by Sarah Lark
“Stood lookout on a burglary for my man,” she confessed. “Lord, was I a fool back then, but I really thought he’d make a load of money. Instead, he shot someone. Still, I was lucky I didn’t end up on the gallows.”
Every night, the gardener went back to the prison where he was serving his sentence. He was thankful he had escaped having to build the road, but he was such a puny little man that Lizzie couldn’t imagine he’d have managed the work. He fell madly in love with Lizzie right away, and it was not long before she was drowning in rose petals. Pete, the male servant, was big and strong enough for road work, but he was also older. He hoped to be pardoned soon, and planned to marry Martha then. The two of them would remain at the house, in apartments prepared for them. It seemed clear to Lizzie that for many convicts, deportation was more of a blessing than a curse.
She happily received her maid’s dress and bonnet, and Mrs. Smithers took the time to explain each of Lizzie’s household tasks. Polishing, dusting, waxing, serving tea and meals—none of these tasks was particularly fun, but all of it was far better than wandering the streets and serving one man after another between filthy sheets. For the first time, Lizzie was living up to the standards of the reverend in the orphanage: she was being good, living righteously, and keeping it so.
If it were not for Mr. Smithers.
Amanda Smithers’s husband was often away for days at a time, managing the road construction. Some of the prisoners were skillful, but few of them had experience in this work. As a rule, the prisoners from Ireland and Scotland were farmers. They knew about agriculture and husbandry and did excellent work on simple tasks like clearing forest for the new roads. But they had no expertise breaking rocks and securing roads.
The crew overseers almost all came from military careers rather than a background in engineering. So it was up to Martin Smithers to instruct his colleagues and decide every detail himself. He slept in a tent or barracks hardly more comfortable than the prisoners’, and it was only on the weekends that he returned to the grand house that his wife and the household servants made comfortable for him.
Lizzie first met Mr. Smithers just a week after she arrived. Though he showed no outward interest in the formal introduction his wife made, Lizzie immediately saw the glimmer in his eye, and it didn’t bode well.
He confirmed her first impression when he came into the breakfast room the next day. “Ah, so here we have the charming new house kitten,” he said.
Lizzie, who did not know how to take that expression, vacillated between her desire to ignore him and continue her work of setting the table and the curtsy propriety demanded. To avoid any issue, she did the latter with her eyes chastely lowered. But Mr. Smithers did not leave her alone.
“Why don’t you look me in the eyes, kitten?” he asked. With a salacious smile, he put his finger under her chin and lifted her head with gentle force. “Are you afraid I might see some desire? Are you really as good a little thing as my wife tells me?”
Lizzie looked up at him, examining his wide, sunburned face. Mr. Smithers was a tall, heavy man who hardly seemed to fit his short, lean wife. His brown hair was already thin, his eyes watery blue. Desire was about the last thing Lizzie felt at the sight of him. Rather, the former whore in her sighed as she imagined how his weight would crush her when he collapsed on her, satisfied.
“I don’t understand what you mean, sir,” Lizzie claimed, hoping she might blush. But she had heard such speech too often to feel shame. It was tiresome to her. Yet she felt fear rise up within her.
“Then think it over, kitten.” The man grinned, and his fingers wandered from her chin over her cheek to her temple. “You’re a pretty little thing. Don’t make me wait too long until you’re in heat.”
Mrs. Smithers was coming down the hall and Lizzie heard her with enough time to flee Mr. Smithers’s grip before his wife entered the room. Lizzie tried to avoid him the rest of the weekend, but it was almost impossible. He leered at her every time he passed her, and when she served meals, he would sneak a grab under her skirt or pinch her. Naturally, Lizzie couldn’t allow herself any outward reaction.
She was frazzled when she slipped into her room after Saturday’s dinner—only to discover Mr. Smithers waiting for her.
“Such a sweet kitten wouldn’t let me go to bed without a good-night kiss.”
Lizzie dodged him just as he reached out for her. “I believe,” she said through clenched teeth, “it’s supposed to be bad for the health to hug and kiss your pets.”
