Toward the Sea of Freedom (78 page)

“The woman is unbelievably friendly,” Lizzie reported excitedly when she met Michael for dinner in the hotel that evening. She had ordered champagne to celebrate the day. “And imagine: they design these dresses themselves. Mrs. Edmunds or her business partner, Kathie, she called her. It’s expensive, of course, but I’m getting a discount because Mrs. Edmunds thinks that the dress and I, that we’re meant for each other, so to speak.”

Michael eagerly raised his glass to her. “Dear, you and I are meant for each other. As far as I’m concerned, you could wear sackcloth. But very well, I’ll take a look at this wonder dress the day after tomorrow. We’ll see if I recognize you in it. After everything you’ve told me, it sounds like it will transform you into an angel—or should I say a cream puff?”

Lizzie shook her head, almost dropping her glass. “Are you mad, Michael? You can’t see my wedding dress. That brings bad luck, guaranteed.”

Michel laughed. “You’re a wealthy grown woman, my dear Lizzie. That’s quite a superstition to believe in.” He took her hand and kissed it. “As if it makes any difference whether I see a few yards of fabric or not. What would your Maori friends say? They don’t wear any wedding clothing at all, right? Clothes would just get in the way of sleeping with each other in the meeting house.”

Lizzie furrowed her brow. “Even wealthy grown women can be pursued by bad luck,” she said. “And the Maori certainly have their own rituals.” She thought of the ceremony a chieftain’s wife had to endure every time she simply wanted to visit her husband. “Don’t spy, Michael. You’ll see my dress for the first time in the church.”

Michael nodded. Regardless, he would ride by George Street the next day and take a look at this fabulous dress. After all, what could bring them bad luck?

Lizzie was so excited for her fitting that she arrived at George Street a half hour too early. When she finally entered the shop at the appointed time, Mrs. Edmunds was waiting for her with two other women: Mrs. Moriarty, the seamstress, and Mrs. Coltrane, the co-owner of Gold Mine Boutique. Mrs. Moriarty looked friendly and motherly in her simple muslin dress. She seemed just to have come out of her sewing room. Mrs. Coltrane, however . . . Lizzie had been intimidated by Claire Edmunds’s beauty and elegance, but she was awed by Mrs. Coltrane. Though she wore an exceedingly simple black dress without any flourishes, she was still surely the most beautiful woman Lizzie had ever seen.

Mrs. Coltrane wore her hair up, like Mrs. Edmunds, but a few locks framed her face like a halo. Mrs. Coltrane’s blonde hair was like gold. Her complexion was as pale as marble, and not even the creases on her forehead—whether from concentration or worry—could mar the perfect expression of her face. All that, however, was surpassed by her shining green eyes—a color more intense than any Lizzie had ever seen before.

“Claire has told me so much about you,” the woman said kindly. “She said I should come to your fitting.”

“Mrs. Coltrane isn’t terribly social,” said Claire, “but it’s about time she ventures forth more often again. We could go to Miss Portland’s wedding. Do you already have bridesmaids, Miss Portland? Or flower girls? Our daughters would just love to do that for you.”

Mrs. Edmunds chatted blithely while Mrs. Moriarty and Mrs. Coltrane helped Lizzie into the dress. And again the transformation took place. The woman in the mirror had been Lizzie, but now she was a fairy-tale princess, almost as beautiful as Mrs. Coltrane. With the few alterations, the dress fit perfectly. Lizzie could not look at herself enough.

“It truly is fantastic.” Even Mrs. Coltrane’s eyes now shone with enthusiasm. “Claire is right. Someone needs to take a picture of you in the dress—a painting would be even better. There are good painters in Dunedin. Should we ask around for one?”

Lizzie felt dizzy. A painting? She thought about the family portraits in the Busbys’ house. And on the wall in the living room of her new farm near Queenstown.

She nodded. “That would be wonderful,” she said. “That would be a dream come true. I would never have thought . . .”

Lizzie spun in front of the mirror, and as she did, she glanced out the window.

“I can’t believe it,” she groaned. “I need to take off the dress very quickly, Mrs. Edmunds. Otherwise, there’ll be bad luck. Over there, on the other side of the street, is my future husband.”

Mrs. Edmunds shared her concern at once. “He risked coming here?” she asked, laughing. “Sometimes boys feel they have to test fate. Come quickly, Miss Portland, into the changing room. By the time he gets here, you’ll be wearing your old things again.”

As Mrs. Coltrane and Mrs. Moriarty helped Lizzie out of dress, they heard Mrs. Edmunds run to the door and give Michael an earful. He responded testily.

At the sound of his voice, Mrs. Coltrane abruptly froze.

“Is something wrong, Mrs. Coltrane?” Mrs. Moriarty asked.

“No, I, I just . . .”

Mrs. Moriarty laughed. “Back home they’d say someone just stepped over your grave.”

Lizzie had already put on her skirt and blouse, and she quickly smoothed her hair. Then she pushed open the door. Her face shone, as always when she saw Michael. It had been impertinent of him to come, of course, but sweet in its own way. He smiled at her, and then Lizzie watched him go instantly pale. Astonishment and confusion replaced his smile—and he stared as if something behind Lizzie compelled him.

Lizzie turned around. Mrs. Coltrane stood in the door to the changing room—and she wore the same shocked expression as Michael.

Kathleen collected herself first. “Michael,” she whispered.

Michael took a step closer. Everyone but Kathleen had disappeared for him. He was in another world. Alone with her.

