by Sarah Lark
ALSO BY SARAH LARK
In the Land of the Long White Cloud saga:
In the Land of the Long White Cloud
Song of the Spirits
Call of the Kiwi
In the Caribbean Islands saga:
Island of a Thousand Springs
Island of the Red Mangroves
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © Sarah Lark
Translation copyright © 2015 D. W. Lovett
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Das Gold der Maori by Bastei Lübbe in Germany in 2008. Translated from German by D. W. Lovett. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2015.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503948815
ISBN-10: 1503948811
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary-Soudant
Dedicated to Mary O’Donnell—
We will never forget you
Contents
Dignity
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Goodness
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Strength
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Gold
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
The Will of the Gods
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Mana
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Translator
Dignity
Wicklow County, Ireland
1846–1847
Chapter 1
Mary Kathleen’s heart was beating quickly, but she forced herself to walk slowly until she was out of sight of the manor. Not that anyone would really have an eye on her. And even if Gráinne, the cook, did suspect something, two scones hardly amounted to anything—not compared to what Gráinne herself regularly filched from the wealthy Wetherby household.
Still, Mary Kathleen was trembling by the time she ducked behind one of the stone walls that defined the fields here, as they did everywhere in Ireland. The walls offered cover from the wind and even from prying eyes, but they could not shield Kathleen from her feelings of guilt.
She, Mary Kathleen, the model pupil of Father O’Brien’s Bible study, she who had proudly placed the name of the Mother of God before her own at confirmation—she had stolen!
Kathleen still could not comprehend what had come over her, but when she had carried the tray with the scones up to Lady Wetherby, her desire had become all but overwhelming. The scones were freshly baked, with white flour and white sugar, and served with marmalade that came from England in sweet little jars. According to the label, which Kathleen deciphered with effort since she had only been taught the rudiments of reading and writing, the marmalade was made from oranges. Surely the contents of those little jars would taste delicious.
It had taken all of Kathleen’s restraint to place the pastry tray carefully on the tea table between Lady Wetherby and her guest, curtsy, and whisper “Madam,” without slobbering like the shepherd’s dog. That thought made her want to giggle hysterically. She had almost been proud of herself when she went back into the kitchen, where old Gráinne was just then biting into one of the delectable little cakes—without giving Kathleen or the scullion maid so much as a crumb, of course.
“Girls,” Gráinne liked to preach, “you already have enough to thank the Lord for, having gotten your hands on a post in this manor. The occasional heel of bread falls to you as is. Nowadays, with the potatoes rotting in the fields and people going hungry, a bit of bread can save your life.”
Kathleen acknowledged this wholeheartedly—her family had been blessed with quite a bit of luck. As a tailor, her father always earned a little money, so the O’Donnells were not solely dependent on the potatoes that Kathleen’s mother and siblings grew on their tiny plot. Whenever the need became too great, James O’Donnell drew from his meager savings and bought a handful of grain from Lord Wetherby or the lord’s steward, Mr. Trevallion. Kathleen had no reason to steal—and yet she had.
Then again, why had Lady Wetherby and her friend left two of the scones untouched? Why had they not kept an eye on her while she cleared the table? The ladies had gone into the music room where Lady Wetherby played piano. They had no interest in the remaining scones, and Gráinne, as Kathleen had known, would not be suspicious either. Lady Wetherby was young and a gourmand. She rarely sent treats back.
So Kathleen had stuck the scones in the pockets of her neat servant’s uniform and, later, in the pockets of her worn blue dress. Then she committed another theft by stashing the almost empty marmalade jar instead of following Gráinne’s request to wash it. That was a venial sin, since she would bring it back clean once she had scraped the last of the marmalade from it. The theft of the scones, however, would burn in her soul until she could confess to Father O’Brien on Saturday. If she even dared to confess it. She was certain that she would die of shame.
Already, Mary Kathleen deeply regretted her actions, though she had not even eaten the scones. Yet notions of their taste and aroma consumed her. God, help me! The thought overcame her as she considered whether she might assuage the sin by giving the scones to her younger siblings. At least that would be active penance—and a much harsher punishment than rattling off twenty Hail Marys. But the children would doubtlessly flaunt their treats, and when Kathleen’s parents learned of the matter . . .
No, that was not an option.
But that was not the worst of it. While Kathleen piously contemplated how she could expiate her sin, a desire flared up within her, making her heart beat more quickly again. Was it anxiety? Or guilt? Or joy?
She could share the scones with Michael. Michael Drury, the farmer’s son next door, lived with his family in a cottage even tinier, sootier, and poorer than that of Kathleen’s family. Michael surely had not eaten a morsel that day—aside, perhaps, from a few pilfered kernels of grain as he helped to harvest the crop for Lord Wetherby. Even that was considered a crime, one that Mr. Trevallion would punish with blows if he caught the boys.
