by Darci Hannah
Captain MacDonald and a couple of his sailors began depositing barrels and crates on the dock. These were supplies for the lighthouse. Next came our trunks. When first I learned of my banishment to Cape Wrath I made no attempt to pack light and frantically stuffed my trunk, not only with every stitch of clothing I owned, but with books and paper, quills and ink and all the gold coins I could procure. I packed bed linen, bolts of fabric, thread, yarn and needles. I even threw in a couple of loose bricks from my old fireplace and a wrought-iron poker. Watching the good men of the tender Pole Star struggle under the weight of it caused me a pang of guilt, guilt I hadn’t felt when my father’s porters had struggled to haul me away.
“Never could I reckon how a lady required sae much to keep her in comfort,” reflected Captain MacDonald, scratching his stubbly chin in wonder as his men bent their backs under the weight of my trunk—a trunk, I might add, that was twice the size of my companions’. “But therein lies the mystery of the fair sex, lads. The more they own, the fairer they are, eh?” Although the captain was mightily pleased with his own wit, his men forgot to chuckle. “There, now, given the wee dock holds under all this weight, Mr. Campbell should be down in a bitty with the wagon to haul her up. Until then, ye can either stay put or start up thon road.”
“You’re not going to stay, Captain MacDonald?” I asked, glancing at the dirt path he referred to as “thon road,” which angled out of the jetty landing at a frighteningly steep pitch, disappearing into nowhere.
“Och, there’s no need now that Mr. Robbie MacKinnon’s here. You’re in fine hands.” He gave the new assistant keeper a nod and a grin. “Besides, Alasdair was the chatty one of the pair, and that’s no’ saying much. Campbell’s fair brilliant but a wee on the closed-lip side. But never ye fash, Miss Sara, never ye look so glum. The lads an’ I shall be back in a few months to check up on ye, drop off goods, deliver post an’ pass along any gossip from Edinburgh I happen to glean. Aye?” He tugged on his thick woolen cap in a show of deference before turning to go. Then, remembering something, he turned back to me again. “Would ye be so kind, Miss Stevenson, to tell Mr. Campbell that his personal delivery is in that there crate?”
I glanced at the crate in question, a sizable, nondescript wooden box, nodded my consent and silently remarked that the men of the Pole Star looked a little too eager to cast off.
It was just as the stout lugger was rounding the point that the jingling of harnesses could be heard. Within moments two sturdy drays appeared, cresting the hill in perfect unison and pulling a low-sided wagon behind them. The driver, Mr. Willy Campbell, much to my astonishment, was the exact likeness of the young man I had seen long ago in the garden of Baxter Place. I had seen him six months ago, under much different circumstances, but that seemed a lifetime away. He was sitting on the bench of the wagon, his dark silhouette much the same as ever—straight nose, firm-set jaw, a well-shaped head that was framed by dark, unruly curls. He was driving the team with a gentle touch that belied the powerful arms beneath slightly rounded shoulders. I believed Mr. Campbell had once been a sailor, and he still had much of a man-of-the-sea air about him, but that was all I knew of him. He was just another of my father’s men. And although his appearance might have been familiar, he was in actuality a complete stranger—a man who preferred solitude and isolation over the comforts of community and companionship. He was at some remove a friend of the family’s, I supposed; the exact circumstances were unclear, but he had sought my father out, specifically asking for this post. That fact alone said volumes about the man.
There had been another keeper here, another recluse like Mr. Willy Campbell. The two had manned the lighthouse since it came into operation nearly a year ago. Just last month the other keeper, Alasdair Duffy, had met with an unfortunate accident, the nature of which was unknown to me. Had I cared, I might have asked. But I didn’t care. The man was dead, a new keeper was needed and my family wanted rid of me. That’s when Robbie MacKinnon stepped in on both our behalfs.
