by Sarah Lark
Little Sean excelled at this, however. He had begun to talk early. So he would dub a copse in the middle of which a natural clearing appeared the “Fairy Place,” and a large rock standing in the middle of a meadow “Leprechaun.”
The children were good company as she worked. Colin would attentively hand her a tool while Sean tried to teach the dog to shake hands.
“Good boy, give me good paw,” he explained to the agreeable but completely useless mutt.
Recently, Ian had come to believe he needed to teach his sons manners. “It impresses the customers,” he once said. “Especially the higher class. For the farmers, it mostly doesn’t matter how you lot act. But the gentlemen like a ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir.’ ‘How good you look on the horse, sir.’ ‘Of course, this is no horse for a farmer, sir, it’s got too much vim. But if anyone can tame it, it’d be a master rider like you, sir.’ And at that, you’d bow and smile.”
At thirteen months, Colin hadn’t understood anything his father was saying, but he liked to laugh and imitate Ian bowing. Sean, however, had furrowed his brow. He was two years old and asked questions all the time.
“Some can tame a horse, some can’t,” Ian had said, more to himself than anyone. “The main thing is the customer believes he can. When it turns out he can’t, well, at least he’ll come back and admit it. And, boys, if the man comes right back with the horse, give him your good hand and bow.”
“What’s that, good hand?” Sean had inquired, though he risked a slap for being insolent. “Other hand good too.”
Now the dog he was trying to teach seemed to be having similar trouble understanding the difference. When he raised a paw at all, it was the left one. But Sean was distracted anyway. Over the path that led from the farm to Christchurch, a donkey was trotting toward them, a conspicuous little animal with friendly, upright ears. It was properly bridled and bearing a rider who looked no less strange than her mount.
As they approached, Kathleen could see the woman was young, somewhere around her own age, so about twenty. She was thin and delicate. However, Kathleen immediately thought she recognized the first signs of a pregnancy. The waist of the elegant brown velvet riding dress seemed to be a little high, and the fabric strained a bit around the breasts. However, the woman sat very elegantly in her English sidesaddle—a relaxed, upright posture like the one Lady Wetherby in Ireland also had. On a donkey, one so small at that, both the large saddle and the prim appearance of the rider seemed more than out of place.
Kathleen couldn’t help but laugh when she caught sight of her. The young woman returned the laugh at once. She had a lovely smile and a little nose set in an oval face framed by a few dark-brown corkscrew curls, which had come loose from under her hat. Her friendly brown eyes looked out from strong brows and thick eyelashes.
“Hello,” the rider greeted her, bowing and graciously lowering her hand, which held a riding crop. Kathleen also recalled this gesture from the lady in her homeland. “How lovely to meet another person. And a woman at that. Even if you laugh at me first thing. I do admit I must look a little like Sancho Panza on his donkey.”
“Like who?” Kathleen asked shyly.
The young woman ignored the question. Instead, she looked over Kathleen and the children inquisitively.
“Well, I see your two knights are still too little to help me from the saddle,” she said regretfully before gliding nimbly down from the donkey without help. Smiling, she approached Kathleen.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Claire Edmunds, of Stratford Manor, farther upriver.”
“Stratford Manor?” asked Kathleen, awed. That sounded grand. The houses of many wealthy Englishmen in Ireland also had fine-sounding names.
“Well, yes, after Stratford—Stratford-upon-Avon, you know. Shakespeare’s hometown. Such foolishness, calling the river the Avon and then the city Christchurch. Bigoted folk, all of them would-be missionaries. Anyway, I named the farm. Sounds better than Edmunds’ Farm, don’t you think? My husband laughs at me for it, though. What do you call your farm?”
Kathleen shrugged. “Coltrane’s Livestock Trade,” she said. “I’m Kathleen Coltrane.”
Claire Edmunds furrowed her brow. “Ah yes, your husband sold Spotty here to mine.” She pointed to the donkey.
Kathleen now recalled having the animal in the stables for a short time.
