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

by Sarah Lark

  Joe sometimes had nightmares, or Roberta would cry, but then Rosie would hold the children in her arms and rock them without having to fear that Eric would scream at them or shake them. Though in the first nights he had sought Violet in her room, he arrived through the hallway without bothering Rosie and the little ones. Rosie had listened fearfully to every step in the hall. When he had gone, she slipped into Violet’s room to make sure she was still alive. Though Violet repeatedly maintained Eric would not do anything to her, Rosie knew better. And now even these visits had stopped. Rosie did not know why, but she was convinced that Mrs. Coltrane had worked this wonder too.

  Violet explained her husband’s waning interest less supernaturally, but she was nevertheless prepared to thank the heavens for it. In truth, it was simply too difficult for Eric to slip into the house at night, particularly since Chloe had fun checking on his presence in the stables all night. Above all, however, his income had grown enormously since he started working for Coltrane. Coltrane paid him well, including bonuses for some “trivialities,” and Eric also won with his bets. Thanks to Coltrane, he had access to insider knowledge. Colin and Eric manipulated the races sometimes so an outsider could occasionally win. However, then they really skimmed off the top, and Eric could easily afford a whore in Invercargill. The girls in Christchurch or Dunedin, where Colin occasionally raced his horses and where Eric traveled to place a lot of money on dark horses in transregional betting offices, were more fun than the fearful and always tense Violet.

  Violet did not care if the money Eric had drunk and gambled away before now landed in prostitutes’ purses. She earned her own money as Chloe’s house and lady’s maid, and her employer, who also had hired an uncommonly capable cook, made sure they were all fed. The better nourishment and less worrisome life did her and Rosie good. Both finally gained some weight, and Violet liked what she saw when she looked in the mirror. She wore a maid’s uniform and thought she looked neat and competent.

  Chloe bolstered her new self-assurance. She took more of a liking to the young woman all the time, and when the Gold Mine Boutique was mentioned for the second time, she realized why she recognized Violet.

  “You’re the Girl with Flower and the Girl in Red and the Girl in the Forest—Heather Coltrane’s portrait series,” she said, amazed by the coincidence. “Beautiful pictures, the best Heather ever painted. She sold some, but a few still hang in her apartment in Dunedin. I was . . .”

  Chloe paused. She could not possibly admit she had felt something akin to jealousy when she had seen the portraits of Violet in the apartment she had shared with Heather. Even if not in the way she loved Chloe, Heather must have loved Violet, who was rendered so beautiful in the pictures, so young, innocent, and vulnerable. Heather had somehow succeeded in capturing the story of one whose trust in the world had been shaken but who was still able to marvel and love. Violet’s gaze back then had been filled with painful hope. Heather had painted her like a promise to the future. Compared with that, it hurt Chloe’s heart to look at the young woman today. Violet was still beautiful. Her expression still stark. Yet Eric Fence had needed only a few years to rob her of her hope and destroy her future. Violet Fence was hard, alert, and knowing. Chloe thought she sensed rage behind her resignation. She saw Violet as a warrior, even if Violet didn’t see herself that way.

  Chloe wondered how Heather would paint the young woman now. She often admitted to herself that she missed Heather painfully. She pined for the cocoon of harmony and mutual understanding that had shielded her and Heather since their childhood. Heather and Chloe had not always been of the same opinion, but their arguments had never been as bitter as the fighting that flared up again and again with Colin. Chloe didn’t want to fight constantly. It was strenuous to weigh every word every moment of the day in order not to chide Colin constantly. She could feel his annoyance and suspicion when she entered the stables and watched the men as they worked with the horses.

  Colin now acted as a trainer, which Chloe regarded skeptically. Her husband had no experience with racehorses even though his cavalry training was excellent and he was an exceptional rider. If the other horse owners entrusted their animals to him, they hardly had anything to which they could object. Yet her husband’s often brutal manner of treating the horses did bother her, and a few of his training methods were questionable. Chloe knew that Eric and the apprentices called her a nitpicker and chronic know-it-all. Chloe was tired of the tension. She yearned to let herself sink down again, to feel Heather’s cool hand on her forehead, and to be able to talk openly.

