by Sarah Lark
The audience responded with jeers.
“Now, so far, no one knows for what women will vote,” Sean continued, “except on a single subject: prohibition. The movement for women’s suffrage developed from uniting for moderation and against alcohol. One can assume that female voters will support legislation regarding the more strictly enforced closing times, fewer liquor licenses, and anything that moves in the direction of prohibition. And with that, ladies and gentlemen, we have made ourselves powerful opponents. The whole alcohol industry uses a great deal of money and skill to undermine the movement for women’s right to vote. Its lobbyists work on the representatives. They fund campaigns and rallies against women’s suffrage. The faction of anti-prohibitionists is large, and it reaches across parties. Even among the Liberals, many representatives are at least against a strict alcohol ban. And so, this vote for women’s suffrage becomes a touchstone for the view of every single representative toward democracy: Will we deny half of the mature, thinking population the right to vote simply because we might not like its decision? Or are we honest such that we will put our arguments up to all people for a vote? I advocate for the latter, and I will fight for it in Parliament.”
Amid the cheers of the crowd, Sean left the podium.
“No one’s explained it like that before,” said Lizzie Drury, standing next to Kathleen and Heather with Haikina, her Maori friend. “Does Sean really expect an alcohol ban?”
Kathleen nodded. “Draft legislation for it is ready.” She smiled. “Peter is already quite concerned about his beloved red wine.”
Lizzie winked at her. “There’s always mine, you know. I’m sure not going to stop pressing wine. And if it comes to it, Michael can always fire up his distillery again. We’ll get back to the Irish ways, Kathleen. Just watch out they don’t catch Peter stealing grain.”
The women of Dunedin responded to Sean’s detailed explanations by forming the Women’s Franchise League. It was the first time a union in which the word “Christian” played no role and in which it was about the right to vote from the beginning, not just abstinence and alcohol. The chair, Anna Stout, was greeted with thunderous applause.
Sean asked Heather to postpone her visit to Chloe by two weeks; he wanted to go with her as soon as the campaign in Canterbury was over.
“No. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’ve waited long enough. Maybe too long. I’m taking the early train tomorrow and will be in Invercargill by afternoon. Assuming my luck holds, Colin might be busy with tomorrow’s race, and I’ll have Chloe to myself.”
Chapter 8
“Why don’t you just let Rosie drive?”
Chloe knew she was fighting a lost cause, but Dancing Rose was her horse, the last daughter of her beloved Dancing Jewel, and today she was running her first race. Chloe was less than enthusiastic about Eric Fence swinging onto the sulky’s box.
“The horse is so sensitive,” she argued. “If Eric pulls the reins too hard, it’ll come out of its lane and might ram the side fence. Rosie drives with a lighter hand.”
The question of who should introduce Dancing Rose in her first race had already been the subject of several arguments. Chloe and Colin had finally agreed on a young jockey from the racing club, but he had fallen during one of the galloping races and was out for the day.
Colin rolled his eyes. “If they realize we let a girl drive, there will be loads of trouble.”
Chloe exhaled sharply. “That didn’t bother you two weeks ago when the driver for the brown gelding fell out.”
Rosie Paisley had already stepped in as a driver several times. When she wore pants and stuck her already rather short hair under the cap, the delicate girl could pass for a boy without any problem. But those horses had never been favorites; mostly, they were pacesetters for other horses from the Coltranes’ stables. With Dancing Rose, it was different. The chestnut mare had a real chance of winning, and Rosie would hardly let others blow past her. The mare was not just named after her. Rosie had raised the horse, acclimated her to the harness, and broken her in. Now she was dying to race with Dancing Rose. No doubt Rosie’s heart was breaking when Eric yanked the mare out of her stall without a friendly word. Dancing Rose held her head high and pranced nervously when the bit struck her front teeth during bridling.
