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

by Sarah Lark

  Violet understood only half of it, though it seemed possible Chloe had left. She had complete faith that the mistress she admired would leave her husband eventually. But so suddenly? Without any preparation? As if escaping? Because someone struck her horse?

  “Stay here, Rosie. I’m going to the house. I have to look for the children anyway. Are they with Mrs. Robertson?”

  “Roberta, yes. Joe was in the stables.”

  Violet sighed. She could have guessed. She had instructed the children to stay with the cook. On her free days, Mrs. Robertson visited her sister, who had children of her own. Roberta loved playing with them, and this time the children were even supposed to stay the night with their friends. Joe, however, preferred to stay with Colin and his father, and apparently, he had once again convinced Mrs. Robertson. That meant he would know that Violet had stayed the night in Dunedin. And he would tell Eric.

  To her amazement, Violet met her son in the house. He was standing in front of Colin, who sat slumped over on the sofa, holding a bag of ice to his cheek.

  “Joe, what are you doing here?” she yelled.

  Colin Coltrane turned a rather battered face toward Violet, dominated by a massive swelling below his right eye. It was already nearly swollen shut. Violet almost felt sorry for him. She knew from personal experience that the next day his eye would be red and circled in green and blue. She thought of Eric at once, but surely he had not done that.

  “He’s making himself useful,” Colin mumbled with an appreciative glance at the boy. Colin’s lips were also thickly swollen.

  “Because the whore ran away,” Joe added.

  Violet glared at the boy. God forgive her, but she still had not managed to feel love or even fondness for him. Particularly because the older he got, the more he resembled his father. She thought she could already recognize Eric’s devious look in the boy. And now this.

  “Joseph Fence, another expression like that, and I’ll wash your mouth out with soap,” she said sternly, although he was sure to say something else. “Please don’t teach him such things, Mr. Coltrane. He doesn’t even know what a, what that word means.”

  “I sure do,” said Joe. “A whore’s a woman who does it with others in the bed. Overnight?” He looked at his mother inquisitively.

  Violet was not certain, but it sounded as if the men had been blabbing about taking women to Dunedin overnight. And Joe had picked it up. But who had laid Colin out like that?

  “I’ll use whatever words I want in my own damned house,” Colin snapped at her. “Whether Mrs. Fence approves or not. You can clean up here, Violet. I’m not going to the pub tonight, but the boy here is going to go for me. Be a good boy, Joe, and fetch Mr. Coltrane a bottle of whiskey. Have the barkeeper put it on my tab.”

  “Sir, you don’t really mean to send a child to the pub?” asked Violet, horrified.

  She had heard so much the day before about the connection between prohibition and women’s suffrage that she was almost inclined to make allowances on the question of abstinence. The right to vote had to pass first. Then they could discuss whether it made sense to close the pubs. Colin’s behavior immediately convinced her of the contrary.

  Colin grimaced. “The pharmacist is closed on Sunday. And I need something for the pain. I’m sending him for medicine, Mrs. Fence, no more, no less. Go, Joe.”

  Joe smirked triumphantly at his mother before going on his way. Violet began cleaning up the living room, which showed clear signs that a fight had taken place.

  “Where is Mrs. Coltrane? Rosie said something—”

  “There is no Mrs. Coltrane anymore.”

  Violet discovered the glass and the empty bottle on the side table next to the sofa. So, Colin had already been drinking and only needed a new supply. Why send Joe, though? The Coltranes always had whiskey, wine, and champagne in the house.

  “As your son said, the whore is gone. And Eric’s going to have it out with you. You think he didn’t notice you were gone last night? You’ve got another, right? Cute as you are, you could have ten. Or is it a woman? Have you all gone mad?”

  Violet did not say a word. It would be bad enough to have to answer Eric later. It seemed Rosie was right. Some woman must have convinced Chloe to go away with her. Heather? Violet’s heart suddenly raced. If Chloe was with Heather, it really could be that the two of them would come back to get Violet. And where Heather was, Sean might also be.

