by Sarah Lark
Lizzie snorted. Then she told him about David Parsley. Kathleen and Claire looked at each other knowingly—they could figure out what happened, even though Lizzie gave Sean a somewhat watered-down version of the story.
“That’s why your father was so mad at me,” said Lizzie. “He doesn’t like to cheat anyone. But I’m sure nothing happened to Mr. Parsley—other than everyone making fun of him. He did not even need to pay for the voyage himself. His company or his employer did that for him. And I couldn’t let Michael drown.”
“I think it’s very noble of you,” said Sean. “Taking him along, I mean. It was a risk to ask for passage for David Parsley’s wife. If there had been no more space on the ship, you would have had to stay behind, and they would have caught you.”
“The ticket was in Parsley’s name,” explained Lizzie.
Sean nodded. “But you could have forged it.”
Lizzie had not even thought of that. But it was true. She had not depended on Michael’s escape in any way. Gratitude on her part was unnecessary. She, alone, was the hero of this story. She felt her mana grow.
“I didn’t want to go without him,” she finally admitted.
Sean grinned. “You were completely in love.”
Lizzie blushed.
“And what happened back then in Ireland? What got my father sent to Van Diemen’s Land? What happened to Trevallion’s grain?”
Lizzie shrugged. “You’ll have to ask your mother. I only met him on the ship.”
“But Ma won’t tell me anything,” complained Sean. “Nothing that makes sense, anyway. Just like my father. Did he distribute the grain or sell it or what?”
“Well, if I understand correctly, he used it to distill whiskey,” Lizzie said calmly. “Moonshine. You can’t book passage to America for a few sacks of grain.”
Kathleen and Claire gulped for air. For Claire the story was new. Kathleen was deeply ashamed. She would never have told Sean. What would he think of his father? But to her surprise, Sean began to laugh.
“My father, the Irish folk hero, distilled whiskey during the famine? I have to tell Reverend Peter. That’s the best story I’ve ever heard.”
Kathleen was grateful for all the hours her son had spent with Peter Burton. He’d imparted a deep sense of justice, to be sure, but also a sense of humor and respect for true feats of daring. It was true: Peter would enjoy the tale of Michael’s “freedom fighting” immensely.
“He did not distill whiskey until later,” Lizzie corrected Sean. “In Ireland, his family did it. But we had a tavern in Kaikoura.”
Kathleen felt the time was right to join them. She opened the door to the salon and smiled at Lizzie and Sean. “Pardon my barging in, Miss Portland. I just got home. And I’d like to hear this as well.”
Although Michael was not seriously considering owning a business in Dunedin, he thought about it briefly as he rode back to his hotel. A business? Maybe lumber trading or selling other construction materials. But he did not know much about wood, let alone stone. On top of that would come negotiating with deliverers, traders, and customers—maybe even bankers like the arrogant Jimmy Dunloe? No, that was not his world. Not even for Kathleen’s sake. Especially not Kathleen. She was ungrateful. Here he was doing everything to make their life’s dream come true. He was practically laying a farm at her feet. And what did she do? Nitpick.
He tied up his horse in the hotel’s stables and walked over to the tavern on the other side of the street. The situation required a whiskey, Irish if possible. Michael called to the barkeeper and ordered one.
A few hours later, he was sitting in his third tavern, this time in the middle of the city. He looked at the newly built St. Paul’s Cathedral, feeling sorry for himself. But then he saw what he at first thought was an apparition. Strolling from George Street toward the church was Lizzie. Not an apparition. Lizzie. Though strolling was the wrong word. Her movement was as deft and determined as always. She held herself upright, so she looked somewhat taller—she always did that too. Why had that never occurred to him before? She seemed at ease and at peace with herself. Completely different from him.
Michael threw a coin on the table, left what remained of his whiskey, and ran outside.
“Lizzie!”
She turned around, and Michael thought she might smile. Just as she always did when she saw him. But she frowned instead.
“Michael?” she asked, gesturing toward the tavern. “Drinking away the money for your farm?”
