by Sarah Lark
Mrs. Coltrane wore her hair up, like Mrs. Edmunds, but a few locks framed her face like a halo. Mrs. Coltrane’s blonde hair was like gold. Her complexion was as pale as marble, and not even the creases on her forehead—whether from concentration or worry—could mar the perfect expression of her face. All that, however, was surpassed by her shining green eyes—a color more intense than any Lizzie had ever seen before.
“Claire has told me so much about you,” the woman said kindly. “She said I should come to your fitting.”
“Mrs. Coltrane isn’t terribly social,” said Claire, “but it’s about time she ventures forth more often again. We could go to Miss Portland’s wedding. Do you already have bridesmaids, Miss Portland? Or flower girls? Our daughters would just love to do that for you.”
Mrs. Edmunds chatted blithely while Mrs. Moriarty and Mrs. Coltrane helped Lizzie into the dress. And again the transformation took place. The woman in the mirror had been Lizzie, but now she was a fairy-tale princess, almost as beautiful as Mrs. Coltrane. With the few alterations, the dress fit perfectly. Lizzie could not look at herself enough.
“It truly is fantastic.” Even Mrs. Coltrane’s eyes now shone with enthusiasm. “Claire is right. Someone needs to take a picture of you in the dress—a painting would be even better. There are good painters in Dunedin. Should we ask around for one?”
Lizzie felt dizzy. A painting? She thought about the family portraits in the Busbys’ house. And on the wall in the living room of her new farm near Queenstown.
She nodded. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “That would be a dream come true. I would never have thought . . .”
Lizzie spun in front of the mirror, and as she did, she glanced out the window.
“I can’t believe it,” she groaned. “I need to take off the dress very quickly, Mrs. Edmunds. Otherwise, there’ll be bad luck. Over there, on the other side of the street, is my future husband.”
Mrs. Edmunds shared her concern at once. “He risked coming here?” she asked, laughing. “Sometimes boys feel they have to test fate. Come quickly, Miss Portland, into the changing room. By the time he gets here, you’ll be wearing your old things again.”
As Mrs. Coltrane and Mrs. Moriarty helped Lizzie out of dress, they heard Mrs. Edmunds run to the door and give Michael an earful. He responded testily.
At the sound of his voice, Mrs. Coltrane abruptly froze.
“Is something wrong, Mrs. Coltrane?” Mrs. Moriarty asked.
“No, I, I just . . .”
Mrs. Moriarty laughed. “Back home they’d say someone just stepped over your grave.”
Lizzie had already put on her skirt and blouse, and she quickly smoothed her hair. Then she pushed open the door. Her face shone, as always when she saw Michael. It had been impertinent of him to come, of course, but sweet in its own way. He smiled at her, and then Lizzie watched him go instantly pale. Astonishment and confusion replaced his smile—and he stared as if something behind Lizzie compelled him.
Lizzie turned around. Mrs. Coltrane stood in the door to the changing room—and she wore the same shocked expression as Michael.
Kathleen collected herself first. “Michael,” she whispered.
Michael took a step closer. Everyone but Kathleen had disappeared for him. He was in another world. Alone with her.
“I thought you were dead.”
“You, you were in Australia.”
“But not for long.” Michael could not believe that he was standing there, talking to Kathleen. “I escaped. But you, Ian said you died in childbirth.”
Kathleen’s face was expressionless, a mask of confusion. “I’m here,” she said. “Right here.”
She held out her hand to him. He seized it. It was warm and damp with sweat. His was too.
“Do you see? I’m alive.” Kathleen handed him her second hand. They stood there motionless. They were in no hurry. A circle seemed to close.
“What’s happening?” asked Lizzie. “Who is this?” She did not need to ask. She knew. “Kathleen? Mary Kathleen?”
Claire did not entirely understand what was happening, but that the scene cut Lizzie to the quick was not hard to discern.
“My dear.” She tried to put her arm around Lizzie, but Lizzie shook her off.
