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

by Sarah Lark

  “I trust him,” Chloe said.

  Heather should not have been having these conversations. She was the last person to whom Chloe would attribute any reasonable motivations in warning her about Colin Coltrane. Heather knew she spoke at least in good part out of jealousy, but she could not keep it inside. This evening was her last chance.

  “So much so that you’re giving him all your money?” Heather asked bitterly.

  Terrence had been wealthy, and Chloe was his sole beneficiary. Jimmy Dunloe had offered to manage the money for her, and Sean advised her to sign a prenuptial agreement that would at least limit Colin’s control of the money. Chloe would not hear of it.

  “We both want the stud farm. It will belong to the two of us, and we’ll both manage it. I gave Colin the money because I want the same thing. It’s not only his dream.”

  “I thought your dream was a gallery,” Heather whispered. “You loved art and wanted to promote painters and sculptors in New Zealand. What about the exhibition of Maori art? What about that female Russian artist? We were to have the gallery together. And now? Am I supposed to do all that alone?”

  Chloe hugged her friend. She could not bear to see Heather sad, but she had to be firm.

  “You’ll manage it alone if you want to keep working on it,” she said. “The gallery was, well, a sort of girlish dream, but now—”

  “Now you’re all grown up,” Heather said bitterly. “I understand. And I hope you’re happy, Chloe. I really hope you’re happy.”

  There were women in Reverend Burton’s congregation who gossiped about Chloe’s new union so soon after Terrence’s death. Kathleen and Claire did their best not to listen, but the two friends were of the same opinion.

  “I’m happy that we’re related,” Claire said, “but couldn’t she have married Sean?”

  Kathleen smiled ruefully. “Sean seems to have lost his heart in Christchurch,” she revealed to Claire. “He hasn’t said anything, but since his speech there a few months ago, he’s different. Hopefully she’s not some fanatical suffragette.”

  Claire laughed. “I found Kate Sheppard quite nice. And our Mrs. Morison is easy enough to get along with, as long as you pay women a proper wage.” Harriet Morison applied herself on behalf of the seamstresses in the factories. The forming of a union was imminent, and Mrs. Morison would lead it. Claire and Kathleen had always paid their seamstresses properly, and most of them had worked at the Gold Mine Boutique for years. That was not the case, though, in the textile factories that had popped up in Dunedin over the last few years. The women often worked under inhumane conditions, and Claire and Kathleen were glad Mrs. Morison gave them her support. “We need women who speak up for women’s suffrage. And I’ll vote for your Sean first thing.”

  Kathleen smiled. She, too, was proud of her son, and she would not begrudge him his happiness no matter what the woman who had his heart was like. Until recently, the matter of the girl in Christchurch had been more of an intuition for Kathleen. Sean seemed to think about her incessantly, but it did seem he was avoiding the Canterbury Plains.

  Colin and Chloe were blissful on their wedding day. Chloe looked beautiful in her dress of gold-colored brocade. Kathleen had put a great deal of effort into the design, and she knew the dress would cause a sensation in Dunedin. Claire and Kathleen were also wearing sumptuous gowns. Heather wore a green-apple dress, her hair gently framing her face; she would not have been bested by the radiant bride if her eyes had showed a little gleam instead of melancholy. Kathleen sympathized with her daughter. Heather would be lonely again.

  At least she had renewed her correspondence with Violet. Kathleen would encourage Heather to visit her. She had talked about it for a long time, really since Violet had moved to Woolston.

  Kathleen looked around for her husband, who was chatting with Sean at the well-stocked bar. The reception was taking place in Jimmy and Claire Dunloe’s apartment—and neither of them thought anything of the prohibition efforts. Whoever wanted whiskey got some. In this, fortunately, Jimmy Dunloe, Michael Drury, and Reverend Burton were of one mind. Banning alcohol would only stimulate the black market and further burden the poorer families.

  Neither Sean nor Peter looked enthusiastic as Colin approached them with Chloe blissfully smiling on his arm. Kathleen stepped beside her husband.

  “We must take our leave,” Chloe said in a regretful tone. “This reception is wonderful, but Colin wants to take the night train to Christchurch. Tomorrow is race day in Woolston, and before we go home, we want to look at one or two horses Colin thinks might be right for the stud farm.” She gave her husband an adoring look.

