by Sarah Lark
Kathleen tried to impart a healthy moral foundation for the children with as many Bible stories as she could tell, but these stories were of no interest to Sean. Claire quickly became his idol. Other than Pere no one could tell more and better stories than she, and she was happy to exchange them for practical guidance in everyday matters from Kathleen.
Soon the women were visiting each other as often as three times a week. The path along the river became so worn down that Claire’s donkey and Kathleen’s mule could trot along without getting stuck. Claire’s cooking skills improved, and her house now gleamed, just like Kathleen’s.
In turn, Claire was helping Kathleen with her reading. Father O’Brien had taught her the basics, but she was never truly at ease with it, so her return to it was halting and slow. The Bible was all she needed at first. But then Claire lent her one of her few exciting books. Kathleen exerted herself, and very soon, she read almost as naturally as her friend. At night, she found the greatest pleasure in taking out Michael’s farewell letter, which she had strenuously hidden from Ian since their marriage. Now that she read easily, it was as if she heard his soft, low voice as she read.
Mary Kathleen . . . I’ll come back . . . Oh, how long it had been since she’d heard him call out her name.
Roughly one month after the women’s first meeting, Kathleen gave birth to a girl. It was an easy birth. Heather was quite small compared to the boys; Claire could hardly comprehend how delicate and well formed her little toes and fingers were, how cute her little mouth, and how soft her blonde hairs. Despite his assurances that he would be home for the birth, Ian was off on yet another business trip. Claire stayed with her friend as promised—although her help consisted largely of making tea and offering encouragement. Kathleen had never thought someone would manage to make her laugh during her contractions. But Claire compared Kathleen’s delivery so seriously and insistently with that of a cow that Kathleen could not hold her laughter inside.
“I’m glad I didn’t have to reach into you,” declared Claire as she finally laid the baby in Kathleen’s arms. In the meantime, lambs had been born on both farms, and Kathleen had expertly helped when there were complications. Claire had watched the events with interest but only roughly understood what Kathleen did to deliver twin lambs, wound up in each other, one after the other into the world. “But, of course, if it had come to it, I would have done it!”
Claire’s own delivery did not pass without complications. After her friend spent two days in labor, Kathleen seriously feared Claire would not survive the birth. Matt was not prepared to send for a doctor in Christchurch. When Kathleen asked him why, he pointed out the high cost.
“You two can do it alone,” he complained. “The animals don’t have any problems.”
“Then you’ll be sure to help out like you did with the cow, right, Mr. Edmunds?” Kathleen responded angrily.
That did not happen. After the first few hours of Claire screaming and moaning desperately, Matthew Edmunds climbed into his boat and let the gentle current take him to the nearest tavern.
Kathleen was frothing with rage. To her astonishment, Matt’s disappearance filled Claire with hope.
“I’m sure he’s looking for a midwife,” she wheezed, “or a doctor, even. It can’t be that expensive. He, he loves me, after all.”
In the end, the young woman also proved considerably tougher than Kathleen had judged her to be. When the baby was finally ready, Claire pushed with all her might, and with a bloodcurdling scream, her daughter slid into the world.
“I’ll never be a lady,” groaned Claire. “My mother said . . . my mother said, ‘Ladies don’t scream. A lady lets every pain pass without complaint.’”
“Really, now?” said Kathleen. “Well, we don’t need any ladies here. They can all just stay in Liverpool. Look what a lovely baby you have. Do you know what you want to name her?”
Claire agreed that her baby was delightful. “I think I’ll name her Chloe,” she said. “That goes well with Claire.” She stroked the baby’s delicate little face, which still looked a little wrinkled after the birth.
“But I don’t know if I want to do that again.” Claire considered. “I admire you, Kathleen. Three times through this torture? I find once to be enough.”
Kathleen took a confused Chloe out of her arms and began to bathe and swaddle the baby. “Matt probably won’t ask you to,” she said bashfully. “Ian, on the other hand . . .”
