Toward the Sea of Freedom (51 page)

“Whosoever is devout and properly tends his fields will receive a rich harvest from the Lord,” the small old woman informed them before slamming the door in their faces.

“Well, she’s never heard of the potato blight,” remarked Kathleen.

“She never left Edinburgh before emigrating,” said Claire. “She was probably married to some very strict Calvinist, but he died during the voyage and now she has to rent rooms just to have enough to eat.”

With a gesture, Kathleen stopped her friend. “Claire, don’t waste your imagination on the old witch. Instead, think of what we’re going to do. We need to stay somewhere.”

Followed by their tired, whining children, the women walked through the center of town, where the streets formed a massive octagon. The plans for the city were clear, and surely one day it would be very beautiful, but for now, there were few houses in Dunedin. On top of that, it began to rain.

“It would be best to get the carriage and look farther out,” said Kathleen, discouraged.

Claire was not listening. She had just seen a strange construction site in the middle of the octagon, where someone had erected a tent.

“Take a look. Someone’s camping,” she said excitedly. “Perhaps that’s what someone does when they intend to build later. Maybe that’s how you get land. If you stay there long enough, it’s promised to you. Come, let’s ask.”

Kathleen raised her brows. Claire had strange ideas about land acquisition, which likely resulted from reading too many legendary stories. In Claire’s fairy tales, the gods would grant heroes the land they could walk around in a day, throw a spear onto, or fit under an ox’s hide as Dido had with Carthage once upon a time. Kathleen could not imagine such archaic games in the middle of Dunedin. Most likely, the land here was either rented or sold, and if you pitched a tent where it was forbidden, you would be chased out of town.

Claire couldn’t be stopped, though. She tapped on the tent fabric until there was movement inside. Finally, a tall man stepped out into the rainy evening.

Kathleen did not hear what her friend discussed with him, but she sighed with relief when he immediately waved them inside.

“Come in, come in, before you get soaked,” he said.

The man had a pleasant voice and friendly brown eyes, straight light-brown hair, a high forehead, and dimples, as if he laughed often. He wore a priest’s collar.

Kathleen and the children followed Claire out of the rain and into an unexpectedly comfortably furnished tent. There were armchairs and a sofa, a heavy wooden buffet, and a table with chairs. The space was cramped; surely the furniture had been purchased for a larger house. But it did not seem as if the pastor considered his living space provisional.

“Reverend Peter Burton of the Anglican Church, at your service,” he introduced himself. “The Anglican diocese of Dunedin, to be more precise. But so far it’s without a bishop.”

“And would you become said bishop?” asked Claire respectfully.

Reverend Burton laughed. “No. Quite certainly no. At least, it would surprise me very, very much. I’m more of a placeholder. In the truest sense of the word.”

“There, you see,” crowed Claire, looking triumphantly at Kathleen. While the girls politely curtsied to the priest and Sean offered his hand, Claire explained her theory of land acquisition in Dunedin. The reverend laughed loudly at that.

“No, my dear, it’s not that simple, although in my case you’re not entirely wrong. In my case, Johnny Jones, a former whaler out of Waikouaiti who now maintains a few farms, has donated this site to us. One day it will be known as St. Paul’s Cathedral—although St. John would surely have seemed more fitting to our noble patron and doubtlessly increased his willingness to give. I suggested that, too, but no one listens to me.”

The reverend invited Kathleen and Claire to sit. Then he also sat, and continued speaking.

“Now, the location of our future house of worship is rather central, as you’ve no doubt noticed, which does not suit our Calvinist city fathers. The Church of England in the middle of New Edinburgh! In any case, they’re contesting the site, and so that no one will think of placing a statue to Calvin or the like here, I’m camping on the spot.” Reverend Burton smirked. “I’m something like Peter the Rock, on which we’ll someday build our church. I hope the bishop doesn’t take that literally and build me into the foundation in some heathen sacrifice for luck.”

Kathleen looked confused.