“I thought you were dead.”

“You, you were in Australia.”

“But not for long.” Michael could not believe that he was standing there, talking to Kathleen. “I escaped. But you, Ian said you died in childbirth.”

Kathleen’s face was expressionless, a mask of confusion. “I’m here,” she said. “Right here.”

She held out her hand to him. He seized it. It was warm and damp with sweat. His was too.

“Do you see? I’m alive.” Kathleen handed him her second hand. They stood there motionless. They were in no hurry. A circle seemed to close.

“What’s happening?” asked Lizzie. “Who is this?” She did not need to ask. She knew. “Kathleen? Mary Kathleen?”

Claire did not entirely understand what was happening, but that the scene cut Lizzie to the quick was not hard to discern.

“My dear.” She tried to put her arm around Lizzie, but Lizzie shook her off.

“Mary Kathleen? What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead.” Lizzie pushed determinedly between Michael and Kathleen and shoved the two of them apart. Kathleen looked at her, not comprehending.

“You were dead! Couldn’t you just stay dead?”

“Michael, what’s wrong with her?” asked Kathleen. She seemed to have forgotten that Lizzie was just talking about her fiancé, that Claire had been teasing Michael for his curiosity about the wedding dress.

“I’m sorry Lizzie,” Michael whispered. “But now, you do see she’s not dead.”

Michael turned back to this apparition from his past, in which he was slowly beginning to believe. “Let’s, let’s . . . What do we do now, Kathleen?”

“Come, Miss Portland.” Claire tried again to put her arm around Lizzie so she might usher her away. “They aren’t themselves anymore. I think they know each other from another time.”

“This is Michael, Claire.” Kathleen’s voice still lacked inflection, but she thought she ought to formally introduce Claire and Michael now. “Claire Edmunds, Michael Drury.”

“Sean’s father?” Claire blurted out.

Lizzie felt sick. So, the child had not died either.

“Miss Portland, come, let’s have some tea,” Claire said softly. “After that, everything will work itself out. Those two will come back to themselves. But I think they have a great deal to discuss. Mrs. Moriarty, please close the shop in case . . .”

In case my partner should forget to? Or run away without thinking? Claire did not quite know what she was afraid of.

Mrs. Moriarty nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

Lizzie followed Claire Edmunds up the stairs into a tastefully furnished living room. But she knew that nothing was going to work itself out, that nothing would be like it was before with Michael. She had seen his expression. From now on there was only Kathleen for him. As there had only ever been Kathleen. Death had parted them. But Lizzie should have known. One could not trust in God, or the spirits—or even in death.

Chapter 8

It took Michael a long time to collect himself. Kathleen accepted their reunion somewhat more quickly. After all, she had only thought him in Tasmania, not in the hereafter.

Yet she, too, had stood there for several minutes, her hand in his, until Mrs. Moriarty finally came out with a pot of tea. “Perhaps you’d like a sip?” she asked shyly.

Michael awoke from his daze. “Really, I need a whiskey,” he muttered.

Kathleen smiled. “Are you selling it again?”

“What? Oh, no. I’m, I’m a sheep breeder. I have a farm west of Queenstown. At least, I’ve bought one . . .”

Kathleen nodded. “I had a farm,” she said. “I lived with Ian for a long time near Christchurch. But your son was born in Lyttelton. Or Port Cooper, as they called it then. Almost on the ship on our way over.”

Kathleen began to tell him about it, but Michael interrupted her. “He’s alive? My son?” He was in a swirl of disbelief and extraordinary joy.

“Yes, very much so. He’s a good boy. And smart. He’s attending high school and will soon go to university. Ian, Ian is dead, however.”

Michael nodded, not wanting to go into Lizzie’s involvement in the matter. Yet at that, he thought of Lizzie again. This must be a shock for her. But what a strange twist of fate. Lizzie had killed Ian. Had cleared the way to Kathleen. Lizzie had always smoothed the way for him. Michael felt a sort of melancholy and gratitude toward the woman he had wanted to marry a moment before. But Lizzie had to understand.

Kathleen took a sip of tea. Color slowly returned to her face. Her beautiful face. At first glance, Michael had thought she had hardly changed, but now he saw that her eyes were framed by tiny wrinkles. She had grown more serious and was clearly no stranger to worry and concern—but to Michael she only seemed lovelier for all that.

“What about you? Did you have a wife? Any children?”

“Me? No, Kathleen, I, I have only ever thought of you.”

Kathleen frowned. “But that woman, the one buying the dress?” she asked. “Miss Portland? She is about to be your wife.”

Michael made a dismissive gesture. “An old friend. We have lived through a lot together. We wanted to manage the farm together. And well, because I thought you were dead . . . We were going to marry.”

“There was nothing more there?” asked Kathleen.

“Nothing you need to worry about. Kathleen, Mary Kathleen! It’s a miracle. Really, it’s a miracle. And our son—when can I see him?”

She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “School will be letting out soon,” she said. “We could pick him up. I, I could use some fresh air anyway.”

Kathleen brushed a strand of hair from her face before grabbing her small black hat. She looked at it a moment, then dismissed her plan to wear it.

Among the accessories the shop sold was an elegant, little dark-red hat. Kathleen took it from the stand. “What about Miss Portland?” she asked as she placed the hat on her head.

Michael shrugged. “She’ll find her way home,” he said. “I’m sorry for her, of course. We’ll see what we can do about the farm, but we’ll figure all that out later, Kathleen. For now, I want to see Sean. My son!”