“So, you only have three children because Ian insisted?” Clair asked curiously. “And I thought . . . well, I thought I was the only one.” She bit her lip.
“The only what?” inquired Kathleen. Ian was not wrong. These conversations were a bit more than inappropriate. Yet she was curious.
“The only one for whom it isn’t fun. That is, hm, the, well, act of love.”
Shocked, Kathleen did not know whether she should laugh or hold her peace, but Claire was already continuing.
“In books it says it’s supposed to be nice. Well, it doesn’t really say anything, of course, but the wedding is always the high point, and they live happily ever after. Only, I, I thought it nicer before the wedding. Matt had always spoken so kindly to me, and when he kissed me, it was tender and soft. But now . . . Have you ever thought it nice, Kathie? What, what, that is, what people do in bed?”
Kathleen smiled and thought she could feel Michael’s kisses on her skin again. All at once she felt the urgent desire to share her secret with someone. Or at least to hint at it.
“It doesn’t necessarily have to do with a wedding,” she said. “With before or after one, I mean.”
She left it at that. After giving birth, Claire was too tired to solicit more.
Summer and winter passed. Over time, Kathleen saw that Matthew Edmunds disappointed her friend far more than she’d initially thought or than Claire would portray. By the stories Claire had told, Kathleen could not have imagined the uncommunicative fellow who did not even show particular interest in his new daughter. Yet Claire persisted in depicting her handsome sailor as a daredevil and lively storyteller who had taken her heart by storm. She seemed to judge him based on this, and indeed, Matt Edmunds was quite good-looking. He was tall and blond, but Kathleen thought he always wore a sullen expression, which made him seem unapproachable and unlikeable. Claire’s husband seemed to nurse a grudge against the whole world, especially his lovely, vivacious, and charming wife.
Apparently, Matt had imagined emigration and life in this new country differently, although Claire and Kathleen could not quite figure out what displeased him. Considering they arrived with little more than some china and a few books, the Edmundses were not doing poorly. Matt had invested his meager savings wisely, and he now earned enough from his ferry business to support his family. Over time that would increase, for the growing city of Christchurch promised all citizens a secure existence. Perhaps Matt simply missed the adventure his life at sea had offered. And it was clear that Claire, for all her charms, could not make it up to him.
Claire, however, did not want to admit this. “I’m sure he loves me,” she said defiantly when now and again a less-than-flattering comment about Matt’s behavior escaped from Kathleen’s lips. “Even if he thinks I’m stupid and boring.”
She left open whether she only assumed this or whether Matt had said these things to her face. “It’s because I can’t do anything right,” she said by way of excusing Matt’s behavior.
Kathleen did not respond, although a sharp retort lay on her tongue. Claire had learned to manage her household quite well. She lacked practical experience, and her talent for handicrafts was mediocre at best. But with regard to intelligence and originality, she surpassed Matt Edmunds effortlessly.
Kathleen could not get enough of Claire’s lively stories and her constant new ideas. She had imagined the Edmundses’ evenings to be considerably happier and more entertaining than her joyless coexistence with Ian. But Kathleen had begun to think even Claire held her tongue in her hu
sband’s presence. She occasionally seemed to wince when Matt came home unexpectedly while she sat at the kitchen table chatting with Kathleen.
Granted, that may have been because Matt reacted with rage to anyone who bore the Coltrane name. Whenever he saw Kathleen in his house, he couldn’t refrain from making comments about “lazy molls,” “good-for-nothing Irish,” and “rogues and cheats.” Kathleen tried not to take it personally, since she could completely understand his aggravation with Ian’s business practices. Matthew had paid heftily for Spotty, but when there was heavy work, he had to lease a mule from a faraway farm, and it required great effort to bring the mule there and back. And the nearest horse trader other than Ian lived even farther away.
Kathleen was not at all surprised when one day she heard Matt and Ian in the stables.
“There, look at that brown mule mare. Strong, young, and friendly. I send my own children out with her,” Ian said. “Go, Sean, get the brown one from the pen.”