“A nice animal,” Claire continued. “But your husband ought not to have told mine that this little fellow could do all the farm work. He claimed he was worth two mules in front of a wagon or a plow.”
Kathleen blushed. “My husband . . .”
“Is a horse trader. I understand; they all lie. One simply can’t believe anything they say, and Spotty makes that plain. But Matthew has no notion of horses. And, of course, he doesn’t listen to me.”
“Spotty?” asked Sean, stroking the donkey’s nose.
Claire nodded. “Indeed. And what is your name, young man?”
Sean held his hand out to her—the left, unfortunately, but he bowed. “Sean, Madam.”
Claire Edmunds laughed and shook Sean’s hand blithely. “What a sweet child. And so well raised. So, as I was saying, I’m not angry about all that with Spotty. Au contraire. Since he can’t do farm work, I have him to myself.”
“Your saddle’s funny,” said Sean.
“It’s from England,” Claire explained. “I brought it with me. I would have loved to bring my horse too, but we could not afford it.” Her face became sad. “But what can you do? It’s not important for happiness.” The woman looked cheerful again. “In any case, I have my saddle and my riding dress—and Spotty. And I’ve finally found a woman who does not live so far away and with whom I can talk.” She looked questioningly at a daunted Kathleen. “You will talk to me, won’t you?”
Kathleen smiled and decided she could not afford to be shy. “Of course,” she said. “You’re the first woman I’ve seen in seven months, and I’m not supposed to talk to you? I’m just a little surprised.”
Claire nodded, understanding. It did not seem to be any different for her. A mischievous smile flitted across her face. “Nothing wrong with that. But you ought to think of inviting me to tea now, as I’ll need to go soon. When my husband comes home in the evening, he has to eat right away. I take that very seriously, the fastest way to the heart being through the stomach.” Claire made this assertion sounding thoroughly convinced. “It’s just I can’t cook very well,” she admitted.
Kathleen laughed and invited Claire into the house. The other woman took her little hat off, revealing a thick knot of dark hair, which she loosened, freeing her corkscrew curls. Kathleen wondered how she would look with such a hairstyle, and suddenly she was aware of her worn dress and her stringy hair.
Claire seemed to read her thoughts. “I don’t have that many good dresses either,” she confessed. “In truth, really just this one, since I haven’t had it on since I left home. And it won’t fit me much longer. Nor the others. Matthew says I should simply sew myself a new one, but I don’t know how.” Claire sighed. “Anyway, I dressed up today to go riding. And I even found someone.” Her face brightened. “Matthew will be very happy for me. He’s so considerate! Truly, you know . . .”
“So, where was your home, originally?” Kathleen inquired.
“Liverpool,” Claire answered at once. “How about you? You’re Irish, are you not? Matthew said something like that.” She blushed.
Kathleen had to laugh again. “‘Those damned Irish.’” She imitated in a deep voice what Matthew Edmunds was almost sure to have said: “‘Thieves and cheats, the lot of them.’”
Claire giggled, at ease. “Quite close,” she confirmed. “I just didn’t want to say it and insult you. And I’m sure not all Irish are like that. Surely many are very . . . nice.” She bit her lip and changed the subject. “Tell me, you wouldn’t happen to be a midwife, would you? I, I’m having a baby, you see.”
Kathleen swallowed. In her homeland, people were not near
ly as prudish as in England, but even the Irish would not have broached the subject of childbirth after a mere half hour of acquaintance. Only Pere spoke so casually about having children.
Claire blushed again. “I’m sorry. Certainly that wasn’t proper. But I really must go soon, and it weighs on my heart. Mrs. Coltrane, I . . . I have no idea how the baby will get out.” She bit her lip.
Kathleen should have been moved by her embarrassment, but Claire amused her. They were the same age, but this girl seemed so innocent and naive. It was hardly imaginable that she was married and soon to have a baby.
“Well, out the same door it came in, generally speaking,” Kathleen answered drily.
