by Sarah Lark
But now Claire seemed to have objections.
“Miss Portland,” said Claire. “The lady to whom Michael is engaged.”
Kathleen made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, she’ll understand. Those two are more like good friends.”
“Oh?” asked Claire. “That’s not what it looked like to me. I thought Miss Portland was very much in love, and Mr. Drury could hardly wait to see her in her dress, even before their wedding day. Which brings bad luck, as we’ve established once again.”
“Bad luck?” asked Kathleen, taken aback. “But Michael and I are happy. I can’t even believe he’s back.” She smiled at everyone around the table. No one smiled back.
“You may very well be happy, but you’re not the only one in this whole wide world, Ma,” Sean remarked drily. He had always shown understanding for his mother, but the events of that day had surpassed his comprehension. “I, for one, am not all that happy, and as for Miss Portland . . .”
“But you’ve found your father!” Kathleen said. “That’s certainly wonderful. Or, or do you not like him?” Kathleen’s expression turned from delight to concern.
Sean shrugged. “I don’t even know him,” he said. “I’ve seen him for a few minutes of my entire life, and there’s not much to say about that. He only has eyes for you. Who knows? Maybe he’s very nice.”
“Oh, he’s definitely nice.”
“But surely not as nice as Peter Burton.”
Kathleen frowned. “How can you compare them? Peter—”
Claire stood up. She had heard enough of the matter. All she wanted was to scream at Kathleen and shake her. But she had to make a final attempt; she owed it to Peter.
“Kathleen, I’ll grant that at the moment you’re in a—well, let’s say, an exceptional mental state. But Peter Burton is a good man, and he’s been wooing you for years. You grew close to him, you’ve been affectionate with him—and he helped raise your children. For a few months, you’ve both been suffering like dogs because this dreadful Father Parrish convinced you that you were guilty of all that’s wrong with the world. But now, from one moment to the next, he’s, well, what, Kathleen? Just ‘a good friend’? Like Miss Portland to Mr. Drury?”
Kathleen looked at her, uncomprehending. She seemed to want to reply, but Claire did not let her speak.
“And what about Mr. Drury anyway, Kathleen? Will Father Parrish concede him to you? Or is there another devil in the details?”
“Father Parrish?” Kathleen had clearly also forgotten him.
“You’re talking like a head-over-heels schoolgirl, Kathleen, but you’re thirty-three years old,” she said. “Maybe you should take some time to think. Come along, Chloe, we’re going over to Jimmy’s. Why don’t you come, too, Heather? Your mother needs some peace and quiet.”
“I’m going over to the Coopers,” grumbled Sean, reaching for his jacket.
When everyone had gone, Kathleen pulled Michael’s old letter from its hiding place. For the first time in such a long time, she felt no loss or sadness in reading it, only overwhelming joy. Claire was right. She felt like a teenager in love. She pressed the brittle, faded paper to her chest and danced through the apartment, and when she finally fell asleep, it was with Michael’s letter against her heart.
Lizzie could not sleep. Everything had happened too suddenly, too cruelly. She could not come to terms with it alone. Perhaps the reverend was already asleep, but then she would just have to wake him. Her soul needed comfort, more than ever before.
Lizzie glanced through the window before knocking. She sighed with relief when she saw the reverend sitting in front of the fire, reading.
Peter Burton opened the door immediately. “Miss Portland, has something happened?”
Lizzie nodded but could not speak. She walked in and began to cry.
“Is something wrong with Michael, Lizzie?” Peter Burton ushered her toward an armchair and watched helplessly as she fell onto it. She cried and cried and cried; she couldn’t remember having ever shed so many tears before.
“Do tell me! An accident? Is he dead?”
Peter could not imagine that. He was sure Lizzie would have been more composed in the case of death. This was something else, something that should not have happened.
Lizzie shook her head. In the end, Peter let her cry and went into the kitchen to make tea. But then he changed his mind and uncorked a bottle of Bordeaux. Lizzie could use a drink, and perhaps the wine would distract her. He had always liked to listen to her talk about the aromas and flavors in a given wine.
