Beneath the Kauri Tree (The Sea of Freedom Trilogy Book 2)

by Sarah Lark

  “I’m sure Violet would like to go to school,” the pastor observed when he brought the Paisleys the good news about the approved indemnity. “And now there’s nothing more standing in her way. You can pay a woman to keep house for you.”

  Jim Paisley shrugged. “Violet’s too old for school,” he asserted. “They’d all just laugh at her there. Ain’t that right, Violet?”

  Violet just looked at her father. Peter was not quite sure she had even heard.

  “You told me you’d like to learn to read and write properly,” Peter addressed the girl. “Isn’t that so, Violet?”

  Violet nodded. “My mom could write well,” she said without inflection.

  Peter forced himself to remain calm. “Well, there you go,” he encouraged the girl. “You—”

  “It’s my fault,” said Violet.

  Jim grimaced. “You heard it. She says that all the time. The other kids’ll think she’s crazy. I think Violet’s quite happy cooking for us, right, girl? You do owe your mother that much, anyway.”

  Peter dug his fingernails into the cover of the sofa that Rosemary Seekers had surely treasured and cared for. Much as he wanted to, he would not attack Jim Paisley. As a pastor and a Christian, Peter had to leave Paisley untouched even if he could not love him. But he wanted to follow a commandment that God seemed to have forgotten: thou shalt prevent thy neighbor from ruining his children’s lives.

  “Paisley doesn’t care for Rosie, and he’s reinforcing Violet’s guilt,” Peter remarked to his wife. “Here, she’ll never move on. In Dunedin, on the other hand: a new country, new impressions.”

  Kathleen raised her hands. “As I said, it’s not up to me. I like the girl. As far as I’m concerned, she can even stay in our house in Dunedin. She could go to school, and the little one is adorable. There they’ll easily find someone to foster or adopt them. But wait until you hear what the Paisleys have to say. I don’t get the impression that it’ll go as smoothly as you imagine.”

  Violet responded cheerfully to Peter and Kathleen’s offer. Two months had passed since her mother’s death, and she was slowly emerging from her cocoon of sorrow and guilt. She still felt responsible for the death of her mother and grandfather. However, she had Rosie, and their lives had to go on. Plus, other concerns were pushing to the fore.

  The more Violet groped her way back to life, the more often she visited the village shops in Treorchy, went to market, and greeted neighbors, the more clearly she felt the rejection directed against her. The women would not talk with Violet, and Rosie found no playmates. When Rosie came home one day crying because other children had called their father a drunk, Violet knew their days were numbered. Jim and Fred were not spending their days looking for work as they claimed, but instead frequenting pubs and billiard halls. They had also discovered an enthusiasm for horse and dog races, and their wagers were growing bigger by the day.

  Violet yearned to escape. Earlier she had risked confrontation—and had even almost won. She had enjoyed the triumph when her grandfather had fetched her mother from their house with the intention of opening the door to a better life for them. But that was now past, buried in the mountain tunnel. Violet had no illusions about her inheritance or her future.

  “To Dunedin?” she asked when Peter and Kathleen laid out their suggestion of emigration. “With you?”

  “Of course with us,” Heather replied amiably. “On the ship, we’ll have loads of time. You can model for me some more.”

  In the last few months, Heather had increasingly worried about Violet, and Kathleen had watched her daughter bloom as she cared for Violet. Heather taught Violet reading and writing, and had discovered her as a model. Violet’s budding beauty, but also her sorrow and melancholy, had inspired Heather to evocative works. Two watercolors of Violet were already complete, and Heather intended to show them to a gallerist in London. Perhaps the pictures would represent her breakthrough as an artist. And the girls could fill a void for Heather. Kathleen had long sensed that, though her daughter remained unmarried by choice, it made her sad every time another friend became pregnant.

  “And Rosie will come too?” Violet wanted to make certain.