Kate’s new husband was an ambitious man, one eagerly seeking more opportunity than what was normally allotted a former ship’s purser turned longshoreman. In spite of the fact he was married to Kate, Robbie was intelligent, hardworking, respectable and a proper Calvin. My father was also quick to point out that, barring a respectable family, Robbie had more to recommend him than I. And when my world crumbled around me, darkness and doom descending on me from all sides, the intrepid Mr. MacKinnon, perhaps out of sorrow, shame for his wife, or just clever opportunity, pulled my father aside for a private word. The result of that conversation was the reason I was standing on this godforsaken strip of hell now—as a nominal keeper of the lighthouse on Cape Wrath. But the nebulous title fooled nobody. Robbie’s new career was a convenient excuse to whisk two women away from the splendors of Edinburgh. This was my penance. And this was the price Kate was made to pay for the hand she had played in my downfall.
Pulling to a stop at the landing, Mr. Campbell alighted from the wagon and made his way toward us. He was taller than I recalled, and leaner, yet he still walked with the ease and grace of one comfortable in his own skin. However, the closer he got to us, the more the ease seemed to crumble away, leaving the telltale awkwardness of one unused to the ways of civility. He stood before us, staring with his odd pale eyes, his mouth agape, unspeaking. And then, remembering himself, he doffed his weathered hat, tucked it under his left arm and made a good show at a proper bow. But then, rather too quick for propriety, he concealed the mop of dark curls once again under the shabby headgear.
“I saw … I heard you coming,” he corrected without preamble, alluding to the lighthouse. “Was unaware—did not expect ye so soon. Thick weather. MacDonald was set to come tomorrow, not today.” Then, realizing he was stammering on, he made another bow and replied without any real emotion: “Honored. A pleasure. Truly.”
The men introduced themselves, each one taking in the measure of the other. Men, I gathered, were not overly picky when it came to choosing a workmate. Considering the fact that they were total strangers and would be spending a good deal of time together in close quarters, I thought it rather remarkable. Once it was established that Robbie had all his limbs intact, good health and most of his God-given teeth still in his head, Mr. Campbell next inquired whether he could read and write.
“Aye,” Robbie answered.
“And your eyesight?”
“Sharp.”
“You are used to heavy lifting?”
“Very.”
“Do ye take the drink?”
“Only when it’s right and proper.”
“Are you, by chance, scientifically or mechanically inclined?” Willy’s pale eyes narrowed as he watched his new man with interest.
“Somewhat. And what I don’t know I shall endeavor to learn.”
“Very well, Mr. MacKinnon, welcome to Cape Wrath,” he concluded, offering his hand.
Mr. Campbell next turned his attention to us women. If he had regained some semblance of humanity back while talking with another male, clearly it left him as he stood staring at us. His eyes narrowed in consternation, his ruddy face, hidden somewhat beneath the stubble of a day’s growth, became pinched and pale, and his lower lip was clenched nervously between his teeth. It was then I believed he was trying to figure out which one of us was the unfortunate young gentlewoman he once knew. Although I had seen him briefly last summer, it appeared as if I hadn’t made any lasting impression on the man.
“Mr. Campbell,” I began, making a polite curtsey. “May I have the pleasure of introducing to you Mr. MacKinnon’s wife and my dear companion, Kate MacKinnon? You must excuse our appearance, sir, for we’ve had a bit of a rough journey.”
“Honored,” he uttered, making another attempt at a polite bow. And then he turned his attention to me. It was a while before he finally spoke, but when he did it was more of an observation than any proper greeting. “Miss Stevenson, again ye have come to Cape Wrath. You’ve grown up a good dea
l since those days ye used to play in your father’s garden.”
“Well, I hear it does happen, given enough time.” And though I meant no harm by my words, my reply had a very different effect than I had intended. He darkened and regarded me as if I were a pariah.
