Toward the Sea of Freedom

by Sarah Lark

  Michael was not sure it would. His heart raced as he started to take out the largest saddle. No. If the stable master noticed the missing saddle, it would be a giveaway. Michael swallowed but decided to take the risk of riding bareback. He merely put an old harness on the stallion, bridled it with a shabby bridle, and spoke kindly to it as he led it outside.

  All that was missing was a note. Drivers logged their routes on a board in the stable, so Michael found the chalk and wrote across all the columns: STALLION RAN AWAY. FOLLOWING TRACKS TO WEST—MICHAEL.

  That should keep the stable master calm for a few hours. And busy. He would send out search teams; the stallion was valuable. Michael, meanwhile, would be riding east—or breaking his neck.

  Michael needed a rock or some other means of getting onto the giant animal’s back. And he could not risk moving over soft ground. Otherwise, the stable master would find hoof prints, which were unmistakable for the giant stallion. Michael muttered a prayer and thought of Kathleen as he swung from the box of his wagon onto Gideon’s back. The stallion pranced a bit but remained calm, and Michael thanked heaven. Then he spurred the horse onward. Gideon took the first few steps, giving Michael a taste of what was awaiting him. Without a saddle, the movements of the powerful horse would rattle him such that everything would hurt afterward. But that did not matter to him now. They were on their way.

  Lizzie was in the coach to Hobart with David Parsley. She kept trying to have an agreeable conversation with him, but he was rather grouchy in the morning. Finally, Lizzie gave up and waited until Mr. Parsley was fully awake. She managed to charm him with her warm smile, and then she hit upon a topic of conversation that interested him: road construction.

  Parsley talked and talked. Lizzie no longer needed to contribute a word but, nevertheless, she felt ground down when Pete stopped that evening at the same small inn where, on her way to the Smitherses’, Lizzie had spent the most pleasant and promising night of her life so far. And that without any man, she thought bitterly. In fact, she had yet to enjoy a man’s company. The lavender-scented bed was enticing, and David Parsley had just begun to court her a bit, but caution was better.

  “We’ll sleep in the hay,” she told Pete, the driver. He, at least, would not touch her.

  Lizzie sighed and acted as if it were difficult to part from Parsley. And luckily, the magic worked. Her smile brightened the heart of the aloof engineer, and she got a decent dinner. Lizzie drank really good wine for the first time, and the French Muscat Blanc charmed her palate. She could have sat at the candlelit table forever, regardless of what Parsley was saying, so long as she could drink this wine.

  “You don’t waste any time,” murmured Pete when she finally came, tipsy indeed, to sleep in the hay.

  His comments sobered her at once. So far Martha and Pete had held a high opinion of her, but in a few days, they, too, would think Lizzie Owens a whore.

  The next day passed similarly to the first in the coach, but Parsley was quite conversational and Lizzie began to flirt in earnest.

  “Don’t you have a wife, Mr. Parsley? Don’t you sometimes miss soft arms as you travel the world providing all the colonies with roads?”

  Parsley blushed, hemming and hawing. “I, hm, I’ve simply never encountered, well, one as sweet as you, Miss Owens.”

  Lizzie smiled and let herself dream. What if he meant that? What if she truly won over this somewhat boring but rather good-looking and seemingly honest man? He would be able to care for a family—she would even get to see the world if she traveled around with him for a few years. But that was a fantasy. Never ever would she be able to convince Mr. Parsley to take her straight to New Zealand—especially before she was pardoned. And when he returned, she would long since have been married to Cecil. No, there was no alternative. It was impossible, once again, to be good. On the contrary: Lizzie would be adding one more entry to her registry of sin.

  The second evening, she ate with Mr. Parsley again, and this time it was not easy to fend off his advances. David Parsley had drunk the majority of the two bottles of wine they had emptied, and he was swaying a bit when they stood up and he accompanied Lizzie outside.

  “Come now, Miss Owens, it’ll be warmer beside me than in the hay. And, well, if I’ve understood Mr. Smithers correctly, you’re not usually nearly so prudish.”

  Her heart froze. So this young man, who had seemed so simple to her a moment before, also knew of her shame. Mr. Smithers had boasted about her.