“But they won’t really do that, will they?” asked Sean anxiously.

Reverend Burton laughed once again. “There are people who’d think it rather a good idea. But I think you’re right, my child. It wouldn’t be Christian, and the bishop will surely turn away from it.”

Claire gave the reverend her dimpled smile. “I take from your words that you don’t exactly hold the most desirable position in the Anglican Church,” she said. “But we should introduce ourselves. Claire Edmunds and Kathleen Coltrane. And this is Chloe, Heather, and Sean.”

Reverend Burton held out his hand formally to the women. Kathleen stood back up and curtsied shyly.

“Chloe and I are Anglican,” Claire added. “Kathleen, well, she’s Irish.”

Reverend Burton nodded. “My parish has just grown by two members. Which puts us at five all together, I believe. Mrs. Coltrane, you and your children are welcome, too, naturally. You’ll see that the differences are not at all that great.”

Kathleen nodded. She had already visited the Anglican Sunday service in Lyttelton.

“But what brings you here now—other than that you would like to acquire land quickly and easily?”

Again Claire told her story about their respectively missing and dead husbands. “We want to open a dress shop,” she explained. “Perhaps we could put up a few sketches here? The pastor’s wife in Christchurch was one of our best customers.”

Kathleen blushed deeply, but Claire dug a few pictures out of her travel bag.

Reverend Burton whistled mischievously through his teeth. “Very nice,” he said enthusiastically. “But I’ll tell you now: these will attract about as many people as my preaching does. Have you seen the women here? They outdo each other in trying to look as much like a crow as possible.”

Claire giggled, and Kathleen had to laugh. In contrast to her optimistic friend, it had already occurred to her as they drove the city how sad and unassuming the Scottish wives’ dresses were. The second innkeeper had looked very much like an evil crow.

Reverend Burton regarded the women. So far, Claire had steered the conversation, but now he noticed Kathleen’s honey-colored hair, her aristocratic features, and her enticing green eyes.

“This here,” said the reverend, pointing to one of the drawings—an evening gown with a fitted bodice and low neckline—“must look like the straight road to hell to a Puritan. After all, it would give any man sinful thoughts.”

His smile took the sharpness from the words. Claire winked at him conspiratorially, but Kathleen looked at him anxiously.

To Reverend Burton, Claire Edmunds appeared unselfconscious, but Kathleen Coltrane did not seem like an adventurous and so far successful entrepreneur. Rather, she seemed to be browbeaten. Or even on the run?

“Now, what’re we to do with you?” he asked the circle. The women looked visibly tired, and the children, too, seemed exhausted. “I think, first thing, I’ll grant you all sanctuary for tonight. Although you have to imagine it’s a sturdier refuge.”

“You mean we’re to sleep here with you in the tent?” Claire asked, frowning.

Reverend Burton shook his head. “For heaven’s sake, the bishop would . . . Well, there’s likely no lower post in New Zealand, but elsewhere in the world, there are supposed to be cannibals to whom he urgently needs to send missionaries.”

“What exactly did you do?” asked Claire, seizing the moment. “That is, to be banished here—if not quite to be among cannibals.”

But Kathleen had heard enough talk. Heather had been leaning, exhausted, against her for a while, and even Sean looked as if he were ready to fall over. She, too, needed a bed desperately.

Agitated, she turned to the pastor. “Please, do tell us where we’re to sleep. Because otherwise we’ll have to look for something else. It’s already getting dark. And I don’t think that Mr. McEnroe will let us sleep in the stables.”

“Hardly,” Reverend Burton said drily, “lest you seduce the horses! No, as I said, I’m granting you sanctuary.” He quickly lifted the tent flap and pointed to a second, similar structure a few yards away. “Do you see that? That’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. We celebrated the placing of the cornerstone, and I pitched that tent over it. For now it belongs to you, although we do celebrate Sunday service in there. Of course, you won’t need the whole cathedral anyway. It’s to have space for five hundred of the faithful, the bishop tells me.”