Chloe saw how Rosie was struggling with herself. Rosie would have liked to stroke and soothe the horse, but for that, she would have to get close to Eric, which she simply would not do. Rosie had made enormous progress in the past years. She was still quiet, but no longer let out her fear, anger, and sorrow with red and black crayons on paper; instead, she drew horses. If someone asked her something, she answered, and in the stables and house, she was exceedingly helpful. To this day, though, she still hated and feared her sister’s husband.
“But now it bothers me,” Colin said curtly without dignifying his wife or Rosie with a look. “I don’t want a girl on the box. The mare has a chance of winning. I’m not going to take the chance that she’s driven timidly.”
“Driven timidly?” Chloe yelled. “I can’t believe my ears. Rosie is far and away the best driver on this track. If she were a boy, the trainers would be falling all over one another for her. She’s calm and has a fabulous hand.”
“Except she never uses the whip. And she’s a girl. Enough, Chloe, end of discussion.” Colin turned away.
“Checkrein, boss?” asked Eric as he fiddled with the leathers.
“No,” said Chloe.
She strictly refused the use of this auxiliary rein, since it hindered the motion of the horse’s head. It did, however, make it harder for trotting horses to begin galloping and thus decreased the risk of disqualification.
Eric was as insensitive a driver as ever, but nonetheless very decisive. At the finish, he tended to employ the whip too strongly, and often the extra rein was all that saved him from having his horse gallop away. Colin reluctantly agreed with Chloe this time, especially because Dancing Rose reacted fiercely to constraint. She had reared up more than once in front of the sulky, and Colin did not want to take any chances. Besides, it was not smart to get under Chloe’s skin. The mare belonged to her. She could revoke the entry if she was prepared to risk the scandal.
“No. Without,” he finally said, reluctantly.
“And be careful with the whip,” Chloe added, but she doubted anyone listened.
Disheartened, she stayed behind in the stables when the men led the horse out.
“Are we not going over to watch the race?” Rosie asked quietly. When she was alone with Chloe, she sometimes volunteered speech.
Chloe shook her head. “You can go, Rosie. I won’t. I have a headache.”
Rosie left reluctantly. For her, it was a test of courage to go to the racetrack without Chloe, but for her favorite horse, she would do it. Chloe felt helpless rage against Colin and Eric well up within her. It was not fair. Rosie should have driven in this race and led the horse to victory.
It was not at all certain that they would have disqualified Rosie and her horse after a victory. So far there were no binding rules about participation in harness racing. The rules only said girls could not ride.
Chloe rubbed her forehead. Her head ached as always after these fruitless confrontations with Colin. She did not even know why she still bothered. Colin had put her in her place long ago, and for years there had been no more reconciliation and no compromises. Coltrane Station was completely under Colin’s control. He was established as a horse owner, trader, and trainer—if not especially beloved—and the same applied to Eric Fence. No one spoke anymore about how the whole estate had been financed with Chloe’s money.
Chloe bitterly regretted not having at a minimum insisted that her name be given as coowner on the documents. But she had not wanted to listen to advice to do so, and instead behaved like most well-bred wives. Colin had received her dowry and signed the deeds of sale for the house and land. Chloe really only owned a horse: when Dancing Rose was born, she had the foal registered under her n
ame. Colin had always registered Jewel’s offspring himself, and Chloe had not noticed until she once protested the mistreatment of a young stallion, and Colin showed her the papers, laughing. Shortly before her death, Jewel had foaled once more, and Chloe seized ownership of the little horse as her last effort at resistance. After that, she capitulated to Colin’s strategy: malice and needling belonged to her everyday life.
In principle, this was Eric’s strategy too: once he felt secure in the Coltranes’ stables, he ignored Chloe’s instructions, fits of anger, and interdictions. Naturally, she complained about this to Colin, but he did nothing to put Eric in his place. On the contrary, Colin began to ignore Chloe in the stables. He humiliated her in front of his apprentices and employees, and he smiled smugly when she yelled at someone, or tried to fire an impertinent stableboy.
