by Sarah Lark
Lizzie gave him her heartwarming smile and then began to unpack the saddlebags. “I thought I’d look for a little gold too,” she said casually. “There was nothing more to do in Kaikoura, so I just hitched the horse and came here. How’re your riches coming along, Michael Drury?”
Michael made a face. “We work hard,” he mumbled, “but now, in winter . . .”
Lizzie nodded. “It’s pretty cold here. What did you say? You have a tent?”
Michael’s and Chris’s tents were nothing compared to the reverend’s. Fundamentally, they consisted of no more than some canvas stretched over four low poles. One could sit upright within but not stand. There were no furnishings. The men slept on the ground, which was provisionally covered with a tarpaulin. Mats and blankets protected against the worst of the cold, but they could not keep the seriously ill Chris warm enough. Lizzie was shocked when she saw him. He lay listless in his sleeping bag, hardly able to offer her his hand.
“Michael, this man has to get somewhere warm,” she said. “First, pitch the tent I brought. It’s small but much more comfortable than this. Down in the camp, I also have a larger one; we can fetch that sometime in the next few days. Oh yes, and see that you find a few big rocks; there are certainly plenty around here. We can heat them up in the fire and then take them into the tents with us. They should warm things up a bit. And bring my bag in. I have cough syrup of rongoa petals.”
“Do you, perhaps, have something to eat?” asked Michael quietly.
Lizzie looked at him, disbelieving.
“I, I was going to ride down today to refresh our supplies. We only just ran out and . . .”
“And you haven’t found enough money to pay the exorbitant prices down there, have you?” asked Lizzie severely. “Michael, what are you thinking? The boy in there is dying, and you wanted to leave him alone while you went to beg for some food? We’ll cook something first, and warm him up—and tomorrow we’ll take him down to the camp.”
“But the claim,” Michael objected. “If we leave it, someone might rip it out from under us.”
Full of the pride of ownership, he let his gaze wander for a while over the idyllic little valley. It was unquestionably beautiful. But was the snow really hiding any gold?
Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Then let someone else starve up here. Michael, we can find something like this anywhere. You don’t need to guard it.”
“Anywhere?” Michael said. “I don’t think so . . . We need only make it through winter. In the spring, when the ground thaws . . .”
Lizzie sighed. He was crazy to try to stay. Why did she keep falling for those shining blue eyes and that enchanting voice? She realized it might not even be possible to move Chris Timlock to the camp. The man was seriously ill. If he was to survive, he needed food and warmth. If she brought all of her provisions up here, she could tend to him just as well as the reverend would below.
“All right, fine,” she relented. “But tomorrow you’ll go to camp and try to bring up the wagon. Or make two trips with the horses—with them, you should be able to get everything here.”
“You brought enough provisions to load two horses? What in heaven’s name did you haul out here?”
Lizzie stared him straight in the eyes. “Everything you’re missing here to live a halfway decent life. And now, get to work. I’ll care for Chris.”
“We, we’re going to find gold, aren’t we?” Chris asked with a hoarse voice as Lizzie poured the Maori rongoa cough syrup into his mouth. “In spring?”
Lizzie stroked his hair, soothingly. “Of course we’ll find gold. Don’t you worry.”
“Do, do you promise?”
Lizzie smiled. Clearly, Chris no longer knew where he was or who was talking to him. But he needed encouragement. He was still very young.
“I promise,” she said firmly.
As soon as possible, she would have to find out where the Ngai Tahu were living.
During her first days in Otago, however, Lizzie did not manage to find the local Maori tribe’s village. There was too much to do. She did everything to save Chris Timlock’s life. The young man was soon doing better thanks to Lizzie’s care. Then she and Michael went about making the camp fit to survive the winter. To Michael’s annoyance, Lizzie insisted they build a cabin.
“Michael, it’s only June, and it’s snowing every day. This will last at least three months. You can’t sleep through that in a tent.”