Kathleen smiled shyly at the reverend. “That is, it’s very nice of you.”

Reverend Burton dismissed this. “There’s nothing to thank me for. Though I might thank you all if you’d do me the favor of sharing my meager meal with me. In fact, it need not be so meager if I might send this young man here off to the butcher.” He indicated Sean. “I was not counting on company. But they don’t let me starve, and I have a stove. So I would be happy to feed you and your children, if I may.”

Kathleen wanted to express her tiredness and decline timidly, but Claire was already nodding with a grin. “Of course you may! We’re starving. Should we do the cooking? That is, I can’t cook very well, but Kathleen is an excellent cook.”

In the end, Kathleen took over Reverend Burton’s kitchen inside the tent while Claire and the children went over to the future church with the pastor. It was dry and warm enough, but aside from a few wooden benches and a cross, there were no furnishings and certainly no beds. Claire suggested retrieving the blankets and bedding from their buggy to make the space more comfortable. She happily accepted the reverend’s offer to accompany her and the children to the stables.

“Although you’ll be sure to compromise yourself in Mr. McEnroe’s eyes,” Claire teased him.

Reverend Burton shrugged his shoulders and opened a huge black umbrella over her head. “In Mr. McEnroe’s eyes, we’re all damned to hell. And better yet, we can’t do anything to change that. From the very beginning of time, God determined that Duncan McEnroe would go to heaven and we wouldn’t. No wonder he keeps his nose so high; he didn’t even have to earn it. Damnation could just as easily have happened to him. In any case, we’ll fetch your things now, and tomorrow you can look for new stables. There’s an Irishman who lives on the other side of town: Donny Sullivan. Does a bit of horse trading and is Catholic, of course. But otherwise, a good fellow.”

“Now, what did you do?” Claire inquired for the second time an hour later, after everyone had taken a seat around Reverend Burton’s large dinner table.

The reverend had said a prayer and eagerly scooped himself food from the steaming bowls of meat, potatoes, and other vegetables. He did not scrimp on praise for the cook. Kathleen blushed with embarrassment and sipped nervously at her wine. Reverend Burton toasted the women, without compunction, after he opened the bottle with a grand gesture.

“To my first visitors in the new diocese! And to our fabulous cook, Mrs. Coltrane,” he declared, smiling at Kathleen. Kathleen lowered her gaze shyly and peered through her lashes at Claire, looking for help.

This brought them back to Claire’s question. She would not let go until the reverend told them his story.

He looked at her searchingly. “If I confess now, I want to hear your story once again afterward,” he replied. “And something better than all that with the poor harvest. I passed through Christchurch a few months ago, ladies. There was no poor harvest in the plains. You should either tell the truth or show more skill in lying. Otherwise, everyone will be onto you.”

Kathleen reddened again.

Even Claire chewed guiltily on her lip. “A storm flood?” she asked. “The river flood? Yes, we did live on the Avon.”

Reverend Burton rolled his eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t need to hear your confession,” he said. “Your friend doesn’t lie as shamelessly. Wouldn’t you like to tell me the truth, Mrs. Coltrane?”

Kathleen lowered her head so much that he could hardly see her face. “I, I, well, it was not originally a flood,” she stammered, “but, but it does have to do with the fields on the river and, well, also with a bad harvest.”

The reverend and Claire looked at her, equally uncomprehending. Then the reverend dismissed it.

“Well, maybe I don’t even need to know. And I’ll agree that it’s my turn to confess.” He grinned at the women and then went to his bookshelf, drew out a magazine, and opened it to some marked pages. “I take it you’re not familiar with this.”

Kathleen had still not recovered from the questioning, but Claire reached for the magazine, interested, and Sean likewise peered at it curiously. It was a reprint of papers by Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace:
On the Tendency of Species to form Varieties; and on the Perpetuation of Varieties and Species by Natural Means of Selection
.

Claire furrowed her brow. “What is it about?” she asked.