Toward the Sea of Freedom
Read Toward the Sea of Freedom Online
Authors: 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
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.