The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  I recalled a time not so very long ago, walking down crowded Leith Street with my friends Jenny and Mary Ferguson. We had been returning home after another day of indulging our vanity in the burgeoning shops of Edinburgh, when we happened to fall in behind two gentlemen going our way. They were older gentlemen—scholars, from the look of them, dressed in somber frock coats of dark gray, knee britches of a lighter shade, white silk stockings and black buckle shoes. They wore powdered perukes on their big round heads beneath plain tricorne hats, and each one brandished a silver-capped walking cane. Yet what struck me most was not their unremarkable dress or silver-capped cudgels, but their loud conversation. The men were debating intelligence. I nudged my friends, indicating that we should listen to these intellectuals of Edinburgh.

  “Alas,” began the taller of the two, “I’m inclined to report, due to my extensive observations on the subject, that intelligence, especially in males, skips generations.”

  “My good fellow, could we, in fact, be discussing the same case?” the shorter man stopped to inquire. The three of us paused as well.

  “Young Thomas Stevenson?”

  “The very same. It pains me tae think it! His father’s a brilliant man, quite the engineer; mother’s a fine, God-fearing, well-bred woman tae boot. But the poor lad has not a chance … nay, not a prayer of achieving anything like success in any field, engineering or otherwise.”

  Here I had to leave off because I was giggling so hard. The gentlemen had been discussing my older brother Thomas. He was the youngest of the boys, the closest to me in age and perhaps the most blatantly unambitious of our brood. It wasn’t that Thomas was slow or dim-witted; he just failed to see the point of schooling. Nor did he see the point in teachers being so liberal with the cane! School was drudgery to him, subjects such as arithmetic and science eluded him and it was his very nature to rebel. He did, however, have a rather brilliant imagination fed by an insatiable desire to read books unsuited for a young man of learning. He was a teller of tales, a spinner of stories and a supplier of forbidden gothic romances to an impressionable girl.

  Later that same day, and much to my surprise, the two gentlemen of Leith Street showed up at our house for supper. They were guests of my father, professors at the university where Thomas was studying, and although I knew my brother was failing miserably (due to their earlier conversation and his own admission), neither gentleman had the courage to tell Mr. Stevenson of their discovery. It was shameless pandering. Had it been money that made them so reticent, or fear? It was actually a bit of both, I discovered—for my father, a patron of the university, told them at length what high expectations he had for his children. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with running the lives of his many employees—the supreme high ruler of his personal empire—he might have taken notice that his own children were falling short of the mark. Amazingly, and much to my chagrin, Thomas had turned out rather well. I, however, was the miserable failure of the family.

  “Kate,” I said with a yawn as I walked into the main room after a sleepless night pondering my predicament and firming up my resolve. She turned to look at me, eyes narrowed; I turned to look at the pile of unwashed plates, bowls, mugs and pots she was stooped over.

  “Aye?” she replied.

  “I believe I have a plan.”

  “Pray tell, I long to hear it.”

  There was mockery in her tone, mockery she likely picked up from me during her stint as my companion. I chose to ignore the gibe and asked if the men were about.

  “No.”

  “Well, do you know where they are, then?”

  She pretended to ponder this before answering, “As it’s well into the afternoon I should think they’re out.”

  “Out?” I questioned, going to the window. “Could you be more specific?” The sun was low in the sky, the western sky. We were far north. It was late November. “I must have dozed off,” I said as much to myself as to Kate.

  “The men have a lighthouse to keep, Miss Sara. Lighthouses, I’m told, don’t exactly keep themselves.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do. And that’s what I want to talk to you about, keeping the house … assigning duties.”

  “Really? And here I was thinking our duties were already assigned, you being the privileged layabout, and me being your maidservant.”

  Oddly, her anger pleased me, yet instead of baiting her I smiled sweetly. “Kate, I mean no disrespect, but I think I fall under your long list of duties. I may be a nominal keeper of the light, but you are my keeper, if you know what I mean.”

  “Your keeper?” Her cheeks flushed with palpable ire as she spat the words in my direction. I kept smiling. “I may have been your companion—”

  “And my moral compass,” I added softly.