Michael caught up to her. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to pour his heart out to her.
“There isn’t a farm,” he said breathlessly. “She, she . . . Lizzie, Lizzie, I, I’d like to talk to you. I need to talk to you.”
Lizzie turned away. “I don’t know what we still have to discuss,” she said. “You have another life now, your ‘true life.’ Didn’t you always think of it that way? So good luck with Mary Kathleen. If you’ve got something to talk about, talk to her.”
She turned and began to walk again.
“But I don’t even have it!” yelled Michael. He jumped ahead of her, cutting off her path. “I don’t have another life. She doesn’t want me. Kathleen—after everything, she doesn’t want me anymore.” The words burst out of Michael as if they were going to tear him apart.
Lizzie suppressed the urge to take him in her arms. Not this time. She would not make it so easy for him this time.
She stepped closer but did not touch him. “After everything?” she asked sternly. “After what? Had you done anything together with Kathleen in all these years?”
“You know very well I was thinking of her!” Michael roared. “Every damn day since I left Ireland.”
Lizzie nodded and looked around unhappily. It was not good to fight on the street. She pulled Michael into the cool vestibule of St. Paul’s.
“Oh yes, I know,” she said bitterly. “You compared me with her every day—or rather with the memory you had of her. Kathleen the beautiful, the pure, the virgin Mary Kathleen. As opposed to Lizzie the whore.”
“Lizzie, I never wanted . . . I didn’t mean it that way.”
Michael furrowed his brow in remorse, a quirk Lizzie had never been able to resist. She looked away so she could remain focused and speak in defense of herself. “Didn’t mean it, did you?” she asked sternly. “Well, now it’s time to grow up. Your Kathleen stripped off her virgin mantle with the name Mary, and in doing so, she sold herself just like I did. Because sometimes one has no other choice. In the end, it doesn’t matter if one goes in front of the altar with a bastard so she can bring a child up with dignity, or if one goes to bed with paying customers to avoid starving. Or watches the man she loves destroy himself. Without me, Michael, they would have beat you to death as an escapee, or you would have drowned in the Tasman Sea, or you would have drunk yourself to death because your life of whaling and herding had no meaning. Of course, I needed mana for that, Michael, even if you didn’t like it. Just like you don’t like it with Kathleen now. Kathleen is just like me, Michael. The only difference is I love you. And she doesn’t.”
Michael, whose gaze had wandered aimlessly over the candles and the paintings of saints in the entrance chapel during her outburst, now stared directly in Lizzie’s eyes. “Of course she loves me! How can you say that? Kathleen has always loved me.”
“She loved the boy she kissed in the fields by the Vartry River. Perhaps even the adventurer who rebelled against his masters a little. But can you imagine Kathleen in the gold mines? And you heard her: she doesn’t have any intention of giving up her cute little shop to raise livestock with you in Otago.”
Michael did not ask how she knew that. He was too angry and to drunk for that.
“She thinks it now,” he spat defiantly. “But she’ll go along in the end. ‘Where you go, there I will follow.’ Are you familiar with that, Lizzie?”
Lizzie could not stop herself. She slapped him in the face.
“I live that, Michael. I’ve live
d that for countless years. But now I’ve had enough. I’m doing like Kathleen, Michael. I’m doing what I want.” She turned to go but then looked at him once more. “By the way, you have a charming son, Michael. I got to meet him earlier, and it was a pleasure. I hope our own child will be just as smart and thoughtful. And since I’ve got the money, you don’t need to worry: I’ll raise it with dignity.”
“You spoke with Lizzie?” asked Michael.
It was strange to sit across from Kathleen in such a formal way. He had wanted to see her, but she had not invited him to the apartment. Instead, they met at the café in his hotel. Kathleen gracefully balanced a teacup between two fingers and occasionally took a delicate bite of a pastry. He remembered the pastry she had stolen from the kitchen of the manor all those years ago—just to share with him. Had he ever shared anything with her? Aside from love?
