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as she negotiated the cross-town traffic, then turned her car on to Yaldhurst Road. Automatically she slowed as she approached the rear of the racecourse. Some magnificent horses were already doing track work and her eyes delighted in the attractive scene. It had rained in the night, but this morning the sun had come out and the world seemed new and fresh. Frances felt cheered by this small sign.
    A large plane moving ponderously in to land at the nearby airport shattered the peace with the scream of its engines. Soon she turned out on to the West Coast Road and the peaceful beauty soothed her. The smooth straight road cut its way across the flat plains seeming to stop only at the line of gigantic mountains. The Southern Alps were magnificent, standing in rugged rows of snow-tipped splendour. Around her, the patchwork quilt of the plains lay lazily spread-eagled for the sun. Crops of hay, barley, wheat, lucerne and clover showed the effect of an early, warm wet spring. Cattle moved in some paddocks, but mostly it was the sheep that caught the eye. Horses grazed and in another section she noted a pig farm. Every sign promised a good season. Now and then she passed farmhouses dotted around with trees, the fence lines linking as well as dividing. Past Hororata, a small township waiting in the sun, she turned off according to the directions Jenny had given. Her path headed more south than west towards the mighty Rakaia river. She sped along, conscious of a rising anticipation.
    After driving for some time Frances saw a glimpse of an enormous old house surrounded by a wood. A glance at the letterbox told her she had reached Coppers, so she swung down the side road, knowing she was almost at her destination. Coppers was an early pioneer homestead and Frances recalled having seen pictures of it in the past. It was named for the copper beech trees that formed such a notable feature of its grounds. Even from the road the trees looked magnificent and a tree-lined drive led from the road towards the house. Frances smiled to herself. She was going to a very different type of house, judging from what Jenny had said. Travelling much more slowly now, as the road was only shingle, she kept on glancing round until she finally saw a neat, long modern house of green summer-hill stone and knew she had arrived. Like its neighbour this house had been set around with trees, but here they were only small and still young. Fast-growing silver birches formed a break from the prevailing wind and Frances knew the garden would be a pleasant spot. The house had been built to get the maximum advantage of the sun. To one side a group of garages and implement sheds were screened by more trees. Frances stopped her little Mini and wondered where she should park. She smiled as Jennifer Marsden came out to greet her.
    ‘Grand timing! My man’s just arrived in for morning tea, so you can meet him. I’m sure you’ll like each other. Just put the wee car in here.’
    Obediently Frances drove the car in beside a big, powerful Jaguar. Her little Mini looked very small beside the big car and a Land Rover on the other side.
    She grabbed her suitcase and eased out of the car. As they went into the house Jenny commented on a motorbike in their way to the door. ‘My brother’s bike! Watch out for it as he’s liable to leave it anywhere! He’s here a lot as Rupe and he often work together.’
    Now Frances was inside and found herself in a large sunny kitchen. Two men stood up as they entered, and for a panic-stricken moment Frances felt quite shy. Rupert Marsden was brown-haired, medium height and heading towards forty, thought Frances. She began to relax, sensing a quiet ease in the calm smiling face. He had a. tanned outdoors look about him and he held out his hand in greeting. ‘Welcome, I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us!’
    Frances took his hand gratefully before turning to the other man at his side. Jennifer introduced him as her brother, Ian Burnleigh.