“Here, try this,” he said after pouring for them.
Lizzie did indeed take a deep drink.
Peter sipped it slowly. “Tastes of cranberries, don’t you think?” he asked. “Very fruity, but not as full a taste as blackberries.”
“A kiss,” whispered Lizzie. “A velvety taste that curls around the tongue like a kiss.” She straightened herself. “Those aren’t my words, Reverend, just those of another liar.” She drank again. “Or silk—more like silk, lighter than velvet. I wore a silk dress this morning, Reverend, but it only brought bad luck.”
Lizzie wept again, and Peter drank his wine. He could wait. Finally, she began to explain, and the reverend listened in the trained, calm manner in which he heard confessions. Lizzie knew that she could tell him anything. Yet he did seem to pay special attention when she mentioned Gold Mine Boutique.
“Yes, I’ve seen the dress,” he said. “Very pretty; a bit overdone for, for . . . But you must have looked beautiful in it, Lizzie.”
Lizzie nodded. She did not want to think about the dress anymore. She told the reverend everything that had happened at Gold Mine Boutique.
Lizzie could not judge the expression on Peter’s face when she got to Michael and Kathleen’s reunion—but it was unmistakable that feelings welled up within him. His fingers clutched the arms of his chair, and it seemed he had to force himself not to jump up.
“And then?” he asked quietly.
“Well, she forgot everything around her. Mrs. Edmunds said that was bound to happen. She poured me tea; she has a good heart. I did not see Michael again until evening, and by then everything was clear to him. He had even just met his son, apparently just as perfect a child as his mother is a woman.”
“Sean Coltrane really is quite a good boy,” Peter Burton said absentmindedly.
“How could it be any other way?” asked Lizzie sarcastically. “After all, he was born of an immaculate angel. In any case, he recognized Michael as his father at once. Must have been some kind of miracle, and now everything’s going to be all right. A small, happy family.”
“There’s a girl too,” mumbled Peter. “Heather.”
“Oh?” asked Lizzie. “They seem to have forgotten about her. But then, they’ve forgotten everything except their wonderful summer in the fields by the river.”
Peter drank his wine. Really, he needed something stronger.
Lizzie left him to muse for a while. “So, what is it, Reverend?” she finally asked. “Maybe . . . maybe you could say something. Explain to me what, what God thinks about it?”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t know, Lizzie,” he said wearily, “and I’m, I’m not really the right person to say something. In this case . . . in this case I’m not the best counselor.”
“Now you’ll be telling me you wish both of them happiness from the bottom of your heart,” mocked Lizzie. “Because they’re no doubt meant for each other, and because it was God’s will for them to meet again.”
“I certainly won’t be saying that,” Peter interrupted her, almost angrily. He tousled his already messy hair. If he had ever struggled with his God, then it was on this night.
“Then say something else!” yelled Lizzie. “Maybe give me some advice. I know she’s beautiful, I know he never forgot her, but damn it, I’m with child, and I love Michael Drury.”
Peter looked at her, and her pain was mirrored in his eyes. “And I,” he said, “love Kathleen Co
ltrane.”
Mana
Dunedin, Queenstown, Otago
1863–1864
Chapter 1
The next morning Kathleen invited Michael to breakfast. Heather and Chloe eyed him distrustfully at first, but to Michael’s amazement, he found it easier to talk to them than to Sean. His son ignored him. Michael had feared Heather might be similar to Ian, but she proved to be Kathleen’s double, which cheered and relieved him. He paid the girls compliments; even Claire thawed a little when he praised her pretty dress and began to talk about horses with her. Kathleen had mentioned that Claire and the girls were enthusiastic riders, and as Michael talked about his horse, Chloe wanted to talk about her pony, and Heather of her dream horse.
“But I didn’t get one for my birthday,” Heather said, looking at Kathleen accusatorily, “because it would be prideful, or something.”