And a pariah I was, if my father had been forthcoming. “Forgive me,” I quickly amended. “It was impertinent. All I meant was that time has a way of changing us all, though not always for the better, I find.” His eyes, an indescribable pale bluish-green, widened at this and bore into me with surprising intensity. The proper thing to do would have been to look away. But I had gained a reputation for not behaving properly and continued to stare back. It was then I noticed the toll time had taken on him, things I hadn’t noticed six months ago. Fine lines had marred the smooth skin at the corners of his eyes, while dark, sunken circles appeared under them, making the already pale irises seem paler still. And then again there was the visible loss of the flush of youth. Mr. Willy Campbell was an older man, already perhaps even in his thirties, I surmised. I believed I had struck a chord. “I trust you have received my father’s letter?”
“Aye,” he answered with an awkward, shifty gaze then lowered his head, unable to look me in the eye any longer.
“Then I must thank you, Mr. Campbell, for allowing me to accompany Mr. and Mrs. MacKinnon. It was most kind of you. Certainly Cape Wrath is a far cry from Edinburgh, but I shall endeavor to …”
He looked up. His piercing, pale eyes shot through me and I faltered. He then spoke very evenly. “I never allowed anything, Miss Stevenson. You should not be here at all. But I don’t have any say in the affairs of the Board.”
It was another blow to add to the many I had so recently received. Unwanted. It was becoming a plaguing theme. “Well then,” I said, attempting to summon what was left of my pride. “I shall contrive to make my presence here as little known as humanly possible. Not many know, not many shall know, and when I leave here, your reputation as a stoic lighthouse recluse will go unchallenged.” I turned to go. His iron grip stopped me.
“You misunderstand. All I meant was—”
I removed his hand from my arm. “I misunderstand nothing. I know very well what you meant. And for what it’s worth, your point is well taken.”
Mr. Campbell looked helplessly at Robbie. Robbie, dear man that he was, was recently married and appeared just as lost as he. I motioned for Kate to follow and started up the road, leaving the men to deal with the luggage.
“Miss Stevenson, your father, in his letter, spoke of ye being a hand in the kitchen … a fair cook, said he.”
This caused me to falter. I stopped and spun around on him. “Did he?” I was shocked, then angered. Another humiliation. Having always employed a cook in our home, I barely knew where the kitchen was, let alone how to use one. And yet my father expected me to cook for this man—this recluse with the odd, unsettling eyes?
“A man … a man appreciates a warm meal every now and again. ’Twas all I meant,” he added, going very pale again.
“Well then, Mr. Campbell, I shall endeavor to see that you get one!”
• • •
The long, low, one-story whitewashed cottage sat within the extensive lighthouse compound. Many other little buildings resided here, all protected by a high stone wall, which served to buffet the capricious, ever-present winds coming off the Atlantic. The great stone tower was only a short walk across the courtyard from our new living quarters, which was an abode that was unremarkable by all standards. The place was roomy enough, though sparsely furnished and shockingly untidy. Upon entering, there was one main room; the focal point, if one was to go beyond the mess, being the great stone hearth at the center, serving both as a means of heat and a place to prepare the meals. On one side of the hearth was the scullery, separated from the main room by a long wooden worktable. From the blackened pots, dirty plates, bowls, cutlery and half-filled mugs, it had the appearance of an untidy laboratory belonging to a third-rate scientist more than a place where meals were to be prepared. Behind the overflowing counter, cupboards lined the walls, yet they were suspiciously bereft of dishes. And under the empty cupboards was more counter space—messy counter space—as well as a basin for water. The other side of the room, I was given to understand, was for leisure, for there was a rather pretty settee and two wing-back chairs placed near the fire. Yet great cobwebs dwelled in the corners, books and papers cluttered the dining table and the wood-planked floor was nearly hidden under a layer of dust. On a brighter note, a smoky peat fire blazed away in the hearth, taking the chill out of the air. And although there was a yellowish linen sark, a thick woolen sweater and some equally thick woolen hose draped over a rack to dry, it was a welcome sight—enough to warm an icy body, if not enough to melt a stone-cold heart.
I stood beside the laundry and held my hands toward the flames, sighing with pleasure. Mr. Campbell, having already unloaded his wagon and tended the horses, came up beside me and began hastily removing his personal garments.
