Toward the Sea of Freedom (25 page)

Lizzie looked up at him, examining his wide, sunburned face. Mr. Smithers was a tall, heavy man who hardly seemed to fit his short, lean wife. His brown hair was already thin, his eyes watery blue. Desire was about the last thing Lizzie felt at the sight of him. Rather, the former whore in her sighed as she imagined how his weight would crush her when he collapsed on her, satisfied.

“I don’t understand what you mean, sir,” Lizzie claimed, hoping she might blush. But she had heard such speech too often to feel shame. It was tiresome to her. Yet she felt fear rise up within her.

“Then think it over, kitten.” The man grinned, and his fingers wandered from her chin over her cheek to her temple. “You’re a pretty little thing. Don’t make me wait too long until you’re in heat.”

Mrs. Smithers was coming down the hall and Lizzie heard her with enough time to flee Mr. Smithers’s grip before his wife entered the room. Lizzie tried to avoid him the rest of the weekend, but it was almost impossible. He leered at her every time he passed her, and when she served meals, he would sneak a grab under her skirt or pinch her. Naturally, Lizzie couldn’t allow herself any outward reaction.

She was frazzled when she slipped into her room after Saturday’s dinner—only to discover Mr. Smithers waiting for her.

“Such a sweet kitten wouldn’t let me go to bed without a good-night kiss.”

Lizzie dodged him just as he reached out for her. “I believe,” she said through clenched teeth, “it’s supposed to be bad for the health to hug and kiss your pets.”

It was meant as a joke—on the streets of London, one learned to use quick wit not only to attract men but also to keep them at bay. Lizzie thought her quip was clever, but Martin Smithers took a step back, as if she had attacked him.

“What is that supposed to mean, girl? Are you threatening me? What’s got into you that your claws come out first? I thought you’d just stolen something. If you’re violent . . .”

Fear spread through Lizzie. She had not done anything. But the prison director would believe whatever Mr. Smithers might say about her. Frightened, she inched out of her room to the hallway, where she raised her hands defensively.

“I’ve never hurt anyone, sir, I swear it. Nor would I you.”

“So, that was no allusion to cats clawing?” Smithers asked mistrustfully.

Lizzie shook her head, frightened. “Of course not, sir. Of course not. Only, the doctors say pets eat rats and the like, and have fleas,” she stuttered in her desperate attempt to explain her joke.

And Smithers did show belated amusement, but his laughter was threatening, not sincere.

“They’ll have deloused you in the female factory. Think about where you’ve come from when you talk back to me! The rats are still waiting for you.”

With that, he seized Lizzie and pressed a kiss to her mouth. Not more brutally than most of her customers, but Lizzie was shocked and disgusted. Just then, Mrs. Smithers called for her husband. Lizzie sighed with relief and silently thanked her employer and her God. As soon as Mr. Smithers turned away, she ran back into her room and locked the door behind her.

The next morning, Lizzie went to church with her employers. A picnic followed the sermon, and after Martha was finished serving, she and Pete invited Lizzie along with them on a walk to visit the other pardoned or first-class prisoners.

Lizzie stayed behind, though, wanting nothing more than to sit on her blanket and enjoy the sun and the new sights around the neat little church and Campbell Town.

Mr. Smithers pounced the moment she stood up to stretch her legs. Under the pretense of showing her the birds and trees, he led her around the back of the church and into a copse where he kissed her again.

“Now that’s better, pet. A soft, cuddly kitten.”

Lizzie tried desperately to free herself. “Sir, please, please not here. If someone comes . . .”

The copse behind the church was the only place where young lovers could go. The cook and her beau had already disappeared here themselves.

Smithers grunted, understanding. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I just can’t keep still when I see that spark in your eyes and the way you move, quick and graceful like a house kitten ought.”

“But, but . . .” Lizzie fought back tears. If someone caught them . . .

“And a little shy, that’s not bad either. All right, fine, not here. But soon we’ll find a secret little corner, and then you’ll keep your promise.”

Lizzie had no idea what she had promised him, but when he finally let her go, she was so relieved that she nodded. She was off work the rest of the day, and when they returned to the house, she went straight to her room to pray that Mr. Smithers would not come after her again.

On Monday, Mr. Smithers returned to the construction site, but Lizzie was so upset that she could not concentrate on her work. First she broke a teacup; then she forgot to clear the tea table, which she was swiftly admonished for. Later in the afternoon, when she was helping Martha, she cut her finger and her blood dripped into the salad bowl.

“What’s gotten into you?” said the cook. She grabbed the bowl away from Lizzie. “You’re usually so helpful.”

Lizzie burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. After she got her story out between sobs, she fell into wild self-doubt.

“He can see it in me,” she said. “Yet I want to be good. Really, I want, I want to live a righteous life.”

Martha had listened with a stony face. “So it’s begun again.” She sighed. “No, enough, enough! It has nothing to do with you!”

Lizzie would not listen. “Can, can it be that I’m destined to be a whore?” she asked despairingly.

The cook shook her head. “For men like Mr. Smithers, every girl who wears a bonnet is fair game,” she said calmly. “Somehow it drives him mad. He even pinches my backside sometimes, and I’m no younger than the missus. Why do you think Tilly got away so fast?” Tilly had been the maid before Lizzie. “She was quite happy here before Mr. Smithers took over the house. The Cartlands were always hosting parties. Tilly made tips like you would not believe. She meant to save for three years before marrying that Tom of hers. But the new master would not give her a moment’s rest.”

“But, but, couldn’t she . . . She was pardoned, right?” Lizzie stammered.

“Sweetie, that doesn’t mean much. The man would have needed only to make a silver spoon disappear and blame her. That would have been it for her freedom. And it’s no different for you. You . . .”

