by Sarah Lark
“You could run away,” Candy said, almost a bit jealous. She was still with the second class, but after three months of good behavior, she could be promoted as well.
Anna shook her head. “Where are we supposed to go, child?” she asked gently. “This prison is in the middle of nowhere.”
The female factory lay in a sort of light scrubland, uncultivated and miles from the next settlement. “They would catch you before you ever got to town. And even if you made it town, what would you do there? Return to your old profession? They’d catch you before you even made it to your third customer.”
Indeed, escape from the Cascades Female Factory proved unnecessary. Reasonable behavior seemed to lead to commutation—as did marriage.
Candy saw how it worked after only two months in the sewing factory, where she had been assigned. “You can’t imagine,” she informed the others excitedly. “We all ’ad to form a line—the first-class girls in the front, of course, and the rest behind—then three men walked past us. Two were new settlers; one was a soldier. One of the settlers already knew what ’e wanted. ’E’d gotten to know Annie Carmichael on the ship. Anyway, he dropped a handkerchief in front of her first. She turned red as a beet when she picked it up—and just like that, she was engaged.”
Lizzie and the others looked at Candy, mouths agape. She raved on without a pause.
“The fellows eyed us like mares at the horse market,” Candy continued. “I was just waiting for them to check our teeth. Then the other two let their handkerchiefs fall—one of the girls picked it up; the other began to ’owl. She probably was still pining for some sweetheart in England. I thought, now the man will tell ’er ’e’ll come back. It’s what you’d expect, right? But no, ’e just picked out another one. The three of them will get clemency now and be married. Can you believe it? I was still too shy this time, you see, and with this short hair, I look like a plucked chicken. But next time, I’ll show ’em. I’ll get me a fellow like that, and then I’ll be out.”
Two men visited the prison’s kitchen and cleaning personnel. They had to line up as Candy had described, and the men had their pick. Lizzie felt she could die of shame. Naturally, the men on the streets of London had had their choice. Lizzie had often strolled down the alleys alongside other whores. But then, when and how she presented herself had always been up to her. She could hide behind her makeup or her neat little hat. It was self-deception, but she had really felt her fate was in her own hands. Here, however—call it a horse market or a slave market—Lizzie did not smile.
Of course, Velvet did not force a smile either, but a man chose her nonetheless. The man was neither young nor handsome. Lizzie wondered why Velvet picked up the handkerchief.
The men never wasted a second glance on Lizzie, but one afternoon the prison director summoned her. Normally that only happened when a woman broke some rule—or was picked for marriage. Lizzie could not remember breaking any rules, so might one of the men have decided on her after all? And how could she refuse without losing her status as a first-class prisoner?
Fearful, she slipped through the long, cheerless halls of the factory, in which there was always a draft.
It was not a man sitting across from the severe prison director but a well-dressed woman. Lizzie recognized short, bony Amanda Smithers and curtsied properly.
“Elizabeth Owens”—the prison director had an oddly sharp, high-pitched voice that always made the women tremble—“you know Mrs. Smithers, I take it.”
Lizzie nodded. “I hope you’re well,” she said politely.
Mrs. Smithers smiled. “Very well, my girl. We—”
The director interrupted her. He seemed to have no intention of letting Mrs. Smithers state her own business, preferring to hear himself talk.
“Elizabeth, Mrs. Smithers needs a maid. And since you made an excellent impression on her on the ship, she has expressly asked to employ you.”
Lizzie blushed and curtsied again. Sometimes female prisoners were put to work outside the factory. The women sought these posts in high-society houses—after all, one spent all day outside the prison, saw some of the town, and missed evening prayers. Moreover, the food was much better than at Cascades, where their meals were sufficient but boring: bread and porridge for breakfast, bread and vegetable soup for lunch and dinner. Workdays, Sundays, holidays. Every day. No one went hungry, but Lizzie had long since ceased looking forward to meals.
