Bound By Ink - Eliza's Story [a Historical Novel)

Getting to New Zealand

Hello Journal! 'Tis I, Eliza, returning once more to recount the day's adventures. The days since our arrival in Dunedin have been brisk and unfamiliar. The air here, though fresh, is laden with a sense of newness—foreign to my senses, yet invigorating. The land itself stretches wide, rolling with untamed hills and dense forests, unlike the gentler, more manicured estates of England. And yet, there is beauty in this wildness, a promise of something unspoken and mysterious.

Our first night in the new house was cold. The chill seeped through the walls, despite the fire we kept stoked through the evening. Mother, ever the pragmatist, remarked how the climate here would build character, though I suspect it is her way of putting a brave face on what is undoubtedly a far cry from the luxuries she is accustomed to. Our home, though modest compared to our estate in England, possesses a charm. The ceilings are high, the woodwork unfinished but warm, and the windows reveal breathtaking views of a landscape as yet unexplored.

I confess, I feel a mixture of excitement and apprehension about what lies ahead. Dunedin is a young settlement, not nearly as established as London. The streets bustle with people from all walks of life—prospectors, merchants, sailors, and settlers—each with a story to tell. There is a certain energy here, a feeling of hope, of possibility, but also of desperation. The recent gold rush has brought both fortune and ruin, and I wonder which path we shall tread.

Mother has already begun to inquire about local business opportunities, speaking with some gentlemen who seem well-connected in town. Her resolve is as strong as ever; she is determined to carve out a place for us here, and I admire her for it. She has always been resourceful, even in the face of adversity, though I sense she misses Father more than she lets on. His absence leaves a hollow space, one that neither wealth nor success can fill.

As for myself, I find solace in these pages, in the act of putting quill to paper. It is a strange comfort, knowing that long after the ink has dried, these words will remain. Perhaps one day, when I am old and gray, I will look back on this journal and smile at the girl I once was, so full of uncertainty, yet eager to embrace the world.

Today, I spent the morning exploring the outskirts of town. The paths are rugged, and the fields seem endless. I passed a small farmstead, where a woman—perhaps a few years older than myself—was tending to a garden. She smiled as I passed, though we exchanged no words. There is a quiet resilience to the people here, something I am not yet sure I possess but hope to cultivate in time.

I must admit, there is a loneliness that accompanies this adventure. I long for a familiar face, for the company of those I left behind. The ocean that separates us feels vast, and I wonder how long it will be before I see England again—if ever.

Alas, my constitution proved frail, and weariness quickly beset me. Mother, in her wisdom, bid me walk off my sore arse, though I failed to discern how exertion might alleviate a headache borne of exertion itself!Our journey brought us to the gold mines adjacent to the fields, where my mother engaged in discourse with a tall, dusky-skinned gentleman of indigenous heritage, as she informed me.

Their exchange unfolded in a language foreign to my ears, and upon its conclusion, she was bestowed a modest sum of goldIt looked like something my dad would bring after his Weekly fights with Mrs Hamilton, where he went to the local bar and spent about 2000 dollars worth of gambling monet. when I inquired about her exchange  different language and why she had a nervous look in her eyes, and she replied with "Well Eliza, He's one of the... less fortunate of the world, he isn't evolved like us" I didn't understand what she meant, he seemed like a very nice fellow who was very well educated and well-mannered.

 My father hath imparted unto me in the past that which my mother hath spoken is known as Racism, and he told me it was to be reprehensible. Strange it is to note that this be one of the few matters upon which he and Mrs. Hamilton find accord. The hour draweth midnight, and my mother has bid me to extinguish the candles, thus I must postpone further discourse until the morrow's eve. Farewell, dear Journal; until the morrow bids us meet again, Best of Women - Eliza