, he had ordered one of the farm horses, which were bigger but lighter than the cobs. Most of them seemed quite lively, but Lucas chose the calmest among them.