by Darci Hannah
“Is this true?” my father demanded, turning to me.
“Yes sir.”
“Then why did ye not say so? Why not tell me of it?”
“Because I know how you regard spirits,” I replied a little defensively, for his feelings on the subject were hardly a secret.
“Well, I’ve not changed, Sara! Nothing good can ever come from the bottom of a glass. I expected ye to know that, just as I expect ye to find another answer to your insomnia. Try reading the Bible or the Book of Common Prayer next time.”
“Yes, Papa,” I humbly acquiesced.
“Och, why, if nothin’ puts ye tae sleep faster than the Good Book!” injected Captain MacCrea, with good-hearted cheer. Yet for all his goodwill and kindly intentions, it was a sentiment lost on the rest of the table.
I had escaped, but just by the skin of my teeth. I flashed the captain a look of gratefulness and excused myself from the table. Dear Mr. Scott had been standing near the threshold of the door, our friend and confidant, observing this troubling discourse with a detached calmness for one so entangled in our plight. And as I walked past him, not daring to meet his eye, he spoke softly.
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive!”
I stopped and turned to face him, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Marmion,” I uttered softly, recalling the phrase from his famous poem. “Mr. Scott, I am no Marmion!”
“Nor was that implied, my dear. Ye are far too pure of heart to be anything like Marmion,” he whispered closely. “I simply meant that when one is perpetrating deception, one must take great care, especially when one is attempting to deceive one so astute and penetrating as Mr. Stevenson.”
I stared at him, knowing the truth of his words yet sickened by them all the same.
“It can be done,” I challenged, thinking of my brother Thomas and how his little deception had gone unnoticed by our father for years. However, my words sounded much braver than I felt. But damn it all! I was young and determined; the world was awakening all around me and I believed I was invincible. I turned from the writer and stalked off down the hall, vowing to myself that no force on earth was great enough to keep me from my chosen destiny!
I dared not go to Thomas that night, knowing my father was monitoring my every move. It was our last night aboard the yacht, a night that was supposed to be spent planning our future together—how and where we would see each other once we went ashore. I didn’t even know where Thomas lived, for he always evaded the question whenever I asked him. He dwelled in a part of town where a lady should never venture, he told me, and that was all. And by not telling me, he said he was assured I wouldn’t disobey his wishes and come find him, which, in all honesty, I might very well have done.
He obviously knew where I lived, and that was a comfort, but meeting in the garden of Baxter Place was not an option either of us would dare to consider. No, we needed a trysting place, somewhere neutral, somewhere private—a place where we could be alone together, safe from the watchful eyes of the many nosy Edinburgh citizens. And as I lay awake that night, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he paced the deck above me, I could feel his impotent, pent-up desire with every step. I was about to rap on the ceiling, letting him know I was there, when a distant voice called out, drawing him away.
It was two in the morning as I sat on my bunk, thinking how to get word to him, and not wishing to employ Mr. Scott with so important a message. And then a place came to mind. I sprang out of my bunk, grabbed a quill and scrawled Midnight, Thursday, Ferguson’s barn on the edge of the paper containing Thomas’ poem. I blew on the ink, tore off the corner, waved it in the air to dry and pressed it to my heart, praying he would come.
It was just before the hour of noon when we came to dock at the quay in the Leith estuary. It was a busy harbor, crowded with people, suffused with the familiar stench of tar and tobacco that mingled with the more putrid odor of pelagic decay. And although the sun was high, shining its blissful rays on the good people of Edinburgh as well as the many sea birds that circled and swooped, I felt dark and empty inside. My extraordinary adventure was over and I was to return to my commonplace life. The only glimmer of happiness for me lay completely in the hands of Mr. Thomas Crichton.
My mother was there with the porters, awaiting us; her joyful smile and eager waving momentarily belied her dour Scotch Calvinism. My father, also losing himself to the moment, returned her greeting with mirrored excitement. And as my parents were thus occupied, waving and gesturing to each other like a couple of schoolchildren cut loose, Mr. Crichton appeared at my side.
