by Sarah Lark
Michael nodded. “I can. But, but a whiskey distillery—is that allowed here?”
Lizzie rubbed her eyes. She had not thought it would be this difficult. “Did you lot care much about that back in Ireland? Michael, there’s a jungle in those mountains right outside of town. Build yourself a hut. Nobody’s going to look there for a whiskey still. If you can’t get around it, just pay a few taxes. Kaikoura is full of thirsty people who don’t like this swill”—she pointed at the bottle—“any more than you do. Our own stuff need only be a bit better, and we’ll sell it with ease.”
“And what does all this have to do with the horse stables?” asked Michael. He was just then opening the door to the Green Arrow’s pen. His horse, a small chestnut, greeted him with a quiet snort.
Lizzie forced herself to be patient. “It has to do with there not being a tavern in this town where women aren’t for sale, where a fisherman can take his girl without being ashamed or freezing half to death on the docks. We’ll rent one of the old houses.”
“We. You keep saying ‘we,’” Michael said.
Finally, he seemed to understand that Lizzie meant all of this seriously and that her plans were not for him alone. Of course, he’d had trouble with that before, and Lizzie tried not to let her disappointment from the past flare up again. She needed to think clearly about how she wanted a business relationship with Michael—not to marry the prince, just to lead his horse.
“I thought I’d run the tavern,” Lizzie said, excited. “And you’d supply me with the whiskey. The other tavern owners would soon want our stuff, but I’m sure there are differences. You could make extra good whiskey for us and not quite as good whiskey for the others. Then they’d go to our place to drink and to the Arrow for the girls. And everyone would be happy.”
“But we would have to invest money first,” Michael said. “Copper pots are expensive. And I would need to experiment a bit. We would need bottles.”
Lizzie nodded. “I’ve saved a little,” she said. “And you have too, right?”
“For Ireland,” Michael said.
Lizzie would have liked to shake him. “Good God, Michael, if the distillery and tavern are a success, you’ll earn enough in a year to go to Ireland and find three girls named Mary who can recite their book of prayers backward and forward. But like this, you’ll never make it, and I’ll never make it out of the Green Arrow. Let’s try it, Michael. You owe me.”
Over the next few weeks, Michael chopped wood in the mountains with the help of Tane and Maui. The three men built a hut and experimented with burning different sorts of wood.
“If it’s wet or old or smokes too much, it’s no good,” explained Michael. “Then they’ll see it from town, and I might as well set up trail signs for any investigators.”
Lizzie praised him for his caution, but there wasn’t even a police force in Kaikoura. Lizzie’s concerns were different. Kaikoura lay in a remote area. There was hardly any agriculture. Where would they get the large quantities of grain?
For the time being, Lizzie ordered a variety of grains from the store in town. She gave the excuse of wanting to bake something for which she was feeling nostalgic.
“What can you make from malt and rye?” asked the grocer’s wife mistrustfully.
“Oh, German bread,” Lizzie said.
Mrs. Laderer in Sarau had produced dark, coarse bread from every possible ingredient. Lizzie could no longer recall most of them, but they could completely have resembled those from which one made whiskey.
“Are you German?” asked the woman, astounded. “To me you sounded like you came from somewhere in London.”
Lizzie nodded. “We, we immigrated to England when I was still very little,” she said, quickly making up a story for the woman. “But really, I’m from, from St. Pauli.”
That was the name of the ship that had brought the first Germans to Nelson, and Lizzie seemed to recall it having to do with a location.
“Well, it’s no business of mine,” said the grocer’s wife, handing Lizzie her supplies.
To acquire a copper pot and still, Michael had to make his way to Christchurch. Among all the pious Anglicans, however, he could find no one selling the materials for making whiskey. Finally, Michael haggled with a pharmacist for his equipment. The pot and distillation flasks were smaller than those his father had used, but he would just make smaller quantities.