  Kathleen nodded. “As long as your father doesn’t have anything against it. But he can’t take care of her. We just want the best for you both.”

  She bit her lip. Did Jim Paisley also want the best for his children? Kathleen had her doubts. A man like Jim neither thought logically, nor did he want the best for anyone besides himself. He would not let his children go for free.

  Violet smiled more radiantly than she had since before Ellen’s death. “We’d love to come so much. I’ll tell Father right away. He can keep all the money. From my inheritance, I mean. If he only pays the ship passage.”

  “We’ll take care of the ship passage,” Kathleen assured her.

  Violet would offer her father her money to buy her freedom. Would it be enough?

  It was like the time Violet had happily returned home, only to find Ellen sitting at the kitchen table, crying over a letter. But Jim Paisley was not crying or cutting vegetables. Instead, he had a glass of whiskey and half a bottle more in front of him. Ellen had admitted before the collapse that Jim had been on the verge of a fit of rage. Violet also felt a vague dread. Yet she simply had to tell him about the Burtons. Perhaps that would raise her father’s spirits. The girl was too preoccupied with her own happiness to notice the letter Jim kept moving around between the bottle and glass, and it would be clear to her only significantly later how much the two scenes resembled each other.

  Jim Paisley listened to Violet’s excited report about the journey to New Zealand in silence. Outside, it was raining again. It was turning to fall in Wales; in Dunedin, it was spring now. Violet’s heart pounded.

  “They’ll pay for the ship passage,” Violet declared. “You don’t need to pay for anything. We’ll just be gone.”

  Jim Paisley laughed. An ugly laugh. “You want to take off? Like your mom? Don’t you remember how that ended?”

  He noted with satisfaction how the light went out in Violet’s eyes. “But that’d suit you. You go off to make a nice life for yourselves and leave us here sitting in shit.”

  “Dad?” Violet looked at him helplessly. She would not have characterized the cozy house and the financial cushion that the indemnity and the sale of the cobbler’s workshop had bestowed on her father as shit. “You can’t. You have—”

  “What do I have?” Jim Paisley stood up threateningly in front of her. “A house and money? That’s what I thought. But this, the pastor just brought it.” He threw the letter at Violet.

  She labored to decipher the script. The letter was addressed to Jim Paisley. However, the sender had sent it to Reverend Morris, the pastor of Treorchy’s church—doubtless to have a witness that it had arrived. And perhaps knowing that Jim could not read.

  Violet struggled through the lines. She did not understand it all, but—

  “I didn’t know I had an uncle.”

  Her father rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe it. Violet, the bastard’s threatening your inheritance, and you’re excited about a new relative.”

  “He’s threatening . . . ?” Violet forced herself to read every word even though it took a long time.

  I would also like to register a claim on the inheritance of my parents as well as on a portion of the indemnity for the death of my father and sister paid by Mr. James Burton. I am likewise offering to assume the management of your children’s assets until their majority. As you perhaps know, I am employed at a bank in London. Thus, I would deposit the money and doubtless increase it until my nieces and nephew are old enough to arrange for themselves.

  To Violet, it did not sound all that threatening. Naturally, her uncle Stephen wanted part of the inheritance. That was his right. She now vaguely recalled how her mother had sometimes spoken of her brother. Stephen Seekers, however, had been much older than her mother. He had moved to London when Ellen was still a chil
d. Violet would not have any problem entrusting her money to Stephen. It seemed just about anyone would keep it better than her father.

  “But I’ll spoil the bastard’s fun,” roared Jim Paisley. “‘Portion of the indemnity,’ as if! Did he put food on Ellen’s table these last few years, or did I?”

  Violet wanted to object, but her throat felt swollen shut.

  “And he also wants to get his hands on the money for you brats. That’d suit him.”

  I would like to visit you on Saturday of the coming week to discuss the matter personally with you and your oldest children.