“May I assist ye ashore, Miss Stevenson?” he asked politely, though his eyes were hungrily devouring me. He wanted to say something; his mouth was forming the words when I boldly squeezed his hand. He was shocked into silence. Surprise flickered across his face, and then I saw that he understood. Without another word he helped me across, holding my hand with the same fervent force that I held on to his. And when my feet were firmly on solid ground, only then did he let go. I released the note, leaving it in the palm of his hand. He quickly concealed it in a tight fist, not daring to look at the little missive, only at me. His eyes held that familiar twinkle as his lips fought off an encroaching grin. “’Twas a pleasure serving ye, Miss Stevenson. I hope that our paths shall cross again someday.” He bowed.
My response was a maidenly smile, warm and hopeful, with the soft utterance of: “I too hope for the very same thing.” And then I turned to go, never once chancing a look behind me.
• • •
A day had never felt so long, I thought, as I awaited the hour of midnight. It had been a trying few days back in the fold of my mother and Kate. Kate’s constant presence began to annoy me. She had endless questions about our travels and I found myself growing a bit short and fractious. But when after dinner she began prodding me about handsome sailors I might have taken a fancy to, I began to understand the game. This bold line of questioning—from Kate, no less—was suspicious indeed, and I surmised my mother had learned of my suspected dealings and employed my dear companion for the task of drawing out any damaging information.
“Honestly, Kate,” I began, looking at her reflection in the mirror as she brushed my hair, patiently suffering her nightly ablutions, “I fancied all the sailors. Had I known men of the sea were so amiable, handsome and kind, why, I’d have taken to loitering around the harbor months ago! Many women do, I hear, hang around the harbor, that is,” I teased, feigning seriousness.
“Aye, an’ they’re called harlots!” she scolded, as I knew she would.
“But isn’t that where you landed Mr. MacKinnon? Wasn’t he a sailor or longshoreman … or something of the sort? And did you not, in fact, speak of how you saw him coming off a ship, and swooned with desire at the dashing figure he cut? Certainly you are no harlot, Kate … are you?”
“Of course I am not! And Robbie was a ship’s purser,” she corrected with a scowl. “That’s much different than a common sailor. And you know very well I met him here, not loitering around the harbor like a common whore!”
“Are whores very common, then?”
The brush stilled in her hand. “Common enough, I should think, and they make a good living off men of the sea, or so I hear, but that is not a conversation proper young ladies should be having!”
“No … no, you’re very in the right of it.” I smiled sweetly at her reflection. “Please forgive me.”
“Now, back to my question. Certainly there were some intriguing men aboard the yacht? Tell me, Sara, as a friend, did any man happen to strike your fancy?”
“As a matter of fact, one did,” I admitted, relishing the way she was leaning forward, her doelike eyes wide and imploring. I remained silent.
“Well, did he have a name, then?” she prodded, growing impatient.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.”
She let out an exasperated sigh and dropped the thick strand of auburn hair she was coaxin
g into a radiant sheen. “I’m asking his name, not if he had one, which by the by, everyone does!”
“Oh very well, then. But you mustn’t tell a soul! Promise?” She nodded, looking the very image of virtue. Apparently lies came easy to my mother’s spy. “His name is Mr. Walter Scott, and I found him to be very engaging company.”
With satisfaction, I watched Kate in the gilded mirror of my dressing table as her lovely face contorted with distaste. “Mr. Scott the writer? Surely not the writer.”
“Yes, the writer-poet. You know him?”
“I know of him. And he’s an old man. Married too.” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion as the realization that I was playing with her began to take hold.
“Yes, I know he’s married,” I replied, and smiled coyly at her perturbed reflection. “But I found him intriguing, all the same.”
“Young Mr. Graham came by quite a bit while ye were away,” she felt inclined to add, knowing how to ruffle me as I knew how to ruffle her. “Did your mother happen to mention that to you?”