  Lizzie breathed deeply. She could not be offended. She had a role to play.

  “Perhaps, perhaps tomorrow. When we’re no longer on the road. When does your ship depart, Mr. Parsley?”

  Chapter 12

  Pete was supposed to drop Lizzie at Cascades Female Factory on Sunday evening. She was to spend the night there and be questioned Monday. When they reached Hobart on Sunday afternoon, however, Mr. Parsley slipped a pound into the coachman’s hand—a small fortune for a convict.

  “Forget about the girl for tonight,” Mr. Parsley ordered. “My ship departs early tomorrow, and I’d like a little enjoyment. I’ll take her to the hotel.”

  “But the master will inquire,” Pete said, uncertain. “And the factory, the girl’s expected there.”

  “I’ll get there, Pete, don’t worry,” Lizzie said soothingly. “Just a little later. I’ll knock ever so primly on the door, so no one gets the wrong idea, and then I’ll tell them our axle broke.”

  “I’ll deliver her myself,” said Mr. Parsley, grinning at Lizzie.

  “You know best, sir.” Pete shrugged. “As do you.” He gave Lizzie a severe look and steered the wagon toward the rental stables where he would find a place to sleep.

  Lizzie sighed. Time for the final act. And Michael; she hoped he had made it to Hobart too.

  “Now, let’s find ourselves a cozy little inn,” whispered Parsley, linking arms with Lizzie.

  She smiled at him. “Perhaps in the harbor?” she asked. “Then it won’t be so far for you to go tomorrow morning. And I’d love to see the ship. If I were a man, oh, I believe I’d sail to sea.”

  “What a pretty sight you’d be in a sailor’s uniform,” he teased her.

  Lizzie shuddered. Did all men like uniforms?

  The ship was a modern three-master, and as far as Lizzie could tell, it gave a seaworthy impression. It was smaller than the Asia, but she was not about to spend three months at sea on this journey. Parsley told her that the voyage to New Zealand would take between twenty and thirty days. Lizzie’s heart beat heavily. If only she were already at sea.

  And then she saw Michael. He was squatting on the pier with a fishing line. Just another poor devil trying to fish for his supper with a load of goods as shelter from the wind. Lizzie tried not to give him a second look. But he must have seen her because he started reeling in his line.

  Lizzie placed her arm determinedly through Parsley’s. “Come on; I’m getting cold. Perhaps we should buy a bottle of whiskey.”

  She had noticed the previous evening that he could not hold his liquor. If a little wine made him wobble, half a bottle of whiskey should make him sleep like the dead. That would absolve her of the unpleasant task of knocking him unconscious, which Lizzie did not really trust her ability to do.

  Parsley pulled her closer. “So, you like whiskey too, Miss Owens. Well, look at you. And in the Smithers house, you always acted so virtuous. Oh, you girls.”

  He giggled as if he had discovered something embarrassing. Lizzie laughed with him mirthlessly. She had to persevere, not letting any of his words affect her. Fortunately, he decided on an inn and not some hourly hotel. Its proprietress did not ask for a marriage certificate when Parsley entered them as a married couple, and she offered them a spacious room with clean sheets.

  Lizzie watered down her own whiskey but left Mr. Parsley’s undiluted. She was almost too nervous to wait until he was drunk and considered hitting him over the head with the fire poker after he dozed off, exhausted, after their
first time together. But no, Anna Portland had killed her husband that way. Lizzie could not risk it. Even if she wasn’t meant to be a good person, it didn’t mean she had to be a murderer. She shook Parsley awake and smiled at him.

  “So, you haven’t had enough of me yet. You can’t get enough of me. Here, take another drink. And then make me happy again.”

  Lizzie had rarely worked as hard as she did that night, but by three in the morning—boarding was at five and departure at seven—David Parsley had emptied more than three quarters of the whiskey bottle. He slept like a dead man. Lizzie could empty his pockets at her leisure. Why wouldn’t she just take everything? Michael and she would need bags. It would be conspicuous to travel without them. Cold-bloodedly, Lizzie pocketed David’s wallet and carried his travel bag downstairs.