Sean, who was now almost three years old, gripped the halter ardently. The two boys vied to assist their father whenever he was there. Fortunately, Sean did not yet recognize that Ian’s indulgent looks fell on Colin while he was chastised more often than praised. Because he was older and more skilled, Sean still dominated his brother. Serious problems would only arise when Colin closed this gap.
Kathleen proudly watched as Sean entered the pen, carefully shut the gate behind him, and ran to the old brown mule that had been in the stables a week. Ian had used this time to grind down her teeth, work on her hooves enough that her irregular gait could no longer be seen, and make her fur shine with coloring agents and oils. The hairs above her eyes and beneath her scant forelock were no longer gray, and her eyes shone thanks to plenty of oats and compresses of a special mixture Ian called “eye comfort.” Kathleen was concerned that whatever methods Ian might have used to improve the mare’s energy might endanger Sean, but the mare was as compliant as ever. Good-natured as she was, she was still at least fifteen years old.
“There, just look at the teeth—no more than six years old, this one. She’ll pull her weight; look at those sturdy legs. And she’s a lovely sight, too, don’t you think? Your wife values such things, I hear.” Ian smiled winningly.
Matt Edmunds glanced politely into the mule’s mouth—looking just as helpless as Claire had during her first visit to the vegetable garden. Ian had not needed to go to any trouble with the teeth. Matt Edmunds had no idea.
“And she’s not expensive. I’ll make you a good offer. I could sell her for more, but for you, Matt, well, I have a bit of a bad conscience because I vastly underestimated your farm. I thought that little donkey—otherwise an excellent animal, as your wife is always telling mine—would be enough to do the work. But you’ve got quite a bit of land to plow—my admiration. And that alongside your true calling as a ferryman! Your wife lends quite a hand, I’d wager.”
Kathleen reluctantly had to admire her husband’s sales skills. Matt Edmunds willingly swallowed the bait and reported extensively on Claire’s failings. They were finished viewing the mule.
Kathleen went to do her work in the garden, and when she finally entered the house, the men were just drinking a second glass of whiskey to wrap up their business deal. Kathleen would have liked to scream, but her decision was affirmed. She would not allow Ian to cheat Matt a second time. She could not bear it if Claire turned away from her as the women had back in Port Cooper because of Ian’s dishonesty.
Once Matt Edmunds had gone, she stood up to Ian. “Ian, this won’t do. In a few days Matt will notice that the mule is old as stone, and no later than her next shoeing she will start dragging her foot again. Claire might even see it straight away; she knows a lot about horses. And then they’ll never talk to us again.”
Ian laughed and poured himself another drink—good whiskey, not cheap moonshine. Ian Coltrane was doing well for himself. One could tell by looking at him too: he was no longer a muscular but slender giant. Increasingly, he resembled his stocky father: his face was fleshy, the contours of his muscles ill defined; and though he was not fat, he looked heavy. Over time he had adopted the horse trader habit of carrying a gnarled stick, which he could use to lean on during sales negotiations or to motivate the horses quickly and effectively. He’d used it on Kathleen, too, and even on little Sean.
Kathleen had long stopped caring one bit for her husband. Ian Coltrane disgusted her. She could endure the nights with him only because she had Michael’s letter among her clothing. After Ian had climbed off her and fallen asleep, she would slink over to her dresser and run her hands over the letter and hair as if to purify herself.
“Why should we care if the Edmundses talk to us?” Ian burst out laughing. “The fellow’s an idiot and his wife is a stuck-up shrew. What do we need with them?”
Kathleen shook her head, despairing. “Ian, the Edmundses are our neighbors! If anything happens, we’re reliant on them and they on us. Claire and I were present for each other’s births. We’re friends.”
“And I told you from the beginning that I don’t approve of your friendship,” Ian said with composure. “If this deal keeps you from constantly running over to that stupid goose and allowing her to fill our kids’ heads with her nonsense stories, then all the better.”
