The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  I held up my hand to stop him. “Really, sir, there is nothing you can say that I’ve not already thought of myself. I beg you, just enjoy the meal.” Begrudgingly he picked up his glass and took a sip. So did Robbie. The reaction to this Highland drink was enchanting, for both men looked at their glasses as if they had never tasted anything so delightful. I smiled as I watched them sip again, and while Robbie kept sipping, Mr. Campbell turned to me.

  “What … what is this?”

  “Heather ale, I suppose,” was my answer. For although I had never tasted the legendary drink myself, being a Lowlander, I assumed it was the nectar of the Highlands—along with whisky of course.

  “This is no’ heather ale. Where did ye find it?”

  I tilted my head and then took a sip. Indeed, there was nothing heathery or honeyed about it. The liquid on my tongue was crisp and fragrant, piquant even, bursting with the essence of vine-ripened grapes under a blissfully hot sun, combined with something darker—earthy, perhaps, spicier. In a word, it was ambrosia. “Dear lord, this is just about the finest claret I’ve ever tasted!”

  “Aye, ’tis. Where’d ye get it?” he asked again, pouring himself another glass.

  “Why I …” and while I thought about the absurdity of the little croft on the edge of nowhere producing such a fine Bordeaux wine as this, I recalled Mary’s letter. Her brother was in France, exactly where I was uncertain, but why not Bordeaux? He spoke of finding a profitable business venture. He had left a cryptic message for her husband, who immediately went into town to talk with the local fishermen. “Dear lord,” I uttered aloud. And then, recalling the responsibilities of a lighthouse keeper, a man who not only illuminated the coast but was also encouraged to report suspicious activity, I replied, “Forgive me,” and set my glass back down.

  “What is it?” Robbie asked, finally digging into his eggs and bacon, between sips of wine.

  “Nothing. I just …” and then I looked to Mr. Campbell and said very softly, “I’m sorry, sir. I’m afraid I haven’t given you any reason to have a high opinion of me, and what I’m about to tell you will not help my case in the least. The truth is, I took these from my father’s house. He didn’t know. It was wrong of me, but you must understand, I was not in a very benevolent mood when I left.”

  “Ye stole wine from your father’s house?” He cocked his head and studied me with narrowed eyes. I couldn’t tell exactly what he made of this, but surprise wasn’t in it, yet neither was thorough disappointment, and when he finally picked up his glass again he drank the liquid with the finesse and relish of a man who had known better times.

  Robbie, with mouth still full, and drinking without much thought, felt inclined to add, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing she’s done of late. In fact, I’d say ’twas a rather brilliant move. And I highly doubt Mr. S. will ever notice this has gone missing. Touché, Miss Stevenson!” he toasted, raising his glass to me before draining it completely.

  The men ate with wolfish hunger, devouring every last morsel, and when they were done, Mr. Campbell sat back and said very softly, “Thank ye for the meal. ’Twas grand. But now I must insist ye get to bed. The cold … the damp, biting wind is apt tae give ye a chill. It is not good for ye. Promise me you’ll retire?”

  I looked at him, wondering if he was going to treat me to another longwinded lecture on my previous stupidity, but he remained silent. He had no more to say and so I nodded, feeling benevolent and grateful.

  He stood and for a moment just looked at me. I could not imagine his thoughts, for his face gave nothing away. Did he dare me to disobey him again? Was he marveling at my willingness? Did he concede my victory after so foolish an adventure? And as he stood there, silently studying me as I was studying him, I realized that I was perhaps as much a mystery to this man as he was to me. Then, breaking the silence, he softly excused himself, plucked two oatcakes off the platter and stuffed them into his pocket. He then grabbed the second bottle of wine, now half-empty, and turned to go, taking the token of my sincere apologies with him to his tower.

  “Well, ye heard the man,” Robbie said, turning to me. “Go. Get yourself off to bed and I’ll clean up here tonight.”

  “Thank you, Robbie, but I’ll clean up. Go to Kate. Keep her warm for a bit. I’ll retire when I’ve finished.”

  “Are ye certain?” he questioned, looking curiously at me, as if I had become a stranger.

  My answer was a gentle smile and a reassuring nod.