“Mary Kathleen? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead.” Lizzie pushed determinedly between Michael and Kathleen and shoved the two of them apart. Kathleen looked at her, not comprehending.
“You were dead! Couldn’t you just stay dead?”
“Michael, what’s wrong with her?” asked Kathleen. She seemed to have forgotten that Lizzie was just talking about her fiancé, that Claire had been teasing Michael for his curiosity about the wedding dress.
“I’m sorry Lizzie,” Michael whispered. “But now, you do see she’s not dead.”
Michael turned back to this apparition from his past, in which he was slowly beginning to believe. “Let’s, let’s . . . What do we do now, Kathleen?”
“Come, Miss Portland.” Claire tried again to put her arm around Lizzie so she might usher her away. “They aren’t themselves anymore. I think they know each other from another time.”
“This is Michael, Claire.” Kathleen’s voice still lacked inflection, but she thought she ought to formally introduce Claire and Michael now. “Claire Edmunds, Michael Drury.”
“Sean’s father?” Claire blurted out.
Lizzie felt sick. So, the child had not died either.
“Miss Portland, come, let’s have some tea,” Claire said softly. “After that, everything will work itself out. Those two will come back to themselves. But I think they have a great deal to discuss. Mrs. Moriarty, please close the shop in case . . .”
In case my partner should forget to? Or run away without thinking? Claire did not quite know what she was afraid of.
Mrs. Moriarty nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
Lizzie followed Claire Edmunds up the stairs into a tastefully furnished living room. But she knew that nothing was going to work itself out, that nothing would be like it was before with Michael. She had seen his expression. From now on there was only Kathleen for him. As there had only ever been Kathleen. Death had parted them. But Lizzie should have known. One could not trust in God, or the spirits—or even in death.
Chapter 8
It took Michael a long time to collect himself. Kathleen accepted their reunion somewhat more quickly. After all, she had only thought him in Tasmania, not in the hereafter.
Yet she, too, had stood there for several minutes, her hand in his, until Mrs. Moriarty finally came out with a pot of tea. “Perhaps you’d like a sip?” she asked shyly.
Michael awoke from his daze. “Really, I need a whiskey,” he muttered.
Kathleen smiled. “Are you selling it again?”
“What? Oh, no. I’m, I’m a sheep breeder. I have a farm west of Queenstown. At least, I’ve bought one . . .”
Kathleen nodded. “I had a farm,” she said. “I lived with Ian for a long time near Christchurch. But your son was born in Lyttelton. Or Port Cooper, as they called it then. Almost on the ship on our way over.”
Kathleen began to tell him about it, but Michael interrupted her. “He’s alive? My son?” He was in a swirl of disbelief and extraordinary joy.
“Yes, very much so. He’s a good boy. And smart. He’s attending high school and will soon go to university. Ian, Ian is dead, however.”
Michael nodded, not wanting to go into Lizzie’s involvement in the matter. Yet at that, he thought of Lizzie again. This must be a shock for her. But what a strange twist of fate. Lizzie had killed Ian. Had cleared the way to Kathleen. Lizzie had always smoothed the way for him. Michael felt a sort of melancholy and gratitude toward the woman he had wanted to marry a moment before. But Lizzie had to understand.
Kathleen took a sip of tea. Color slowly returned to her face. Her beautiful face. At first glance, Michael had thought she had hardly changed, but now he saw that her eyes we
re framed by tiny wrinkles. She had grown more serious and was clearly no stranger to worry and concern—but to Michael she only seemed lovelier for all that.
“What about you? Did you have a wife? Any children?”
“Me? No, Kathleen, I, I have only ever thought of you.”
Kathleen frowned. “But that woman, the one buying the dress?” she asked. “Miss Portland? She is about to be your wife.”
Michael made a dismissive gesture. “An old friend. We have lived through a lot together. We wanted to manage the farm together. And well, because I thought you were dead . . . We were going to marry.”
“There was nothing more there?” asked Kathleen.
“Nothing you need to worry about. Kathleen, Mary Kathleen! It’s a miracle. Really, it’s a miracle. And our son—when can I see him?”