The grain was for the lords, the potatoes for the servants. And
when the potatoes rotted in the fields, the peasants understood just how low their standing was. Most of them accepted their lot in life. Michael’s mother, for example, saw the mysterious potato blight as God’s punishment and tried in her daily prayers to discern what had so enraged the Lord that He visited such misery upon them. Michael and a few other young men grew incensed at Mr. Trevallion and Lord Wetherby, who blithely reaped a rich grain harvest while the tenants’ children starved.
Mary Kathleen pictured Michael’s rakish expression when he had cursed the landlord and his steward: his furrowed brow under his dark, wiry hair, and the glint in his shining blue eyes. Would God consider it penance if she shared the scones with her beau? Yes, she would sate his hunger—but also her own longing to be with the tall, lean young man with the deep, beguiling voice. She yearned for his touch and to lose herself in his arms.
When times had been better, Michael had played music with his father and old Paddy Murphy on Saturday evenings and at the harvest festival every year. The villagers danced, drank, and laughed; and, later in the evening, Michael Drury sang ballads, his gaze fixed on Mary Kathleen.
These days, however, no one had the strength to dance. And Kevin Drury and Paddy Murphy had long since disappeared into the mountains. According to the rumors, they were running a flourishing whiskey distillery there. It was said that Michael sold the bottles on the sly in Wicklow. In any case, Kathleen’s father wanted nothing to do with the Drurys, and he had admonished his eldest daughter strongly when he saw her with Michael one Sunday after church.
“But I think Michael means to ask for my hand,” Kathleen had said, flushing brightly as she protested. “All, all officially and honorably.”
James O’Donnell had snorted, his tall, slim frame shaking with displeasure. “Since when has a Drury ever done anything officially and honorably? The whole family is a bunch of ne’er-do-wells: fiddlers and distillers. Rascals, the lot of them. They wanted to ship that boy’s grandfather off to the colonies. Little as I like the English, they’d have done a good deed there. But the fellow got away to Galway and then to God knows where. Just like his good-for-nothing son. As soon as things get too hot for them, they take off—and not one of them has left behind fewer than five kids. Keep your eyes off that Drury boy, Kathie, not to mention your hands. You could have any boy here, lovely lass that you are.”
Kathleen had blushed again, this time out of embarrassment at her father calling her “lovely.” Such praise was already suspect enough in Father O’Brien’s eyes. A virgin should be virtuous and industrious, he always said, but under no circumstances should she put her charms on display.
Though in Mary Kathleen’s case, this could scarcely be avoided. After all, she could not hide herself away altogether just to deny men a look at her delicate face, her soft honey-blonde hair, and her charming green eyes. Michael had compared the color of her eyes to the dark green of the glens before sunset. And sometimes, when they reflected joy or surprise, he said he saw in them sparks that shone like the first green of spring in the meadows.
Oh, Michael had a way with flattery. But Kathleen did not want to believe that he was really as much of a rogue as her father thought. After all, he worked hard every day in Lord Wetherby’s fields. On top of that, he still fiddled on the weekends at Barney’s Tavern in Wicklow—a long walk if no one lent him a donkey or mule. Sometimes Roony O’Rearke, the Wetherbys’ gardener, was willing to do so. Roony was believed to be a drunk, but Kathleen did not want to consider a possible connection between moonshine whiskey and O’Rearke’s loan of his donkey.
Kathleen stood up from behind the stone wall and began walking again. A copse divided the Wetherby estate from the cottages of its tenants. The landlords did not like to look directly at the houses of their servants and workers. Kathleen began to feel better—which was surely because rather than heading toward the village and her family’s cottage, she was making her way to the wheat fields above the huts. The men would still be working there, but the sun was slowly setting. Trevallion would soon have to send them home.
Twilight always put the eager steward in a bind: there was still enough light to work—and Lord Wetherby was not running a charity, after all—but the twilight aided theft. The workers slipped stalks of grain into their pockets or hid them behind the stone walls to retrieve them when it was dark.
Kathleen hoped Trevallion would send his men home early that evening, even if it meant more dire hunger would prevail in the cottages. The families were waiting hopefully for their fathers’ and brothers’ takings. Not even Father O’Brien could seriously condemn the tenants’ actions, though he assigned them sinners’ prayers when they confessed their little thefts. Accordingly, the pious patriarchs spent half of Sunday on their knees in church. Meanwhile, young men like Michael roved across the fields trying to pinch a few more stalks, unobserved by the lord and lady, who spent Sunday riding and hunting with friends.
