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

by Sarah Lark

  “And, and what about us when you’re somewhere between Christchurch and Greymouth?” she asked unhappily. “What about the wedding?”

  “Give that time,” Lizzie interrupted. “Sweetheart, you’re barely eighteen years old. And Colin, as much as we all like him”—she gave him an honest smile—“he ought to establish himself before he seriously considers a wife.”

  Colin was about to get heated, but Kathleen calmed him by placing her hand on his. “Lizzie’s right about that,” Kathleen said, casting a meaningful glance at Colin’s elegant clothing. It had not pleased her that her son had turned up without any savings. He must have earned a fair amount in the military. Naturally, she did not lack for means and had not bristled at helping him get his feet on the ground. Yet she wondered where his pay had gone. Spent? Lost in gambling? “You have a first-class education and were surely an exceptional soldier, but you’ve decided to orient yourself in a different direction. Which is also what Matariki wants. After all, you did make the decision for her sake. Make the best of the situation with the railroad, and save your money. They’ll keep you well fed, so you should soon be able to save up enough to think about a wedding and a family. Matariki can study in the meantime. What were you thinking of again, Riki? Law, like Sean? Or was it medicine? You taught children in Parihaka, didn’t you?”

  Matariki pulled herself together and chatted politely about her work with the children. Yes, it was fun, but really she wanted to accomplish more. Yes, she thought law was exceedingly useful but could not get much out of law books. She was a practical person and would surely make a better doctor than a lawyer.

  Lizzie and Kathleen nodded, satisfied, and Matariki felt a little guilty. In reality, she had long since given up her plans to study. She did not want to sit in Dunedin while Colin was working elsewhere. She had only been with him a few weeks, but she could not imagine a life without him.

  During the day, things were fine. Colin was always polite and obliging; however, her conversations with him often seemed no deeper than what she was having here with the Dunloes and Burtons. She had more in common with Koria, Arona, and Kupe. At night, though . . . it was completely different. Had she really believed just a few weeks before that she could not love?

  With Colin, Matariki’s feelings seemed to explode like fireworks of bliss. What she had not been able to identify before was simply a lack of attraction to available partners. But now that she had found the right one, she had no restraint. Matariki gave herself to Colin with the joy and inhibition of other Maori girls. She loved to experiment, exploring new touches and positions, stroking and kissing Colin, bringing him to climax again and again, and encouraging him in games that almost made him blush. Colin was almost taken aback by Matariki’s wildness, but he was happy to play along, and he had no reason for concern. She was a virgin when they spent their first night together in the tent at the foot of Mount Taranaki.

  Matariki did not have any intention of giving up these new pleasures just because they were in civilization. On the way to Wellington—and even before, when Matariki waited for Colin in the hills, observing the removal of the last residents of Parihaka with a bleeding heart—they had made love every night. It had been uncommonly romantic to set up the tent next to lively babbling streams and to listen to the rush of water, or to spend nights in thick fern forests surrounded by the cries of the nocturnal birds. Matariki would not have had anything against continuing this wandering life. When she was married to Colin, she could accompany him; the landscape between the Canterbury Plains and the west coast was supposed to be gorgeous.

  Matariki could easily imagine leading an itinerant life along the train line for a few months or even years. Perhaps they would even need her as a translator. Surely there were also Maori tribes in the mountains with whom it would pay to come to an understanding. Yet Matariki did not create any illusions for herself: if this dream was to become real, she needed a marriage certificate. Even in Wellington, she had taken a risk in slinking into Colin’s hotel room at night, and even to Colin, it seemed just barely within limits. He was concerned for Matariki’s reputation, and his own. Under no circumstances would it be acceptable for her simply to follow her boyfriend along the railroad. Matariki, however, was optimistic. They would find a way to marry soon.

  Colin Coltrane was good-natured in his dinner conversation with the Dunloes and Drurys, but deep down he was seething. Though Matariki was a bit assertive and more exotic than he would have imagined for his wife, he loved Matariki, and the match was not entirely unsuitable. Colin had rejoiced in the beginning when he learned of Matariki’s origins.

