Toward the Sea of Freedom (40 page)

Not much had changed in the couple’s relationship; Ian had taken the exchange of the mules with comparative calm. But he had not bought Kathleen a new mule. Instead he left the old mule that had actually been meant for Matt Edmunds on the farm.

“Now let’s see how much you need your friend,” Ian said, hoping to punish Kathleen more by keeping her from riding to visit Claire than he could with any beating.

Kathleen solved this easily enough. She fed the old mare plentifully and gave it to Claire, who took it to a smith in Canterbury. He gave the animal new shoes, handed Claire a salve for its leg, and advised her not to overburden it.

“She can still do a bit of work,” Claire repeated to her friend, trying to mimic the smith’s deep voice. “Carrying around such a pretty little thing must be a pleasure for it.” She laughed conspiratorially, then added in her normal voice, “I think he’s a little in love with me.”

Kathleen wasn’t sure about the state of the love between Claire and Matt. She was surprised her friend had not gotten pregnant again in the last two years. For a woman so young, this was rather unusual. Ian had impregnated Kathleen twice in that time, but both times she had miscarried.

“You probably work too hard,” Claire said sadly after Kathleen had lost a baby in the fifth month.

Kathleen saw the cause in Ian’s increasingly brutal assaults. Though they had regularly slept together during her first pregnancies, he had treated her with greater care. Now he entered her with no regard and struck her when she resisted or showed even a measure of unwillingness. He had also put on more weight, while Kathleen had only gotten thinner. At least, though, she no longer went hungry as she had back in Ireland. Her garden put out vegetables, her fields delivered grain, and Ian slaughtered animals several times a year, so meat was always on hand.

But Kathleen worked from morning to evening, and she was under constant stress. Ian was naturally the reason for that. Though she had come to terms with what he did to her, she could not accept Ian’s treatment of Sean. Kathleen’s sons were now five and six years old, and a difference hardly existed between Colin and Sean when it came to comprehension and physical adroitness. Sean could no longer outshine his younger brother—at least not in the skills important to Ian.

In all things related to horses and the stables, Colin proved more dexterous and clever than his brother. And he already knew how to employ his impish smile to enchant customers. Colin was blond and had Kathleen’s attractive features. With his dimples, lively eyes, and friendly manner, he charmed women above all, while he impressed men with his absolute obedience to his father.

Colin worshipped Ian. And Ian did everything to encourage that. He praised him, gave him presents, and let him ride the horses, sometimes even out to the buyers. Ian brought Colin on his shorter trips, and Colin sat next to his father in the tavern while Ian chatted with customers to whom he had successfully made a sale. Sean, on the other hand, got nothing, which increasingly weighed on him. The boys fought often, and Sean received beatings from Ian when he defied instructions and talked back. He clenched his teeth and did not make a noise when Ian struck him unrestrainedly.

Kathleen wondered where Sean drew the courage for his defiance, but of course, Michael had never been one to duck a fight. It wasn’t lost on Kathleen that Claire might have enhanced her favorite student’s fortitude by reading to him about heroes like Robin Hood and King Arthur.

Kathleen and Sean listened with indefatigable excitement. Claire often had to laugh when she watched two pairs of enthusiastic green eyes hang on her every word.

The green of Sean’s eyes was not bright like Kathleen’s but instead pale and veiled. In Sean, Kathleen saw Michael’s dark hair and square features as well. He was an extraordinarily smart young man, with a pronounced sense of justice. Sometimes it took him hours to feed the horses because he counted out the hay straws so as not to give one more than the other.

“Maybe he’ll become a judge.” Claire looked hopefully at her friend.

Kathleen shrugged. She could also see Sean as a farmer or—if he could attend seminary—a priest.

Chloe and Heather were still too young to show particular traits. Claire hoped Heather would one day be as beautiful as Kathleen, and Kathleen wished for her goddaughter, Chloe, Claire’s effervescent nature and openness to new things—like to the colorfully sprinkled tea cakes, which Kathleen now looked at distrustfully.

“What is this anyway?” she asked, trying to pick a bright red piece of candied cherry out of her pastry to examine it more closely.

“Candied fruit,” Claire said eagerly. “Cooked and pickled in sugar and juice. I don’t quite know how it’s done, but aren’t they delicious? I haven’t had any in years.”