It was meant as a joke—on the streets of London, one learned to use quick wit not only to attract men but also to keep them at bay. Lizzie thought her quip was clever, but Martin Smithers took a step back, as if she had attacked him.
“What is that supposed to mean, girl? Are you threatening me? What’s got into you that your claws come out first? I thought you’d just stolen something. If you’re violent . . .”
Fear spread through Lizzie. She had not done anything. But the prison director would believe whatever Mr. Smithers might say about her. Frightened, she inched out of her room to the hallway, where she raised her hands defensively.
“I’ve never hurt anyone, sir, I swear it. Nor would I you.”
“So, that was no allusion to cats clawing?” Smithers asked mistrustfully.
Lizzie shook her head, frightened. “Of course not, sir. Of course not. Only, the doctors say pets eat rats and the like, and have fleas,” she stuttered in her desperate attempt to explain her joke.
And Smithers did show belated amusement, but his laughter was threatening, not sincere.
“They’ll have deloused you in the female factory. Think about where you’ve come from when you talk back to me! The rats are still waiting for you.”
With that, he seized Lizzie and pressed a kiss to her mouth. Not more brutally than most of her customers, but Lizzie was shocked and disgusted. Just then, Mrs. Smithers called for her husband. Lizzie sighed with relief and silently thanked her employer and her God. As soon as Mr. Smithers turned away, she ran back into her room and locked the door behind her.
The next morning, Lizzie went to church with her employers. A picnic followed the sermon, and after Martha was finished serving, she and Pete invited Lizzie along with them on a walk to visit the other pardoned or first-class prisoners.
Lizzie stayed behind, though, wanting nothing more than to sit on her blanket and enjoy the sun and the new sights around the neat little church and Campbell Town.
Mr. Smithers pounced the moment she stood up to stretch her legs. Under the pretense of showing her the birds and trees, he led her around the back of the church and into a copse where he kissed her again.
“Now that’s better, pet. A soft, cuddly kitten.”
Lizzie tried desperately to free herself. “Sir, please, please not here. If someone comes . . .”
The copse behind the church was the only place where young lovers could go. The cook and her beau had already disappeared here themselves.
Smithers grunted, understanding. “Yes, yes, you’re right. I just can’t keep still when I see that spark in your eyes and the way you move, quick and graceful like a house kitten ought.”
“But, but . . .” Lizzie fought back tears. If someone caught them . . .
“And a little shy, that’s not bad either. All right, fine, not here. But soon we’ll find a secret little corner, and then you’ll keep your promise.”
Lizzie had no idea what she had promised him, but when he finally let her go, she was so relieved that she nodded. She was off work the rest of the day, and when they returned to the house, she went straight to her room to pray that Mr. Smithers would not come after her again.
On Monday, Mr. Smithers returned to the construction site, but Lizzie was so upset that she could not concentrate on her work. First she broke a teacup; then she forgot to clear the tea table, which she was swiftly admonished for. Later in the afternoon, when she was helping Martha, she cut her finger and her blood dripped into
the salad bowl.
“What’s gotten into you?” said the cook. She grabbed the bowl away from Lizzie. “You’re usually so helpful.”
Lizzie burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. After she got her story out between sobs, she fell into wild self-doubt.
“He can see it in me,” she said. “Yet I want to be good. Really, I want, I want to live a righteous life.”
Martha had listened with a stony face. “So it’s begun again.” She sighed. “No, enough, enough! It has nothing to do with you!”
Lizzie would not listen. “Can, can it be that I’m destined to be a whore?” she asked despairingly.
The cook shook her head. “For men like Mr. Smithers, every girl who wears a bonnet is fair game,” she said calmly. “Somehow it drives him mad. He even pinches my backside sometimes, and I’m no younger than the missus. Why do you think Tilly got away so fast?” Tilly had been the maid before Lizzie. “She was quite happy here before Mr. Smithers took over the house. The Cartlands were always hosting parties. Tilly made tips like you would not believe. She meant to save for three years before marrying that Tom of hers. But the new master would not give her a moment’s rest.”