  Michael Drury was not exactly a sheep baron, but he was clearly well off. Matariki enchanted his nights and could change his life otherwise as well. No doubt she was expecting a large dowry, perhaps enough starting capital to build their own farm or business. Colin thought vaguely of horse breeding, an idea that Matariki had been enthusiastic about when he mentioned it in passing. She had talked for hours about horses—including an expensive present from her adoptive father, a Kiward cob mare that cost a small fortune. Matariki rode very well. Colin was certain she would not oppose investing her dowry in horses.

  Colin had a plan: a year of service constructing the railroad, at which point Matariki would hate the separation and be bored at university, which would lead to his brilliant suggestion of officially starting their life together.

  Now, however, the Drurys were undermining him, and his mother seemed to be behind them. Did they really expect him to build Matariki a nest before they agreed to the marriage? This vexed Colin, but when Matariki parted from him unwillingly after dinner—she was staying in a hotel suite together with her parents, and she could not slip out—he recovered his spirits. He would find ways to speed up this marriage. If nothing else, he would get her pregnant.

  Chapter 2

  Violet Fence was a good mother.

  She breastfed her son, whom she had named Joseph after Eric’s father, although she hated when the baby sucked on her. She was constantly reminded of Eric’s abuse, and because she could not relax while he fed, it hurt. Yet Violet endured. She breastfed Joe, swaddled him, rocked him, and sang to him. She did what she was supposed to do but did not feel a spark of joy. She spent day after day alone with the insatiable baby and the silent Rosie, who clung to her but never made a sound. Whenever she wanted something, she pointed. Mostly, though, she did not want anything.

  Rosie ate when someone put something in front of her, and she crawled under her blankets when someone laid her in bed. But she no longer did anything on her own. Violet sometimes thought Rosie had lost her mind and that she was well on her way to that herself. She was filled with sadness, and it took all her energy to get up every day and be a good mother.

  Yet she could not talk to anyone about it. She only talked to Eric when absolutely necessary, and all the women she met could not stop talking about how cute Joe was and how well he was growing. The only thing that saved Violet during this time was Caleb Biller’s dictionary. She read it from beginning to end, even when she did not always understand the definitions. Sometimes she read aloud, which she preferred to singing lullabies. Rosie seemed to listen closely, though she didn’t care what “arithmetic” or “autodidact” meant, and Violet’s voice seemed to soothe Joe.

  Nevertheless, she wrote letters increasingly rarely. Baby Joe alienated Violet from her friends. She did not want to answer her friends’ questions about Joe’s size, weight, and hair color. What did it matter to Kathleen Burton whether Joe was brown haired or blond? Nonetheless, Kathleen’s excitement and the reverend’s well-wishes sounded completely genuine. Even Heather seemed happy for Violet. She was always sending little presents for the baby. Violet’s lack of interest brought her to the conclusion that something was wrong with her, and so she worried all the more about Joe.

  Caleb Biller was not particularly interested in Joe. He did not ask about the baby but depicted vividly his everyday life at boarding school. H
e seemed to like it there, shone in Latin and Greek, and even made friends among the older boys. His letters to Violet became less frequent, evidence of his dwindling interest in her life. After all, what did she have to report? That Rosie was silent and Joe screamed loudly? That Eric gambled away most of his pay, so Violet would have to breastfeed as long as possible to avoid buying milk?

  Violet buried herself in Caleb’s dictionary and finally understood the word “paradox.” While she feared losing her mind, she also gained knowledge.

  Eric was proud of his son but hardly took care of him. This was no surprise to Violet. All the miners left the raising of their children to their wives, although patriarchs like Mr. O’Toole at least tried to feed their offspring and create the necessary conditions to keep them warm and dry. Eric, however, did only a minimum. At the center of his world stood the pub and the horse races.