Michael could not forget the fields on the river. That day, the pastries had been their only real food. Now pastries were nothing but a sweet snack on a fine plate—an everyday treat to nibble on.
Kathleen nodded. “Yes. And you didn’t tell me the truth. She’s not an old friend. She is . . . she is your second half. Precisely what I never was.”
“What you never got to be,” said Michael sharply. “Circumstances were against us. But if it had worked, if we had gone to America . . .”
“Then we’d be sitting in some hole in New York now. You and Sean would be working in some factory, and I would be a seamstress. We’d be slaving away to stay alive somehow. Michael, without Lizzie, you never would have made it. We wouldn’t have a farm in California or a factory in Boston or whatever else. I wouldn’t have made it myself, either. Our business was Claire’s idea, not mine. Together, we two would have survived, but nothing more. Precisely because we’re not two halves of a whole. Your other half is Elizabeth Portland. And mine . . .”
“You want to go back to that reverend?” asked Michael.
“There can be no ‘back.’ I was never with him. But it’s time for me to move on. Until now, my other half was Claire. But she’s going to marry Jimmy Dunloe as soon as the law here finally allows her to divorce. And I’ll . . . Well, I can only hope Peter forgives me. Peter’s not my past, Michael. He’s my future.” Kathleen looked at him almost defiantly.
Michael lowered his head. “Lizzie says they’re the same thing, past and future.” For the first time, Michael felt no jealousy when Kathleen spoke of Peter Burton. “At least that’s what the Maori told her. We always need a mountain that anchors us in the here and now; they call that maunga.”
Kathleen smiled. “There, you see. Lizzie is your maunga. As much as a person can be. But I’m not. I’m not strong enough to anchor you. I need an anchor myself. We’ll see if Peter can be that.” She laughed. “Petrus, the rock. He must have heard that before.”
Michael still did not want to give up. “But what about our love, Kathleen? It was there; it is there.”
Kathleen hugged him. “It will remain too. Or a shadow of it will. But you don’t need me to be happy. You need Lizzie—if she’ll have you.”
“You’re not angry?” he asked.
Kathleen rolled her eyes. “I’m not angry, not that it matters. It’s better to ask yourself if Lizzie still wants you.”
Michael bit his lip. “It didn’t seem that way when we last talked,” he admitted. “Yet I feel like she still might. I don’t know where she’s gone though. Did you, did you know that she’s with child?”
Kathleen nodded. “Yes. I do know. Make sure you find her.”
Michael squared himself in his old self-assurance. “I will. If I have to turn over every stone, I—”
Kathleen lay her hand soothingly on his. “Michael, just think before you dig up New Zealand. Or decide to sail the Tasman Sea in a sailboat. There has to be a maunga for Lizzie too.”
Chapter 4
Lizzie could never get enough of the view of her land from atop the waterfall. The forested hills undulated like waves into the valley, the rocks jutted showily into the sky, the lively stream flowed to the river, and the ribbon of the Tuapeka River shimmered in the sunlight. On an early autumn day as clear as this one, even the growing town of Lawrence was recognizable.
Lizzie was still undecided as to whether she should settle here or in her former camp. The Maori preferred she build her house near the waterfall, and they had asked her to take possession of the land there.
“Herd some sheep or whatever else,” said Haikina.
Lizzie already had plans for the gentle hills on this north-facing space. There was enough sun and water here. The winters were harder than on the North Island—but surely no harder than in Germany, and a great deal of wine was made there. A few of the vine stalks Lizzie had carefully transported and placed in the moist earth, warm from the late summer, came from Germany, others from France. Time would tell how they would adapt to New Zealand’s South Island.
Lizzie laughed to herself. Maybe the vines liked gold and she would begin a whole new chapter in the history of viniculture here. Since Kahu Heke had told her about the studying he’d done in Auckland, she had burned with desire to learn more about winemaking. She had ordered books on top of books, and with her slow reading pace, she had enough to read for the next few years at least. And her child would learn to read as well—when it was not sitting at the feet of a tohunga listening to the stories of Papa and Rangi and their divine children. Lizzie considered proximity to the Maori village to be more important in the beginning than proximity to Lawrence. She hummed to herself as she tenderly buried the next cutting in the ground.