  Violet hoped to already be on the ocean with the Burtons by Saturday of the coming week. This was Monday. The family wanted to leave Treherbert on Friday. On Wednesday, the ship would leave from London for Dunedin, New Zealand.

  “You can have my money, Dad,” Violet assured him. “And Rosie’s. That’ll be enough if we—”

  “You don’t really believe I’m going to let you leave, do you? What would I tell your dear uncle, Violet? That you made tracks? With the money? He’ll never believe it. No, no, the bastard’ll run straight to the judge and try to ruin me. You’ll stay right where you are, Violet. And smile when Uncle Stephen turns up.”

  He grinned while Violet sank, defeated, into the chair across from him. Another dream demolished, another lost hope. Violet sought the way back into her cocoon of desperation and oblivion. She wanted to close herself off again, not to think, not to hope. But she could not find the way. She had already fought too far toward freedom. She was strong again; she was smart. Something had to come to her.

  Violet thought feverishly, and then she did think of a way out. “Dad, what if we all disappear?” she asked firmly. “There’s a lot of time between now and next Saturday. You can sell the house. The Suttons next door are looking for something for their daughter. Then you’ll take the money. We’ll go to London, and next Wednesday a ship leaves for New Zealand. Uncle Stephen will never find us there.”

  Child of the Shadows

  Passage from England to New Zealand

  1878–1879

  Hamilton and Auckland, North Island

  1878–1879

  Dunedin and Greymouth, South Island

  1879–1880

  Chapter 1

  Violet had not pictured the ship so massive or the sea so vast. After all the terrible experiences of the last few months, she could not have believed she would experience the sort of panic she did now as the coast of England disappeared behind them. Rosie fell completely silent and wide-eyed in her arms as she gazed at the seemingly endless and highly troubled sea. Violet’s father already had thrown up in their shared cabin, so Violet began her sea travel with the unpleasant task of cleaning up after him. She had then fled to the deck, seeking the Burtons, but now she stood helpless before the sight of the sea and the feeling that her life up to that point was being erased before her eyes.

  “That’s just the English Channel, you know,” Heather said, laughing. “It’s not all that wide. True, you can’t see the other shore yet, but there are people who swim across it.”

  Violet looked at her, confused, but somewhat comforted. If Heather was not at all afraid, she would be brave. She tried to ignore the wind tugging at the massive sails.

  “And this isn’t even a storm,” Heather said. “Once we’re on the Atlantic, it can get much, much worse. We should be happy about this wind. It’s moving us forward quickly.”

  Heather faced contentedly into the fresh breeze. She had taken off her hat and tied on a scarf—perhaps so she wouldn’t stand out too much among the steerage passengers. Now the silk ends of her scarf fluttered as if in competition with a few strands of her ash-blonde hair, which had loosed themselves. Heather seemed young and adventurous. Violet reached shyly for her hand. She was endlessly happy the young woman had found her down in steerage. Entrance to the Burtons’ cabins was denied to Violet. Even the viewing platform on the upper deck was reserved for the first-class passengers alone.

  “And now, you two have looked back at England enough.” Heather pulled Violet and Rosie away from the railing. “Enough moping. Instead, show me where they put you, since I’m already here.”

  Visits to steerage were not forbidden the first-class passengers, but the mixing of the classes wasn’t looked on approvingly.

  “But everybody’s moping here,” said Rosie, who had picked up a new word.

  Indeed, the atmosphere in steerage wasn’t particularly cheerful. Most of the passengers in the tight corridors and cabins were leaving their homeland forever and traveling to an unknown country. Many had been accompanied to the quay by their friends and relatives, and a few crying women continued staring toward the shore, as if they could still recognize someone there. The men, in contrast, were already drinking away their sorrows with the alcohol they had brought, mostly cheap gin. With that, Violet’s father had explained to her, one avoided seasickness. Immediately afterward, he had gotten sick.

  It was the same for a few others.