“The people in the camp can.”
Lizzie shook her head. “They’re either sick all the time or warm themselves at the reverend’s stove. Besides, the camp there is lower down, so it’s also a little warmer. And you don’t have anything else to do anyway.”
“I can pan for gold. That will get us something at least.”
Lizzie grabbed her forehead. “Michael, in four weeks, you haven’t pulled even an ounce of gold from the stream. No day laborer would hire on for that wage, not even in Ireland. Especially when you consider you’re ruining your boots in the water and your shovels and spades when you try to dig in the frozen earth.”
“But I can’t build a house alone. And Chris . . .”
Chris Timlock had survived his pneumonia, but he was still sick in bed. Lizzie did not expect him to recover fully until winter was over. Perhaps in spring when it got warmer.
“I can help you,” said Lizzie. “I’m stronger than you think, and I think it will be fun.”
This latter point proved true. Though felling trees and hauling the beams was backbreaking work, Lizzie took great pleasure in fitting beams together and watching her future house go up. They made rapid progress, and after a month, they had a tiny wooden house with just enough room for three sleeping spaces, a fireplace, a table, and chairs. Lizzie partitioned off one corner of the cabin with tent canvas to have a space for herself. In the gold miners’ camp, people whispered about her living with two men, but they talked more about Michael holding on to his useless claim.
The reverend never said a word about their living arrangement, but there wasn’t much opportunity since they rarely made it to camp for Sunday service. Chris only managed the trip on very good days and was near dead with exhaustion afterward. So Lizzie invited Reverend Burton to come for a visit and was happy when he accepted her invitation.
The reverend gave a service for Lizzie and Chris, then drank a whiskey with Michael. Lizzie had brought the cask of Michael’s first batch to Otago, and the reverend was enthused by the quality. She was pleased that he enjoyed the product of their earlier endeavor, but to Lizzie it was important that the reverend see the cabin they’d built and her private niche within. No one was to doubt her honor.
Spring came to Otago much later than to Kaikoura, but when nature finally threw off winter, the land exploded with fertility. Almost overnight, everything became green. Yellow and red flowers arose in the meadows and on the stream banks. These banks woke memories of Ireland in Michael, though here, southern beeches lined the path instead of oaks, and ferns dipped their branches into the water instead of willows. The birdcalls sounded strange, but other things were just like home.
Michael enjoyed the sight of Lizzie’s slender body clothed only in a light dress once she’d peeled off the heavy wool layers that had kept her warm through the winter. Just like the girls in Ireland, she let her hair blow in the wind and beautified their home with spring flowers—and for the first time in years, Michael did not dream of Mary Kathleen’s luscious golden locks but instead of the sunshine in Lizzie’s fine dark-blonde strands. He no longer thought of Kathleen’s graceful movement but cherished Lizzie’s dynamic manner: her lively attempts to induce the horse to haul timber and her careful, gentle way of taking Chris out of the cabin and into the sun.
Chris talked increasingly of finally getting back to work with them, but his return was questionable. He whittled a bit on pieces of wood, trying to help Michael with the design of a sluice box, but if he even reached for the lightest saw, he was bathed in sweat and coughing within m
inutes.
Michael grumbled that Lizzie, at least, should give him a hand with the box, but she resisted.
“Michael, it’s not worth it. This stream doesn’t have any gold in it. Or too little to make any serious money. It would be better to dig a bit. After all, there might be gold veins, if you’ve your heart set on this claim and no other. But as for the sluice box, I’m with the Maori: before I chop down a tree, I ask Tane, god of the forest, for permission, and he only grants it when I do something sensible with the wood. Here, Tane says no. And I’ll be damned if I anger him.”