  The thought of Sean Coltrane helped Violet make it through the endless evening. Eric hadn’t gone to the pub after the race. Instead, he got drunk in the living room with his boss. That had never happened before. Chloe had always somewhat managed to prevent a fraternity between Eric and Colin. Now, however, a new era was dawning, and Eric evinced an intuitive sense of it. First, he approached Colin, crestfallen with more bad news. The new horse had failed spectacularly. The potential buyer had left beforehand anyway. And the idiot of an apprentice who was supposed to lose the last race had delusions of grandeur and ran neck and neck with the designated winner until the very end. When they then trotted across the finish line, his mare had her nose ahead. So, more lost bets. It was better to forget the day had ever happened. With the help of the whiskey, master and servant made good on that thought. And Joe sat there, looking at the men and worshipping both of them.

  Violet had sent Roberta straight to the summerhouse, and the cook, who slept in the servants’ wing, was trying to convince Rosie to occupy a room there. Under no circumstances could the girl stay in her chamber next to Chloe’s deserted rooms that night.

  Colin got drunk enough to tell Eric about Chloe, Heather, and Mr. Willcox. In the story he related, he had first beaten the two “whores” out of the house and then the prospective horse buyer who tried to defend them.

  Violet took it that it had not quite been like that. Rosie would have been much more disturbed if her beloved Mrs. Coltrane had shown traces of abuse. She also wondered what Chloe and Heather could have been doing together on the couch to get Colin so angry. Yet, in truth, she did not care. Violet would survive the night, and with a little luck, Eric would just drink himself into unconsciousness and not even molest her. Regardless of what happened, the next day she would take the early train to Dunedin with the children, though she already knew that would not be easy. Joe would want to stay with his father and Rosie with her horse. Violet had made her decision, and she was determined to prevail.

  She sighed with relief when she succeeded in slipping out of the house late in the evening without the men noticing. She pulled Joe, who was almost falling asleep while walking, along with her. For a moment, she thought about fleeing to Mrs. Robertson. Then surely nothing could happen to her. However, Eric was likely to make a scene when he did not find her at their house, and he would drag her by her hair out of the servants’ quarters.

  So, she went into the summerhouse and hoped for a peaceful night, especially when she discovered Rosie and Roberta cuddled together in Roberta’s corner when she put Joe to bed. She would have to bear it silently if Eric did something to her. She would not allow Rosie to be frightened back into muteness and blank stares.

  Violet’s hopes would not be fulfilled. Though Eric came to the guesthouse late, he was astoundingly alert. Probably he had fallen asleep with Colin in the living room and then come to, a little more sober, a few hours later. Now he stumbled into their house—a small building of two rooms and a kitchenette. The entry was through the larger of the rooms, where there were a table and chairs and where the children slept at night. The smaller room was Violet and Eric’s bedroom. When he would come home from the pub, Eric would feel his way through the children’s bedroom without making much noise or even lighting a candle. This time, he had a lantern with him from the main house. It was easy to see Rosie and Roberta, who slept tightly intertwined.

  “Is it possible?” Eric roared. “In my house? My daughter! I’ll show you, to seduce my child, you little whore. You probably did it with the missus, heh? Learned it from your Mrs.
Coltrane.” Eric tore Roberta and Rosie out of the bed and threw Rosie across the room. “And yet, you’re pretty cute, Rosie. About time a man broke you in, not just the missus.”

  He approached Rosie, who retreated fearfully, but he pressed her against the wall and forced his tongue into her mouth. Rosie kicked him and screamed.

  Violet was there in a flash and pressed in between them. “No, Eric, in God’s name, not her. Take me. You’re not mad at Rosie. You’re mad at me. I ran away, Eric. I ran away with the women of the Women’s Franchise League, but there were also men at the rally.”

  Eric let Rosie go. “So, you admit it,” he said, sneering. “You admit it: there was always something you kept running to. Even back in Woolston. That highfalutin Mr. Stuart, right?”

  Violet backed up toward their bedroom, trying to entice Eric and warn Rosie at the same time. Don’t hole up in the corner, Rosie. Run away. For heaven’s sake, run away, and take Roberta with you. Don’t let Roberta watch him beat me to death. Don’t you watch.