She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “School will be letting out soon,” she said. “We could pick him up. I, I could use some fresh air anyway.”
Kathleen brushed a strand of hair from her face before grabbing her small black hat. She looked at it a moment, then dismissed her plan to wear it.
Among the accessories the shop sold was an elegant, little dark-red hat. Kathleen took it from the stand. “What about Miss Portland?” she asked as she placed the hat on her head.
Michael shrugged. “She’ll find her way home,” he said. “I’m sorry for her, of course. We’ll see what we can do about the farm, but we’ll figure all that out later, Kathleen. For now, I want to see Sean. My son!”
Sean was amazed to see his mother waiting at the gate to the school. And the man beside her—he was excited at first because he thought it was Peter Burton, but then he saw that this man was taller than the reverend. He reminded Sean of someone, or something. He quickly said good-bye to Rufus Cooper and walked over to his mother and the man.
“Sean.” Kathleen beamed at her boy.
Sean looked at her suspiciously. Some change had taken place in her. There was a light in her eyes he hadn’t seen since she was with Peter Burton. Since before his father died. Ian. His father? Sean was no fool. As a child, Ian’s rejection and his clear preference for Colin had hurt Sean, but he had long since moved on from the man he called father. The complete lack of affection and bond had made him curious. And Kathleen’s marriage certificate had not been hard to find.
Sean slowly approached his mother and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Sean,” said Kathleen. “This is Michael Drury.” There was an exuberance in his mother’s voice that he had never heard before.
Sean offered his hand to the man. “Didn’t I see you in Tuapeka, Mr. Drury?” he asked courteously. He now recalled more clearly. Mr. Drury had been with Miss Portland—and Mr. Timlock. They had sometimes gone to Peter Burton’s services on Sunday. “How is Miss Portland doing?”
Sean saw his mother’s features darken, and Michael Drury’s face reddened. “Good,” he muttered. “Very good, as far as I know.”
“Mr. Drury and I know each other from Ireland,” said Kathleen. “We’re from the same village. And now, well, now, he wanted to meet you.”
Michael stood in front of his son and looked into the narrow face where, along with Kathleen’s straight nose and her high cheekbones, he saw his own features. Sean’s eyes were light green, and they looked at Michael curiously.
His son! Michael’s heart overflowed with emotion and love, but he did not know what to say to him.
“You, you’re sixteen now, Sean?” he stammered. “And, and you’re still going to school?”
Sean did not dignify this with a response. After all, it was obvious.
“Are you a good student?”
“A very good student,” Kathleen answered proudly. “Sean will be going to university next year.”
“University . . . when you think how we only got a few hours of education with Father O’Brien. It took me hours, Kathleen, to write you that letter. Did you get it, at least?”
Kathleen nodded and looked at him. “I still have it,” she admitted, “but there was nothing I could do.”
“You did the right thing, Kathleen. You did it for him. And it was worth it. A, a real good boy.”
Sean was annoyed. What was that supposed to mean? His mother did not otherwise tend to parade him in front of random acquaintances like a trained seal. All of this could really only mean one thing. In which case, they both owed him an explanation.
Sean waited until he could finally hold Michael’s gaze again, then held it fast.
“Mr. Drury, sir,” he said with a clear voice. “You, you wouldn’t happen to be my father, would you?”
“I’m awfully sorry, Lizzie.”
Michael really did not look as if he regretted anything. Quite the contrary; Lizzie had rarely seen him shine from the inside like this.
“But you do have to understand—”
“What?” asked Lizzie. “What do I have to understand? That our engagement is over, that all our plans are overturned, that your love for me has run out from one moment to the next—all because a woman appears whom you haven’t seen in seventeen years? With whom you share nothing except a homeland and an illicit past?”
Lizzie had to fight; she could not simply give up, even if at the moment she wanted nothing more. But Claire was right: Michael and Kathleen would have to come down from the clouds and begin to think again. Then, she needed to be there, and she could not look haggard and red-eyed and desperate. Until that morning, Michael had loved her. His love could not have disappeared completely in an instant.