“Where did you get it?” Kathleen asked.

Before Claire could explain where the delicacies came from, the boys stormed into the living room and attacked the tray with the cakes. Colin pushed Sean to the side, but he hit right back. Kathleen separated the brothers, holding them apart by their collars as if they were two growling puppies to be grabbed by the scruffs of their necks.

“We eat; we don’t wrestle,” she said sternly. “And we say hello first.” She indicated Claire, whom neither boy had taken notice of yet.

Sean responded, immediately sobered, by offering his hand and a perfect bow. Colin grinned winningly at Claire, bowed, and asked how she was. Kathleen noticed this difference more and more. Sean was polite but discreet whereas Colin used every opportunity to engage someone in conversation and thereby wrap her around his little finger.

“The fruits are from my mother,” Claire finally answered. “I wrote her about Chloe’s birth, and now she’s sent a crate of things.”

“More porcelain?” Kathleen asked skeptically.

“No, books! A dictionary! And candied fruit because I like it so much. Material for a new dress—I wrote her that I’ve been sewing for myself.”

Kathleen smiled. This was a slight exaggeration. Claire showed just as little talent for sewing as for all other housework, but at least now she could mend her and Matt’s things, and she even managed to make simple children’s clothing.

Claire searched the generous crate from England for the material and held the fabric up just under her face. “Won’t it look good on me?”

It really was lovely, a light gold-brown that made Claire’s eyes shine. The crate also contained cream-colored hand-fashioned lace. She could adorn the dress with it or even make a bonnet.

“You’ll help me sew it, won’t you?” Claire asked. “Look, I’ll show you what I want. Can we make it?”

She pulled a stack of magazines out of the crate and spread them out in front of Kathleen, who studied them, wide-eyed. At twenty-two, Kathleen Coltrane was looking at women’s magazines for the first time, and she was stunned by the drawings of women wearing the latest Paris fashions and by the design variations: puffed sleeves, round and square collars, whalebone corsets.

Claire pointed to the dress she had already picked out. The tight bodice would emphasize her slender waist and, naturally, would be worn with a corset. The skirt fell in flounces, which would look good decorated with lace. The neckline was round and could also be set with lace. Claire could never sew a dress like that. But Kathleen?

“It needs to be a little shorter,” Kathleen finally replied. “If you let it touch the ground here, you’ll ruin it. Otherwise, it’s beautiful. And of course, we’ll manage it. Matt will love it.”

Claire nodded but did not seem overly hopeful, which filled Kathleen with concern. What had happened to Claire’s frothy optimism and her conviction Matt loved her more than anything? In the past Claire would have replied immediately to such a remark with an excited smile, but now she needed a few moments to compose herself after Kathleen mentioned her husband. Only then did she laugh.

“We’ll start right away,” Claire said, pleased. “You can take my measurements and cut. And then I’ll help sew. Will there be enough material?”

The material not only sufficed for a dress for the petite Claire but also for a skirt for Kathleen. She suggested a little dress for Chloe instead, but Claire refused.

“If you’re going to do all this work for me, you should have something for yourself. Ian’s just like Matt—he’ll never buy anything for you.”

That was true, though Kathleen was surprised by how Claire had said it. “Just like Matt”—was Claire’s unlimited enthusiasm for her husband cracking? Yet it could hardly be missed that neither Matt nor Ian was very generous with his wife. Claire was always mending her old clothes, and Kathleen had not worn anything for years but cotton dresses, the material for which Ian acquired cheaply. Whether it suited Kathleen’s complexion, hair color, or eyes did not matter at all to him.

The fabric from Claire was lovely—so lovely that even as a skirt it emphasized the gold tone of her hair and made her eyes shine. It was just a shame that her blouses were made from the same cheap material as her dresses. Claire, generous as ever, insisted Kathleen take the rest of the lace and use it to decorate her delicate green blouse.

Kathleen could hardly get enough of her appearance when she finally looked at herself in Claire’s old mirror. And Claire looked even more enticing in her new outfit.

“I don’t believe it,” Claire said. She turned around in front of the mirror, which was, of course, too small for her to see herself fully. “It fits perfectly. Really, Kathleen, in Liverpool we had the city’s best tailor make our clothes, but he never did anything this lovely. Where did you learn to do this?”