  “Aye, and that, but I am neither of those any longer! I’m the wife of a lighthouse keeper, and you are a … a …”

  “Yes, yes, I know very well what I am. Mr. Campbell might even have some inkling on the matter. But that’s neither here nor there. I just thought … perhaps we could lay aside our differences for a moment. You must know how truly sorry I am that it has come to this. If Napoleon hadn’t caused such a mess, I’d likely be in the South of France by now, at some ‘girls’ school,’ not in a little cottage teetering on the far tip of nowhere. But here we are, and there’s naught more to say on the matter.”

  “The South of France would have been warmer!” she blurted with real passion.

  “Yes, indeed. But France is not Scotland.”

  “I don’t give a fig for Scotland!” she spat, her pretty face blotching red and white with anger, matching the knuckles of her hands as she tossed the pot she’d been scrubbing back into the tub of brownish water. “But I do give a fig for warmth!”

  “You don’t mean that, Kate,” I added quietly, because try as I might, her very real hurt and fear began to soften my cold-hearted pleasure at seeing her suffer with me. And I knew, somewhere deep down, that she didn’t entirely deserve all she had suffered because of me. “And what about Robbie?” I added, looking into her troubled eyes. “You are blessed with a husband who loves you, God only knows why, and keeping this lighthouse, even if it is in the middle of nowhere, is a good deal better for him than working on the docks of Leith. Don’t you agree?” To this she did not reply but uttered a forlorn: “I miss Edinburgh.”

  “So do I,” I agreed, glancing again out the dirt-smudged window, where my gaze was met with whitewashed brick beneath a fathomless milky sky. “And with any luck we shall be there again someday. But for now we are here and we should stop bemoaning our misfortune and make the most of it.”

  Although I felt I was helping to smooth over our unsavory situation, she scowled and turned on me like a rabid mongrel. “That’s easy for you to say. But I wouldn’t have to make the most of it if you didn’t contrive to sell your love so cheaply! For a highborn lady, I find a common tart has nothing on you!” And if insulting me weren’t enough, a challenge issued forth from her narrowed, dark brown eyes.

  It was then I understood the exact nature of Kate’s hatred. It was not the fact that Robbie had been given a promotion and had taken a post tending the lighthouse on Cape Wrath; if he had done so under any other circumstances, Kate would have been, if not mildly happy, then at least very proud. But because her plight in this desolate location was so intertwined with my downfall, and there was no recourse but to succumb to the mundane and belittling chores of scrubbing dishes and doing laundry, I was the obvious one to blame. However, she had to realize, at least on some level, that the blame was not all mine.

  Sure, I wanted to hit her for her biting insults, but I refrained. I was not generally known for my stellar control of emotions—or any amount of self-control, for that matter—but for the sake of our friendship and the fact that we would be living together under this small roof for quite some time, I would try. I took a deep breath then let it out very slowly, half closing my eyes. “All I was going to say is that if yo
u think you can manage the cooking, I shall tend to the cleaning. Perhaps we can both lend a hand with the laundry. I realize, as much as we might lament it, this is our home now, and it would be in both our best interests to take a little pride in the keeping of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do.” I brushed past her, making for the door, but turned, unable to resist. “Oh, and if ’tis not too much trouble, I did promise Mr. Campbell a warm meal. Perhaps ye could manage a roast, done to a turn … or succulent meat pie? Why, I believe the poor man would even relish a good Scotch broth! See what you can do.”

  Her eyes grew wide as her scowl deepened to a spiteful leer. “I am not a cook! That was never part of the bargain!”

  “Please, I’ve a headache,” I said, rubbing my temples from the shrillness of her voice. Then, “I’m surprised by what you tell me. And here I was under the impression you knew everything there was to know about the running of someone else’s home. Very well, try a flummery, then.” I smiled at this taunt and made to grab a fur pelisse before deciding on a more weatherly looking old boat-cloak.

  “Don’t make light of this, Sara, as you do everything else! I wasn’t employed to be a cook!”