The full moon that rose over the mountains only strengthened Trevallion’s fear of theft. As the moonlight brightened the landscape, the men, their wives, and their children would easily find the stalks of grain they’d hidden. Kathleen supposed that the overzealous overseer planned an early dinner and nap before riding half the night on patrol.
She had to force herself not to spit at Trevallion as he approached her. He sat high on the box of the last grain wagon while the exhausted workers dragged themselves home from the fields on foot.
“Hullo, little Mary Kathleen!” he said affably. “What are you doing here, blondie? Have they already sent you home from the manor? You all must be spending a lovely springtide in that kitchen. I’ll wager old Gráinne isn’t merely taking care of herself but the families of all her children and children’s children with His Lordship’s bread.”
“His Lordship likes cake better,” came a voice from the group of laborers shuffling tiredly behind Trevallion’s wagon.
Kathleen recognized the voice of Billy Rafferty, one of Gráinne’s sons. Billy was not the most clever, but he was crafty, and he liked to play the fool.
“Which you ought to know, Trevallion,” Billy continued. “Don’t you eat at his table?
The remark was answered with loud laughter. In truth, the English lord treated his Irish steward no better than he treated his tenants. Trevallion had a special position and would not starve. But he did not enjoy his lord’s respect, nor was there any talk at all of raising him to nobility himself, an honor sometimes granted to stewards of very large properties. Though Lord Wetherby was a member of the nobility, his family was considered unimportant in England. His holdings in Ireland resulted from his wife’s dowry and were rather small.
“At least my table is richly decked,” Trevallion said. “With cakes, too, little Kathleen. In case you start to look for a husband who has something to offer.”
Kathleen blushed deeply. No, the fellow could not know about the scones that seemed to be burning holes in the pockets of her dress. She must not act contrite, though. She lowered her eyes chastely. As a rule, Kathleen did not answer when Trevallion addressed her, especially not when he made such outrageously suggestive remarks. Too often, one heard of girls who surrendered to vice in the arms of their lords’ stewards—though Kathleen could not imagine that this was due to the sin of lust.
Truly, Trevallion had nothing about him that could attract a girl. He was short, wiry, and redheaded like a leprechaun, but he lacked the wit of the mythical creatures for which the better-off Irish built houses in their gardens to secure help with farm work—and with moonshine whiskey distilling.
There was nothing kind to say about Trevallion. He was completely subservient to his English masters and cruel to their tenants. Even when the lord and lady were not residing on their holdings in Ireland, which was most of the year, he would not turn a blind eye. In times like those, most stewards would look away while the men went hunting or when some of the fruit and vegetables from the master’s garden ended up in the pots of the farmers’ wives. Treva
llion fought for every carrot, every apple, and every bean on his master’s land, though, in truth, Lord Wetherby only appeared at harvest time and during hunting season. The people hated the steward, and if a girl gave in to him, it would certainly be out of need, not love.
“Or is it that you have a young suitor here in the fields?” Trevallion now asked with a spiteful gleam in his eye. “Is there something I should know as the eyes and ears of His Lordship?”
Weddings had to be approved by the landlord, and he listened eagerly to Trevallion’s whispers.
Kathleen did not dignify this question with a response either.
“I think I’ll have a little word with the tailor O’Donnell soon,” Trevallion said. Kathleen saw how he licked his lips before finally letting her go.
She was trembling. The fellow did not really mean to court her, did he? Her father was always speaking of a “good match,” and he claimed that she could find her fortune thanks to her beauty as long as she waited demurely and chastely for the right man. That did not mean Trevallion, though, did it? She’d take the veil before marrying that pig.
Kathleen stopped at the side of the road with her head bowed, letting the grain wagons and men pass. She knew that Michael would soon arrive, and so she continued along behind the stone walls that enclosed the freshly harvested fields.
She felt burning rage at Trevallion as she watched the first hungry children from the village coming up to the fields. Everyone would try to find the last remains of the grain, and everyone would be disappointed.
Just at that moment, however, Kathleen caught sight of Michael, and she was filled with happiness. Michael approached calmly, as if strolling through the stubble field. He saw the women and children, of course, which was why he only waved surreptitiously for her to follow him. Anyway, Kathleen knew where he was leading her.
Their hiding place was a tiny bight below the town, near the fields on the river. There the reeds stood high on the shore and a mighty willow let its branches hang in the water. Both hid the lovers from view. Kathleen knew that it was a sin to meet there with a young man—not to mention one of whom James O’Donnell did not approve—no matter what lovely words he spoke. Yet something in her insisted on doing it anyway. She wanted to wring a little happiness from the joyless days of work in the manor and now the useless toil on her father’s land in the evening.