by Darci Hannah
“If you’ll … if you’ll just come away from there now,” he almost pleaded, contriving to sound rather calm; but his look was as wild as his hair. “Please, dinna touch the light, I beg ye,” he uttered, his well-controlled accent growing thick in his tempered distress. “’Tis a verra … complicated … piece of equipment,” he added a bit breathlessly while putting up a hand to caution me. He then gently set down the coffeepot with the other. “I dinna mean to startle ye, but you’re not supposed to be up here. The light-room’s forbidden for all but the keepers. Aye?” He looked at the books strewn across the table then back at me. “Now tell me, Miss Stevenson, what exactly were ye doing up here?”
“I … I,” I stammered, thinking of a logical explanation. I turned and saw the brass telescope pointing out to sea. My heart sank. Damn my insatiable curiosity! I had risked the tower for the chance to look through the eye of the telescope and was waylaid by the tantalizing thought of glimpsing into the mind of this enigmatic man. God, but I wished I hadn’t done it. I hadn’t peered through the telescope, but I had gotten a glimpse into his perverse and demented mind. I felt sick and knew Mr. Campbell was staring at me. I looked up and saw that his eyes, sharp and piercing, were taking in everything. I cleared my throat, fought to regain my composure and began again. “I … I was looking for a broom.”
The man didn’t say a word for a good long minute, instead he just stared at me with an odd, puzzling expression. “Was it not in the broom closet?”
“Broom closet?”
“Aye.”
“And where … where might that be?” I inquired softly.
“In the cottage, back hall off the scullery side of the main room.”
I nodded nervously, performed a slight curtsey and turned to go.
“Miss Stevenson.” His voice, soft and low, stopped me. “There are some places on this earth, and some people, that are best left alone. You’d do well to remember it.”
I caught the look in his eye, the warning, and then I bolted out the door and down the eighty-one steps with a heart racing so fast that I feared it would surely explode.
• • •
I burst through the cottage door on a gust of wind, fought to secure it behind me and then leaned against the solid barrier until I had mastery over my fears. And afraid I was, for a lone man in a tower had spent his long nights sketching pictures of women, women in humiliating positions, all naked, all dead. When my breath was again coming more naturally, I looked up and saw my companions. They had been enjoying a wee respite beside the fire, sitting close, heads bent together, talking softly … until my abrupt appearance.
“Sara, what is it?” cried Kate, springing out of her chair and coming to my side. “Dear heavens above, child! You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Her hand on my shoulder was comforting, as was her look of real concern. I had missed her, my old friend, but the wounds of betrayal, I found, were the slowest to heal.
I patted her hand and reassured, “Nay, it was no ghost. You know very well that I don’t believe in such things.” A shadow of doubt touched her dark eyes, and I added by way of explanation, “’Tis just the wind. It blows harder up here, colder.” I forced a smile. “I shall get used to it in time.”
“Where were ye?” asked Robbie. “Where did ye get off to?”
I looked at him. He was a good man with an honest face, clear blue eyes and bright ginger hair. I realized it would never do to lie to such a man. “I, umm, I went to see the lighthouse,” I replied with a hint of ambivalence.
“Och, the lighthouse,” he repeated, and raised a brow. “And?”
“And what, Mr. MacKinnon?”
“Did it meet with your approval?” he questioned, eyes twinkling with curiosity.
“Well, I’m no sort of an expert on these things, you understand, but I’d have to say, given what I’ve seen, it is rather remarkable.”
“Oh aye?” he said and offered a quizzical half smile.
“Aye. A sound, if not practical, piece of engineering.”
“And did ye happen to see Mr. Campbell on your wee visit there?” Here his question was met with dead silence. I looked at Kate for some guidance, but there was none to be had. She was as curious as her husband. Robbie added, “When we parted a short while ago, he said he was on his way to the lantern room—or light-room, as he calls it—to take the first watch. He should be lighting her up at four o’clock.”
“Yes, yes, I did run into him. Kind man,” I added out of sheer nerves. But both my dear friends knew what a liar I could be.