Lizzie had found out where the nearest Maori tribe lived. She had guessed she would have to travel two days upriver to reach their camp, and she prepared to make the journey on foot. She had laden her horse with gifts for the Ngai Tahu and did not want to add her weight to the burden. Michael offered to accompany her or let her take his horse as a mount. But Lizzie declined both. She didn’t really like to ride, and his gray horse was so fiery that she did not trust herself to handle it. Although she would have enjoyed Michael’s company, the Ngai Tahu would trust her more readily if she came alone. Besides, she did not want to leave Chris alone in camp.
“Nothing is going to happen to me, Michael.” She laughed as Michael hovered over her, checking on every bit of her preparations. “The Maori are friendly, and I’m bringing them gifts and greetings from their friends in Kaikoura. The pakeha present more of a danger here. But where I’m headed, probably no white has been before.”
Silently, though, she was happy about his concern. It seemed as if he was finally beginning to feel something for her.
Chapter 6
Spring brought new life to the gold miners’ camp. Ships began arriving in Otago Harbor again, and thousands of new adventurers rushed toward the Tuapeka River. New gold miners, and those who wanted to become them, also journeyed by land across the country.
Two of these travelers set out from Dunedin for their spring vacation: Rufus Cooper and Sean Coltrane. After months of their begging, even Mr. Cooper had finally given his permission for a visit to the reverend—though not before Peter Burton had sworn several times over that he would send Rufus back by the end of vacation.
The two had spent hours packing their horses with every possible camping and digging tool, though it had not been at all necessary. Kathleen and Heather were going to the camp, driving a wagon filled with tent canvas and provisions for the hospital—though two sleeping bags and a couple of shovels would also have fit in the bed, as Kathleen noted with a wink.
The boys rejected this, though.
“Real prospectors don’t have their mothers driving behind them,” said Sean, self-assured, which drew a laugh from Kathleen.
“It might be better if some of them did,” she said.
Kathleen was exceedingly optimistic that spring. She looked forward to the excursion into the mountains—and to seeing Peter Burton again, even if she would not admit it. And, against her expectations, she had settled into Dunedin well. At first she had panicked about being discovered—after all, she had found herself in a flourishing community. Dunedin had an elected city council and commercial regulations; Kathleen and Claire were properly registered, and their business was well known. If Ian had made inquiries, he would easily have been able to find her. Yet four years had passed since their escape. Ian must have moved on, and, moreover, Dunedin was no longer a town where everyone knew one another. The city was growing quickly and offered corresponding anonymity.
Kathleen now even attended theater performances and art exhibitions with Claire and Jimmy Dunloe. She had no problem affording the tickets. Gold Mine Boutique generated good profits from Kathleen’s designs and from the accessories Claire ordered from Paris and London. Kathleen wondered when Mr. Dunloe might finally make a marriage proposal and how Claire might react to that. But Claire never talked about even the possibility of it.
Kathleen had admirers of her own—or could have had them if she were not so reserved. She rarely appeared in public and only answered monosyllabically when men addressed her. Her extraordinary, now mature beauty could not be hidden, however. Though Kathleen dressed more simply than Claire, her gold-blonde hair and emerald-green eyes always made her the center of attention. For the first time in her life, Kathleen had time to care for herself. Her skin was no longer sunburned, her lips no longer chapped, and her hands no longer raw and worn.
Kathleen’s nightmares became rarer, and she began to forget Ian’s insults and abuse. Over time, she was able to start to look people in the eye again. Nevertheless, she still struggled with feelings of guilt—more so since the new Catholic priest in Dunedin did not absolve her of them.
“You should not have left your husband,” he admonished her after her first confession. “No matter what happened. What God has joined, let no man tear asunder. You should have stayed with him and tried to be a good wife to him.”
Father Parrish would not hear Kathleen’s objection that she had tried that long enough. He advised her to return to Christchurch, but Kathleen’s submission to God did not go quite that far.
“But God didn’t join you. It was pure contingency,” Claire said later, in support of Kathleen’s perspective. “Rather, God led you to that Michael fellow. You should have married him. Couldn’t you have gone with him to Australia?”