  “No. You were employed to be a lady’s companion. And since you’ve made it perfectly clear that there are no ladies to companion, you’d best seek out a new trade.”

  “But why me be the cook and not you?”

  “Because, whereas I’m a mere dilettante, you, Kate, have a moral righteousness that will not let you fail. Prove me wrong if you like,” I offered, pulling the thick oilskin around me and then leaving the cottage.

  The great white lighthouse, when standing at the base of it, was an impressive-looking tower. The stone I knew to be hand-cut and strong enough to support the cylindrical shape. It rose well over sixty feet in order to suspend the great light-room at the top, where at night the giant lamp would be lit, burning brightly beneath the black iron cap. Hundreds of panes of glass had been specially cut to create the light-room window, placed in a diamond pattern so the great light could be seen on all sides as it slowly rotated. Sitting just below this giant window was a narrow balcony that ran the circumference of the tower. It was while looking up at this balcony that I happened to catch a glint of sunlight reflecting off a long copper tube. Either it was a sizable gun, which I highly doubted, or the barrel of a powerful telescope. And I imagined the view from so high was quite spectacular. How far I could see! What details could I glean on a passing ship! Perhaps I could even see faces, maybe even his face.… I had peered through perspective glasses before, those marvelous instruments mariners used to help them see farther, but never had I looked through anything so powerful.

  I scanned the little courtyard that was nestled between the thick white walls of the cottage and the tower structure to see if anyone was about. It appeared I was quite alone. I pulled open the heavy iron door, walked past the storerooms where the broom and bucket I was looking for were most likely to be had and began climbing the eighty-one steps that spiraled into the tower.

  As hard as I tried to be quiet, my footsteps echoed off the dark, brooding walls; and before I had gone halfway up my breath was coming a little heavy. My clothes felt tight as well and my head was spinning a wee bit from lack of food. But I would be damned if I passed on the opportunity to peer through the glass; for if there was a ship out there somewhere, I would be certain to spy it. I pressed on through the dark spiral, climbing the thick stone steps one at a time, until at last, panting and growing a bit faint from the effort, I reached the landing. I hadn’t expected the door, though thankfully it was unlocked, and when I went through to the room on the other side it was as if I had entered another world altogether.

  A huge apparatus sat in the middle of the room, attached to a complex structure of glass and mirrors that rose up through the ceiling into a tower of glass. It was the great lens. I had seen this before; it was my father’s own design. When the Argand lamp was lit, a huge parabolic sheet of silvered copper placed behind the flame would catch the light in its focal point and increase its power tremendously. From there the light would pass through many prisms of specially cut glass, magnifying its power all the more. Then an explosion of white light would burst forth, hit the yellow-tinted glass surrounding the structure, giving it its distinctive color, and bound into the darkness, where it was able to be seen nearly twenty-five miles out to sea. To compound matters further, a hand-wound clockwork motor was employed to ensure the light would revolve slowly. It was a marvel of engineering, yet as amazing as it was, it was nowhere near as impressive as the view from the lantern room.

  I stood near the base of the light in awe, watching out the window as the steady westerly breeze pushed striated clouds across the sky. The sun, on its descent, poked out every now and again, touching the barren landscape with splashes of light. Sunlight and shadow rippled across the cold Atlantic, illuminating the crests of waves and creating every shade of blue imaginable. One might almost term it beautiful if one was in a more benevolent frame of mind. But I was drawn to the tower for another reason altogether; I was drawn to the tower because of the telescope.

  I made my way to the balcony, passing a table and chair in the corner of the lantern room. I paused. It was his chair. There was no reason to stop and examine the curious leavings of the mysterious recluse other than perverse curiosity. And, God help me, I was possessed of perverse curiosity.