“Well, while you were gallivanting with Mr. Campbell in the lighthouse, Kate, good lass, has contrived to make us a wee supper,” Robbie informed me with a proud grin.
“There was no gallivanting, Mr. MacKinnon!” I snapped, for my nerves were still raw from the experience. They both stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes. It was then I looked away and saw the remarkable change. The far side of the room that housed the scullery had been scrubbed clean, dishes and cutlery placed back into the cupboard, while a suspect whitish lump inhabited the now clean wooden counter. A blackened pot hung over the fire, and although I could not discern what it was by the smell alone, I did detect a hint of oats. I realized then that I was starving.
“’Twas only a jest, Miss Sara,” Robbie uttered softly, chastened by my harsh reaction. “I did not mean to imply—”
“’Tis quite all right, Mr. MacKinnon. I’m just peckish from lack of food. Kate, dear Kate, you are a good woman in spite of what I say,” I remarked, and for once I meant it. She had upheld her end of the bargain. I would have to do better to carry out mine.
“Aye, we can all do with a little supper, and I told Mr. Campbell that you’d be bringing his up once it was ready.”
“Me? But cannot he just come down and get it himself?” I reasoned, for I was not about to tell these people that I would never go into the tower while he was in there.
“He cannot leave his post,” said Robbie. “Not until I take over at eight. The light needs watching, the gear needs to be cranked every two hours. And then Mr. Campbell’s back on at midnight, and off again at four. The schedule’s been worked out.”
“Was … was he all right with me going up there—I mean, once you told him I would?”
“Aye,” he replied slowly as his ginger brows furrowed in question.
“He didn’t complain or forbid it?”
“No. The man’s a bit protective of his lighthouse, Sara, but given his post, it’s only natural. He has to answer for her in the end, should anything be found amiss.”
“And how do you find Mr. Campbell?” I inquired softly. “What kind of a man is he?”
“Well, he’s a quiet gent, diligent, conscientious—”
“Do you find him a bit odd?” I demanded abruptly.
“A bit. But ’tis only to be expected. He’s been here alone for a good long while.”
“And you’d … you’d send me up there … with his food?”
Robbie leaned back in his chair, his face quite serious now. “He’s not going to hurt ye. Why, I’m more afraid of what you’d do to him, or say, than what he’d do to you.”
I looked at them both, knowing they believed I was the crazy one, not Mr. Campbell. It was little use to tell them what I had found out about the man, for they wouldn’t believe me if I did. Again, and quite literally, I knew I was utterly alone. “Well, you know I’d love to be of service,” I lied blithely to my companions, “but I find I’m not feeling very well just now,” which was not a lie. “I think it best if I take my supper in my room. I’m certain you’ll find some other way to get Mr. Campbell his food tonight. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”
Without awaiting a reply I headed off down the hall, shaking uncontrollably. And while I stood before the door to my only sanctuary on this horrible rock, placing my hand tentatively on the knob, I heard Robbie’s voice softly echoing down the narrow passageway. “You’re right, Kate, she’s not the same girl at all, and more
’s the pity. I swear it, if I ever lay eyes on that bastard again I’ll …” But I didn’t wait to hear what Mr. MacKinnon had it in mind to do.
• • •
My huge trunk sat at the end of the bed, unpacked. It was a reminder that my stay here was only temporary. Cape Wrath was not to be my permanent home, but dear Lord, could I last that long? Likely not. I would die before I ever saw my home or family again; for there was a madman—intelligent, though totally deranged—living with me; a man who harbored a perverse fascination for dead women. Naked dead women.
It was not that I particularly wanted to see my family again, I reflected. They were a disappointment to me. They hadn’t turned out to be the people I imagined them to be. Hardworking, God-fearing, maybe, but even Jesus had it in him to forgive. He championed the wayward and the lost, those of us who are blindsided by the excitement of life. Perhaps it was because we were the greatest challenge, or perhaps, when refocused, our passion had the greatest potential, not unlike the great lens in the light-room, where one little flame, reflected and refracted, passed through prisms, bounced off mirrors and properly aimed could burst forth with a light seen twenty-five miles away. I didn’t pretend to understand how it worked, my mind did not lend itself to such machinations, but I had grown up with it, and accepted that it does happen. Just as I had accepted his words as truth when he told me that he loved me.