“We have a special case on our hands,” the prison director continued. “Mr. Smithers oversees work on the road from Hobart to Launceston. His house is near Campbell Town, so, closer to Launceston than Hobart. Indeed, it would—”
“Even for a girl from the Launceston factory, it would be too far away to return every day,” Mrs. Smithers interrupted. “What the director means to say, Lizzie—Elizabeth—is that you would have to live in our house if you took the job. Would that suit you?”
Lizzie was startled. She knew most of the girls would have cheered, but she was of two minds. She had never thought she might be able to leave the female factory so soon, and if she was being honest, the offer did not mean all that much to her. Lizzie rarely had felt as secure as she did in this prison. The work was not hard—the cook, a fat, friendly woman, laughed and joked with her girls and had not yet struck any of them. Even in Lizzie’s bunkroom, all the women were pleasant, and everything was clean and orderly.
All the praying sometimes bored her, but she relished the feeling of being truly good without compunction for once in her life. The overseers and the pastor were friendly to her. On Sundays, she sometimes read the Bible or some other books with other prisoners’ children. A few women had been deported with their offspring, and if a female settler in Van Diemen’s Land broke the law, she and her children went to the female factory. Lizzie enjoyed interacting with the little ones, and she didn’t have to worry about them as she would if they were her own.
She hoped taking care of the children might become her job at the prison, and then, eventually, she could get a job as a nanny outside it. In any case, she had prepared herself to spend the next three and a half years at Cascades. After serving half their time, women were usually pardoned. Then they could look for work in town and perhaps even find a husband.
Recently, Lizzie had permitted herself to dream again. The face of her fairy-tale prince was concealed by clouds, so she did not need to admit that his body still resembled that of Michael Drury.
And now, this unexpected offer to move in with Mrs. and Mr. Smithers near Campbell Town.
“We have moved into a very grand house,” Mrs. Smithers explained, smiling. “The owners will be in England for some time and have left it in our care for as long as this section of road is under construction. In any case, I desperately need a maid, and I think you would feel at home with us. You’ll have a lovely room, the cook is friendly, and the gardener”—she winked—“well, I hope you won’t be married out from under us. Lizzie, what do you think?”
“Above all, of course, it matters what the Cascades Female Factory thinks,” said the prison director strictly. “But since the girl has behaved herself so far . . .”
Lizzie hardly knew what was happening to her, but within an hour, she was sitting next to Mrs. Smithers in a neat little chaise traveling toward Campbell Town.
Chapter 6
Kathleen Coltrane hauled herself up the hill. It was a beautiful spring day, and far beyond the hills that surrounded Port Cooper, she could see the majestic peaks of the southern mountains. Grassy plains were supposed to lie between them—Kathleen often dreamed she might see them someday. Especially as she once again had to climb the stony streets of Port Cooper to her house, on foot and with two children.
Almost all the houses in the growing harbor town lay in the hills. This included the little blue-painted cottage that Ian had acquired two days after their arrival. Kathleen thought of the day she first had to overcome the climb. She had almost crumbled.
Three days after her son’s birth
and so soon after the long sea voyage, a dark chasm had seemed to open before her when she stood up and attempted to walk. But Ian knew no mercy. He had bought a house, and he wanted to move in with his young wife right away.
When she had entered the cold, barren residence, Kathleen had burst into tears. The previous owner—he had moved to the Canterbury Plains—had only left behind furnishings he did not need for his new house, so this one was nearly bare.
“Where should I put the baby? Where are we supposed to sleep?”
Ian just shrugged. “We’ll buy a bed. As far as I care, a cradle too. We’ll need it often enough. You can see to the house. I’ll give you money. Don’t act like this is so awful, Kathleen. Remember, your family slept on the floor.”
That was true, but they had had mats, and a fire was always burning. And Kathleen had not been exhausted from childbirth and a long voyage.