A few days later, Michael distilled the first batch of alcohol with Lizzie and the somewhat astonished Maori, Tane and Maui, watching. The men poured the liquid into an empty barrel they had found in one of Fyffe’s sheds.
“That’ll turn into whiskey,” said Michael after trying a few drops. “It should sit for a few years though.”
“A few years? Are you crazy?” Lizzie, who had been waiting patiently until real alcohol appeared in the distillation flasks, tapped on her forehead for an idea. “Think of some recipe that works right away. I’m ready; I want to open my tavern.”
Michael did not disappoint her. Just a week later, he had a drinkable product to offer—although he spent the next stretch of time making liquor from the most adventurous things, up to and including New Zealand sweet potatoes. For simplicity’s sake, Lizzie called them all whiskey. How would her customers know what they were supposed to taste like? If it came to it, she was prepared to mix them with other liquids; Mrs. Busby had occasionally drunk cocktails, and Lizzie had noted a few recipes. Mrs. Busby’s friends had particularly enjoyed a combination of coffee and whiskey—that way, no one smelled the alcohol, which was frowned upon for women far more so than for men.
Lizzie, who was hoping for female customers, christened her new tavern Irish Coffee. The very day she opened, she was already cheering up the overworked fishermen’s wives, who always came home exhausted and frozen to the bone from the morning catch, with some of the tavern’s namesake. Their husbands could not object to a chat and a coffee with the nice proprietress, the more so since Lizzie never charged them more than a penny per drink. The fishermen, too, drank at a discount. After all, they had helped Lizzie find a place for her tavern. It was right on the harbor, in a hut a seal hunter had built before moving to the West Coast. The rundown shack had stood empty since he’d left, but Michael and the two Maori were able to fix it quickly. Lizzie painted it green and coffee brown and hung a handsome sign above the door.
“Now the customers just need to learn the barkeeper’s only to be looked at and never touched,” Michael said, laughing.
Lizzie was already indicating with her clothing that she was no longer for sale. She wore one of her good dark dresses, a little more low cut than for church, but modest enough. She wore a snow-white apron over that, but she did not stick a bonnet in her properly coiffed hair.
“They’ll learn quickly,” laughed Lizzie.
Indeed, she knew how to put importunate customers in their place with a smile. And it seemed a Maori man was always leaning on the bar, sipping a beer and ready to order any troublesome drunks, amicably but firmly, outside. Lizzie’s tavern drew fishermen and craftsmen who wanted to drink in peace and chat with others like them or the friendly proprietress. The drunks were often lonely, but they couldn’t afford to pay for the company of whores. Lizzie’s heartwarming smile was free, and she offered sandwiches and snacks to sate her customers’ hunger. The mostly single men lived in primitive lodgings and hardly ever cooked. The Irish Coffee soon became like a warm, comforting home to them.
After a few weeks, a fishwife shyly offered to cook seafood for the tavern.
“Shrimp,” said the woman, a Maori married to a white man. “They’re what the area is named for. Kaikoura means ‘meal with shrimp.’ There’s nothing that can compare to them.”
Lizzie agreed after she had tasted them, and from then on she also served shrimp and fish soup at affordable prices. Michael was astounded when, after the first six months, she laid out a hearty meal along with the first reports of their accounts. She had completely taken over the distribution of
his whiskey. What she did not sell at the Irish Coffee made its way into the other taverns.
“That’s unbelievable,” muttered Michael. “I didn’t make that much in two years.”
Lizzie nodded, satisfied. “And what’s more, you can save more since you no longer have to buy the whiskey you drink,” she said, teasing him.
Michael looked at her seriously, for the first time in a long time. And he liked what he saw. Lizzie had put on a little weight over the previous few months and no longer looked like a starving cat. Her hair was thicker and shiny. Perhaps best of all, her face reflected her satisfaction. She was not beautiful like Kathleen but cute, to be sure. He thought of how tender she had been on the ship and how warmly she could smile. No wonder half of Kaikoura was in love with Lizzie.