Kathleen sighed, but she continued doggedly. “Ian, she’s not filling their heads with any nonsense. She’s teaching Sean to read, even though he’s still so young. And she’ll teach Colin next year. Where else are the children going to learn it? I can’t exactly send them to school in Christchurch every day. Please, Ian! If you won’t give up cheating your customers, at least think more carefully about whom you can cheat without punishment and whom it’s better to leave alone.”
Ian stood up threateningly. “Kathleen, I don’t like to be called a cheat! Least of all by a whore like you. God knows you have no idea of what’s right and what’s not!”
Kathleen knew she would not make it through the night without bruises and worse humiliations, but she could not stop. Above all, finally, she wanted answers.
“So why were you in such a hurry to marry this whore?” she asked in a surge of courage. “You knew I was pregnant, Ian. You knew about Michael. If you find me so disgusting—”
Ian laughed and took a swig from his whiskey bottle.
Kathleen trembled. She hoped she had not gone too far.
Ian gripped her hair almost tenderly. “Who could find you disgusting, sweet? The prettiest girl in Wicklow County, even if a little spoiled, but only a little. In the end, you chose me and not a job at Miss Daisy’s.”
Ian had known about the offer from the brothel owner?
Ian grinned at her. “Aye, girl, did you think I lived like a monk in Wicklow?” he asked snidely. “Kathleen, my heart, I trade horses. And a good horse trader knows everyone and everything. That Michael of yours, I bought moonshine from him often enough. He didn’t steal Trevallion’s grain to feed the poor, and that had to be clear to anyone not head over heels for him. And Billy Rafferty! I took him home in my wagon after his drinking bout. Couldn’t get over how Michael had only given him a piece of what was due him, because he needed to pay for his little Kathleen’s passage, after all.”
Kathleen listened, stunned, her eyes wide. So her suspicion had not been wrong. Ian had known about Michael’s money the first time he had taken her to Wicklow. Might he have sent the police after Billy Rafferty?
In any case, Ian had made sure that Kathleen had seen her beloved in Wicklow—once and once again for good measure. Although the second time, she had, of course, only watched him sail away. He had not let her take a last look at Michael out of kindness, but simply to be sure. One way or another, Michael would get the money from his robbery to his sweetheart—after all, he could not do anything more with it.
“You, you knew about my dowry?” Kathleen inquired flatly, wanting to be sure.
Ian shook with laughter. “Of course! I put two and two together. The privileges
Michael got in prison, for example. Old Bridget has a soft heart, surely, but to pay for two bumpkins like Michael and Billy out of her whore’s pay—I wasn’t about to believe that.”
“And how did you know about their privileges?” asked Kathleen.
Ian made a dismissive gesture. “Billy Rafferty’s sister. Back then she was walking the street near the horse market. I talked to her, gave her a drink of whiskey—you know how it is, Kathleen. Now, don’t look so appalled! Haven’t I managed your money wisely? Aren’t you and your bastard doing well?”
Kathleen turned away, but Ian wasn’t done yet.
“And I heard about Miss Daisy’s offer, too, Mary Kathleen,” he crowed. “Tell me, was it hard to decide? You could’ve had an easy life back in Wicklow. Why did you choose me anyway, Kathleen? Just for the little bastard’s sake?”
Kathleen did not say another word. Not when Ian pushed her to the bed in a rush of drunkenness and desire for mastery. Not even when she thought she might suffocate under his weight and that of her new certainty.
In the morning, she got up before her husband even stirred. She hastily gave the children some porridge, then fastened Heather onto the chestnut-colored mule’s back and set the boys up there, too, before she climbed up behind all three of them. She rode them as quickly as she safely could over the riverbank path and reached Matt Edmunds while he was still putting his boat in to set out for Christchurch.
“Mr. Edmunds.” Kathleen presented the mule to him. “My husband sent me to bring you your purchase from yesterday. It’s quite a lovely animal. I think you’ll be happy with this one. I’ll ride it up to the stable for you.”