  Sean arched his eyebrows. “I keep hearing stud farm,” Sean said, “but if I recall correctly, it takes a foal eleven months to be born. Have you even mated any mares yet? Or are you still just trading horses like before?”

  Kathleen shot her older son an admonishing look. Sean was the gentlest, most polite person she knew, but when Colin appeared, the devil got into him.

  Colin simply laughed. “Three mares have been mated, dear brother. My wife’s hackney mare is one of them; she’s been covered by a Thoroughbred stallion with a strong trot. And I’m afraid I can’t escape horse trading, but I have to acquire a certain breeding stock. Occasionally one of the animals will prove ill-suited, and we’ll have to part ways with it.”

  “However, we’ll discuss that together at the time,” Chloe interrupted him.

  Chloe surely understood a thing or two about horses, but she also was sensitive and did not like parting with them. Kathleen still could not picture Chloe as the wife of a horse trader.

  “There, you heard it, Sean,” laughed Colin. “I’m not even lord of my own land. Next thing, my wife will want a voice in everything, which must please you. After all, you’re in with the suffragettes. Come along, Chloe. We should leave, or we’ll miss the train.”

  Chloe said her good-byes graciously, and Colin steered her energetically in the direction of the exit before she could chat with someone else.

  “A wedding night on the train to Christchurch,” Kathleen mumbled. “Wouldn’t you picture something more romantic?”

  Sean shrugged and took another sip from his glass. “She doesn’t seem to have a voice in anything.”

  Peter, who rarely drank but was persuaded by the quality of Jimmy’s whiskey, grimaced. “Looks more like a newly bought horse he’s leading home from market.”

  Kathleen gave Peter a warning look. “What a thing for a man of the cloth to say.”

  Peter laughed. “I’m tipsy, Mrs. Burton,” he admitted. “But not so much that I confuse what’s yours and mine like your son, lord of his land. Even though not a shilling of his own went to it. The ‘newly bought horse’—forgive me, dear, I’ll express myself more clerically tomorrow—paid for its own stable.”

  Indeed, Chloe was not especially pleased by her wedding night on the train. She hardly got any sleep and felt beaten when they reached Woolston early in the morning. Colin was wound up and lively. His eyes shone as he stepped into the racetrack. Chloe kept an eye out for acquaintances in the stands, but she did not see any. In the morning, a few less important races took place. The main events of the day were the harness races in the afternoon. Chloe recognized that two of the galloping horses wore Lord Barrington’s colors.

  “Lord Barrington must be here. Let’s go to the owners’ box and say hello.”

  In the owners’ box, there would surely be a royal breakfast and first-class champagne. Those two things could have reinvigorated Chloe’s spirits.

  Colin, however, shook his head. “Not now, dearest. First, I’m not for more small talk with better society. We had plenty of that yesterday. And second, we did want to look at horses. There’re apparently a mare in the racing club and one just like her here at Brown’s. We should go before someone snatches them out from under our noses.”

  Chloe reluctantly obliged. Colin was right, but this was their honeymoon. She would have liked to show off her
good-looking husband in the owners’ box.

  Instead, Colin led her into the rather dark stables of Brown’s Paddock. The mare in question was a handsome cob. However, she seemed unfriendly and bit at Colin when he wanted to look in her mouth. Chloe did not like her for their stables.

  “I thought we wanted to breed with mostly Thoroughbred horses,” she objected when Colin began negotiations with the mare’s owner. “Cobs are surefooted and fast on uneven ground, but harness races are now mostly run on special tracks. On even ground, Jewel would have beaten that Maori woman’s horse.”

  Chloe blushed. She tried hard not to mention the name Matariki Drury to Colin.

  Colin shrugged. “We can always get rid of the horse, but one or two foals, just to try.”

  He paused when he saw Chloe frown. They had different ideas about horse breeding. Chloe preferred the British model, which was planned across generations. Colin found crossbreeding interesting and hoped for lucky accidents.

  “Very well then, let’s take a look at the other.” There was no point aggravating Chloe on the very first day.

  The grounds of the Lower Heathcote Racing Club were busy. Finally, they found a stout, blond young man who seemed prepared to show them around.