  “Mr. Stuart was a nice fellow,” whispered Violet, “very nice.”

  Eric followed her into the bedroom. His first blow knocked her onto the bed.

  Violet did not take the early train the next morning. She survived the night, but she was hardly able to get out of bed. When she had woken before dawn, she convinced herself that Rosie and Roberta had disappeared. Joe, too, was gone, but she could no longer worry about where he was. She would have liked to wash or make tea, but she could not stay on her feet long enough. Her head and back hurt unbearably. Perhaps Rosie could care for her later? Or Mrs. Robertson? Violet was not sure how much the cook knew of Eric’s rages, but she thought she had sometimes exchanged looks with Chloe when Violet could barely haul herself to work. She would have to regain her strength by midday. There was an afternoon train. Her last chance. She would not survive another night. Violet stumbled to Roberta’s bed. She had hardly stretched out when she lost consciousness again.

  Rosie groomed Dancing Rose. She had spent the night in her stall with her while Roberta, who was afraid of horses, had curled up in the hay. Roberta fled in the first light of morning into the kitchen. She loved Mrs. Robertson, and Rosie loved the mare. Dancing Rose was enjoying some time alone with Rosie, even if the quiet in the stables would not last. Colin gave the apprentices the day off after the races. Colin and Eric would come in early to train the horses as always. Rosie was afraid of that, but what could she do? Run away? Ride away?

  Rosie was not very good at thinking. She had stopped a long time ago because thinking only caused pain. Because it meant remembering, remembering the screams and blood and death. But she had started thinking again recently. There were beautiful times and memories now: Dancing Rose and everything Mrs. Coltrane had taught her about horses. How to harness them, how to acclimate them to the bit and reins. Always think before you do something, Rosie, Mrs. Coltrane had said. Try to think like a horse. Then you’ll know what you need to do.

  A horse would run away.

  Rosie considered which vehicle she would need and whether Rose could pull it. She had only ever pulled the sulky before, but if Violet and Roberta and Joe were to ride, too, she needed a chaise. And a different harness.

  While Rosie tested the leathers in the tack room to see which of the harnesses might suit Rose, Eric entered the stables.

  Eric was in a bad mood. Colin had barked at him when he came into the house to check on him. Colin was sick and would stay in bed. Eric would have to see to the horses alone.

  Eric cursed. He would have to train all of the horses himself. At least the first one was already in the aisle, clean and ready to harness. Mrs. Coltrane’s mare. So, Rosie had to be here somewhere. What had been with her last night? She had looked like a damned woman.

  He found her in the tack room. And when Eric said good morning, Rosie looked at him as if looking at the devil himself.

  “Finish readying the mare. I’m going to take her out first. Sulky, Rosie, with the harness she always wears. Oh, and a checkrein. The little shit got away from me yesterday. I’m going to teach her manners today.”

  Eric cast a glance at the mare and realized he liked that. It was fun teaching manners to females, whether they had two legs or four.

  While Rosie harnessed the horse, he went to check whether she had fed Dancing Rose properly. The girl was guaranteed to have done something wrong.

  Obey—do not think, Rosie told herself. Then the devil might leave her in peace. Or would he? He had never left Violet in peace, no matter what she did. And yesterday he had—Rosie did not want to think about it. Do not think. But he would beat Violet again. And now he would put that hateful checkrein on Dancing Rose. And then he would beat her. And the next day he would do it again.

  Rosie reached for the racing harness. He could not be allowed to do that again. She had to stop him. Rosie begged the horse’s pardon as she put on the checkrein.

  “Just for today,” she whispered to the mare, “just this once.”

  Then she led the mare between the poles of the sulky and harnessed her to it. She tied a leather strip around the shafts of the left and right poles, a light connection. In the case of an accident, highbred horses should be able to free themselves quickly from the sulky so they wouldn’t become frenzied and break their legs. Chloe had shown Rosie many times how to tie the leather bands around the shafts: easy to undo but secure enough so they wouldn’t come undone themselves. Rosie tied the left side as she had learned. On the right side, she slung the leather bands only once, carelessly, around the shaft of the pole. Then she led the horse and sulky in front of the stables. Her heart raced. Chloe would have checked the bindings. She always did. But the devil?