The situation had escalated a few months before when Eric and Colin returned home from a very successful trip to Woolston. They had started two horses, placed winning bets, and sold one of the horses for a high profit in Dunedin. Eric had finally broached the subject that had been in his heart from his first day at Coltrane Station. He had done enough sleeping in the stables, and he wanted his wife out from under Chloe’s wings.
Colin shared his decision with Chloe the morning after they had returned. “I’m allowing Eric to refurbish the old summerhouse for himself and his family. It’s not right for him to be sleeping in the stables while Violet and the children sleep here.”
“But he did insist on it,” Chloe said, sweet as sugar.
Colin looked at her condescendingly. “Would you stop with the nonsense, Chloe? We both know what it was about. And I’ve had enough. I won’t keep the man away from his wife any longer. And it’s for your good. Perhaps he’ll give her another baby, and you can drag it around like you did Rosie, since you haven’t had one yourself.”
Chloe glared at him. “And how do you know that the fault lies with me?” she asked. “Perhaps the problem is yours. Perhaps your seed’s not worth a damn.”
She was so enraged that she did not even blush when she used the expression she had heard in the stables about a stallion’s inability to sire.
Colin smirked. “Nonsense, sweetheart,” he said brusquely. “You can congratulate me. I heard it just yesterday—your dear mother let the cat out of the bag, even though everyone wanted to keep their mouths shut to spare poor Chloe. I have a kid, love. Little Matariki gave birth to my daughter. So, if we’re not drowning in heirs, Chloe, it’s on you.”
At these words, something inside Chloe had died. She stopped opposing letting Eric move out of the stables and had largely kept out of the stud farm’s affairs since then. She knew that Violet cried secretly, but she could not protect her. Chloe wanted Rosie to stay in the housemaid’s room, but at that Violet only shook her head.
“Rosie will be afraid there,” she said, “and Eric won’t let her keep our children with her. So, I’ll either have to take her with us to the summerhouse, or could she perhaps sleep near you, Mrs. Coltrane? Next to your rooms, as your lady’s maid? I know that she’s not the most skillful when it comes to help with dressing and all that, and your husband . . .”
Violet reddened. She had heard Colin and Chloe fighting loudly; she also had heard their reconciliations. Surely Colin would not permit Rosie to share his wife’s suite.
Chloe waved these considerations away. “That is an excellent idea, Violet,” she replied. “Thank you, I hadn’t thought of it myself, but that’s how we’ll do it. And don’t worry about my husband. He won’t be setting foot in my suite again.”
Since then, Rosie had slept in Chloe’s dressing room, and Chloe locked her private suite. Colin had accepted it without protest.
Chloe rubbed her forehead and left the stables, heading in the direction of the house. She needed to think about the end of this marriage.
Heather asked about the Coltranes’ estate at the train station and was directed to the racetrack.
“You can’t get there on foot, madam,” the newspaperman who was also offering the race programs informed her. “Take a cab. It’s race day, so they’re in front of the train station.”
Heather did indeed quickly find a cab to the racetrack and shared it with a horse owner from Dunedin whose trotter was supposed to compete in a race in the afternoon.
“It’s a young horse,” he said to Heather. “Normally I keep it in Woolston, but it’s promising. Over time, I’m going to have it start elsewhere, but first I want to try it here.”
Heather was not particularly interested in racing, but there was something about the man’s words that made her curious. “Why here first? Isn’t the track established?”
“It’s not so well regarded,” he said. “Among aficionados, that is. There’s betting enough. However, the major breeders don’t start their horses here anymore. So, the number of proper races is decreasing. It’s losing its glamor, if you catch my meaning.”
Heather nodded. “Why are the Barringtons and Beasleys withdrawing their horses?” she asked, consciously letting the names of the breeders exert their influence.
The man beamed. “Ah, so you know a little, madam. Grand. But then you must also have heard.”
“I’ve been abroad quite a while,” Heather said.