“I could ask to go back to the factory,” Lizzie said. Just then, Cascades seemed liked a heavenly refuge.

Martha shook her head. “What reason would you give? Do you mean to tell the truth? Then they’ll both be at your throat, both mister and missus. Be careful, for heaven’s sake. These things can end at the gallows. Best thing would be to keep a stiff upper lip and try to find a fellow to marry as soon as possible. Take the gardener. He’s not handsome, but he’s a good man. Although then they’ll ask you to stay on and work, which means cheating on the fellow first thing.”

“But where am I supposed to find someone else? How long will that take? Is there nothing else I can do?” Lizzie looked at the older woman desperately.

“You really could steal something,” she said harshly. “Something small. I’ll blame you. Say you took some salted meat—you could tell them you had a friend in a nearby chain gang and wanted to get it to him.”

Lizzie rejected the idea. “I don’t want to be convicted again. I won’t survive it a second time. And backsliding would mean third rank—I’d rot in a jail.”

The cook shrugged. “Then keep old Mr. Smithers happy.”

Lizzie surrendered the next Sunday night. Sadly, in so doing she also profaned her refuge, her own room, in which she had been so happy. Mr. Smithers saw this as proof that she lay with him willingly and joyfully, but for Lizzie it was simply the best way to avoid discovery. If Mrs. Smithers found out, it would all be over. Her freedom of movement, her status as a first-class prisoner—all done. They would send her back to prison in shame and scandal. As soon as he left, Lizzie changed the sheets, washed herself with the water she had set out—which was even still warm—and cried herself to sleep.

She gave up hope that she would ever be allowed to be good. Once again, Lizzie Owens was merely fighting to survive.

Chapter 8

Ian Coltrane’s new farm lay among lovely surroundings on the Avon River, which would flow through Christchurch once the city was developed. It offered a rather large but already somewhat dilapidated farmhouse and stables for keeping livestock. It comprised more acreage than all of Kathleen’s village. The Coltranes suddenly had more property than their former landlord, Wetherby, though they lacked the fences and tenants.

Ian and Kathleen would never have been able to work all of their land themselves. Plus Ian quickly filled the stables with animals of every sort, and Kathleen was overwhelmed by the task of caring for the livestock. She came from the country, and she had a good understanding of planting a garden and working a field. In good years, her father had sometimes kept a goat, a few chickens, and a sheep or two. But here, whole herds of animals scattered across vast pastures, which Ian only provisionally fenced.

Ian never kept the animals long since he sold them through his livestock business. He often just let them wander and trusted that limits might be set by the presence of barley to eat and the shepherding efforts of the farm dog—though the dog’s lack of skill and instinct indicated Ian had been the one cheated for a change. Unfortunately, the sheep proved limitlessly fond of wandering, and, oddly, they were especially attracted to the construction sites for what would become Christchurch.

Most of the social contact Kathleen had in her first months in the Canterbury Plains was through visits by outraged foremen or aggrieved boatmen who had to forge a path among the bodies of peacefully ruminating sheep. Then, despite her pregnancy, Kathleen would swing up on one of the mules or horses and try to herd the sheep back. Often a few men helped her with that—Kathleen’s beauty and her desperate situation touched their hearts, and they were happy to try their hands at herding.

Naturally, they expected a cup of tea or, even better, a whiskey, by way of appreciation, but Kathleen only said her thank-yous to the men with a pounding heart, and then thanked heaven when they moved along. It did not bear thinking about what might happen if Ian caught her sitting around the table with one or more, often good-looking, strangers.

In general, the new settlers in the plains were not half-starved emigrants from Ireland or Scotland but Anglicans from good families looking for adventure. Many of the men were construction workers, specially hired in England, and they were mostly friendly and had good manners. None of them attempted to get too close to the isolated farmer’s wife, although some of them likely dreamed of her at night.

Kathleen had no interest in them anyway—if she still found the strength to dream at night, Michael was the only one who appeared. But even his face was fading in her memory. Kathleen’s life was a singular drudgery of tending to the garden, the fields, the stables, and, of course, the children, whom she had to watch constantly. Colin, especially, who could hardly be kept out of the stables as soon as he could walk, was always up to something. Sean was less interested in the animals. He only liked the farm dog, and Kathleen often found them together, sitting side by side on the wooden porch and staring at the river. Sometimes he whispered something in the dog’s ear, and Kathleen wondered if Sean was telling the dog fairy tales. Could Sean remember Pere’s stories about canoes and Maori demigods? Or was it his mother’s stories from Ireland, of fairies and leprechauns, that he told the dog?

Besides the children and occasional complaint bringers from Christchurch, Kathleen’s social contact was limited to Ian’s customers, but Ian told her she was only to present herself to them silently and with a lowered head. She did that willingly after twice she let slip some information Ian didn’t want revealed about animals for sale. Both times he beat her so brutally that she was afraid she would lose the baby. But even when she said nothing, Kathleen looked forward to these rare visits. After all, Ian would offer a glass or two of whiskey to seal the deal, and then he’d chat with his customers. This was the only way Kathleen heard any scraps of news from the outside world.

The onrush of settlers to Christchurch hardly abated. After the first four ships arrived, more and more people in the Old World became interested in the new country on the other side of the globe. Ian’s customers always emphasized that, in contrast to Australia and Van Diemen’s Land, New Zealand was not being settled by prisoners but by good Christians. They were proud of it, and Ian drank with them to that—although the Coltranes were Catholic and thus had considerably less respect for an English Protestant than for an Irish convict.

Ian did not allow Kathleen to drive to Christchurch for Sunday service in the Anglican church. She would have liked to do that—surely God would have seen past the false faith of her surroundings and heard her prayers anyway. But Ian would not budge.