“Like I said, Kathleen, see to it,” Ian commanded. “I have to go to the stables. I’ll probably be taking the first horse there later. The miller’s nag. He says she’s difficult, nearly ran away from him with the bread wagon. Well, I’ll fix that. But the household is really your affair.”
She realized Ian had not bought any groceries either, not even milk. There was only a sack of flour on the table. Kathleen would have baked bread from it if she hadn’t felt so bad. Then she cast a hopeless look at the stove in the kitchen—which was not burning and for which there was no wood at hand. Surely there was some outside. But she could not summon the strength to go outside. Not as long as the ground seem to sway underneath her.
Fortunately, the baby had fallen right to sleep on a blanket, and she was making plenty of her own milk with which to feed him. Pere had made sure of that by providing her with soup and strange vegetables called sweet potatoes.
She looked around a bit more and discovered that the house itself was quite lovely. Simple, but purposefully built: a living room, a bedroom, another room in which Sean could sleep, and a rather large kitchen. By Irish standards, it was a grand home. No one in Kathleen’s village had this much space. Even Trevallion’s cottage was smaller. Surely there were also stables and pastures. After all, Ian always thought first about his four-legged wares.
Kathleen had to admit that her husband had not made a poor purchase. The kitchen windows opened out to the harbor, so Kathleen would always have something to see when she was busy about the house. And even her first glance outside revealed a happy surprise. Pere was already coming up with a basket on her arm, and she was joined by another, younger woman.
“Bringing presents for moving in,” the Maori woman called to her. She proudly handed her new friend a basket full of sweet potatoes and seeds.
Pere’s companion smiled broadly at Kathleen. “I’m Linda Holt. My husband’s the miller here,” she said, “and he told me that you’ve just moved in. Without furniture, without supplies, and with a newborn baby to boot. These men! Carl did not even think to give your husband a pitcher of milk or some ham. We do a little farming, you see.”
The women did not wait for Kathleen’s invitation to enter; instead, they walked right into the house.
“My God.” Linda got excited. “The Shoemakers didn’t leave you a thing. And how are you? You’re shivering all over.”
Kathleen was unable to answer, but Pere told Linda the story of how the Coltranes came ashore in Port Cooper. After that, the two women went straight to work. Pere carried in a pile of wood and set to lighting all the stoves in the house.
“Must get cold out. Not good for the baby,” she explained when Kathleen protested. Surely wood was expensive.
Linda had run home to retrieve the cradle her own daughter had just grown out of. “And by the time the next one comes,” she said, tapping her stomach, “you’ll already have your own.”
She brought her daughter—a blonde-haired, cute little thing—with her when she returned. Kathleen looked after the child while Pere baked bread—strange flatbread, which had almost nothing in common with the loaves she was used to—and Linda drove to the carpenter with her husband’s fractious horse. She must have done so very skillfully: the nag did not get away from her, and she came back with a bed, a table, and two chairs in the wagon.
“This is what the carpenter had around. Anything else you’re missing, you’ll have to order. Help me set up this bed, Pere. What a pain. You Maori sleep on mats, right? That’s so much more practical.”
“Practical” was Linda’s favorite word, and Kathleen soon became fond of the tall, slender blonde woman. She had no idea how she would have survived her first days in Port Cooper without her neighbors’ energetic help. Linda and Pere; Veronica, the carpenter’s wife; and Jenny, the petite but exceedingly plucky wife of the lumber seller, cooked for her, lent her furniture and utensils, stoked the stoves, and, most of all, always had a comforting and friendly word for her.
Ian eyed the feminine invasion of his house with more than distrust. The women soon noted that he found them bothersome, and they stayed away when they saw his cart in front of the house. This suited Ian fine, but Veronica and Jenny often asked their husbands for help for the new settlers. The carpenter took measurements and delivered furniture; Jenny’s husband sent their son by with firewood. When Ian became aware of these visits, he reacted with anger that increased as more time passed. Two weeks after Sean was born, Ian began getting on top of his wife again.