  • • •

  It was dark when all the dishes were finally put back into the cupboard and the pans scrubbed clean. Aside from the warm, crackling fire, the cottage was deathly quiet. The wind had picked up measurably in the last few hours and it howled outside like a lone wolf calling in the darkness for a mate. Exhausted, and overcome by events of the day, I sat down in a chair and gave myself over to the tiredness I had battled, pausing to listen to the raging elements. The way the wind hit the windows with a gust of force, how it seeped under the door with a shrill screech, was as if it were talking to me, trying to reach me in my cell of isolation. And though the mere sound of such wildness should send shivers down my spine, forcing me under the comforters of my warm bed, it didn’t. It reminded me again just how far away from home I was. Strangely, sitting alone by the fire, it was not home I longed for. Truthfully, I didn’t care if I ever laid eyes on that place again. No, it was Thomas Crichton who stirred me. It was thoughts of him combined with extreme exhaustion that caused a near debilitating bout of self-pity to emerge, engulfing me entirely. Without another thought I grabbed my coat off the hook, pulled on my mittens and hat and headed into the night—alone.

  The snow had stopped; the storm, being swept away by the persistent wind, had left a blanket of swift-moving clouds in its place. I could see a full moon trying to peek out when the thick clouds gave way to thinner layers and then peeled away altogether, revealing the bright orb. But as quickly as the moon was revealed it became hidden again, and the speed of the clouds became a dizzying game. My head was already light from the wine and so I walked out of the courtyard, intent on gazing at the fathomless sea. But as I did, I happened to glance at the lighthouse, and there, beneath the stalwart beam, I saw Mr. Campbell’s noble silhouette in the observation room. His head was bent in concentration, as if he was reading or writing. I stood, compelled to watch him for a moment, studying his movements. He appeared to be playing with something in his hand, twirling the instrument point down. He then took a sip from a glass and stood up, an act that brought the object into view. It was a knife of some sort, smallish and slender but sharp all the same, for a glint of light reflected off the blade. The sight of it caused a shiver to run up my spine. Still holding the object, he walked to the other side of the room, disappearing from view. I took a few breaths to steel myself and then slipped past the towering light, undetected, to better gaze at the mighty Atlantic, over which the raging wind blew.

  I stood on the high cliff looking out at the black sea, overwhelmed with the inexplicable feeling he was out there. Thomas was a sailor after all and the sea was the domain of the sailor. And so I searched. Overhead, the clouds ripped open again, and this time when I saw the light shining through it was not coming from the moon, but from him—Orion: the mighty hunter of the skies. He was there, unabashedly bright as his glinting stars mocked me with their brilliance against the crisp, black sky. And just the sight of him, alone amidst the racing clouds, caused tears to well up in my eyes. And the story came flooding back once again …

  Diana, Thomas had told me that night on the ship, was madly in love with the mortal Orion. For like Diana, Orion was a remarkable hunter, the best mortal at the game, and Diana, the huntress that she was, could scarcely take her eyes from him. The two fell in love, and as their love grew Diana became so infatuated with her lover that she began to neglect her duties, which were, of all things, pulling the moon across the night sky. Diana’s brother, Apollo, who himself was charged with the pulling of the sun, was tired o
f his sister’s negligence and so, one day, he spotted Orion fishing on the sea, and the sight of the handsome man, unaware of the gods above, gave him a plan. Knowing his sister’s vanity, Apollo focused his bright light on Orion, making him appear no more than a speck of seaweed floating on the sea. The god then pointed to the scrap and called out to his sister a challenge: “You who are so great a huntress could never hit a target so small as that, I’ll wager.” Diana, like the true goddess she was, was unable to resist such a challenge and pulled out her bow. She put the nock of her arrow to the string, and without another thought she took aim and shot the target straight through the middle, teaching her brother never to doubt her skills. Then, happy with her victory, and happy to have proven her brother wrong, she went back to work, while Orion’s dead body plunged straight to the bottom of the sea. That night, as Diana went to the beach to meet her lover, she found he was not there. She waited and waited. She walked along the water’s edge searching for him, calling out his name, certain he would come. She waited all night and was about to give up when his body suddenly washed up at her feet. She saw the arrow in his heart and knew instantly what had happened. She was the one who had killed him! Heartsick and desperate, she picked up her lover’s body and took him to an empty spot in the night sky. There she placed him, the mighty hunter, immortalizing him and their love for all eternity. And every night, as she pulls the moon across its path, she and her lover, Orion, are together once again, if only for the brief space of a few hours.