Michael laughed. “Of course it’s not. A horse isn’t a luxury here. Just imagine that some sheep baron out there in the plains comes to woo you. You’ll have to know how to ride just to get to his farm. Not to mention if you want to help him count his sheep and all that.”
“But I don’t count sheep,” squealed Heather.
“Or she only does when she can’t sleep,” Chloe said, giggling.
The girls hardly remembered their lives on the farms near Christchurch. They had grown up in the city and could not imagine anything else.
“Oh, just wait until you see the farm in Otago.” Michael laughed. “It sits on a mountain, Heather. You can see Lake Wakatipu far below. And we’ll have thousands of sheep.”
“Perhaps Heather doesn’t want any sheep,” said Sean, not looking up from his plate. “I could do without sheep myself, anyway.”
Kathleen wanted to reply sharply, but Michael put his hand on her arm. “No,” he whispered to her, “he just has to get used to it.”
He turned with pronounced cheerfulness to his son. “Just wait till you see them. I can show you how to shear them. Can you imagine? I was once the fastest sheep shearer north of Otago.”
Sean shrugged his shoulders. He could not have said more clearly with words how little he cared. “I need to get to school,” he said curtly, grabbing his bag.
Claire shooed Chloe and Heather out, though they would have gladly flirted a bit longer with Michael. “So, you want to take Kathleen to your farm?” she asked. “For a visit, or forever?”
Michael sank into Kathleen’s eyes again. “Whatever she likes,” he said. “The farm is gorgeous, Kathleen, and the area! The city is very close.”
Kathleen smiled, but she did not seem to know about what. She was barely listening to Michael’s words. It was enough for her to hear his voice and see his face.
Claire finally gave up. Kathleen would go wherever Michael went. At least for now. She could not, however, repress a little barb. “Doesn’t at least half the land belong to Miss Portland?”
Michael smiled transcendently, passing Claire over again. “Oh, Lizzie is generous,” he said, turning to Kathleen. “Always has been. It would be great if you could be friends, Kathleen. She’s a wonderful person. She immediately gave up the farm, though, of course, that means we’re missing some of the money. But you’re not without means, right, Kathleen? If we put something together.”
Kathleen nodded numbly. A farm? She did not really want a farm. But, naturally, she wanted to be with Michael.
“I thought we’d drive out there first, Kathleen. Sometime this week. We can take the children if you like. We’ll do everything as you like, Kathleen.”
Kathleen placed his hand on her cheek. “I’d really like to be alone with you,” she said.
Claire rolled her eyes. “The apartment is all yours,” she said icily. “I’m going into the shop. Someone has to earn money here, after all. Especially since the last sale was a disaster. I’ll be selling the next wedding dress without you, Kathie.” She left.
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Michael.
Kathleen shrugged. “I don’t want to be alone with you here, Michael,” she said. “Not when Claire could come in at any moment or some seamstress could bother us. I need time for you, Michael—just for you, just for us. Isn’t there anywhere we could ride to? To, to the river?”
Michael fetched his horse and accompanied Kathleen to the stables, where he insisted on saddling Sean’s small black horse for her.
“Though it’s no horse for a lady,” he said, furrowing his brow, at which Kathleen laughed.
“Nor am I a lady, Michael Drury. And any horse is an improvement. I used to ride a mule.” She kissed him on the cheek.
Donny Sullivan, in whose stable Claire’s and Kathleen’s animals still resided, grinned good-naturedly.
“Well, Mrs. Coltrane, does our Father Parrish know about this?” he teased her. “And will I be invited to the wedding?”
Kathleen and Michael both turned red. But Donny did not wait for an answer. Nor would he say anything to the severe Father Parrish. In truth, Sullivan feared the grouchy priest as much as the rest of the parish did, whereas he especially liked Kathleen. He was happy to see her smiling again.