Kathleen shrugged. The use of needle and thread had always been easy for her. Her father had been a tailor, and she had been able to pick up a thing or two, but James O’Donnell had rarely sewn such elaborate women’s dresses. In good years, there had been an order for a wedding dress, and even Lady Wetherby had ordered something altered now and again. Making dresses had always interested Kathleen, and when she served in the manor, she took care of alterations for Lady Wetherby.

“You could make money with this,” said Claire enthusiastically. “You know what we’ll do? When Ian’s gone for a few days again, we’ll go to Christchurch together.”

Claire occasionally went on such excursions now that the Edmundses possessed the new mule, Artemis, which Claire named after the virginal hunter. If Artemis—or Missy as Kathleen and Matt called her—was not needed for work, Matt had nothing against it. Though he seemed to find it tiring when Claire came home bubbling with excitement and spread out all her novelties in front of him. Kathleen had twice seen the way he sharply criticized her for it. Her friend had fallen silent, disappointed.

“We’ll put on our new clothes and go in old Mrs. Broom’s shop. Her eyes will fall out of her head. And then we’ll stop by the hotel and perhaps go see the reverend. Yes, what a good idea. His wife’s horribly vain, and they have a stupid, ugly daughter as well. When they see us, they’ll believe even that girl could be pretty if she only had nice clothes.”

Kathleen had to laugh. “But there’s nothing as nice as this cloth in Christchurch,” she said.

Claire shook her head in disbelief. “You haven’t been there in a long time, have you?”

Strictly speaking, Kathleen had never been to the bustling little city. She had visited Mr. and Mrs. Broom’s shop once or twice with Ian, but everything was still being built then.

“There’s an abundance of fabric in Christchurch, and even a men’s tailor,” Claire said. “In a few years, you’ll be able to get anything there you could in London. The city’s growing so rapidly. But you’ll see all that. We’ll stroll as we shop.”

Kathleen smiled wearily. This enterprise would falter on the fact that neither she nor Claire had her own money. But her friend was in such a radiant mood that she did not raise the subject, nor did she object by bringing up what Ian would say if he discovered that Kathleen had strolled the streets of Christchurch in her Sunday best.

No, going to town without her husband’s blessing was unthinkable.

But Claire could be very convincing, and once she had decided on something, she was loath to let it go. This time, without even asking, she showed up with her wagon in front of Kathleen’s house. She climbed down from the box in the manner of a princess in white gloves, which she had to remove to hitch the mule. These gloves had also come from her mother’s gift crate; while not at all useful in New Zealand, they clearly made Claire happy. Claire had done her hair, and her corkscrew curls showed from beneath an old hat to which Kathleen had added some lace so it would suit the dress, and her eyes shone adventurously.

“Let’s go. Get dressed: Christchurch awaits!” she called to Kathleen. “All the children may come. Into the back, boys, but don’t let Chloe or your sister fall out.”

The Edmundses, of course, did not possess a chaise. Claire had yoked Artemis to a covered wagon. There was only room for two on the box, so the children would need to ride in back. Sean and Colin found that especially exciting, though, and Kathleen had to work to convince them to wash up and change for the adventure. Claire waited outside until everyone was ready and was taken aback at first when she saw Colin. He strutted proudly in a checkered jacket, which made him look like a cute caricature of his father.

“Well, didn’t you get dressed up?” said Claire when she had composed herself. “Now, who sewed that for you? Kathleen, did you?”

Kathleen looked at her, pained. “The tailor in town. Ian brought it home last weekend. He had one made for himself, and there was material left over.”

“Not for me, but I wouldn’t wear something like that anyway,” said Sean, but his voice betrayed his aggrievement. “You look like a leprechaun!”

Claire burst into laughter. While Claire loved to tell stories, Kathleen possessed a remarkable gift for drawing. She particularly liked to draw the fairies and gnomes of Irish stories, and the similarity between Colin in his suit and Ireland’s rustic dwarves was obvious.

“You’re just missing a top hat,” Sean added mockingly. He was wearing his own Sunday suit, which, though it was made of cheap fabric, had been properly tailored by Kathleen. “I’d rather wear a sailor’s outfit.”