  She could write her friend, and she often enough made an attempt to do so. But whenever she sat at her desk with pen in hand, she was frozen. Chloe simply could not manage to describe her daily life as she felt about it. Her letters fell into endless descriptions of horses and social events, a bit about Violet, a lot about Rosie.

  Chloe’s pride numbed her fingers. She could not admit that her life with Colin Coltrane was a singular disappointment, her marriage a singular folly.

  Chapter 4

  Heather Coltrane fought her way through the commitments Chloe had entered into for the gallery before her wedding. She felt tired and exploited. With Chloe, she would have even enjoyed the work to prepare the exhibitions and private viewings. But Chloe was the more extroverted of the two women. She had organized the viewings and receptions, and she graciously handled the artists and their often-difficult companions and family members. Chloe also had been the one to advise customers on their artwork purchases.

  In the past, Heather had usually only helped hang the pictures and schedule dinners and entertainment for the artists and their companions. Now, however, all of these responsibilities fell to Heather. She tended to them but without real enthusiasm. She liked the gallery, but she wanted to paint more than anything. And she longed for someone close to her.

  Heather wanted Chloe.

  Her discontent and tension resolved in a flood of tears when Violet’s first letter arrived from Invercargill. With the same delivery was a letter from Chloe.

  Both women seemed happy. Heather tried to convince herself that she must likewise be happy because her friends had found their way to each other, and Chloe was taking care of Violet. Yet she was by no means happy, instead inwardly churning and cut to the quick. Chloe had her beloved husband, she had the stud farm, and now Violet and her children too. Heather had nothing.

  Angry about her jealousy, ashamed of her resentment, deathly unhappy, and lonely, she barricaded herself in one of the gallery’s side rooms. Between crates of unpacked pictures, she cried her eyes out. There were other things she should have been doing—most urgent of which was to hang the unpacked pictures for the exhibition of work by an artist from Paris—or rather, she was from Russia and lived in Paris. Svetlana Sergeyevna painted unique filigree landscapes, which enchanted the viewer. Heather imagined her as a sort of fairy who hardly touched the ground over which she walked. The London gallerist with whom Chloe had organized another exhibition had recommended that Chloe and Heather exhibit her work before she was too well known and her art too expensive. All the artist needed was a bit of money for travel and a place to stay in Dunedin.

  Chloe had naturally seized the opportunity and offered the guest room in their apartment to Miss Sergeyevna. Now, without Chloe, Heather would have to deal with a total stranger who probably did not even speak English.

  Everything had gone wrong leading up to the exhibition. The paintings had arrived before the artist. While Heather should already have hung them since the private viewing was that evening, she knew from experience there would be trouble. Artists never liked how the gallerist arranged their pictures. Plus, there were so many, there wasn’t enough wall space to hang them all. Added to which, the wine had not yet been delivered, the cook who was supposed to prepare hors d’oeuvres had not been in contact, and the Dunloes’ Maori housemaid who was to help serve the guests was late. If she did not come soon, Heather would have to polish the glass
es herself. And now, these letters from Chloe and Violet.

  Heather knew she had to pull herself together, but she simply couldn’t. She cried, cried, and cried.

  “Oh! Here is someone after all.” A deep voice startled Heather. “And I thought they leave my pictures all alone with open door so that someone can steal.”

  Heather looked up and saw a large pale face, framed by an abundance of carrot-red hair. So red that the color could not actually be natural. Heather imagined only actresses and whores dyed their hair. And this woman wore her flood of hair loose. It fell in thick locks over her massive shoulders. Everything about Svetlana Sergeyevna was abundant. She was not fat, but tall and thick. Her face was broad, her lips full. Beneath strong eyebrows and long eyelashes, blue eyes popped out, round and soft. They gave her face a somewhat astonished, almost childlike and friendly expression. She eyed the sobbing Heather sympathetically.

  “How one can cry when such beautiful pictures hang in next room?” The woman smiled, putting an index finger under Heather’s chin and raising her head. “Is no reason to be sad. World is beautiful.”