The man nodded. “Alas.” He seemed to wrestle with himself a bit, but the enjoyment of gossip finally overcame his discretion. “Well, you see, I don’t mean to spread gossip, but the track’s owner, Coltrane, doesn’t have such a good reputation in horse circles. He’s repeatedly sold horses with great expectations, which then, well, did not meet them. At least nowhere else. Here in Invercargill, one or two of them have won several times.”
“You suspect rigging? Cheating?”
The man shrugged. “No one’s proven anything. People merely talk about it. And that’s enough for the crème de la crème to withdraw. We small players, however”—he smiled apologetically—“quite like to race here. Particularly young horses that still need experience. There’s no shame in losing in Invercargill.”
Heather nodded. This information didn’t surprise her. She would have been astonished if Colin had been regarded as a model of integrity. But what did Chloe think? Did she know?
The cab finally stopped in front of the racetrack, and Heather’s new acquaintance headed for the racing club, where guest horses were stabled. Coltrane no longer rented stalls for short periods. This, too, was a bad sign. Renting to guest horses brought in money. If there was nothing to hide, there was no need to shy away from the presence of strange riders, trainers, and owners.
Heather left the racetrack behind and went off toward the house and the Coltranes’ stables. A grand sign with gold and red lettering pointed the way: “Coltrane Station—Stud and Training Stables.” The sign clearly wasn’t Chloe’s taste.
As Heather made her way to the house, a girl came walking toward her. On first seeing her, Heather thought of Violet. Heather could still picture Violet’s slender face, high cheekbones, and full lips as clearly as if she had seen her the day before. This girl, however, had lighter-colored hair, not chestnut but dark blonde. And she did not have Violet’s shining turquoise-blue eyes but instead frightened light-blue eyes. Then, when Heather made to stop to speak to her, the girl looked away and set off at a fast walk as if to escape. Heather watched her go with irritation. The resemblance to Violet was unmistakable. But that could not be her daughter. So, was she Rosemary, her little sister? Rosie had been such a dear, open little girl. Heather smiled at the memory of her sweet voice when she had sung children’s songs. Could she have become such a shy, mistrustful creature?
Heather tried to recall whether Sean had mentioned something, but then the path made a sudden turn, and the house and stables were in front of her. Heather’s heart leaped when she saw a woman walking from the stables to the house. Somewhat colorless in her faded riding dress, and somehow bent and broken. But without a doubt Chloe. Heather could not hold herself back. She shouted her friend’s
name and ran toward her.
Chloe thought she was mistaken that someone was calling her name. Yet then she saw Heather rushing toward her, and she instantly felt transported back in time. Even as a child, Heather couldn’t wait until Chloe had climbed down from the little donkey in front of the Coltranes’ farm. And Chloe could still see Heather jumping down the stairs of the farmhouse and hugging her. Chloe, Chloe, look what I found, I drew, I saw. Later she had hurried to Chloe from the Burtons’ parsonage and then in the halls of the university when they found each other again after attending different lectures.
But this Heather was less the modest, hardworking student who pinned up her hair chastely and wore dark dresses so as not to excite her professors or fellow students. The young woman who flew toward Chloe wore her hair loose. It fell in long tresses over her shoulders. Her loose-fitting, pastel-green dress billowed over dark-green culottes gathered at the knee and decorated with lace. Over everything she wore a short, dark-green little jacket. In her ears flashed long, ruby earrings—Chloe would at most have dared to wear something so extravagant at balls—and the necklace that went with them hung around her neck.
“Chloe!”
Heather paused when she arrived in front of Chloe, somewhat out of breath and unsure whether she could just hug her. Chloe was speechless. All she could do was stare at her friend and her shining eyes, her radiant countenance. For the first time in years, Chloe looked at a face where there was nothing to read but wholehearted love. She threw her arms around Heather’s neck and began to sob.
Heather had anticipated a lot when she came to Invercargill but not such a fit of crying. Her first look at Chloe had surprised her, and now, as she read the weariness and desperation in her features, she was deeply alarmed. Had she come at just the right moment? Heather held Chloe tight and let her cry, just as she had once cried herself out with Svetlana. The memory had something eerie about it—or something magical?