Michael reached out and tenderly stroked her hair and face, pulling her close to him. “I can think of another way to save money,” he whispered in her ear. “What do I need with the girls from the Green Arrow when I can have the Irish Coffee’s owner herself? Seriously, Lizzie, you’re so lovely. What do you think? Shouldn’t we partner in other ways too?”
Lizzie fought back the weakness that had momentarily seized her at Michael’s touch. Damn it, she was still not immune to him. She quickly freed herself from his arms, got up, and took two steps back.
“You want to be rich; I want to be respectable,” she said adamantly. “And I’m doing my best to help you, so please respect my wishes too.”
Gold
Dunedin, Kaikoura, Tuapeka, Otago
1858–1862
Chapter 1
Dunedin was similar to Christchurch in some ways. This city, too, was young and still growing. The first Scottish settlers had only arrived ten years ago. Before that, the whaling outpost and the nearby seal rookery had drawn hunters.
The three hundred and fifty determined Scots who arrived in two ships in 1848 put an end to the primitive settlements of tents and wooden huts. They had the founding of a city in mind, and one built for eternity. A new Edinburgh should rise. The devout adherents to the Church of Scotland immediately set to constructing monumental stone buildings. They were all fanatic Calvinists and thought the traditional Scottish church was too liberal on questions of faith. The new citizens of New Zealand saw themselves as God’s elect and tried to prove themselves worthy of this by working tirelessly to acquire economic wealth. They insisted on strict modesty and order.
Claire had heard all of that and explained it now to Kathleen and the children as the mules pulled their buggy southward. “I hope the women like fashion even if they are as ascetic as they’re rumored to be. It’s possible they see nice clothing as a superfluous luxury.”
Kathleen shrugged. “They have to wear something. And they won’t all be Scottish, right?”
“I don’t know,” Claire replied, “but they’re supposed to be very, very hardworking, and we are too. We’ll make it yet, Kathleen.”
Since they had been traveling, Claire’s mood had improved considerably. Kathleen thought she moved past her thief of a husband astoundingly quickly, but Claire was an optimist and a dreamer, after all. The beauty of the environment through which they drove cheered her too. There was already a somewhat well-paved road along the coast, and again and again there were views over blue lagoons and jagged rocks. The mountains also seemed to inch closer as they left the flat Canterbury Plains and entered mountainous Otago. For Claire, new wonders seemed to wait around every bend in the road. She never tired of joking with Chloe and Heather or telling the girls stories.
During the first few days, Kathleen often looked around anxiously—though she knew that Ian could not actually be following them. Even if he had come back early for some reason, Colin would have sent him to Nelson. But she would not rest easy until she was in as big a city and could hide among as many people as possible. If she ever rested easy. Kathleen had long dreamed of her escape, but her guilty conscience already bothered her. In the eyes of her church, she had just failed for the second time. First, she had not entered marriage as a virgin, and then she had left her husband. She did not dare to think what Father O’Brien would say about his former favorite student.
Sean acted more like Claire. The new scenery intoxicated him, and the farther away they were from their home, the lighter he seemed to feel. The Calvinists considered education important, and Claire had heard good schools were being built in Dunedin; there were even plans for a university. Here, no one would reprimand him for neglecting work in the stables, and he would not need to ride for miles to get to school. Sean was nothing but excited about his new life, and he enthusiastically eyed the new buildings and the bustling streets when they finally reached the city.
Heather and Chloe were less charmed by their new home.
“But Mama, nothing’s even done yet,” Heather objected as they passed the third scaffolding. “Where are we supposed to live?”
During their travels, the children had slept in the carriage and Kathleen and Claire beneath it. That would be impossible in Dunedin—particularly for future businesswomen. Kathleen was as unsure about the new city as her daughter, and she looked to Claire for an answer to Heather’s question.
“Well, in an inn at first,” Claire said. “Until we’ve found a house we can rent.”