“As a matter of fact, she did say something on the matter.” I smiled as if I didn’t care.
“Mr. Graham fancies you, Sara. He made that quite clear while you were gone. The man’s a good catch. Why, any young lady would be flattered by his attention. He has a living of five thousand pounds a year and is hoping to pass the bar very soon.”
I took the brush from her hand and turned to face her. “Just what Scotland needs,” I proclaimed with a hint of sarcasm, “another lawyer! Though I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a good wife for an advocate. Perhaps it’s escaped you, Kate, but I find many of the laws tiresome and superfluous.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But for five thousand pounds a year, anything can be tolerated, even the law.”
“How about his looks? Is it worth five thousand pounds to suffer that great beak of a nose, the yellow, misshapen teeth and a backside that’s constantly flatulent … in my presence? Imagine what he’s like when he’s not in the company of a lady!”
“So his diet needs adjusting. And his teeth can be filed or pulled. He’s a kind man, Sara, and sweet on you,” she equivocated.
“Sweet? How nice. I suppose I’ll have to grasp the nettle, as they say, sometime, Kate, but not tonight. I’m very tired tonight. In fact, why don’t ye get along to Mr. MacKinnon early? I’m certain he’s not a man to mind his wife before her due.”
“You’ve no more need of me?”
“Kate, I shall always need you, but tonight I’m very tired. I’m going to bed now,” I assured her, placing a gentle pat on the back of her hand. I could see she found the thought of joining her husband early titillating.
“Very well, I shall leave you alone, then. But, Sara, if you do wish to talk about men, about someone you fancy, you will come to me? I have no wish to see you get hurt by someone who might not be everything they appear, nor do I wish to see your parents suffer on the off chance that you do.”
“Kate, dear Kate, when have you ever known me to be so foolish as that?” To this she had no answer, only a forlorn shake of her head. “Go, then, and do give Mr. MacKinnon my kindest wishes.”
I waited until the house grew quiet, until all footsteps retreated to their proper quarters. And then I waited some more. When at last the time had come, I crept out of bed, pulled a shawl around my nightdress and slipped out of my room, tiptoeing barefooted down the hall. All was going well until I turned the corner, heading for the stairs, for my parents’ room was here, and before their door slept the family collie, Flora. Excited to see me awake, she scrambled to her feet, making a great noise on the hardwood floor with her sharp claws and hitting my parents’ door with the great bush of her tail as it fanned in delight. She dashed to my side. I made a quick grab for the scruff of her neck and attempted to calm her with a hushed whisper. Flora, bless her, was not the most intelligent of God’s beasts, and she thought this a great game, whining, and pawing the floor in delight. I hushed her again and made to pull her with me, away from the door, when I heard the creak of a bed coming from the other side. I froze. And then I heard heavy footsteps approaching. With my heart in my throat, I jumped back around the corner and pressed my body to the wall, praying Flora would not give me away. The door opened and I heard my father’s voice.
“Flora, what’s afoot, lass? Is it time for our milk already? Aye, so you’ve missed me, I see. I’ve been away a long time, but not so long as to forget about that.” The dog, amazingly, seemed to understand this prattle and began pawing the floor again. “Very well, then, we shall have our wee nip, but don’t tell Mother.” And then, to my relief, I heard my father begin down the stairs. The dog, however, hesitated.
“Go on, go on,” I urged under my breath.
“Flora, what is it?” my father questioned, and a moment of dead silence followed.