  “My husband will be down in a moment,” she told the proprietress, moving past her before she could even ask.

  Lizzie hoped the woman would not run upstairs and try to wake Parsley. But that was unlikely. As long as the man remained in her hotel, she could wait for the bill to be paid. And what did she care what “Mrs. Parsley” was doing in the middle of the night with her bag?

  Michael stepped out from a niche as soon as Lizzie emerged.

  “Finally! I thought you’d never be done. Who was the fellow? And what, what did you do?”

  Lizzie tiredly handed him her victim’s passport. “That was David Parsley. And now you’re David Parsley. You don’t need to know more than that.”

  As casually as possible, the two strolled along beside each other. Michael had thrown Parsley’s bag over his shoulder. He smelled of horse.

  He told her of his adventures with Gideon. Amiably and tirelessly the stallion had carried him to Hobart. On the second day Michael had detoured onto side roads, and he told Lizzie colorful tales of the exotic animals he had encountered. “I swear to you, one of the beasts was a Tasmanian devil.”

  Though he described a ferocious-looking black animal armed with powerful teeth, it had not dared get too close to giant Gideon. During the day, Michael had slept peacefully in the shadow of the massive stallion—and he attributed being intact to its protection. Though Lizzie thought she had heard that the snakes and insects in Van Diemen’s Land actually presented more danger than that strange, rather cute Tasmanian devil, she said nothing. Michael had clearly grown fond of the stallion.

  “There would, naturally, have been a tidy sum in it if I had sold the horse,” he finally said regretfully. “But he drew too much attention. There would have been suspicion.”

  “That was very clever of you,” Lizzie said. “What did you do instead?”

  “I let him run free,” Michael said. “He’ll show up somewhere later today, probably in the pen of a nice mare. That farmer can decide between looking for its owner and figuring possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

  Lizzie thought that a fitting solution.

  “This is the ship,” she said when they finally reached the pier. “The Elizabeth Campbell. And here are the tickets.” She handed Michael a couple more papers. “There’s also plenty of money in the wallet. You can . . .”

  “Lizzie, I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for me.” Michael looked desirously at the illuminated gangplank. The ship was being loaded, and passengers were already boarding. “But tell me, isn’t it a risk for you? If this fellow wakes . . .”

  Lizzie looked at him, stunned. “Is it a risk for me?” she asked, disbelieving. “Michael, that fellow is Mr. Smithers’s assistant. And of course he’ll wake up. He’ll not be dead from a bottle of whiskey.”

  “But then, then he’ll report you.” Michael looked concerned.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Michael, by the time he wakes, we’ll have long been at sea.”

  “We?” asked Michael. “You want to come too?”

  “What did you think?” Lizzie was too taken aback to feel hurt. “That I’d help you flee and then return like a good little girl to marry my—what do you call him? Leprechaun?”

  “But how is this going to work?” Michael moved David Parsley’s travel bag from one hand to the other.

  Lizzie was getting angry.

  “Simply,” she told him. “You go to the skipper, or whoever’s responsible, and book passage for sweet Elizabeth Parsley, your loving wife. There won’t be any problems. Worst comes to worst, you’ll have to share a berth with me.”

  “But they’ll get suspicious. Where did this David Parsley’s wife come from?”

  Lizzie forced herself to be patient. “Michael, the captain doesn’t know Parsley. He could have been married ten years or just found the love of his life for all the captain knows, and for all he cares. He only wants the money. So go tell him you decided to bring your wife after all.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lizzie saw Michael struggling with himself. On the one hand, he owed his chance to escape to Lizzie—who, seen in the light of day, was not very honest. Making off with a ship of the Crown as he had planned with Connor and the others, though it doubtlessly carried more risks, probably suited him better than what Lizzie had done. Now, however, there was no going back. It would be suicide to look for Parsley and give him back his stolen papers. On the other hand, though, she imagined Michael did not want to burden his new free man’s life in New Zealand right away with a theft and a whore.

  “Well, I know!” Lizzie yelled as she grabbed Parsley’s wallet from a stunned Michael. “You’re coming with me or not at all. Think it over.”

