The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  Dear Mr. Seawell,

  I regret to say I am Sara Stevenson, not Sara Crichton, the woman you intended your letter to reach. Though curiously enough, I was the very one who purchased the timepiece and foolishly had it inscribed with such a sentiment. You can imagine my surprise when it came back to me through the hands of a stranger and not the man it had originally been commissioned for—only a short while ago! How it ended up in the possession of that poor soldier boy, I shan’t venture a guess. It seems a great mystery, and one, I hope, in which you will oblige me by helping to fill in some of the gaps. First off, how did you know where to find me? I was under the impression that not many knew of my whereabouts. Certainly not many women, respectable or otherwise, would keep a lighthouse on so desolate a coast, and I’ve not been here more than a few months. Secondly, was James Crichton any relation to a Thomas Crichton, formerly of Leith, Scotland? I know he was not a brother, for Thomas had none, but cousins of such a race might very well abound. By any chance, was this James fellow a man of disreputable character—perhaps a cowardly libertine? And would he have had access to a port where he would have been able to purchase such a thing at a pawnshop, or from a besotted, philandering lout of a sailor at quayside? It would not surprise me in the least if the man were a scoundrel, given the family name, and the poor woman he was trying to reach might well have been just an allusion to some wild, preconceived fancy he had conjured up before he was so grievously wounded. Well, I believe those to be all the questions I have at the moment. I would forever be grateful if you would see it in your heart to help clear up this troubling matter.

  Sincerely and respectfully yours,

  Sara Stevenson

  Lighthouse, Cape Wrath, Scotland

  Without another thought I hastily sealed the letter and addressed it to the sender. Then, only then, did I allow the breath I was holding to escape, bursting forth in one long cathartic huff. I picked up the watch and lent half a mind to hurling it against the bricks of the hearth, smashing it and every memory of Thomas Crichton once and for all. Yet the silver, at first cold to the touch, warmed quickly in the palm of my hand and as it did I felt the silent, pulsating beat. It was unfathomable. Trembling, and swept up again in that strange tingling wave, I flipped the timepiece over and beheld the face. It was still ticking. “Dear Lord,” I uttered with a heart thumping twice the rate of the little watch and tenfold louder, and then I ran out of the room.

  My companions were still lingering over breakfast, discussing, no doubt, my misfortune. Ignoring them I went straight to the case clock in the corner and checked the time against Thomas’ watch. It was dead-on.

  “Mr. Campbell,” I said abruptly, turning to face him. “When you looked at the watch did you happen to wind it or reset it in any way?”

  “No,” he replied, looking up from the table. “Why do you ask?”

  “Any of you? Did any of you touch this watch?” The faces regarding me were all startlingly blank; Robbie and Kate shook their heads mutely in answer to my question. I took a hard look at Kate. The simpering smile, the eyes that would not meet mine directly, told me she had done her best to apprise Mr. Campbell of the scandalous relationship I’d had with the previous owner of the timepiece. Pushing the thought aside I continued. “I ask because the watch is still working; the time is correct!” This revelation, whose meaning escaped the MacKinnons, both husband and wife looking on with faces that expressed pleasure that the gift, fine and expensive, was still in working order, was not lost on Mr. Campbell. He set down his fork and beheld me with questioning eyes. “The watch needs to be wound regularly, right? Once every day. I doubt very much it could make a lengthy journey and still keep the correct time, yet somehow it has.”

  “Lengthy journey? Aye, it would be odd indeed,” he agreed, and came over for another look. He took the watch, examined it closely and said rather softly so the others could not hear, “I take it the letter did not contain hopeful news.”

  “Why do you assume that, sir?” I whispered back rather curtly.

  “Because your eyes are that red and swollen.”

  Without thinking I brushed my fingertips along the high edge of my cheeks, feeling the sticky residue and puff of recent tears. I cleared my throat. “Well, it wasn’t from him, if that’s what you were wondering.”

  He studied me for a moment, attempting to gauge my mood, I assumed, for when he finally spoke he did so with caution. “When ye say ‘lengthy journey,’ Miss Stevenson, exactly how lengthy are ye speaking of?”

  “Oxford,” I uttered, still perplexed by the whole notion. “And, for that matter, it came by way of the sea. Yet how it came to be in Oxford, England, and why, I haven’t a clue.”

  “And is it your young man’s watch?”

  “I bought it myself, yes. It’s the same one I gave to him.”

  He handed the timepiece back, no closer to an answer, and uttered, “Well, ye have very fine taste … in chronometers, at least. Do ye mind me asking who the letter was from if it wasn’t from him?”

  “Normally I would mind very much,” I began a bit acerbically, then reined in my pride and continued. “But unfortunately I have no idea who the letter writer is. It’s from a complete stranger … an antiquarian from the university, or something of the like. Tell me, sir, were I to post a letter, how would I go about doing that here?”

  He cocked his head and regarded me curiously through his spectacular crystal-eyed gaze. And then a wry smile threatened to overtake his lips. “A stranger from England? A university man? And you have it in mind to answer his letter?”

  I lowered my voice and, looking beyond the light-keeper to make sure Kate and Robbie could not hear, explained, “Under the circumstances, it appears I have little choice in the matter. There was a mistake. I might not be …” I lowered my eyes, unwilling to look at him, “I might not be the woman the watch was intended for.”

  “But you say it’s your timepiece,” he added quizzically, as if attempting to puzzle out the logic I used.

  “Yes. It is.”

  “This Thomas of yours, could it mean that he did the honorable thing, then?”