  “It’s really disgusting here,” Heather said, growing agitated after passing the third puddle of vomit on the way into the hold. “And inside, heavens, it’s as black as the pit.”

  Heather had been eager to see the lodgings of the poor emigrants. Her mother had told her sad stories of her own crossing more than thirty years before. Her worst descriptions paled in the face of this reality. Heather followed Violet down dark passages, finally taking a look at the tiny closets the travelers had to share, six to a room. Men and women traveling alone were naturally housed separately. Families, however, resided together, which, for Violet and Rosie, meant sharing the berth with her father and brother. Eric Fence, Fred’s best friend and drinking companion, had also joined them. Eric had at first been inconsolable that the Paisleys were leaving Treherbert, but he received his first big win at the racetrack just before their departure.

  Eric thought himself an expert when it came to horses. At the mine in Treherbert, the care for the work ponies had fallen to him, but Violet wasn’t sure how he earned a heightened knowledge of racehorses. Still, the miners in the Golden Arms hung on his every word when he raved about an animal’s chances of winning—only to bet with as little success as Jim and Fred. However, his weakness for outside shots had paid off. Eric Fence had raked in the monstrous sum of ten pounds in winnings and immediately invested eight of them in a passage to New Zealand.

  “Brothers!” Fred and Eric had crowed. They hugged each other as they celebrated the win and the narrowly avoided separation. Eric paid for Jim’s drinks that night, too, and by the end of the evening, Jim claimed the boy as his son and agreed to take him into his berth.

  “When they came back home, he probably did not even know anymore how many sons he had,” Violet commented bitterly as she told Heather the whole story. “And none of them thought about Rosie and me—except for maybe Eric himself. He can’t take his eyes off me.”

  Heather shook her head, horrified. “You tell me if he dares to lay a hand on you,” she said, though she didn’t really know what she would do in such a case.

  The best thing, Heather thought, would be to talk to the chief steward right away. Perhaps with his help, they could still find a berth for Violet and Rosie among the unmarried women. But Violet rejected this determinedly when Heather suggested the idea.

  “I’d be free of Eric, but my father would beat me black and blue,” Violet said. “And if he didn’t, Fred would. I’ll manage, Miss Coltrane, thank you. I keep my dress on when I sleep. The nights are ice-cold, anyway.”

  It remained that way for a while too. It was fall, and although they were sailing south, crossing the Atlantic was a cool, wet affair. Violet now truly became familiar with storms, though fortunately neither she nor Rosie suffered from seasickness. It was a bit different for the men in her family. Only Eric proved seaworthy. Jim and Fred puked their guts out.

  At least, that was how Violet described it to Heather, Kathleen, and Peter, all three of
whom came to visit below deck the next time. Kathleen had needed fresh air, to which Violet responded with a gloomy laugh.

  “You certainly won’t find that here.”

  She had just emptied another bucket over the railing, though it made her shudder to come so close to the tossing waves. The wind was again blowing strongly, and Violet feared being swept overboard. For that reason, she did not even allow Rosie to leave the cabin. The child cowered in a corner of her berth, staring with empty eyes into the half-light, which seemed heavy with the stench of urine and vomit. Violet did what she could to keep the cabin clean, but it was hopeless.

  “And now there’s water getting in,” she told them. “Yesterday it was almost over my feet. I can’t mop it out anymore. Might the ship fill up, Mr. Burton? Might it sink?”

  Kathleen, who had more experience here than her husband, shook her head. “Not from the water in steerage. During my crossing, it was once up to our knees. It was dreadful. And I was constantly throwing up. I was pregnant with Sean, after all. Naturally, I dragged myself outside, but I was deathly afraid of bending over the railing.”

  Violet’s father and brother spewed their latest meal wherever they happened to be walking, standing, or more often, lying.

  “Mostly it’s just gin,” said Violet, resigned to fate. “They eat next to nothing, since they always feel sick. Just not from the gin.”