“But, but, couldn’t she . . . She was pardoned, right?” Lizzie stammered.
“Sweetie, that doesn’t mean much. The man would have needed only to make a silver spoon disappear and blame her. That would have been it for her freedom. And it’s no different for you. You . . .”
“I could ask to go back to the factory,” Lizzie said. Just then, Cascades seemed liked a heavenly refuge.
Martha shook her head. “What reason would you give? Do you mean to tell the truth? Then they’ll both be at your throat, both mister and missus. Be careful, for heaven’s sake. These things can end at the gallows. Best thing would be to keep a stiff upper lip and try to find a fellow to marry as soon as possible. Take the gardener. He’s not handsome, but he’s a good man. Although then they’ll ask you to stay on and work, which means cheating on the fellow first thing.”
“But where am I supposed to find someone else? How long will that take? Is there nothing else I can do?” Lizzie looked at the older woman desperately.
“You really could steal something,” she said harshly. “Something small. I’ll blame you. Say you took some salted meat—you could tell them you had a friend in a nearby chain gang and wanted to get it to him.”
Lizzie rejected the idea. “I don’t want to be convicted again. I won’t survive it a second time. And backsliding would mean third rank—I’d rot in a jail.”
The cook shrugged. “Then keep old Mr. Smithers happy.”
Lizzie surrendered the next Sunday night. Sadly, in so doing she also profaned her refuge, her own room, in which she had been so happy. Mr. Smithers saw this as proof that she lay with him willingly and joyfully, but for Lizzie it was simply the best way to avoid discovery. If Mrs. Smithers found out, it would all be over. Her freedom of movement, her status as a first-class prisoner—all done. They would send her back to prison in shame and scandal. As soon as he left, Lizzie changed the sheets, washed herself with the water she had set out—which was even still warm—and cried herself to sleep.
She gave up hope that she would ever be allowed to be good. Once again, Lizzie Owens was merely fighting to survive.
Chapter 8
Ian Coltrane’s new farm lay among lovely surroundings on the Avon River, which would flow through Christchurch once the city was developed. It offered a rather large but already somewhat dilapidated farmhouse and stables for keeping livestock. It comprised more acreage than all of Kathleen’s village. The Coltranes suddenly had more property than their former landlord, Wetherby, though they lacked the fences and tenants.
Ian and Kathleen would never have been able to work all of their land themselves. Plus Ian quickly filled the stables with animals of every sort, and Kathleen was overwhelmed by the task of caring for the livestock. She came from the country, and she had a good understanding of planting a garden and working a field. In good years, her father had sometimes kept a goat, a few chickens, and a sheep or two. But here, whole herds of animals scattered across vast pastures, which Ian only provisionally fenced.
Ian never kept the animals long since he sold them through his livestock business. He often just let them wander and trusted that limits might be set by the presence of barley to eat and the shepherding efforts of the farm dog—though the dog’s lack of skill and instinct indicated Ian had been the one cheated for a change. Unfortunately, the sheep proved limitlessly fond of wandering, and, oddly, they were especially attracted to the construction sites for what would become Christchurch.
Most of the social contact Kathleen had in her first months in the Canterbury Plains was through visits by outraged foremen or aggrieved boatmen who had to forge a path among the bodies of peacefully ruminating sheep. Then, despite her pregnancy, Kathleen would swing up on one of the mules or horses and try to herd the sheep back. Often a few men helped her with that—Kathleen’s beauty and her desperate situation touched their hearts, and they were happy to try their hands at herding.
Naturally, they expected a cup of tea or, even better, a whiskey, by way of appreciation, but Kathleen only said her thank-yous to the men with a pounding heart, and then thanked heaven when they moved along. It did not bear thinking about what might happen if Ian caught her sitting around the table with one or more, often good-looking, strangers.