  Lizzie dangled the wallet provocatively over the pier wall. If Michael said the wrong thing now—or if she was startled by a clumsy movement . . .

  “Fine. Then I’ll tell the skipper, tell him that . . .”

  Lizzie sighed. “Don’t tell him anything. I’ll come with you,” she said resignedly. “And I’ll do the talking.”

  “I do so hope there’s still room for me on the ship. There is, isn’t there?” Lizzie asked. She was fluttering her eyelashes in a manner meant to be demure, but to Michael’s overwrought imagination, every one of her expressions had a salacious echo. “Imagine, my husband’s letting me travel with him now. Though at first he was so concerned for, for us.” Lizzie stroked her entirely flat stomach with a fleeting motion and even managed to blush. Her smile was heart-warming.

  The skipper grinned. “Of course, madam. And not to worry; you’ll travel as safely as in Abraham’s bosom on the Elizabeth Campbell. For a small additional charge, we’d even have an exceptionally comfortable cabin.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Lizzie beamed. “Oh, did you hear, dear? The ship is called Elizabeth, like me.”

  Michael acquiesced, grinding his teeth.

  The “small additional charge” would consume almost all of their starting money, but the cabin was truly luxurious. Lizzie marveled at the white sheets, the porcelain washbowls, and the massive mirror. She looked herself over carefully and sighed.

  No one could tell what she had done by looking at her. She looked proper and even somewhat homely in the gray dress Mrs. Smithers had given her for her questioning at the factory. She also wore a bonnet—not as jaunty as her flower-adorned little hat in London, but suitable for a lady.

  “I’d like to wash,” she said, somewhat sheepishly, to Michael. “Could you . . .”

  Michael immediately withdrew outside. Lizzie wondered if he held a grudge against her for something. He could not really hold it against her that she had stolen from David Parsley. And the circumstances . . . Lizzie blushed a bit. Why was it really so much worse to feign love than to steal boats and make moonshine?

  While Lizzie felt halfway safe in their cabin, Michael strolled nervously across the ship’s deck. He should have asked what exactly had happened to Mr. Parsley. Had Lizzie really only gotten him drunk? What if he awoke early? They could not be caught now—he would die of shame, having profited from Lizzie’s betrayals and then been found out anyway. This would be the most embarrassing escape attempt since
one of the convicts in Hobart had the idea of dressing as a kangaroo and trying to hop away.

  Yet Michael’s fears did not come to pass. The Elizabeth Campbell weighed anchor punctually at seven, and the skipper steered it safely out of Hobart’s natural harbor and out to the high seas. Michael’s heart beat heavily with joy when, after a short time, the land disappeared from view. How would he have felt if he were sailing a stolen boat with Dylan, Will, and Connor now? Twenty days. After Lizzie had revealed the general voyage length, it became clear to him what kind of adventure he had planned to undertake. He had to admit that Lizzie had been right. This was the only way to escape to New Zealand without danger to life and limb, and the realization of this improved his attitude somewhat.

  He returned to their luxury cabin. Lizzie sat at the porthole looking toward the strange land she had lived in for a year but had never really gotten to know.

  “Now I’ll never see a Tasmanian devil.” Lizzie turned to Michael and smiled. Apparently, she held nothing against him. And her smile was captivating. Gentle and warm, it enchanted her unassuming face and dark-blonde hair. Moreover, she had scrubbed herself clean. Her skin shone; a wet sheen lay on her lips.

  Michael suddenly became aware that he had not held a woman in his arms in a long time. He smiled back. “I could show you an Irish devil,” he said suggestively as he sat down next to her.

  Lizzie moved away from him nervously.

  “Lizzie, I, I don’t have anything I could give you.” Michael’s voice sounded pleading. “But I, look, we’ll be living here for three weeks. Lying beside each other like man and wife.”

  “Or brother and sister,” Lizzie said, amused. It had been good to have patience. At first he might not have understood, but now—now, he was making an effort to declare himself.

  “Lizzie, have mercy. I can’t! I’m a man, and I haven’t had a woman in so long. Would you, could you see . . . Please, Lizzie, share the bed with me!”