Michael led Kathleen to the mouth of the Tuapeka River, surprised at how masterfully she handled the lively horse at a trot and a gallop. They spent the day by the river, just like on their dreamy Sundays back in Ireland. While Michael knew that Lizzie would first have searched the idyllic spot for traces of gold, Kathleen merely sat on the bank and looked raptly at the flowing water, which seemed to dance in the sunbeams. She arranged the picnic they had brought along but left it to Michael to catch and roast the fish. He did this in the pakeha style, so the catch was not large, but, Kathleen marveled at it nevertheless. Finally, he made love to her in the clear light of afternoon beneath a tree fern whose shadow seemed to cover them with a gentle veil. Michael only needed to close his eyes to dream his way back beneath the willow on the bank of the Vartry.
Both of them were boundlessly happy as they rode back to Dunedin.
“Will you come to Queenstown with me?” asked Michael as he parted from her with a kiss in front of her building’s door. “To look at the farm?”
Kathleen nodded. She would have followed Michael to the ends of the earth.
When Michael got back to the hotel, Lizzie had checked out already.
“Don’t keep doing that to yourself,” Peter Burton had told her. The reverend had looked just as pale, hopeless, and forlorn that night as Lizzie felt. He’d let her sleep in the parsonage the first night and then offered to put her up with his housekeeper, who rented rooms. “You should save your money, Lizzie. Remember, you’ll only have half of what you had if Michael doesn’t see reason. You don’t really mean to buy a farm with it, do you?”
Lizzie did not know. She still could not think that far ahead. But he was right. She was not a farmer.
“Kathleen Coltrane comes from a farm, doesn’t she?” she asked the reverend.
Peter pursed his lips. “Yes, but I never had the sense that she longed to get back to that.”
Sean Coltrane certainly didn’t want to return to the country. He made that abundantly clear to Kathleen when she broached the subject of Queenstown. At first Heather was excited about the farm, particularly since she would have a horse, but she grew skeptical after Sean presented his arguments.
“A farm in the middle of nothing, Ma; we already had one. Where will Heather go to school? Where am I going to study?”
“Queenstown is not very far.”
“And what is Queenstown?” he asked. “A better sort of gold mining camp.”
“There’s a school there,” Kathleen said.
Sean rolled his eyes. “Sure. An elementary school where the miners’ children learn to read and write. Grand. But I attend high school, not to mention I’ll be at university next year. And Heather? She’s in high school already. Ma, Heather has probably already spent more years in school than the girl who teaches the kids in Queenstown.”
Surely that was an
exaggeration, but Kathleen knew he was more than partly right. It wouldn’t serve Sean to go to school in Queenstown, and the change of schools would do Heather no favors either.
“I’m sure Claire will allow you to continue living with her, and Michael can easily pay your tuition.”
Sean threw his head back proudly. “Thank you, but I’ll pass. I’ll apply for a scholarship. I’m sure I’ll get one. And I’ll live with Reverend Burton. My so-called father has not cared for me for sixteen years; there’s no need to start now.”
Kathleen sighed. Things between Michael and Sean had not been going well at all. Michael tried to make his son understand the situation in Ireland and his actions back then, but Sean did not want to understand. Perhaps it was the influence of the passionate skeptic Peter Burton, or of the school—both had taught him to ask questions—or that he’d learned to tell truth from lies after years of listening to Claire recount fairy tales and legends. In any case, now it seemed good fun to him to play the inquisitor with his father.
“So you stole Trevallion’s grain,” he said, as Michael told him the story of his imprisonment, “so you could leave for America with Ma, but that doesn’t make it right, does it?”
Michael shrugged. “Trevallion was a traitor. He threw his lot in with the English. And the people were starving.”
“So you were starving?” pressed Sean.
“Well, not me personally,” mumbled Michael. “It was more, well, it was a matter of principle. Ireland belongs to us, the Irish! Its rivers, its fields, and the grain that grows in them.”
Sean frowned. “You mean, you did it for political reasons?”
Michael nodded, relieved. “In a certain sense, Sean.”
Sean rubbed his temples. “So it wasn’t about Ma after all?”
