Toward the Sea of Freedom (31 page)

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 husband’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.”

Matt Edmunds did not notice that the mule had been exchanged, but Claire was amazed when she took the animal into the stables along with Kathleen.

“Your own mule? Ian sold Matt his best mule? What did Matt pay for that? Ought I to reckon with being driven from house and home if we can’t come up with the money?” She laughed and patted the new mule. Spotty reacted with a jealous bray.

Kathleen was not in the mood for jokes. “Best thing would be for you to take your animals a little farther inland today,” she advised Claire. “Take Spotty and this one out to graze at the Leprechaun rock, or even better, hide them at the Fairy Place. Most of all, don’t let my husband see you or the mules. Oh yes—and come by tomorrow to look for me. If you find he’s killed me, look after my children.”

Chapter 11

Rather than living in the makeshift barracks, Sergeant Meyers and Velvet had rented two rooms at a small inn. When Lizzie knocked, the proprietress immediately let her inside. Instead of her apron and bonnet, Lizzie wore a dark dress and a carefully coiffed hairstyle so she would not be recognized as a maid gone astray. It was a weekday, and she had used an errand to grant herself a free hour.

Lizzie followed the proprietress with a pounding heart. Sergeant Meyers should not be home at that hour. One never knew, of course, but Velvet greeted her alone. She dismissed the proprietress at once, amicably but firmly, to fetch tea and pastries.

“I really can’t stay that long,” Lizzie said nervously, looking around the room. “You’ve got it nice here. You’ve become a real lady, Velvet.”

Velvet smiled. “It’s not as nice as your bosses have it,” she said. Misreading Lizzie’s unhappy facial expression, she qualified her statement: “Well, if I had to dust all that shiny stuff every day, I’d probably see it with other eyes too.”

Lizzie shook her head. “That’s not the problem. I don’t mind cleaning. But . . . we don’t have much time, Velvet. You have to listen to me. I need your help.”

Velvet held up her hand to stop her and gestured with her chin toward the door. The proprietress was just coming in carrying a platter with teacups and rolls.

Once the tea and treats were on the table, Velvet thanked her with a smile and motioned for Lizzie take a seat. “Now we can talk,” she said once the woman had gone. “So, what can I do for you? You want to marry, I heard?”

“I want to flee,” Lizzie corrected her. She had no time for polite conversation. “Together with Michael Drury. But first he needs out of his chain gang.”