Toward the Sea of Freedom (56 page)

“Sweet little Lizzie,” he said with a wanton smile. “Can it be that you’ve gotten even prettier in the past week? Or just a little more respectable? No, it’s not possible. This dress has a wider neck than the others, my dear Miss Owens—or Portland, or whatever you’re calling yourself. The reverend won’t like it.”

Lizzie pushed Michael away, laughing. She was wearing a pretty light-blue linen dress, and lace adorned the neckline and apron. It was new, indeed, and it flattered her that Michael noticed.

“The lower neckline is simply in line with the latest fashion in London,” she informed him. “It’s become a bit livelier—and I learned this from the reverend’s wife, of all people. Her husband has not complained so far.”

“Even he likes to see a little skin,” said Michael, looking rather obviously at Lizzie’s cleavage. The corset for her new dress lifted her breasts a bit and made them seem bigger. In all honesty, Lizzie liked what she saw in the mirror. It seemed Michael also liked how she looked.

“But now, seriously, Lizzie, we need to talk.”

From the wagon Michael lifted a crate of bottles and a small cask, which he nonchalantly carried on his shoulder. He had maintained his strength and muscles. Though distilling whiskey was not hard work, the wood needed to be chopped, and for a few weeks a year, Michael still went through the region’s farms with his old shearing company.

Michael carried the bottles into the yard and set the small cask on the counter of the Irish Coffee.

“The good whiskey?” asked Lizzie, taken aback. “I thought it was supposed to sit for ten years.” So far, Michael had not touched his very first batch in Robert Fyfe’s barrel.

“It’s been aging a few years. That’s enough. And I’ve had enough of distilling, Lizzie. This is the last shipment for now. I’m going to Otago; I’m set on it. And when I come back we’ll drink Irish whiskey from the old country.”

Lizzie had suspected as much when she saw Michael’s gray horse hitched to the back of the wagon and wearing stuffed saddlebags. Michael had carefully tied a collapsible shovel and a brand-new pan for gold behind the saddle, along with some blankets and his sleeping bag. What astonished Lizzie was Michael’s intention to return to Kaikoura at some point.

“So you really want to look for gold, Michael?” she asked. “Isn’t our profit here enough? Don’t you have more than enough to return to Ireland? That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Michael bit his lip. “Yeah, yes, sure. But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Lizzie.”

He plopped down casually onto a chair. Except for Ronnie, who was now staring into his third whiskey, dreaming of Claudia, the bar was empty. Lizzie sat across from Michael. His attitude was no newer to her than his words. Already, countless men had emptied their hearts to her after just such an introduction.

“If I go back to Ireland now—”

“Wait a moment, Michael.” Lizzie knew Mary Kathleen’s name would arise, and she thought she deserved a little encouragement. She tapped the whiskey cask and poured a glass each for Michael and herself. The contents tasted exceptional: smoky, full-bodied, and a little sweet.

Michael, likewise, seemed pleased. He took a second sip right away. “Look, if I go back to Ireland now, what’s there for me? Mary Kathleen is gone, and no one knows where she is. Well, maybe her parents, but would they tell me? Who knows if they’re even still alive? Who knows what’s happened to the village and the tenants and Trevallion?”

“If I were you, I’d probably not let Trevallion or your landlord catch sight of me,” said Lizzie. Though Michael’s sentence would normally have long since been served, she did not know if breaking out of prison would extend it.

Michael nodded, concerned. “And if I do find out that she’s in America, I’d need to take another ship. And America, it’s so big.”

Lizzie sipped at her whiskey. “If you really want to find someone, without an address, then you need to hire a detective or someone like that.”

“Exactly,” said Michael, although he did not give the impression of having thought of that before. “And for all that I need money. Loads and loads of money. I’ve saved a bit, of course, but not enough to buy the world.”

“The world, no,” Lizzie said with a pounding heart. Michael was introducing a subject she had long wanted to broach but so far had not dared to. And now might be her last chance. Once he was in Otago, it would be too late. “But certainly a piece of it. Michael, if we continue here for a couple of years, we’d have enough money for a farm. A sheep farm, I’d say, at least at first. Or cattle. Right now people are making the most with cattle.”

Michael burst out laughing. “You want to buy a farm with me?”

Lizzie forced herself to remain calm. “I can do it without you too,” she said. “But you’re the one who knows how to farm, and you could be your own foreman. We could run it like we run this: I’ll take care of the business, and you handle the production. It would be a secure life, a quiet life.”

When Lizzie dreamed of her own farm, she saw a manor house made of stone, with bay windows and turrets. A little like the Smitherses’ house in Campbell Town. But in this house, she’d be the mistress. She would have maids and a cook, and she would receive friends for tea. A husband and a few children fit in there as well, but Lizzie forbade herself from imagining this part of the story more precisely.

Michael took the matter up at once. “Was that a marriage proposal, Lizzie? Or are we to run the farm as brother and sister?” Lizzie glared at him, but he smiled. “Come now, Lizzie, it was a joke. A sheep farm like that would be lovely. But be honest, you’re not thinking of a farm: you’re thinking of something grander—a sheep baron’s estate like Kiward Station, Barrington Station, or Lionel Station.”

“So?” asked Lizzie. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It would be unaffordable. Lizzie, I know the farms here. They’re relatively small. True, the farmers have a few thousand sheep, which sounds grand, but they also work from sunup to sundown. You don’t want to do that; you told me about your work with those Germans—you’re not meant to be a milkmaid. And you’re not suited to work fields or herd sheep around either.”