  Violet was shaken anytime she thought of Eric trying to sleep with her again. She could hardly imagine it; her whole body was sore, and she was constantly exhausted. But Mrs. O’Toole and Mrs. Travers had made cautious allusions to Eric about a wife’s being accorded a grace period of at most six weeks. And indeed, after barely a month, Eric had forced his way into Violet’s bed again.

  Violet had readied herself, had made plans, and had even discussed with Clarisse whether it might hold him off if the baby slept next to her.

  “If it cries, maybe he’ll lay off,” she argued.

  But Clarisse shook her head. “Or he’ll slap it around until it stops. When men are horny, nothing will stop them. It’d probably turn some of them on to see the baby suckle.”

  Violet did not think it unlikely. Eric had sucked on her breasts often enough himself. If he did that now, if he liked the taste of her milk, she’d die of disgust.

  She had decided to remain calm and lift her nightdress for Eric, but allow him as little as possible. When he was not completely drunk, he had to recognize that she needed a bit of relief and that her breasts belonged to the baby first of all.

  When it did really happen, Violet’s mind completely failed. Violet could not speak, let alone argue amicably. Even as Eric was approaching her, she froze in fear, and when he grabbed her, she screamed. The noise that sounded from her had nothing to do with pain. Violet shrieked in sheer panic. She was no longer mistress of herself. Eric laid off her when their frightened neighbors flung open the door. The two workers seemed to have expected at least one ax-swinging murderer. Now, embarrassed, they stood, facing Eric’s naked manhood and his screaming wife on the bed, her hands wrapped around her body and completely beside herself.

  In the other bed, Rosie crouched in a similar position, pressing the baby to her like a doll. For his part, Joe reacted to his rough treatment by wailing.

  “We’d, uh, better go,” muttered the elder of the two men, his head lowered. “Sorry, uh, sorry about that.”

  When the men left, Eric beat Violet until she was quiet.

  “And you keep the brat quiet,” he hissed at Rosie.

  The little girl holed up with the baby under the covers and tried to hold his mouth shut. Luckily, Eric was quick. He satisfied himself before his son suffocated. Three months later, Violet was pregnant again.

  Some eight weeks before the birth of Violet’s second child, three horses caused a small sensation in the Canterbury Plains. One of them was Spirit, a small black purebred stallion that had never galloped particularly fast but showed an exceptional gift for harness racing. Spirit was considered the favorite for the harness race on Easter Sunday. A few gamblers, however, had placed their bets for Danny Boy, the powerful cob of a milkman from Christchurch. Danny’s owner occasionally let him run in harness races, but his placing depended on his mood that day. If Danny did not feel like it, found his rider too heavy, or was too tired from the week’s work, he reached the finish line in last place. If he made an effort, he could definitely win.

  No one other than Eric bet on Lucille, a gray mare who belonged to an animal farmer in the plains. Lucille had never appeared in a harness race, so no one knew anything about her. Eric put her in second place on his trifecta bet for sentimental reasons. He was already drunk when the betting slips were given out in the Wild Rover, and he wistfully recalled a whore named Lucille for whose services in Treherbert he had scrimped and saved. Lucille had been his woman, and she had not acted coy or lain tense beneath him. On the contrary, Lucille had praised and encouraged him. He had ridden her like, like . . .

  Eric briefly considered putting Lucille in first place, but he had heard rumors that Danny Boy’s owner wanted to have the horse ridden by a pro. The easygoing gelding no doubt had potential. Eric entrusted him with victory. That left third place for the favorite, Spirit. Eric’s bet puzzled Paddy Holloway, the Wild Rover’s owner.

  “You’re never going to have your stud farm in the plains,” he said.

  Eric liked to talk about his dream of winning big money and breeding horses in the Canterbury Plains.

  “You’d do better to buy milk for your brats,” Mr. Travers said to needle him.