  “Horses for sale? Mares? Oh, right, Beasley’s brown.” The man led them along one of the spacious aisles and pointed to an elegant dark-brown Thoroughbred mare. “And then across the way over there is a chestnut pony. But”—the man lowered his voice—“if you ask me, sir, I wouldn’t take either.”

  Colin furrowed his brow. “You work here?” he asked. “For one of the horse trainers?” The club provided stables exclusively for regular racing horses.

  “For the club,” the man said. “Eric Fence is the name. But my heart, sir, is in harness racing. I follow it closely. And these mares here, neither’d run a mile faster than five minutes.”

  “But that horse over there is supposed to have already won a race,” Chloe said.

  She had not liked the cob mare, but she liked this man even less. She challenged him on principle.

  Eric Fence nodded. “Sure, after the three favorites galloped. The chestnut trotted, so she won. She would have come in fourth. That’s how it goes, madam.”

  His presumptuous tone annoyed Chloe. “I know how it goes,” she said.

  Fence was no longer looking at her, however. He had turned back to Colin. “If you ask me, sir, the only horse for sale here worth his salt as a trotter is the black gelding over there.” He pointed two stalls down where a rather small horse with a handsome wedge-shaped head, longer mane, and soft eyes waited. “He’s supposed to go because he gallops too slow. But I’ve seen him trot before. A stableboy got on him, you know, for fun—”

  “Without the knowledge of the trainer or owner,” Chloe completed the thought.

  Fence smirked. “Doesn’t hurt the horse none,” he said. “In any case, did he ever take off like a cannonball. And he’s soft to sit on, too, so the jockey has it easy when he trots.”

  Three miles at a strong trot demanded quite a bit from a rider, and if the horse had a particularly uncomfortable gait, the jockey might occasionally lack the strength—or pain tolerance—to spur the horse faster to the finish line.

  “The future of harness racing lies in sulkies,” Chloe objected. “Ridden harness racing is dying out. We need horses that can move in the tackle, which does not seem to be the case with this horse.” The gelding stuck his head out of the stall, and she stroked him. She liked him, but he was the opposite of what they needed. “Besides, we’re looking for mares. We’re setting up a stud farm.”

  Eric Fence shrugged his shoulders. “Well, when you look at it that way, I suppose someone else will soon be winning with him. Doesn’t bother me. I’ll give the tip to the horse trader who once discovered Spirit. Does that name mean anything to you, sir? Spirit? The black Thoroughbred stallion?”

  Colin nodded. “He’s in my stables,” he said curtly. “I bought him for a stud.”

  Eric Fence looked at him with shining eyes. Chloe thought his smile looked honest for the first time. “Seriously, sir? Spirit? You won’t find a better one, sir. And this one here.” He pointed to the little black horse again. “Man, he goes right with him, sir. Buy him, and when he wins, say he’s the son of your stud. What do you think? Then the mares will pour in. You won’t need to buy as many yourself.”

  Chloe wanted to laugh at the idea, but then she realized that Colin was considering it.

  She tried to object. “Colin, we do need to think long term. The future—”

  “The future is this afternoon, sir.” Eric Fence grinned. He felt he had already convinced the wealthy gentleman. “Buy the gelding and sign him up for the harness race. He’s well trained. It’s all the same to him if he canters two miles or trots for three. If you put down three or four tenners, and he wins, you’ll already have almost made your money back.”

  Chloe bit her lip, but Colin was now seriously considering it. “Does it really go that quickly? With signing up for today, I mean? Will I be able to find a jockey?”

  Eric laughed. “If I put in a little of the ol’ elbow grease, sir,” he boasted. “Or you could ride yourself.”

  Colin puffed himself up. “I was in the cavalry, Mr. Fence. I can handle any horse.”

  “Now, that won’t work.” Chloe glared at her husband as well as the impertinent stable hand. “We would ruin our reputation. No breeder here rides his own horse. People would think we couldn’t afford a jockey. You decide: either a professional rider or none at all, Colin.”

  Only after she had said it out loud did it become clear to her that she had essentially given her blessing for the purchase of the horse. That was probably exactly what the men wanted. She was irritated but tried not to let Colin sense it.