“Lizzie, it’s Kathleen,” Michael said, misty-eyed. “You know—”
“Yes, I know she was your puppy love, and you even wanted to feed yourself to the sharks just to see her again. But that was half a life ago, Michael.”
Lizzie laid her hand on top of his. She was sitting in her hotel room—what had been their hotel room. Michael had rented another—one of the things for which he now demanded Lizzie’s understanding.
Michael withdrew his hand gently. “For me, it’s like it was yesterday,” he explained. “And she, she’s the mother of my son.”
“I’m also the mother of your son,” Lizzie blurted out. “Or your daughter.” She laid the hand he had rejected on her stomach.
“You’re with child?” he sounded more disbelieving than overjoyed.
Lizzie nodded. “Does that change anything?”
Michael chewed on his lip like a schoolboy. “Lizzie, all this, all this is too much at once. I need to figure things out. First with one thing, then the other. I . . .”
“So, it doesn’t change anything,” Lizzie said. “What are you thinking, Michael? You don’t want to marry—at least not me. I get that much. But what about the farm? What about our plans?”
Michael shrugged. “We need to think about that,” he said.
“We?” asked Lizzie. “Does ‘we’ mean you and I or you and Kathleen?”
Now Michael really did look pained. “Both. I, we, why don’t we sleep on it for now, Lizzie? Maybe—”
“Maybe I’ll just vanish like a bad dream?” she asked. “The child along with me? Maybe there’ll only be Mary Kathleen to think about when you awake?”
“Lizzie, Lizzie, you have to understand. I’m grateful. For, for everything. In a certain way I love you. But Kathleen . . .”
“This morning you loved me in more than ‘a certain way,’” Lizzie said bitterly. “But yes, you sleep on it and talk to Kathleen about it tomorrow. Maybe she’ll think of something. I’m sure she’s always wanted a lovely little farm in Otago.”
Michael’s face lit up. He did not seem to perceive the sarcasm in her words or the hurt in her voice. “Really Lizzie? You wouldn’t mind? I mean, if I kept the farm, that is? Half the money belongs to you, naturally. There’s no question of that. I would only need to see if the MacDuffs would allow installment payments.”
Lizzie could hardly believe it. Was he really so dense? Had he really th
ought she meant it like that? Or did he only understand things as they suited him at the moment? Lizzie wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She could cry when Michael was gone.
“Well, this Mary Kathleen of yours will surely have something to contribute, won’t she?” Lizzie asked icily. “After all, she’s been so successful in outfitting brides—unless she happens to want the groom herself.”
Michael shook his head. “Lizzie, don’t accuse her of anything. She doesn’t want to take anything away from anyone. It’s just, it’s simply fate.”
Lizzie rolled her eyes.
“But you’re right, Lizzie. If Kathleen sells her share in this business, we can afford the farm.” Michael laughed. “You see, I wouldn’t even have thought of that either. I’m really sorry, Lizzie. We, we were good together. But with Kathleen . . . well, you have to understand.”
“And what about his bride?” asked Claire. As they did almost every evening, the two friends had sat down to dinner together with their children. Although Kathleen usually cooked, that day she had not. There was just bread, cold meat, and cheese.
“About whom?” asked Kathleen.
She still had an unearthly glow in her eyes. What had happened was incomprehensible. She and Michael were reunited. Sean recognized his father. If father and son had done nothing but embrace each other, her dream would have been complete.
Ultimately, they had tried to explain everything to Sean, who had listened to the confusing story in silence. When Sean wasn’t able to take any more, he had made excuses about being needed.
“We’ll talk more about it soon,” Michael said.
Sean ran off, and Michael and Kathleen had walked the streets of Dunedin for a few magical hours, catching each other up on their lives but more than anything just reveling in being together again. Finally, Michael had known it was time to go; he owed Lizzie an explanation. Kathleen understood and agreed. She had returned home drunk with happiness.