  It was a touching story, and the mere fact that Thomas had told it to me that first night made it all the more poignant and beautiful. I watched the stars slowly fade away, being covered by a gauzy haze of clouds. Orion had left me, just like Thomas. And when the magnificent stars had vanished altogether, I dropped to my knees in the soft snow and began to cry.

  How long I had been there I do not know. It could have been minutes or hours, for time had no meaning for me anymore. I cried four months’ worth of tears, finally realizing that he was never coming for me. How could he? He had no idea where I was. And I cried some more, until I saw a light coming up behind me. Someone was there. Yet instead of turning around to confront whoever it was I crouched down deeper, as if to meld with the snow in one freezing ball of ice.

  I felt his hand on my shoulder; his strong grip pulled me around. “Jesus God,” he uttered. “What the devil?” he said, and then stopped when he saw my face. “What …” he finally breathed, “whatever are ye doing out here, lass?”

  “Please,” I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks. “Please just let me be!”

  He knelt so that his eyes were level with mine, holding up the lantern to better see my face. “Now, that I cannot do. This is my watch. I let nothing go amiss on my watch if I can help it.” And without another word he picked me up, like a father picks up a sleeping child, and commenced carrying me back to the cottage.

  “Please,” I cried, feeling outraged. “I can walk just fine. Let me down!”

  “But I dinna trust ye to walk,” he said huskily. “I thought I told you to get to bed.”

  “I was on my way,” I stated through hot tears.

  Here, I believe, he stifled a laugh, readjusted my weight and continued on. “Well then,” he said, “I can see ye do not know where your own bed lies, for you’ve missed it … by a long shot.”

  It was useless to argue with the insane and so I let myself be carried into the cottage and all the way to my room, my tears of heartache and sorrow long since turned into futile tears of frustration.

  He put me gently on the bed and bent over my prostrate body, placing his hands on either side of my head. “Miss Stevenson,” he said, his face hovering inches over mine, and because he was so close I grew afraid. I could smell the claret on his breath, mingled with something darker. He continued. “I dinna pretend to understand what drives ye, nor do I know what torments ye so. What I do know is that while ye are here on Cape Wrath ye are my responsibility. I dinna like it any more than you do, but even ye, I believe, are aware that I take my responsibilities very seriously. I am trying,” he said earnestly, his brilliant eyes appearing more brilliant under the wavering lamplight. “And I expect ye to do the same. Now, take off your clothes and get into bed.”

  “What?” I said, thinking I didn’t hear him correctly.

  “I said, take off your clothes.” There was a no-nonsense air about him that suddenly chaffed me and I flat out refused.

  “I … I will not!” I uttered, and attempted to pull away.

  I could see my obstinacy had an equal effect on him and his face darkened a measure. “By God, ye will!” he countered, and grabbed hold of my coat. And then, to my further humiliation, he began pulling it off me. It was remarkable on his part, but even with my thrashing unwillingness to obey, he succeeded in uncloaking me, and with great success too. Emboldened by his success he next attacked my boots and my wool stockings. I was kicking, fighting him off, knowing that in his current mood he would not stop until he had bared me completely. He was attacking my frock, his large hands snaked behind me, where he proceeded to wrestle with the buttons. And then, much to my horror, he flipped me onto my stomach, sat astride me, pinning me helplessly to the bed.

  “Mr. Campbell!” I hissed, fighting to get away from his industriously probing hands, but to no avail. “No matter what you think of me,” I cried into the pillow, “no matter what you’ve heard, I’m not that sort of woman! Mr. Campbell!” I cried again, this time exceptionally loud. “I SAID I AM NOT THAT KIND OF WOMAN!”

  “What?” he stammered, as if hearing me for the first time. I could feel his grip on me relax, allowing me the opportunity to roll around and face him. Still confined between his hard, muscular legs, his chest heaving as if he had run for miles, I looked earnestly into his face and saw an expression there that shocked even me. It was as if he had seen me for the first time, my harsh words piercing his primal desires until his fists, knuckles white, relaxed and the folds of my woolen frock slipped from his grasp and fell to the bed around me. “I …” he stammered, his eyes looking wild and fearful at once. “Holy Christ!” he blurted, and looked truly abashed. “You misunderstand …” he said, and attempted to straighten my rumpled skirt, which had been wrenched up around my bared thighs. With great haste, as if burned by a white-hot poker, he sprang off the bed and stood there. His hands were at his sides, clenching and unclenching nervously as a scarlet flush overcame his strong features, making his pale eyes positively burn as he stared at me. It was then I could see the torment in his face. This was not a man who had mastery over his emotions. He was as volatile as the sea, placid one moment and raging the next. How was I ever to survive here with such a creature?