  A “professional” jockey did turn up: Eric gave the stableboy a few shillings to sit in the black horse’s saddle. The boy was inept. Colin saw red as he followed the race from the owners’ box but tried not to let Chloe sense it. The black gelding—he was actually named Lancelot, but Colin signed him up as Spirit’s Pride—did his job phenomenally. With the shaky boy on his back, he came in third. Colin could effortlessly have ridden him to victory himself.

  Eric Fence met Colin and Chloe in front of Pride’s stall. He was breathless with pride and excitement. He had bet on the horse and made a handsome profit. As had Colin, although Chloe did not consider it gentlemanly to bet on one’s own horse.

  “I can organize the transport too,” Fence offered enthusiastically. “However, I’d like, I mean, perhaps we could work out a small commission?”

  Colin pursed his lips. He knew he would upset Chloe with his next words, but this man was exactly what he needed.

  “Bring him yourself. I’m offering you the post of stable master at Coltrane Station. Will you accept it?” He held out his hand to Eric.

  Eric shook it.

  That night, Colin and Chloe Coltrane fought and made love in the White Hart Hotel in Christchurch. As ladylike as Chloe seemed, she had a temper that Colin then got to soothe in bed. In that way, Colin thought, she resembled Matariki. But Chloe was older, and much more conservative. She did not lie stiff and resistant beneath him, but she did not show the wildness and imagination of the lithe Matariki. Well, one could not have everything. Colin poured Chloe another glass of champagne and tried to arouse her once again.

  Eric Fence celebrated his new job in Brown’s Tavern but went home early enough to discover that Violet had slipped out to another meeting of the teetotalers and suffragettes. Well, that was going to stop. He hoped Coltrane’s stud farm was out of the way enough that she wouldn’t be able to join up with another group. His satisfaction at that prospect did not hinder Eric from letting Violet feel his displeasure when she returned home. He beat her ghastly little sister, who had withdrawn to a corner to smear paper with red crayons, along with her. Rosie cried soundlessly, Joe bawled, and Roberta screamed as if being roasted on a spit. Eric hop
ed there would be a bedroom with a door he could close in Invercargill. For now, he took Violet despite the noise. The prospect of a new job had given him wings. He was not ready to sleep yet.

  “Pack our things tomorrow,” he ordered. “Mr. Coltrane is expecting us. We’re moving in as soon as possible.”

  Three days later, Sean and Heather Coltrane stood in shock before the shack where Violet had dwelled for almost a year. Sean had been contemplating for a long time how he could arrange to see Violet again without compromising them both. Heather’s desire to visit her friend had been a convenient excuse for him. He bought crayons for Rosie, a dress for Roberta, and a stuffed animal for Joe. It would not have been proper to bring Violet a present, but she would be happy about the gifts for the children, as well as the basket Heather had filled with groceries. Though Violet had only vaguely mentioned her economic situation in her letters to Heather and even more cautiously to Sean, they both did enough work with charities to imagine Violet’s situation. Still, the shack behind the pub thoroughly horrified the siblings.

  Their landlord merely shrugged. “What do you mean, inhumane?” he grumbled. “It was rather nice of me to let them live there. And now don’t come to me about the tavern and the whiskey and tell me that I led the man astray. That Fence doesn’t booze more than the others. He gambles his money away. And I don’t get a penny of that.”

  Heather and Sean looked at each other helplessly, but there was nothing more they could do. Violet, Eric, and the children were gone. A new job, somewhere to the south. They would have to wait for Violet to write them again.

  If she did.

  Chapter 2

  Amey Daldy was fifty-four years old, but she had never had a stranger introductory conversation than that with Matariki Drury.

  The girl had come to her on Hepburn Street in Ponsonby and got caught up in the confusion of eight children moving into a new house. Mrs. Daldy had been widowed four years earlier, but then she married the merchant and politician William Daldy, a widower himself. Apparently, she had planned to devote herself entirely to her political goals and duties, but something had interfered: William’s daughter and shortly thereafter the daughter’s husband had died, leaving the care of their eight children to the Daldys. Right away, Amey rented the house next to her and her husband’s residence and hired a housekeeper. The children, some of whom were still quite little, were just moving into the neighboring house when Matariki arrived in Auckland. It was a long trip with a crossing by ship from the South Island to Wellington on the North Island, and then a ride on her trusted horse Grainie from Wellington to Auckland; Dingo was with them the entire time.