  There were more books here, as in the cottage, piled on the table along with paper, a quill and an inkwell. A black enameled pot sat atop a little spirit stove near the edge, and next to this was an earthenware mug still containing remnants of the most recent brew. I sniffed at it, stuck a finger in and tasted. Coffee. So this was how the man stayed awake during his long shift! I picked up one of the books and flipped it open. It was a ledger of sorts, remarking the date, weather conditions, temperature, ships sighted and all manner of boring work-related entries, though it did give me a good indication of Mr. Campbell’s writing. His letters were very small and neat, perfectly formed and, from what I could tell, spelled correctly. But his words were uninteresting: November 22, 1814 Temp. 42°, wind NNW at 10-15 knots, patchy fog. Three local fishing rigs sighted between 5 and 7 a.m. Five herring busses sighted around the hour of noon, heading for the Grand Banks. 2 p.m. tender Pole Star sighted at jetty bringing supplies, stores and new keeper. I flipped back a few pages, and then a few more, and saw the writing of another hand. It was the other keeper’s writing. Interesting, I thought, noting it was nowhere as neat, nor were his entries as thorough. I put the book down, searching for another, more interesting read.

  I passed over one on ships, another on maritime signals. There was the novel Candide, ou l’Optimisme by Voltaire, which, from the look of it, had never been read, and the novel Robinson Crusoe by Defoe, which, I gathered from the little paper marker stuck in the middle, was currently being read. A forlorn sailor, shipwrecked alone on a desert island, was not a tremendous leap of the imagination for a recluse. Yet for all intents and purposes, it could not be a very uplifting tale for a light-keeper stuck on so desolate a post. The next book I came to was a thick, pedantic volume with a distinctively Latin title. The cracked spine, the dog-eared pages, indicated it was a frequent favorite: a light read for a light-keeper, I mused. However, it was the book on the very bottom of the pile that caught my eye. It was larger than the others, leather-bound in a shade of deep vermilion and boasted no title. When I flipped it open the reason instantly became clear.

  My hand flew to my mouth in a feeble attempt to stifle a cry. The image confronting me was as ghastly as it was spectacular, and I had never seen its like. It was a very detailed, lifelike sketch of a woman—a naked woman—laying herself bare with a disturbing boldness—arms out to her sides, legs slightly parted. She was full-breasted, full-bodied, with plump, rounded hips and a patch of woolly darkness to shade her genitals. Yet her face was expressionless, her eyes dead. Horrified, I flipped the page.

&n
bsp; It was another sketch of yet another naked woman. The body was the same but the position different, prone on her back, head lolled to one side, eyes dead and expressionless. There was some scribbling at the bottom of the page, notations in Latin I descried (although I could not read Latin) and a smaller inset sketch that upon closer inspection proved to be the most secret, the most deeply private part of a woman. “Oh sweet Jesus!” I breathed, all aflutter, and flipped the page again.

  There was yet another woman, this one not only naked but with a swollen belly. There were three views of her—back, side and front—and more indiscernible words. The next few pages documented a progression of swollen bellies, from merely thick to bursting ripe. And the page after that was so brutal and ghastly, it nearly undid me. The woman, eyes dead, belly swollen, was cut open and skin splayed wide to reveal the curled, lifeless fetus inside her. My God! What horrors—what vile demons lived in this man’s mind?

  My heart was beating so loud and so fast that I never heard a thing until the shadow fell across the page. At first thought, I believed it was just clouds crossing the path of the sun again … until I heard an exhalation of breath from directly behind me, as if someone had gotten the wind knocked out of them. I slammed the book shut and spun around, feeling his burning gaze before I saw it. He too appeared frightened, perhaps more so than I, but then his pale eyes narrowed beneath his dark brows. Anger, cold and implacable, had come upon him.

  “What are you doing in the light-room?” he demanded harshly. He was a terrifying sight—red-faced, eyes glowing, hair that perhaps had been tamed earlier but now had gone wild, swirling about his head. And he was all the more terrifying to me because of the knowledge I had gleaned of what filled his mind. I jumped to my feet and stumbled backward into the table, knocking the little kettle off the stove. I made a grab for it, coming around the table, and so did he. Our hands collided; the mere touch of his skin caused me to jump back. I fell against the base of the great light fixture, crashing into it with enough force to cause the entire housing to shudder and protest with a clanking of glass and mirrors.