  “Did you feed the new stallion, Rosie?”

  The devil came out of the stables, snorting with rage. “A gallon of oats for that useless horse? What do you think, Mr. Coltrane has too much money? How long have you been feeding the horses, girl? For years. But there’s nothing inside your stupid skull. Still too batty to put a few oats in a trough.” Dancing Rose pranced nervously back and forth. Eric took the reins out of Rosie’s hand. “We’ll talk more later, girl. We’re going to teach you to do things differently now that the missus is gone. You’ll see. I’ll teach you manners yet.”

  Eric swung onto the seat of the high-wheeled sulky and whipped Rose’s back with the reins. He had her start at a trot, riding the approach to the racetrack with verve. Rosie followed him, her heart racing. It must not happen until he reached the racetrack. If it happened on the road, Rose would run away and sooner or later collide with another horse or a tree or whatever else. She could kill innocent passersby, and herself.

  Rosie sighed with relief when Eric drove through the gate to the track, but she trembled again as he briefly stopped to speak with other trainers. Rosie recognized two other sulkies on the track. Apprentices were exercising the horses according to instructions from the racing-club instructors. If they noticed something now . . .

  But the other trainers did not pay much attention to Eric. They had eyes only for their own protégés. One of them opened the gates to let Dancing Rose onto the track. He ought to have noticed something, but he stood to the horse’s left, the side on which Rosie had tied it correctly. Eric had Dancing Rose trot again, and Rosie breathed a sigh of relief. At this speed, no one else would be able to see anything.

  Dancing Rose trotted a lap and a half before the leather strap on her right side loosened. It might have held if she had not resisted. However, Eric did exactly what he had done the day before during the race: he whipped the mare on the straightaway. Rose wanted to begin galloping, lowering her head to do so, and came up against the stiff reins. The jerk in her mouth made her stop suddenly, a reaction Eric anticipated, and which he sought to avoid with another flick of the whip.

  Dancing Rose reared up in the harness and, still on her hind legs, threw herself forward again to escape the whip. At that, the leather strip slid out of its fitting, and the s
imple slipknot loosened. Rose would feel the weight of the sulky only on her left side now. She spooked—at first from the uneven ballast and then from the leather, which now dragged across the ground to her left. The mare retreated to the right, then broke into a run. In her panic, she wouldn’t likely feel Eric pulling on her reins, but it didn’t matter. Eric lost the reins quickly. Being pulled on only one side, the light sulky quickly began to spin out of control. Rose galloped faster and faster. Eric was unsure whether he should jump out or try to keep his seat. And there were the side fences.

  Rose veered toward the edge of the racetrack. Eric didn’t have time to make a decision. He felt the sulky being thrown against the side fence, the wheel breaking, and the seat flying through the air. He saw the wooden benches of the crowd stands as he shot toward them.

  Then he did not see anything anymore.

  Violet awoke when someone knocked on the summerhouse’s door.

  “She must be in here.” The cook’s voice sounded strangely dampened. “She didn’t come to the house, and she never goes to the stables. God in heaven, hopefully nothing happened here. That would be—”

  “That would be as if lightning struck the same house twice,” said Mr. Tibbot.

  Violet did not recognize the calm voice in which these words were spoken. Violet forced herself to stand up. She was already doing somewhat better than early in the morning. It had to be that way too. She had to make the afternoon train.

  When she opened the door, Mrs. Robertson stood there with a man whom Violet had seen before. At the racetrack. Mr. Tibbot of the racing club, a trainer. Chloe had spoken with him a few times.

  Mrs. Robertson shrieked when she saw Violet’s battered face. “Oh, dearie,” she whispered. “Dearie, we, we have bad news.”

  “Rosie?” she asked.

  Mr. Tibbot shook his head. “Your husband,” he said. “Although from the look of y—is the news really so bad?” He cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Mrs. Fence. That was a slip of the tongue. Your husband had an accident. My God, Mrs. Robertson, how the devil am I supposed to tell her this now? Should we bring him here? Lay him out here, or in the main house?”