  Heather could have said something to that, but she was about to die of embarrassment in front of this woman. Obviously, this was the artist, her guest of honor. And she—

  “I . . . forgive me, Miss Sergeyevna. I was supposed to have picked you up from the train. And the pictures, they don’t all fit in the exhibition space. That is, if I hang them all, they’ll be too close together. They don’t have the same effect, you know.”

  Heather had to stop crying. Svetlana Sergeyevna reached into the pocket of her wide dress. Clearly, she rejected corsets. Her gown resembled a caftan, and it shimmered in shades of blue. She produced a handkerchief and handed it to Heather.

  “For that don’t cry. No one must pick me up. I am not packet, am I? So far have I always found my way. And better too many pictures than few, right? We sell simply five, six, and then hang new ones. Not bad. For that you cry?”

  Svetlana Sergeyevna smiled. At least she did not seem to be difficult.

  Heather shook her head. Please excuse me, Miss Sergeyevna. You must think me hysterical. I wasn’t crying for that. It’s just, the cook hasn’t come, or the maid, or the wine, and I haven’t yet labeled the pictures, and . . .”

  None of that sounded much more reasonable. Heather tried to breathe deeply.

  The Russian laughed, the sound deep and booming like her speaking voice. She had more in common with a bear than a fairy. “Are the people coming for food? Are the people coming for wine? Nonsense, coming for pictures. And there is time. We can cook ourselves. We buy caviar; we make blini. Very Russian, people will love. You don’t cry, Mrs. Boulder?”

  Heather burst into tears again and found herself in a bear hug. Embarrassed, she freed herself.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sergeyevna. I’m Heather Coltrane. Mrs. Boulder, um, left me, us.”

  “Svetlana. You say Svetlana. Or Lana. Is shorter. What means ‘left’? She dead?”

  Heather sounded incredibly stupid again. How could she express herself so ineptly? Blushing, she corrected herself. “No, no, of course not. She just, she married.”

  Svetlana looked at Heather probingly. Then she smiled. “My dear,” she blurted out. “My dear, the one often is not better than the other.”

  Half an hour later, Heather and Lana had already shared many laughs. Heather could not recall acting so boisterously with anyone since Chloe’s departure. And now the problems seemed to solve themselves on their own. The cook did not appear, but the Maori girl did. Heather sent her straight to the wine merchant to remind him of the delivery while she went shopping with Lana. A gourmet grocer had salmon and caviar, the milkman had cream, and the tiny pancakes, which occupied Lana’s time until the exhibition, only required water and flour. Before she took her position at the stove, Lana helped Heather label the pictures. The Russian artist thought Heather’s selection brilliant.

  “Yet you are not gallerist, you artist. Mrs. Boulder wrote me you paint portraits.”

  Lana seemed about to fall over with laughter when Heather admitted that most of her models had four paws or hooves.

  “But you know they loved,” she explained. “Friend of mine, Alicia in London, paints portraits of rich women. They often sad. Is hard to paint beautifully when not loved.”

  “Sad because they’re married?” Heather giggled.

  The wine had arrived in the meantime, and Lana had opened a bottle straightaway. After two glasses, the two women were already a bit tipsy.

  “One can be happy married,” Svetlana said, fluttering her eyes innocently and likewise giggling. “I believe we must eat a few blinis. Otherwise all people think we drunk vodka.”

  “I’ll show you a few portraits of two-legged models soon,” Heather promised. “When we’re in the apartment. Heavens, yes, we should change. The guests are coming in an hour. Where are your things?”

  Heather instructed the housemaid to polish the glasses, hoping she would leave the wine bottle untouched while she did. Lana, however, quickly solved that problem.

  “Let’s take wine. Helps select clothes.”

  Though Heather doubted that, she was so tipsy that she did not stop her new friend from sticking the bottle under her arm. Lana followed her a few streets to Heather’s apartment over the Gold Mine Boutique and admired the décor.

  “Here you lived with Chloe?”

  Heather nodded, again a bit sad. To change the subject, she showed Lana her portraits of Violet. The Russian eyed them with unexpected seriousness.