“And what am I suited to, in your opinion?” Lizzie asked in a rage.

Michael thought for a moment. “For what you’re doing right now,” he said calmly. “You’re the heart and soul of this tavern. You could run a hotel or a business. You have that enchanting smile of yours, Lizzie.”

Lizzie did not know why that answer disappointed her. He was right that the work in the bar suited her and that she felt comfortable in Kaikoura. She could not expect Michael to share her dream, for him to see her as a mother and housewife—with or without maids and cooks.

“Let me go to Otago for now, Lizzie. When I come back and I’m really rich, we can decide what we want do. I’ve handed the distillery over to Tane. He knows how to do the work. He’ll make the deliveries now. Just keep going, Lizzie. Maybe one day I’ll be standing in the doorway burying you in gold.”

He laughed. Then, content, he stood up, kissed her on both cheeks, and walked outside to unhitch his horse from the back of the wagon.

“Would you take the wagon and its horse to the stables for me, please? I need to get going or it won’t be worth setting out tonight anymore.”

Michael did not look back as he left Kaikoura. He regretted that it would be a long time before he saw Lizzie again, or heard her advice, or was warmed by her smile. But an adventure lay before him, and it was his to take alone.

As he rode south, he thought about Lizzie again and again. It was a tempting idea, burying her in gold, seeing her smile as he led her to the farmhouse he knew she wished for, making her dreams come true. She had led the business long enough. Now he would show her he was a man who could make his own fortune. Lizzie should finally admire him—and maybe then she would love him again, and maybe, too, she would want to live together as man and wife.

Lizzie watched the man she loved go and thought about what he had said about sheep farms in Kaikoura and the Canterbury Plains. She needed more money if she wanted to build a grand estate. Would Michael manage that on his own? Lizzie doubted it. She would give him some time.

Indeed, Lizzie made it a whole six months without Michael. She would have lasted longer if her business had not gotten worse and worse, but the decline of Kaikoura was inevitable. The whalers almost all left, the shepherds also tried their luck in the gold mines, and now even smaller farmers were leaving their land to chase what they believed would be easy money. Lizzie’s friend, the fisherwoman with the cookshop next door, lost her husband and son to the dream. Both disappeared one day, on a small sailboat, in the direction of Otago Harbor.

“How am I supposed to live now?” asked the distraught woman. “If I have to buy the shrimp from other fishers, my prices will rise—and there are so few customers as it is.”

Lizzie had problems of her own with the bar. Tane did not deliver whiskey as regularly as Michael. The Maori—their men at least—were not well suited to independent activity. Tane only distilled when he wanted to, and sometimes his whiskey made it not to the tavern but to the Maori camp instead. When there was a festival there, Tane provided liquor, and of course the tribe did not need to pay for it. Running dry twice was enough for Lizzie.

“Why don’t you take over the tavern?” she asked her neighbor spontaneously. “It’s not a gold mine itself anymore, but it will still support one person—with the cookshop anyway. And you’re Maori; you should know how to get your tribesman in line. Honestly, I lack the right words or gestures to spur Tane to work, but I’m sure you can manage it.”

The fisherwoman—who knew nothing better than kicking a man in the backside—proved ecstatic and went straight away into the mountains. In the meantime, Lizzie began to pack. She did not know if she was doing the right thing, and she wasn’t at all sure Michael would be happy about a visit. But she did not believe he would succeed in getting rich without her.

Chapter 4

The road to Christchurch was not yet all that well paved, but between the Canterbury Plains and Dunedin, Lizzie made good time. There was heavy traffic on the route, since nearly all of the gold miners’ food came from the agricultural regions of the plains.

She found her place in the caravan of covered wagons. She had invested a portion of the last few years’ income into excellent supplies and equipment: warm clothing, a good tent, sleeping bags, and blankets. Otago was hilly. Between June and August there would surely be snow there, and it was already April. Lizzie also had bought tools of the highest quality, and she carried plenty of provisions for herself and Michael. She also brought presents for the local Maori tribe and meant to give generously to her new friends. She brought greetings from the tribe in Kaikoura, whose members occasionally spent summers in the mountains and had hunted and fished with their brothers and sisters in Otago.

“I wonder how you did not find all that gold while you were there,” Lizzie said during her farewell visit to the Ngai Tahu. “Apparently everyone just trips over it.”

Mere, one of the tribal elders, shrugged. “Who said we didn’t find it? It doesn’t mean anything to us. You cannot eat it, and you cannot make weapons from it. Jewelry, maybe, but you cannot carve it.” The Maori had never learned the art of metallurgy; their jewelry and weapons were made primarily out of pounamu jade. “For us, jade is much more valuable,” declared Mere.

“But now you could sell the gold,” Lizzie suggested, “or the land on which it’s found.”

Mere arched her eyebrows, and her
moko
—her tattoos—danced as she did.

“The men who were in Tuapeka say the land is weeping. The
pakeha
are beating wounds into it to rip out the gold. The gods do not condone this.”

“So gold mining is
tapu
for you?” Lizzie asked cautiously.

“Yes,” Mere said, “but not everywhere. You have to ask the local
tohunga
. I cannot tell you anything. We have no gold.”

Lizzie was determined to inquire specifically before she set up camp on a piece of land that was
tapu
. She did not want, under any circumstances, to offend the tribes in Otago. Surely, no one knew the land as well as the Maori. In any case, Lizzie did not intend to start digging at random.