Suddenly, some movement near the river caught her attention. Two mules were eating on the shore—and two men were unpacking their saddlebags. Lizzie looked around, without much hope though. Earlier in the day, a few Maori women had helped her with the digging, and a few men had panned for gold; the tribe needed winter stores of grain and clothing. But the Maori had gone back to the village more than an hour before.
Lizzie reached for Michael’s old gun, which she had laid down nearby. She had found it in the cabin and taken it with her, primarily to show it to the warriors. The Ngai Tahu, like most of the Maori tribes, possessed enough guns for self-defense. The men had looked Lizzie’s rifle over expertly, cleaned it, and tried it. Then they had given it back to her.
“It works,” said Haikina, “so watch out you don’t kill yourself with it.”
Lizzie had promised to let the warriors instruct her in the gun’s use but had kept delaying. In truth, the gun made her uncomfortable. Now she regretted her negligence. But she did not want to shoot anyone down anyway, just scare them.
She put the gun under her arm, then went down to the river and greeted the men politely. Both men had just unloaded their tents. One was reaching for his gold pan.
Lizzie approached them. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you can’t pan here. This is private property, and the stream is part of it.”
She struggled to make her voice sound firm. At first, the men, both bearlike, looked at her, taken aback.
“Since when is this private property?” grumbled the first man.
Though she was obviously fairly far along in her pregnancy, that clearly wasn’t their first concern.
The second man laughed. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you Michael Drury’s wife? Old Mike’s supposed to have gotten properly rich. Where’d he find the gold? Here?” He pointed at the stream.
Lizzie shook her head. “Michael panned here and there. He had a claim together with Chris Timlock. But it ran dry. Now . . .” She hated herself for what she had to do now, but if she admitted that she was on her own out here . . . “Now, we’re going to farm here. The land from our old cabin up to here belongs to us, legally purchased from the Ngai Tahu.”
The men laughed.
“As if it was ever theirs,” said the older man.
Lizzie shrugged. “The governor recognized it, as did the justice of the peace and a few lawyers in Dunedin. In any case,
my sheep will graze here soon. And as for you two: you can find the next gold mining camp near Lawrence, and there are new finds near Queenstown. There’s nothing for you here, literally.”
Lizzie leaned on her rifle in the hope the gesture looked threatening. Her friends among the Maori warriors achieved a similar effect when they leaned on their spears. But, of course, she was neither humongous nor tattooed.
The men did not back down. On the contrary. The younger, who had recognized her earlier, strode toward her.
“Why are we being so unfriendly, huh?” he asked, smirking. Lizzie now saw how big, strong, and determined he was. “What happened to the celebrated hospitality of country gentlemen and women? Come on, little lady. Invite us in, let us pass a comfortable night, and if we’re convinced tomorrow there’s no gold . . .” Even now, they completely ignored Lizzie’s pregnancy.
“You can just look at the deed to convince yourself this is private land,” Lizzie said with a sharp tone and raised her rifle.
She aimed at the men—and would have felt considerably better if she had known whether the gun was locked and how to shoot a target. Although it did not really matter. A shot would be heard in the village. If she fired, a band of Maori warriors would arrive in short order.
“Now, be nice, Lizzie.”
“That’s Miss Portland to you,” Lizzie replied.
“Still not Mrs. Drury?”
The men came closer. Lizzie breathed deep and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened—so she needed to unlock it. She pulled on the gun’s levers and pulled the trigger again, with success this time. The gun took on a life of its own, recoiling upward as she fired the shot.
Lizzie had to keep herself from dropping the gun. Horrified, she looked over at the men, prepared to see at least one dead on the ground. But they were standing right where they had been—clearly shocked though. She had scared them a little, at least.
“Now, hold on a moment, Miss Portland,” said the other. He sounded almost insulted. “We’ve come here peacefully.”