In general, the new settlers in the plains were not half-starved emigrants from Ireland or Scotland but Anglicans from good families looking for adventure. Many of the men were construction workers, specially hired in England, and they were mostly friendly and had good manners. None of them attempted to get too close to the isolated farmer’s wife, although some of them likely dreamed of her at night.
Kathleen had no interest in them anyway—if she still found the strength to dream at night, Michael was the only one who appeared. But even his face was fading in her memory. Kathleen’s life was a singular drudgery of tending to the garden, the fields, the stables, and, of course, the children, whom she had to watch constantly. Colin, especially, who could hardly be kept out of the stables as soon as he could walk, was always up to something. Sean was less interested in the animals. He only liked the farm dog, and Kathleen often found them together, sitting side by side on the wooden porch and staring at the river. Sometimes he whispered something in the dog’s ear, and Kathleen wondered if Sean was telling the dog fairy tales. Could Sean remember Pere’s stories about canoes and Maori demigods? Or was it his mother’s stories from Ireland, of fairies and leprechauns, that he told the dog?
Besides the children and occasional complaint bringers from Christchurch, Kathleen’s social contact was limited to Ian’s customers, but Ian told her she was only to present herself to them silently and with a lowered head. She did that willingly after twice she let slip some information Ian didn’t want revealed about animals for sale. Both times he beat her so brutally that she was afraid she would lose the baby. But even when she said nothing, Kathleen looked forward to these rare visits. After all, Ian would offer a glass or two of whiskey to seal the deal, and then he’d chat with his customers. This was the only way Kathleen heard any scraps of news from the outside world.
The onrush of settlers to Christchurch hardly abated. After the first four ships arrived, more and more people in the Old World became interested in the new country on the other side of the globe. Ian’s customers always emphasized that, in contrast to Australia and Van Diemen’s Land, New Zealand was not being settled by prisoners but by good Christians. They were proud of it, and Ian drank with them to that—although the Coltranes were Catholic and thus had considerably less respect for an English Protestant than for an Irish convict.
Ian did not allow Kathleen to drive to Christchurch for Sunday service in the Anglican church. She would have liked to do that—surely God would have seen past the false faith of her surroundings and heard her prayers any
way. But Ian would not budge.
Ian’s customers reported about Port Cooper, and this interested Kathleen. She still missed Pere and her other friends in the little town, which, though it had also been called Port Victoria, had received yet another name. Now the town was to be called Lyttelton, after an important man in the Canterbury Association, and the tiny settlement was slowly growing into a city. The traffic through it to Christchurch brought money to Lyttelton.
John, the smith, had established a transport service for the new settlers, which the well-off immigrants liked to use. For a certain fee, one could be led over the Bridle Path on a mule. John did not buy his mules from Ian, however, which embittered Ian enough that he thought the better of cheating John’s competition in Christchurch. Ian provided the man with beasts of burden that were healthy and strong. Yet he could not prevail. John simply had a better location in Lyttelton; he was immediately at hand when ships arrived.
Now Lyttelton had a tavern and a hotel, and recently, a pastor had settled there as a doctor. News of this filled Kathleen with envy: she was due in a few weeks, and this time there was no hope of Pere or another midwife—let alone a doctor—to help with the delivery. Theoretically, Ian could call somebody from Christchurch, but the Coltranes hardly knew anyone there, and Ian took no steps to make new acquaintances. And there was nothing to guarantee Ian would even be home when Kathleen gave birth. He promised not to ride away during the time in question, but if the baby was early, Kathleen would be alone. She simply tried not to think about it.
Kathleen checked the fences near the house, work she hated, and not just because her belly hampered her. After an hour, she was already bathed in sweat, although it was winter—a cool, dry, day in June, unusually sunny for the season. Anyone who had an eye for natural beauty could enjoy a distant view as far as the majestic southern mountains and even make out individual peaks. Kathleen only knew the name of the tallest: Mount Cook. In Port Cooper, Pere had told her everything about the local bay and the Port Hills that separated Lyttelton from Canterbury. Here in the plains, there was no one to teach her. For Kathleen, the mountains and plateaus had no names, and she did not bother to name the landmarks.
