Toward the Sea of Freedom (27 page)

“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 hat. 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?

“You’re useful otherwise, so you can stay. I’ve thought of something else: You’ll be married. You can have Cecil, the gardener. He’ll be delighted, I’m sure, and you can move into the old coach house. But whether that will satisfy your lust . . .” Mrs. Smithers reddened.

Lizzie felt panic well up within her. If she lived in the coach house, she would be fair game for both men. And she would be deceiving Mrs. Smithers and her own husband. At some point she would be caught again. Lizzie saw no way out.

“But, madam, your husband—”

“Not a word against my husband,” Mrs. Smithers thundered. “It’s decided. I’ll talk with Cecil, and he’ll make his proposal.” She tore the basket of roses out of Lizzie’s arms and strode with dignity into the house.

Lizzie remained helplessly behind. Now explaining was the only solution. She had to talk the matter over with Cecil. The gardener was a prisoner himself. He had to understand.

That night Lizzie remained unmolested—Mr. Smithers was getting drunk with his guest. The man was a soldier who coordinated the employment of prisoners in the region, and he wanted to do his host a favor by sending a chain gang to clear the acacias from the garden.

Lizzie eavesdropped on the conversation while she was serving, and Mrs. Smithers inquired about dangers the men might present.

Sergeant Meyers, a short, stocky man with the face of a bulldog, comforted her with a laugh. “The bears are all chained up, madam—for months, at that. They’ve given up on foolishness. Over time they all become peaceful here. We raise them into good Christians, each and every one of them.” He raised his glass to Mr. Smithers.

Lizzie turned away in disgust. She spent the night brooding desperately. How should she begin her conversation with Cecil, and what solution should she propose? In the end, it would depend on him anyway. Perhaps he wouldn’t even care about sharing her with Mr. Smithers. Then she would be lost. But with a little luck, he would refuse to take her for his wife under those circumstances. In that case, she would need to find a new betrothed as soon as possible—best would be someone influential enough that she would no longer have to work in the Smitherses’ house. Lizzie would never have imagined it possible, but she began to long for Jeremiah.

The next morning, Cecil the gardener was busy directing the men of the chain gang. Sergeant Meyers had not exaggerated. At sunrise, an overseer drove the twelve chained men to work. Lizzie watched from the house, waiting for Cecil to be done so she could talk to him. Before she even had a chance to try, Mrs. Smithers had him called up to the house.

“What does she want now? New plants to show off?” grumbled the cook.

Mrs. Smithers was a passionate gardener, but she did not understand that most plants from her homeland did not thrive on their own. And she took no interest in native plants, which she thought of as weeds.

“Well, it has to do with husbandry,” said Lizzie, sighing. She busied herself with the dusting just across the hall from Mrs. Smithers’s receiving rooms so she’d know when Cecil left.

He seemed beside himself with joy when Mrs. Smithers finally dismissed him. Lizzie heard him thank her what seemed like a thousand times. Her own courage sank. This conversation would not be easy. Perhaps it would be better to wait until Cecil had calmed down a bit. No, it had to be now. Lizzie put her feather duster aside and walked determinedly to the garden.

She was not prepared for his greeting.

“Lizzie!” The short gardener beamed across his entire gnomish face when he saw her. He ran up to her, twirled her through the air, and kissed her unrestrainedly on the mouth.

“I knew you would want it too. You were just shy, says the missus, and that’s fine by me. But now we ought to show our love.”

Lizzie’s heart all but broke at having to destroy his joy. Though she was anything but in love with the gnome, she valued him as a kind person and a friend.

“It’s not that simple,” she began, drawing him out of view of the house and into the shadow of a eucalyptus tree. “Cecil, I, the mistress . . .”

As she spoke, first the joy and then the color drained from the gardener’s weathered face.

“So you don’t really want to marry me?”

Lizzie sighed. “Cecil, what I want has nothing to do with it. I’d be happy to marry you, but I’d remain Mr. Smithers’s property.”

The smile returned to Cecil’s face. “But not forever,” he said. “We’ll save a bit, and then move elsewhere. And the Cartlands will come back sometime too, you know. Then we’ll work for them.”

“But not for half a year,” said Lizzie. “At the earliest. Until then . . .”

“Oh, I can stand it until then,” Cecil declared generously.

But I can’t!
Lizzie wanted to scream. Most of all, she did not want to marry an idiot who did not even recognize the risk of sacrificing her to every horny goat without a fight. Or did Cecil expect some advantage from the arrangement? Would he allow Mr. Smithers’s continued adultery with his own wife for more money and a better position?

“The offer stands until tomorrow,” Cecil said, beaming with joy. “The missus’ll handle things with the reverend. And you’ll have your pardon!” Cecil had received a pardon himself four weeks before, and with her marriage, Lizzie would be free too. But she had rarely felt so confined.

Cecil returned to his flowers. Pensively, Lizzie looked over at the chain gang. Martha had charged her with bringing water to the men. She might as well do it now.

Lizzie filled a pitcher at the well. The men were supposed to have their own cups. She made her way to the acacia jungle in the rear section of the garden, keeping her head lowered as propriety demanded.

“That’s enough water. Don’t you recognize me at all, Lizzie?”

Lizzie was just pouring water for the first man in the row, after politely greeting the overseer, when a tall, dark-haired convict spoke to her excitedly.

“Lizzie Owens, my little angel on the ship?”

Lizzie looked up, disbelieving, but she recognized the soft, deep voice with the Irish accent from his first words. Michael Drury’s shining blue eyes flared almost rakishly at her.

“And once again, you don’t leave anything out,” he teased. “What a greeting that just was. Since when do you favor leprechauns?”

“Excuse me?” Lizzie asked, confused.

She was already upset, but Michael’s sudden appearance completely rattled her.

“Leprechauns, gnomes, dwarves—that’s what we call fellows like your short friend there, in Ireland.”