Kathleen looked around skeptically. “Where would we rent something? Heather’s right. All the houses are still being built.”
Claire shrugged. “The builders have to be staying somewhere. And once one of the new houses is ready, an old one will become available. Don’t worry so much, Kathie. We’ll find something.”
Kathleen first looked for some stables they could rent, which she quickly found. Next to the stables, a hotel was being built, but only the foundation had been laid.
“An inn?” The stable owner was clearly surprised.
He was a bear of a man whose name, Duncan McEnroe, conjured images of warrior clans and stories of heroes in Claire. However, McEnroe did not seem very heroic, just suspicious and grumpy. Even his emphasis on the word “inn” made one think of a whorehouse.
“Well, yes, there must be a nice, clean hotel in which respectable women could spend a few nights safely,” Claire said.
McEnroe arched his brows. “Now, whence do ye come?” he asked rudely. They did not seem to think much of politeness or even restraint in Scotland. “Two women alone with a buggy full o’ children and nary a man?”
“My husband is a sailor,” said Claire. “And Mrs. Coltrane is a widow.”
Kathleen lowered her head.
“And why’re you traveling alone through the area?”
Duncan McEnroe was not the only one who wanted to know. The two innkeeper widows he’d finally sent the women to also asked piercing questions. The first categorically refused to take in Kathleen, Claire, and the children. The second didn’t quite believe Claire’s wild story about lost husbands and a poor harvest that had forced the women to give up their farms in the Canterbury Plains.
“Whosoever is devout and properly tends his fields will receive a rich harvest from the Lord,” the small old woman informed them before slamming the door in their faces.
“Well, she’s never heard of the potato blight,” remarked Kathleen.
“She never left Edinburgh before emigrating,” said Claire. “She was probably married to some very strict Calvinist, but he died during the voyage and now she has to rent rooms just to have enough to eat.”
With a gesture, Kathleen stopped her friend. “Claire, don’t waste your imagination on the old witch. Instead, think of what we’re going to do. We need to stay somewhere.”
Followed by their tired, whining children, the women walked through the center of town, where the streets formed a massive octagon. The plans for the city were clear, and surely one day it would be very beautiful, but for now, there were few houses in Dunedin. On top of that, it began to rain.
“It would be best to get the carriage and look farther out,” said Kathleen, discouraged.
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Claire was not listening. She had just seen a strange construction site in the middle of the octagon, where someone had erected a tent.
“Take a look. Someone’s camping,” she said excitedly. “Perhaps that’s what someone does when they intend to build later. Maybe that’s how you get land. If you stay there long enough, it’s promised to you. Come, let’s ask.”
Kathleen raised her brows. Claire had strange ideas about land acquisition, which likely resulted from reading too many legendary stories. In Claire’s fairy tales, the gods would grant heroes the land they could walk around in a day, throw a spear onto, or fit under an ox’s hide as Dido had with Carthage once upon a time. Kathleen could not imagine such archaic games in the middle of Dunedin. Most likely, the land here was either rented or sold, and if you pitched a tent where it was forbidden, you would be chased out of town.
Claire couldn’t be stopped, though. She tapped on the tent fabric until there was movement inside. Finally, a tall man stepped out into the rainy evening.
Kathleen did not hear what her friend discussed with him, but she sighed with relief when he immediately waved them inside.
“Come in, come in, before you get soaked,” he said.
The man had a pleasant voice and friendly brown eyes, straight light-brown hair, a high forehead, and dimples, as if he laughed often. He wore a priest’s collar.
Kathleen and the children followed Claire out of the rain and into an unexpectedly comfortably furnished tent. There were armchairs and a sofa, a heavy wooden buffet, and a table with chairs. The space was cramped; surely the furniture had been purchased for a larger house. But it did not seem as if the pastor considered his living space provisional.
“Reverend Peter Burton of the Anglican Church, at your service,” he introduced himself. “The Anglican diocese of Dunedin, to be more precise. But so far it’s without a bishop.”
