Toward the Sea of Freedom (33 page)

“Stop your nonsense and listen.” Lizzie’s fear made her rebuff him more strongly than she actually wanted to. She hoped he was not too drunk to understand the plan. “Michael, Sunday or Monday a ship is leaving for New Zealand. You’ll get papers and a ticket—no, no questions now; there’s no time. But you have to make it to Hobart. I’ll meet you . . .”

“At Battery Point, in Mayfair Tavern,” Michael said quickly. “It’s a tavern, supposed to be easy to find.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Just say: the soldiers will search there first,” she mocked. “But fine, it’s somewhere at least. But don’t go inside. Stay somewhere nearby. Or, better: look for the ship to New Zealand and hide on the pier. I’ll come there with a man. Follow us inconspicuously, and at some point, I’ll meet you and give you the papers.”

“But how do you mean to—” This was all happening a bit too fast for Michael.

“I don’t know yet, but it’s worth a try. Just come to Hobart. But don’t tell anyone. Not even your friends from the chain gang.”

“But they . . . I can’t just . . . They’ll wonder . . .”

“Let them. It’s better they stay in the dark than betray you. Michael, between now and when the ship leaves, you’ll have to hide for three days and cover more than a hundred fifty miles. It’ll be better if no one knows where to look for you.”

Michael was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his loyalties. But then he shrugged. “So be it. I’ll leave tonight,” he declared.

Lizzie squinted. “Don’t you think it would be better to go tomorrow with the team?”

“A team would draw too much attention. I have a better idea. I’ll take a horse. Wish me luck, Lizzie.”

Lizzie was moving to go when he kissed her. First on the forehead, then quickly on the mouth. “And good luck to you too,” he said.

Lizzie managed to smile when Martin Smithers came to her bed that night. She knew it was the last time, so she endured his caresses and thought of Michael.

Michael needed all the luck he could get—starting with his escape. Among the horses in his charge was an unruly young stallion. Gideon was a Shire horse—gorgeous, dark brown, white-footed, and almost fifteen hands tall. A farmer near Launceston had ordered the horse from England, and one of the drivers had brought it from Hobart. Now it stood in a stall with Michael, waiting to be transported to the farm—though the stable master was in no hurry. He planned to have the stallion cover all the mares in his stables before sending him onward. And nearly all the settlers in the area who had mares had spoken with him. They handed him a small fee, and the stallion performed his service. The farmer would never be the wiser.

The animal could hardly believe its luck. Every day he became unrulier, and he beat on the stall wall nervously whenever a mare was in heat. Michael had repaired his stall three times already. It would be completely believable for the stallion to manage to escape one day. And the horse was strong. It could easily make it to Hobart and take Michael with it. If it would carry a rider.

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.