I was frantically thinking of what excuse I could give for lurking around the halls in the dead of night, and while my mind raced, I thought of Thomas. Was he already at our trysting place? Would he come at all? And was he right now sitting all alone, wondering where I was? How long would he wait for me before giving up? And then, while still holding my breath, and growing evermore nervous, I heard the dog descend the stairs, the promise of food winning out over the excitement of discovering me. Thank goodness the beast was a slave to her belly! And with the two coconspirators thumping around in the kitchen, I slipped down the stairs. I had no choice but to pass the very door where they were, for the kitchen was down the back hall … which led to the back door, which led to the garden. A shaft of soft light poured from the opening, illuminating part of the hallway. I could see their distorted shadows moving about on the far wall as my father continued to engage the dog in soft conversation. From the look of it, both man and beast were about to partake in a good deal more than a wee dram of milk. I pressed myself into the shadows as I listened to the man’s one-sided conversation, thinking I had never heard him talk so candidly before. I was lulled by the sound of it as I began making my way slowly toward them. I was just about to cross the opening to the kitchen, focusing on my destination at the end of the corridor, when a mouse skittered past, right over my foot, clinging to the same wall as I. The sudden shock of it, the unseen violation to my naked foot, nearly caused me to scream, and I shook it, as if it were palsied, trying to rid myself of the distasteful feeling. I feared it was up—my little game, over—and I pressed myself to the wall again, watching the mouse continue on as I waited with a heart beating unreasonably fast from so small a creature. Yet all I heard was the clinking of glass and the glug of some liquid falling into it. The sharp smell of cheese and the tang of spicy sausage hit me then and I knew the night-raiders were too preoccupied to hear the likes of me. With a silent sigh of relief, I followed the path of the little mouse, past another room and then to the back door—where, to my amazement, I watched the tiny creature squeeze under the threshold.
I hated mice; I loathed them, but at the moment I would have given anything to be able to enter the garden without the business of opening the door. I held my breath and slid back the bolt. I then tried the door, opening it just enough for my body to squeeze through, then shut it behind me with the touch of a downy feather. I caught my breath. I was through! And I took off at a dead run, barefooted, through the dewy grass, with only the light of the full moon to illuminate my way.
The Ferguson barn was just beyond our orchard. It was a place I had often played as a child, and Mr. Ferguson, our neighbor, kept a fine stable with a team of four sprightly bays to pull his coach. I had told Thomas all about this special place and hoped he remembered how to find it. Yet as I approached the side door, nerves overtook me, and for some unexplained reason I was shaking. I told myself it was just a chill from the night, but even I knew what a liar I could be. I was afraid. I was afraid he would not come. I was afraid that perhaps Thomas was not quite what he appeared, as Kate had warned, and that our risky courtship on the yacht had just been a way for him to pass the t
ime. He was a sailor after all, and sailors were notorious rakes! What if I was a fool—a young woman with fanciful notions of her own creating? I was tempted to turn away; I half thought I might, for the risk I was taking was so great. But then my arrogance and imprudence prevailed, and with a thrust of force that surprised even me, I pushed open the door.
He was there. He had been waiting for me. And at that first sight of him, sitting on a little three-legged stool in the soft glow of a lantern, clutching his hat nervously between his hands, my fears faded. And the hopeful delight, glistening in his night-darkened eyes as he saw me, melted my heart. “Sara,” he uttered, then alighted from his seat to sweep me up in his arms. “Oh, Sara, I was afraid ye wouldna come.”
“I ran into some difficulty,” I whispered, holding on to him just as tightly as he held to me, allowing my nerves and fears to fade away in his warm embrace. “My father, I discovered, has a habit of visiting the kitchen at night. He almost found me out. Thank goodness he has a habit of talking to the dog, or else he would have heard me for certain.”
“He talks to the dog, does he?” He let out a soft chuckle. “Pray, what does the man say?”
“They talk about engineering mostly, though when I walked past tonight they were discussing the smelting of iron—you know, how to make it stronger.”
Again he laughed; it was a deep, throaty, mesmerizing laugh that caused a frisson of pleasure to ripple under my skin, while at the same time sent the horses shifting anxiously in their stalls. He lowered his voice. “Smelting iron? And what were the dog’s views on that?”
“I don’t think she had any. She was more focused on the wheel of Stilton they were pillaging.”