  Mrs. Travers complained about Eric Fence. Violet had not fully paid her for her help during her first birth. She doled out the money in tiny payments, and often Mrs. Travers would not even take it. She saw how starved Violet and Rosie looked, and the second child would be there soon enough. Violet was not under any circumstances to be left alone again when that happened. Mrs. Travers and Mrs. O’Toole had offered her to move in to either of their houses when the birth was imminent. Violet did not know whether Eric would allow that, and wondered if she could burden the women with Rosie and Joe as well. Leaving the children with Eric was unthinkable. Clarisse, whose help was not proper but who at least lived almost next door, was otherwise occupied. She had finally gathered enough money to buy the site for her “hotel”—in the middle of town, just as she had dreamed. Now, she was neck deep in plans and negotiations with carpenters and construction-material sellers, whose wives suspiciously watched to see if they were paid with something other than money.

  “I take care of my brats,” Eric angrily replied to Mr. Travers.

  “Good-for-nothing,” Mr. Travers said about Eric to his wife. “The little woman’d get on better without him.” His gaze passed over his collection of coffins as if he would have liked to measure one for Eric. “Why in the world did she pick him, a beauty like her?”

  On Easter Sunday, the beauty and magical attraction of a different female creature changed everything. Although the lady in question had four legs and Lucille was recognizably in heat when her owner, Robby Anders, rode her to the starting line, he didn’t care; nor did anyone else. Lucille also proved well-mannered—in stark contrast to Danny Boy, the gelding, and Spirit, the stallion, who fell for Lucille’s intoxicating scent right away.

  At the beginning of the race, it was not a problem. Lucille ran with incredible speed, and the head-over-heels male horses followed. Later, it was said this was the fastest harness race ever run in Brown’s Paddock in Woolston. Lucille, Danny, and Spirit left the rest of the field hopelessly behind in the second half of the race. For two and a half miles, they trotted in the same formation: Lucille in front, the gelding and the stallion next to each other, just behind.

  Then, on the straightaway to the finish line, they all tried once more to speed up, but Lucille’s reserves were exhausted. Danny and Spirit could have pulled past her. However, Spirit’s young jockey was only a mediocre rider, and after almost three miles in Spirit’s saddle, he lacked the energy to force the reluctant stallion past the mare.

  The milkman in Danny Boy’s clumsy saddle had a better hold on his horse. All rumors to the contrary, he hadn’t engaged a jockey and rode his cob himself. Though he wasn’t all that good, Howdy Miller had long worked with his horse, and on Danny’s broad back, he sat more comfortably than the rider on the purebred Spirit. Miller knew how to make Danny run. The gelding brought himself neck and neck with the mare. Then he pushed ahead by a nose—finally trotting beside h
er across the finish line.

  At the finish, amazed silence awaited the riders. The race attendees were too surprised to applaud. Danny Boy, Lucille, and Spirit—a trifecta no one other than Eric had believed in.

  Chapter 3

  The planned Midland Line, the railroad between Christchurch and the west coast, would travel through gorgeous terrain. The southern mountains formed a grandiose backdrop, and the forests and lakes along the future tracks were like a fairy tale in the sunlight. The path also represented a mighty challenge to architects and construction workers. Colin was almost speechless when he saw the chasms to build bridges across, the slopes into which the tracks would have to be driven, and the creeks they would have to bridge or redirect.

  “It will take years,” he said when he and two other armed constables reported for duty with Julian Redcliff, the leader of the current construction segment.

  Redcliff was a compact though strong young man, and his dirty clothing indicated that he liked to roll up his sleeves. He greeted the men amiably.

  “Undoubtedly,” he answered as if Colin had addressed him openly. “That’s part of technical marvels. They don’t just spring out of the ground. The Midland Line is a challenge. I’m convinced that in a hundred years and beyond, people will still be marveling at what we did here. We can all be proud to have taken part.” Redcliff glowed with pride and drive to action. “So, gentlemen, let’s conquer Arthur’s Pass. Does anyone here have experience as a construction worker?”

  “As a what?” Colin looked at him, taken aback.

  Redcliff returned his gaze reluctantly. He had to look up at Colin, but that did not seem to be what irritated him.

  “As a construction worker, or a gold miner. We’re happy when the boys of the Armed Constabulary have even held a shovel. Granted, it’s work a little foreign to the profession, but it’s better than shooting Maori.”