In a burst of anger and frustration I threw open the lid to my trunk and dug through my belongings. There was a lot there. Damn me, but I had been spoiled! I flung the many beautiful gowns of colorful, rich fabric and stylish design aside, rooted through the pile of cambric shifts and silk stockings, tugged at the cashmere shawls, woolen capes and two little, prettily embroidered spencer jackets. I yanked out a couple of stiff, slim-waisted stays—a contraption that when pulled taut not only cinched my waist to the point of absurdity, but also boosted my breasts to an unfathomable plumpness. Ha! I spat and chucked them so hard they almost landed in the smoldering peat fire. I found a pair of long kid gloves, which would be little use when one was to sweep and scrub floors all day in the wilderness. I flung shoes, boots, pattens and some floppy lace caps, desperately searching for that one little treasure. I knew it was here. I knew I had packed it. When I was almost at the bottom where the books, bricks and wrought-iron poker lay, my hand came to rest on a velvet sack. It was in here, along with many combs, hairbrushes and a tarnished silver mirror, that I had placed it. How cruel of me, I thought, and then pulled the little frame out of its hiding place.
My heart stopped at the sight of him, sitting there, smiling at me. The frame was mother-of-pearl, fresh from the sea; just like him. Yet even its wondrous, iridescent beauty could not begin to hold a candle to his luster. “Damn you,” I said to his miniature golden-haired, blue-eyed oil likeness. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me, Thomas Crichton! Damn you for a cold-hearted, honey-tongued, misbegotten, blackguardly liar!” And then I placed his portrait against my pounding, aching heart, because I did not possess the strength or the courage to push him away.
THREE
Thomas Crichton
His name was Thomas Crichton, and his was not a remarkable story, no more so than any other young man growing up and struggling in the shadows of a great city. He was born the son of a fisherman, a poor, honest workingman, and had not the advantage of a mother’s love and care to guide him. What few advantages he did have, besides the thorough knowledge of his trade, were obvious the moment one saw him. At least that’s how it was for me that day, not so long ago, when first he came to my father’s house in Edinburgh.
It was late spring, and a rather typical day at Baxter Place. Men of all trades seemed to be traipsing through our gardens on their way to my father’s office and workrooms out back. It was busy, more so than usual, because my father was interviewing sailors for a few vacant positions that had opened up on a yacht owned by the Northern Lighthouse Board. He was preparing for an important tour of the Scottish coast, where the yacht and all her dignitaries would visit many of his lighthouses and determining places where more were needed. I was especially interested in this because, being the youngest and the only one left at home, I had begged and connived my way onto the tour.
It was after my daily devotions, a fruitless hour on the spinet and a trip to the market with Kate that I was allowed a little respite. The sun was out and the day was splendid, with just a slight chill in the air so, naturally, I couldn’t resist indulging in my favorite pastime: pretending to read on the garden bench while covertly watching all the men walking by. Many of them I already knew, for they were frequent visitors—civil engineers, stonemasons, lighthouse keepers, sailors on the tender—and they hailed me with cheerful greetings of: “Good day to ye, Miss Sara. A fine bright mornin’ ’tis!” to which I would reply, “Indeed, a day could hardly be finer!” Sometimes, if the men weren’t too harried with work or urgent matters, they would come over and strike up a conversation. Captain MacDonald had been a frequent visitor and, if the tide was not about to turn, I could always be assured of a ripping yarn.
He liked to tell me tales of the fabulous sea creatures that lurked around the Scottish coast, creatures like the giant serpent that dwelled in the cold waters of the Moray Firth. This same serpent was often seen in Loch Ness, but when truly hungry it would travel out to sea, sometimes feeding on sailors who were plucked off their ships when no one was looking, much the way a fat lady plucked the choicest shrimp off a platter! There was the fabled Leviathan, the largest of sea creatures, lurking beneath the waves. But his favorite stories by far were tales of the beautiful mermaids who frolicked off the shoals of Skerryvore. They were so compelling, he told me, with their lustrous auburn hair, “very like yours, Miss Sara,” and eyes as green as emeralds, which again, according to Captain MacDonald, were very like mine. He would go on and on about their beauty, flattering me shamelessly with, “again, very like yours, Miss Sara,” until he got to the part where the poor sailors, blinded by such beauty and grace, were lured so close that they drove their ships aground on the jagged rocks and drowned.