“There’s no need to remove those on my account,” I assured; but he removed them nonetheless.
“I’ve not had time to clean properly,” he said by way of apology.
“Pray, don’t tell me?” I turned to face him. “My father wrote and told you what a hand with a mop and broom I am!” But the sarcasm was lost on my new host. The pale eyes burned into mine with frightening intensity, his face, rather dark and not unhandsome, blanched. He curtly excused himself, said something under his breath to Robbie and left the cottage, shutting the door behind him. I turned and watched out a dirt-smudged window as he skulked through the blustery courtyard, his long oilskin coat billowing out behind him, until he disappeared into the safety of his tower.
“By God, where are your manners, lass!” chided Kate. “The man’s been out here over a month now—on his own—standing watch day and night without a soul for company and no one to help! His last mate died on him! Have ye no shame at all?”
I turned to my companions. Both were glaring incredulously at me. “You sound just like my mother, Kate. And as for shame, I’ve had more than my share lately. You don’t know Willy Campbell. I don’t know Willy Campbell. He could have killed the man himself for all we know!” An awkward silence fell over the room, enhancing the soft crackle and hiss of the fire.
It was Robbie who intervened. “I know this has been hard on ye, Sara. And things will likely get harder still, but you must tone down the venom if we’re to get along out here. Winter’s nigh, and we’ll be stuck in this place for a great long while. I beg ye, as a friend, give the man a chance.”
“Have you considered, Mr. MacKinnon, that perhaps this time the fault does not lie with me?”
He held me in his unwavering gaze, and without so much as doing me the courtesy of pretending to consider, replied with a curt and resounding: “No.”
Surrounded by hostile forces on all fronts I retreated to the relative safety of my sleeping quarters to further wallow in self-pity. Two hallways came off the main room, one off the “scullery” side, where the MacKinnons were to live, and another off the “parlor” side, where my room sat, halfway down the hall. Yet when I came to the designated door, and then entered, I was overcome. In even the most barren, bereft places on earth beauty unexpectedly appears, and I was touched that I should be the recipient of this kindness. Mine was undoubtedly the largest room in the cottage, warmed in advance of my arrival by a soft fire and void of any semblance of dirt. The oak bed frame had been polished to a rich luster; the windows sparkled in the settling dusk; a table and oil lamp had been placed beside the bed, along with a bookcase and rocking chair. The bed was covered with down pillows, and soft quilts sewn in shades of pink and lavender to rival the heather-covered moors. But it was beside the hearth where my attention came to rest; for along the wall, pushed nearly in the shadows of the corner, sat an empty cradle.
“Damn him!” I swore under my breath, tears coursing down my cheeks. “Damn him!” Y
et I wasn’t at all certain which “him” I meant.
TWO
The Light
A person must indeed endure many changes and adapt as best they can if they are to survive in this world, and for the first time in a great while survival was in the forefront of my mind. Napoleon and his army had been ravaging the continent for so long, and so much of the world had been lured into war, that at times I failed to see how precious life was. Hundreds of thousands had been killed, thousands more displaced. Since the signing of the Treaty of Chaumont last March, Napoleon had been driven back into France—where, at last, in April he finally abdicated and was imprisoned on the Isle of Elba. And although the Bourbon monarchy had been restored, France was still trying to recover from years of devastation and war. With so much of the world on end, and so many families touched by Napoleon’s atrocities, did I really think I was impervious to change? A mere three months ago I had longed for change. I had planned for it. And in my heart, no matter how hard I tried to expunge the thought, I still believed he would come and change my world—even when every sign pointed to the contrary. “How stupid are you not to understand?” my mother had scolded, boiling with anger and indignation. My father was little better. Where I had once been the apple of his eye, he barely had the will to look at me, I was such a disgrace. Was I really so void of intelligence? There was a real possibility I was. But then again, they didn’t know him like I knew him.