  “This beautiful,” she said reverently. “You real artist. And this girl very beautiful, but very, very, I have a bit of fear for this girl. Is very good picture. Picture makes happy and sad. Touches the heart. Like girl has touched you.”

  Svetlana eyed Heather with a look she could not place. Questioning? Tender?

  “I liked her a lot,” Heather said stiffly, “like, like a daughter.”

  Lana nodded. “What happened to her?” she asked, and smiled when she saw Heather’s face cloud over again. “Let me guess. She married.”

  Heather laughed a little bitterly. “I’ll tell you another time. Now, we must hurry. Here’s the guest room. I have an iron if your clothes are very wrinkled, but no housemaid.”

  Lana shrugged. “I also no housemaid. Too expensive. I can iron alone.”

  She ran into the guest room, only to emerge again at once. Over her arm, she carried a dress in various blue and gold tones—she was dressed in only a one-piece undergarment, the top portion of which replaced a bra; below, it turned into wide pants ruffled with lace above the knee. Lana’s ample bosom showed through. Heather gasped for air.

  “You are not shocked, are you?” Lana asked casually as she filled Heather’s iron with glowing coals.

  Heather was still wearing her afternoon dress. She was wavering between two evening dresses. She preferred the smoky blue to the dark red, but for that she would have to tighten her corset. She was not sure if she could do that alone. Perhaps if Lana was already running around here half-naked, it would not bother her.

  Heather blushed as she asked her new friend to lace her corset. She and Chloe had always done that for each other. Heather smiled at the memory of their first corsets. The girls had tied them so tight that they thought they would suffocate.

  “Me it doesn’t bother, but you. Do you not know is unhealthy? Ruins whole body, say doctors.”

  “Whoever wants to be beautiful has to suffer. It’s always been that way.”

  Lana had the laces of her corset in her hand, but she did not pull on them. Instead, Heather felt her warm breath on her neck. “You no need to suffer to be beautiful. You gorgeous. Always.”

  Heather held her breath as Lana’s lips brushed her shoulder. Lana kissed her tenderly. Heather felt the hair on her skin stand up and warmth overflow from her. She felt light but also firmly rooted in the earth. Her body seemed to vibrate toward Lana’s. Her heart raced.


  “You like?” asked Lana.

  Heather nodded.

  “You done before? With Chloe?”

  Heather did not know how to answer that. She had shared a bed with Chloe, had fallen asleep cuddling with her, had kissed her at night, and had stroked her a little. But this here? In the bright light of day, their bodies hardly covered?

  “Not really,” she whispered.

  Lana laughed. “Then you virgin,” she declared. “I will show you how goes.”

  Svetlana opened Heather’s corset, and Heather thought she would collapse with desire as Lana’s fingers moved in small circular motions along her spine while her lips caressed her neck. She had to pull herself together. In less than an hour, half of Dunedin would be expecting her in the gallery.

  “Later, then,” Lana said when Heather pointed out with a trembling voice how time was trickling away. The Russian laughed, reaching for the laces to Heather’s corset. “Now I tie you up like mail packet, and later I unwrap you like present.”

  The viewing for Svetlana Sergeyevna’s exhibition was a high point of Dunedin’s social calendar—not just because of her artwork but also the painter’s relaxed cheerfulness and openness and the easygoing, self-assured introduction by the gallerist.

  Sean Coltrane had rarely seen his sister so excited and happy. He attributed her mood with slight amazement to the news from Invercargill. Chloe Coltrane was caring for Violet and her children. Sean would have expected Heather to be jealous, but his sister was even more bighearted than he could have imagined. For Violet, the move to Invercargill was surely an improvement. Compared to the shack she had dwelled in, the servants’ wing of the “little castle” must have seemed like heaven. Fundamentally, nothing had changed about her situation. No true love. Violet’s sad gaze would not leave Sean’s head, nor would her touching beauty. Over the last weeks, he had repeatedly caught himself visiting Heather’s apartment just to view the pictures of Violet even though she had changed since they were painted.