“Captain MacDonald,” I’d say teasingly, “if sailors are so foolish as to be blinded by beauty, perhaps they deserve what they get? After all, a sailor’s first responsibility is to his ship and crew, not indulging in mythical water-nymphs.”
“Och aye! An’ dinnae I kennit!” he would exclaim in a thick brogue. “I’m still a sailor, forbye, an’ no woman, mermaid or ither, has gotten her hooks in me yet!”
I was pondering sailors and their fascination with mermaids when I cracked open my book, an uninteresting essay on the importance of healthy soil and the proper cycle of crop rotations. I had meant to grab something a bit more to my taste but I didn’t want to waste precious time searching for a book I had no intention of reading. I took the little octavo with me and sat beneath a cherry tree, still full of pink blossoms, which had a perfect line-of-sight to my father’s office door. It was closed. Someone was already in there with him. Poor soul, I mused, and began educating myself on soil.
It was a real struggle keeping my eyes open; the sun felt so wonderful and warm against my skin, the book so pedantic and vapid, that when combined acted like a powerful sedative. My eyes became unfocused of their own accord and my head was being lulled by gravity. And just when the garden was fading to a blur of soft green and then to blue—ocean blue, as in a dream—the sound of my father’s door pulled me back. I continued staring at my page for a moment, gathering my composure, but when I didn’t hear the telltale sound of feet retreating to safer quarters, I turned to look.
Perhaps I was dreaming, I remember thinking; for staring directly at me was a vision only the inner-workings of my subconscious could conjure. He was a golden Apollo, with hair of yellow ringlets and eyes the color blue of my half dream, luminous and mischievous. His cheeks, clean-shaven and well defined, were touched with red that seemed to transcend his deep tan … and he was not turning away. Our eyes seemed to be loc
ked, as if drawn together by the magnetic force of a compass, he being the arrow and I the force that held it steady. I have no idea how long we stared at each other, so bold, much too bold than was proper. And when his hand finally moved up to remove his cap, a smile playing on his firm, sensuous lips, I had to look away; for my heart was beating so loudly that I feared not only he would hear it, but my father as well.
I would not look at him again, though I knew he was still there looking at me. I felt thrilled that I could captivate such a man, and the thought caused me to smile. That he saw my smile was almost a certainty, but still, I would not look at him. Once was enough. He had made my time in the garden complete. And though I could hope, the odds were not likely that I would ever see him again. I kept my eyes focused on the page before me; hesitantly, he drew away. I followed him down the walkway with my ears, listening as he strode with a jaunty briskness. My self-control crumbled, I was weak, and so I chanced a glance at him once more. My eyes took in the sight of him, savoring his image with the same wonder one looks upon a masterpiece. He wore a plain russet coat that stretched taut over broad shoulders. Worn black breeches clung to the bulging muscles of his legs. His modest attire suggested he was no dandy, nor even a proper gentleman. But what it did reveal, beyond the question of a doubt, was that he was a true Roman god. Only when he disappeared through the garden gate did the breath I had been holding escape my body. It came out as a pathetically wanton sigh. And it was with real sorrow that I closed my book.
The young man in the garden haunted me throughout the day. I couldn’t seem to get him out of my mind. It was at night, during dinner, that I finally gathered up enough courage to ask after him. Three gentlemen were dining with us and all four men were discussing business. The youngest among them was invited on my account, a wealthy, prominent man of my family’s acquaintance, a Mr. John Graham, who just happened to harbor notions of courting me. I smiled politely every now and again but largely ignored him. My mother, as always, was the good hostess, listening attentively, nodding her approval where needed and keeping the food circulating. Ours may not have been the most interesting table in Edinburgh, but no one could claim that they ever went hungry.