Kathleen had never thought of that possibility, but it was too late now anyway. She now saw herself as well on her way to committing an even worse sin than leaving her abusive husband. Every time Peter Burton came to town, her affection for him grew. He made her laugh, entertained her with stories from the gold miners’ camp, and always concerned himself with Sean and Heather. He was patient and never pressured her, and whenever he offered his arm on a walk, she felt relaxed and safe. When he took her hand, or when his leg unintentionally brushed hers as he climbed into the buggy, her heart beat faster. It was not the violent longing she had felt for Michael, but something was there—when Peter Burton came to town, she felt younger and lighter and danced through the day.
Sometimes, when she was sitting over her sketchbook and nothing was coming to her, she would catch herself drawing a picture of Peter Burton: His steep, somewhat crooked nose—he’d broken it boxing in college; his full lips; his oval face; light-brown hair that constantly fell over his forehead. His friendly, peaceful eyes—which could, however, flash vivaciously when something touched him. Because she finally ventured to hold his gaze long enough to study his eyes, Kathleen now knew that they were brown, the specks within them amber-colored.
Kathleen tried not to think about the possible consequences of her feelings. But she allowed herself pure joy at their reunion in the camp. She was driving up for the first time. Peter had not wanted visits in Gabriel’s Gully—that is, not from a lady. But the new camp was supposed to be more civilized. A few gold miners had sent for their wives and built cabins, and the reverend was even teaching reading and writing to a few children every day.
“You’ll see, Ma. After vacation, we’ll be rich,” Sean declared now as he trotted ahead with Rufus.
Heather snuggled against Kathleen. “Do you think I could pan gold too?” she asked.
Kathleen nodded. “I’m sure. Reverend Burton will show us how, and then we two will find more gold than all the boys together.”
When they arrived, Kathleen could hardly believe her eyes. The new settlement had grown into a small city, and Peter Burton’s church and community center were at its core. The women immediately recruited Kathleen: the hospital, the kitchen for the needy, the school—all needed helping hands. There weren’t many women in the camp, but now there weren’t only prostitutes. The helpers in Peter’s parish were the wives and daughters of the chandlers, postmen, and bankers. The wives of the gold miners rarely contributed in the community because they mostly worked at the mines as well, just as hard as the men. Many did not last long, suffering miscarriages and accidents or growing too pregnant to work the mines. The first night after her arrival, Kathl
een helped with two births—though she would have preferred to spend the evening with Peter.
While Kathleen and Peter had been intentionally reserved at their reunion, people were already talking about their relationship.
“My, but you’d make a lovely pastor’s wife,” said the wife of the general-store owner. Kathleen soon discovered the other women in the community had ideas about a wedding. She would have to be careful. It did not bear thinking about what would happen if these good women learned she was Catholic.
Still, Kathleen was happy during her days spent at Peter Burton’s side in the new settlement of Tuapeka. She was hardly ever alone with him, but it filled her with joy to watch him interact with his community and to help him in whatever ways she could.
Peter Burton, himself, was somewhat disappointed. He had hoped to have more time for Kathleen, but while she was visiting, new arrivals were overrunning the camp. The reverend was needed everywhere at once to give advice and enforce rules for staking claims and pitching new tents.
Kathleen also worked hard, and when Peter Burton pulled up in front of the community center, he found her washing vegetables for the charity kitchen. “Now, at least ride along,” he said. “The day seems made for a picnic.”
Sean and Rufus had set out early in the morning to search for gold, their saddlebags stuffed with provisions, and Heather had gone along with them. Kathleen’s “little girl” was now thirteen years old and not so easily left behind, and, to the boys’ aggravation, she was a skilled gold panner. She had panned thirteen pounds’ sterling worth of gold from rivers and streams in their first week—miles ahead of her brother, of course—and now felt rich.
Just as Kathleen looked about to make the excuse of not leaving her work undone, Peter offered up the chance at another task.