“No,” Kathleen said. She wanted to push him away. “Not yet; it’s too soon. I’m, I’m still very sore.”
Ian held her arms tightly. “So, you’re sore are you? That can hardly still be from the birth. Who’s been seeing you, Kathleen? Who have you been having fun with while I toil? The boy I saw coming out of the house when I came home yesterday looked handsome.”
“That was Jenny’s oldest son,” Kathleen explained, struggling against Ian’s grip, “barely thirteen years old. He brought firewood. My lands, Ian, what do you take me for? A bitch in heat who would—”
“Spread her legs for any man? Well, so far you haven’t proved the contrary. And I’m not going to take the risk of raising another stranger’s bastard. This time I’ll get you pregnant.”
Ian forced her beneath him and quickly thrust into her. She could not suppress a cry of pain. Sean whimpered, and Kathleen bit her lip. She hoped desperately that the neighbors had not heard her.
Only three weeks later, Ian had realized his intent, and Kathleen conceived again. She gave birth to her second son, Colin, just a little more than ten months after her arrival in her new country. But while she had carried Sean without complications, her second pregnancy had its share of challenges. Kathleen struggled against weakness and nausea and, on top of that, she had to quickly wean Sean because her milk was running dry. The baby was outraged at this. He cried constantly, and Kathleen could not keep him quiet when Ian came home.
Fortunately, Ian was often away. His business was doing well, and it often took him to the Canterbury Plains for several days at a time. There were not yet any livestock markets in New Zealand like the ones in England and Ireland. Ian had to ply his trade as a sort of traveling salesman. He would buy a few horses, sheep, or cattle; herd them across the countryside; and offer to sell them to the next farmer. Of course, this worked better with horses, mules, and donkeys than with grazing animals, the moving of which demanded herders and dogs. This was especially true for trade between the settlers of Port Cooper and the farmers in the plains. It was almost impossible to lead non-haltered animals over the steep, rough pass that separated the harbor from the interior. So in Port Cooper itself, Ian focused on the horse trade—and he quickly managed to make his new neighbors distrust him.
Kathleen thought about all this as she climbed up the hill, the ungainly toddler Sean on one hand and baby Colin bound to her back in a sling. In her other hand she hauled her purchases: vegetables from the harbor market, milk, and milled grain to bake bread and make porridge for the children. As if all that weren’t enough, she pulled a cumbers
ome sack of wool behind her. It needed to be washed, teased, and spun. Kathleen was skillful with such things, and Linda, the exuberant miller’s wife, liked to take advantage of this. She had grown up on a farm and kept a few animals in stalls near the mill. While she readily sheared her five sheep herself, handiwork like spinning or weaving didn’t come easily for her.
Once, Kathleen had the bitter thought that Linda or her husband could have brought the material to her door in their wagon. But their horse was dragging its leg again, and even if Linda did not come out and say it, Kathleen thought they were punishing her for Ian’s deception about the horse.
“Just what was your husband thinking, selling my Carl that old nag?” Linda said. “Sure, our other mare was a little peculiar—she would come home without Carl.” A stifled giggle slipped into Linda’s voice. She came from the country; her husband, from a suburb of London. He was an excellent baker and miller, but he had no talent for animals. “But still, it would move. This new one, though . . . I’d bet it’s hauling at least twenty years on its back.”
“Can’t you tell?” Kathleen objected shyly. “By the teeth?”
“Oh, there are ways,” said John, the smith. He was just entering the mill to look at the horse’s leg again. “You rub this and that off the teeth; horse traders are creative.”
“But, but Ian would never . . .” Kathleen defended her husband.
John rolled his eyes.
“I’ve yet to meet a horse trader who’s not a rascal,” he said. “But, of course, I agree with you, Mrs. Coltrane. You shouldn’t sell your neighbor a lame nag. That comes back around to you. So let’s just assume your husband simply knew nothing about the previous owner’s schemes.”