Claire looked at her, disbelieving. “You mean there, where my husband . . . but, but it’s not big enough. It’s hardly big enough for my husband.” Her face was now completely red. She looked like a ten-year-old in Father O’Brien’s classroom.
Kathleen smiled. “Claire! May I call you Claire?” She could hardly call this girl Mrs. Edmunds. “I hope it’s all right if we call each other by our first names at this point. The entrance widens.”
“You’re sure?” Claire asked suspiciously. “I know I’m ignorant in these matters. My father’s a doctor, but one simply does not talk about such things with her father. My mother would have an attack of asthma if I asked her something like that.”
“I’m sure,” Kathleen soothed her. “You don’t need to worry about that. But someone gave you away in marriage. Did no one tell you anything about having children?”
Claire chewed on her lower lip. “Strictly speaking, no one gave me away,” she said. “I gave myself away. Really, I was supposed to marry my cousin; he’s going to be a doctor and take over Father’s practice. But he’s a boring oaf. Well, and then I got to know Matthew.” An otherworldly radiance spread over Claire’s face. “In the city, at market. Kathleen, he’s so funny. He was always making me laugh. And he tells such lovely stories. About all his travels—imagine, he’s been to America! And to Hawaii. And Australia. But New Zealand was best, he said back then. A little like England, but everything new, no bigwigs, no limitations—Matthew wanted to buy land and settle. With me! Oh, Kathleen, it was so romantic when he asked me. And the way he described everything. The river here, the Avon—don’t you think it’s a sign? I’m Juliet; Matthew is Romeo. But my parents would never have accepted it. So I simply did it.”
Claire got up and assumed a histrionic posture. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
She beamed.
Kathleen frowned. Was her new friend crazy?
Claire looked just as taken aback. “Don’t you know it?” she asked, disbelieving. “Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet. It’s a very famous story. Don’t you have any romance over there in Ireland?”
Kathleen did not reveal her romance with Michael or their time in the fields by the river. Nevertheless, she learned every detail of Claire’s flight from her parents’ house, her precipitous wedding in London, and her voyage to New Zealand.
“I wrote my parents again, but they did not want to see me. I don’t miss them, particularly, either. Only I do miss my horse, although now I have Spotty. And I have my Matt, too, of course. He is wonderful, truly. Only, well, at first it was exciting here in the new country on the farm, but now . . . I’m all alone, Kathleen.” Claire vacillated between euphoria and disappointment.
“Matthew bought himself a boat. He fishes in the river and ferries people who want to get from Lyttelton to Christchurch. He says we could get rich if only I would manage the house better. He is, well, he surely loves me very much, but he, I think he’s not very happy with me.” Claire sounded like a child who has received a bad mark at school. “And yet, I try hard. I just don’t how to do all of it. Have you ever milked a cow? Before you came here, I mean.”
Claire’s outburst did not really call for an answer, which probably was for the best. A report of Kathleen’s experiences husbanding sheep and cows would probably have awed the young woman into silence. As it was, Claire kept talking, and an astonished Kathleen learned that no one had ever particularly bothered her new friend with practical matters. Her parents possessed a large house. There were servants who did everything for them. Her mother had not taught Claire and her sisters even a modicum of housekeeping. Instead, they could do what they liked—as long as they behaved within the bounds of proper breeding. Claire liked to ride. Besides that, she liked to read and study. She knew French, Latin, and Italian. She played the piano and the violin. She had read books about astronomy and had always wanted to discover a new star.
“It was always so wonderful with Matthew,” Claire said enthusiastically. “We would look into the sky together, and he would name the stars. And tell me about the Southern Hemisphere, about the Southern Cross.” She smiled, lost in thought at the memory, but then she suddenly looked sad. “Now I discover stars every day,” she said soberly, “though not with Matthew. He, he hasn’t the time. Yet I’m sure he knows their names. I could look them up, of course, but I can’t find a book with them in it. I can’t find any books anymore, Kathleen! Otherwise I could read about childbirth. Where, where did you learn everything about babies? Did someone tell you before you were married?”