  He backed away, slowly, looking at me all the while as if I were a pariah. He next scanned the room with jerky movements of his head, looking for God knows what. He was at the door, bumped into the frame then backed over the threshold. “Please,” he uttered with a wild, off-kilter look. “Please just get to bed. I willna trouble ye any longer.” And then he left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

  I stared after him, incredulously, and found that I too was breathing heavily. My mind was awash with colliding emotions, and I saw that once again I was alone in my room, scared and lonely, wound too tightly to sleep, with only the memory, the very dear memory, of Thomas Crichton to keep me sane.

  FIVE

  The Broken Promise

  The voyage aboard the yacht of the Northern Lighthouse Board was the grandest adventure of my life. There was a real sense of freedom as the little barque filled her sails and careened forward, cutting through the waves, eating up the miles and miles of sea that surrounded Scotland. There was the excitement of seeing places I’d only heard of, places like the romantic Isle of Skye, where Flora MacDonald disguised Bonnie Prince Charlie as a woman and helped him escape the English after the Battle of Culloden; Iona, the little island where Saint Columba founded his monastery back in the sixth century and converted the
people of Scotland to Christianity. And we even found the rocky shoals of Skerryvore, where Captain MacDonald’s mythical mermaids frolicked.

  Try as I might, none of those beauties were to be seen; yet we were not immune to their siren song. As we left the Isle of Tiree, heading for Skerryvore, the wind suddenly shifted and a storm blew up, threatening to blow the yacht onto the rocks. I soon learned that in perilous times the skill of a sailor is measured. And Thomas fought the malevolent wind like a hero-god. Many of the gentlemen from the Board thought the voyage was done for, doomed to the fate of so many ships before us. They raced about with wild eyes, cursing the ship, the wind, the rain, and even the stalwart sailors. When one gentleman had the audacity to order Captain MacCrea to “Turn the ship around this instant!” believing his engineering skills and high education gave him jurisdiction over the dogged mariner, I thought the captain was going to lose his temper and clock him in the chops, as he deserved. But the captain refrained. I would have laughed outright at the impotence of such a statement if I hadn’t been terrified as well. For even I, a sheltered young woman in the throes of her first love, knew that a ship at sea was ultimately at the mercy of the wind. Our only chance at escaping destruction, if indeed it was possible at all, was to be determined by the cunning of her captain and the skill of her crew.

  It was then Captain MacCrea calmly ordered everyone below. My father turned to me in the same instant and demanded that I get to my cabin and secure the door. His face, streaming wet in the downpour, held the concern of a loving parent. I was about to disobey, protesting that I felt safer on deck, knowing that I felt safer when Thomas Crichton was in my sights. I shook my head and began to form the word NO, when his firm grip dug into my shoulders. “Ye get below, Sara. Now! I’ll have none of it, lass!” It was then I looked beyond my father and saw him. Great rivulets of water streamed down his tarpaulin coat and hat as he stood staring at me. I was captive in his gaze. He looked at my father and then back to me, his eyes vibrant and alive. And then he nodded slowly. I understood. He wanted me to obey; he wanted me to go below. I hesitated, relaying my fear for him with the intensity in my own eyes. His answer to this was a glorious smile, smug and confident, a little too confident, I thought, and frowned in response. He cocked his head to one side and performed a mischievous wink. Thomas Crichton would have me believe that he was enjoying this perilous sailing. I fought a smile and frowned again, letting him know just what I thought of his flippant attitude toward his own safety. Yet before I could see his reaction, I felt my father’s fingers dig painfully into my shoulders, calling my attention dutifully back to him. I had forgotten myself for a moment. And his look of reproving suspicion caused me to panic. He turned his head and was just in time to see the back of Mr. Crichton as the sailor made his way toward the bow of the ship. My father looked back to me, none too pleased.