Kathleen sighed. “I learned it too early, alas. When is yours expected, anyway?”
“There’s still time,” Claire said, leaving unsaid whether she knew how long a pregnancy normally lasted. “But yours is coming soon, right? Do you have someone who’ll help you?”
Kathleen shook her head, and Claire seemed to sense that her more experienced friend was not much less afraid of giving birth than she was.
“You know what? When the time arrives, I’ll come here and stay with you,” Claire said—and it sounded comforting, although Claire clearly did not know whether she was trying to calm Kathleen or herself. “True, I can’t do anything much, but I’ll see it. Then at least I’ll know what’s waiting for me. And in any case, it’s better than being all alone.”
Chapter 9
“You must think that I don’t know what’s going on between you and my husband.”
Mrs. Smithers made this devastating revelation quite casually as she laid freshly cut long-stem roses in Lizzie’s basket. Table decorations. Mr. Smithers was expected that evening, along with a business friend. Lizzie felt all the blood drain from her head, and she almost dropped the basket, but then there was only resignation and exhaustion. Fine, it was out. She had lost. But at least she would no longer need to worry.
Lizzie tried to breathe deeply and compose her thoughts. She gazed at the overgrown garden, modeled, only somewhat successfully, on an English park. The roses grew well; the grass grew too lushly, though—it was not velvety smooth but hard like reed. Acacia had overtaken a large part of the garden instead of forming a neat hedge, and eucalyptus trees overshadowed the manicured English fruit trees.
It was a cool but rainless summer day in Van Diemen’s Land. Lizzie had been trying for almost six months now to keep the secret of her relationship with Mr. Smithers. It was not easy because Mr. Smithers often lacked caution and tact. When he saw Lizzie in her blue dress, white lace apron, and bonnet doing any kind of work, he lost control of himself. He would want to take her on the nearest divan or even on the carpet, and he reacted poorly when she refused. She had nothing for which to blame herself. She did not provoke him and only lay motionless in her chamber until he had satisfied himself. In England, her customers would have complained, but Mr. Smithers did not seem to care as long as she wore her bonnet and apron. Just as Martha had suggested, the uniform aroused him more than the girl who wore it.
And now, after all her efforts not to let the matter come to light . . . “Madam, I . . .” Lizzie began to stammer, but words failed her.
“Don’t lie to me,” said Mrs. Smithers sternly. She glared at Lizzie from beneath the brim of her straw sun ha
t. Apparently, she had counted on denial. “If anything is going to save you, it’s only absolute honesty.”
Save her? Lizzie felt as if the ground beneath her was swaying—much more so than back on the ship.
“I . . .”
Mrs. Smithers didn’t give her a chance to explain herself. “Do you expect something from it?” she asked curtly. “Do you have hopes of some kind?”
Hopes? This had destroyed them. Lizzie almost could have laughed. Perhaps this was just a bad dream.
She shook her head helplessly.
“Are you expecting some benefit? Early pardon? Hush money?”
Lizzie shook her head more strongly.
Mrs. Smithers furrowed her brow. “Do you love him, perhaps?”
“No!” Lizzie yelled, her voice finally firm.
“Then why do it?” Unlike all the others, this question sounded like it was asked out of honest interest. Mrs. Smithers seemed startled at this—and then gave an answer before Lizzie could. “Well, you girls can’t control yourself. That’s why you’re here, after all—I was warned, you know.”
Lizzie lowered her head. She should have been angry, but she just did not want to hear any more. She wanted Mrs. Smithers to hand down her sentence so she could finally be done with this.
“You’re aware that I could send you back to Cascades?”
Lizzie nodded abjectly.
“But on the other hand”—Mrs. Smithers looked at Lizzie with an odd expression of pity—“the next one wouldn’t likely be any better. And at least you’re not pretty.”
Lizzie wanted to yell at Mrs. Smithers and tell her that she could probably get her husband back to her bed if she would only wear a bonnet and apron. She held her tongue, of course—and she felt a certain strange curiosity. What did Mrs. Smithers have up her sleeve?