  “Don’t speculate!” I hissed, not only to quiet him but to quell the familiar ache in the pit of my stomach at the thought that Thomas had willingly left me. I thought I had mastered my fears; I had even begun to forgive Kate for her betrayal of my secret, until this unsuspected belonging of Thomas’ arrived. “I’ve done enough speculating on the matter,” I added. “I just need a few questions answered, is all.”

  He looked as if he were about to ask after the nature of the questions and then thought better. “On Friday I was planning to take ye and Mrs. MacKinnon into Durness.” This surprised me, and he added, “To see the doctor there. Ye can post it in town. However, there’s a wee chance the tender might come sooner. We could take it to the jetty today and leave it in the postbox on the pier. If it’s still there by Friday, we’ll take it with us.”

  “The jetty? That’s right!” I said, remembering what day it was. “Mr. MacKay is coming, isn’t he?”

  “Aye. I hope that he is. I was counting on you to remember it. Ye do remember our wee bargain?” I looked at him, looked into the eyes that had battled one too many demons of their own, and nodded silently. “Good,” he whispered, and I thought I caught the hint of a smile. “Now that you’ve a timepiece, and we’ve determined it’s a remarkably reliable one, I’ll expect ye to not be late. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, and headed in the direction of his room. Watching him retreat, I held Thomas’ chronometer tightly in my hand, reveling in the feel of its steady tick and vowing I’d not be the one to ever let it stop.

  • • •

  The nature of the bargain between the light-keeper and myself was simply that I use my one true God-given gift (as Mr. Campbell had so tactfully put it), and do my utmost to persuade the good men of the Cape that it was in their best interest to preserve the lives of imperiled mariners. Mr. Campbell, though perhaps deceiving himself
on most things, was at least introspective and honest enough to know that he was no hand at wooing people over to his cause through personality alone. Being a recluse and uncommonly burdened with the pall of death, he admitted that a little help from me might do wonders for both our causes. My one and only God-given gift, as Mr. Campbell saw it, was merely my outward appearance. I found this, of course, to be extremely offensive, yet held my tongue. Mr. Campbell had been drinking when he said it and was extremely vexed by something. If he were erratic on a good day, certainly these extraneous conditions would only serve to undo the creature further, and so I said nothing to defend my character. He went on to say that my inquisitive nature, my prideful female bravado, my tendency to giddiness and my tongue I would have to repress, for I needed to act the part of a sweet, biddable, engaging young woman.

  “I’m as good an actor as yourself,” I riposted through a sneer as he leaned close to me. “Perhaps even better. People actually like me.”

  “Exactly my point,” he replied with a derisive leer. “And because our goals are one and the same, you wanting to see the father of your baby again and me wanting to redeem some of my misdeeds, I trust ye will succeed where I have failed.”

  “Under normal circumstances I’d say it’s a surety. However, have you bothered to give any thought to my current condition? You know I’m with child.”

  He looked me up and down with a jaundiced eye. “Aye, ye are. Some find it alluring in an unmarried woman. Others, it may give the wrong impression.” He grinned with a hint of lechery. “But ’tis not obvious yet to the untrained eye, and many of the lads here are yet untrained where women are concerned. If anything,” he continued, studying my figure beneath my satin robe, “I’d say the extra plumpness improves your looks overall. All ye need do is use your wiles to inspire the lads. Look fetching. Then ye and Mrs. MacKinnon can go visit Mary MacKay while the good men of the Cape and I pull the boats around.”

  “Well,” I answered, gracing him with a forced smile. “If that’s all you need me to do, rest assured. I shall make even your heartless soul proud.”

  • • •

  Mr. Campbell and Robbie were already at the jetty by the time Kate and I were ready to leave the cottage. She took one look at me and grinned.

  “Well, do I look fetching?”

  “Not particularly, no,” she said, eyeing the old calash bonnet I had pulled up over my hair, a calico relic I had pilfered from my mother. “And is that a riding habit you have on—for a visit? I thought I heard Mr. Campbell say this morning that you were to have a word with the men before we set off. He seemed to think that your well-bred elegance and charm would impress upon the men the importance of their help in his cause. But you are not very well attired for a visit, nor are you dressed to impress anything elegant upon any man. That habit, though perhaps well cut for its day, looks a wee bit tight on you now. What you are about to do, I suspect, is infuriate Mr. Campbell!”

  It was accusatory … and she was only partially correct. “On the contrary, Kate. I’m about to give his cause a new purpose. And this jacket is not tight, just snug. Now, be so good as to hold my bag for a moment—be careful,” I warned, pulling on a pair of black leather gloves after she took it. “It contains some books and a letter.”

  “Letter?” she intoned with a twang of disapproval.

  “Never worry,” I said, shrugging into an old boat-cloak before taking back the bag. “It’s for another man … not Mr. Crichton.” I teased her further with a dreamy smile and, biting my lip to keep from giggling, left the cottage intent on making my way to the jetty. Kate, unable to help herself, plied me the entire way for answers to her many questions, none of which I had any intention of answering truthfully.

  At the top of the road that led down to the jetty landing we found wee Hughie sitting on the bench of a rickety old hay cart; the boy, capped, cloaked and chewing on what looked to be a twig from a bilberry bush, was intent on something transpiring at the jetty landing. “Good day, fine sir,” I called out. Hughie spun around to face us.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am,” he said, removing the well-chewed fiber from his mouth long enough to make his greeting. The horse, which had also taken the opportunity to chew on withered moor grass, looked up, a clump of yellowish-brown weeds dangling from its velvety lips as they continued smacking. “Miss Sara, I’m tae take ye an’ Miss Kate to my home.”

  “You’re driving?”

  He nodded with a defiant grin, willing me to challenge him.

  “And have you much experience driving a cart, young Master MacKay?” I asked, coming beside him. I looked up at the little carrot-topped creature and beheld him with a scrutinizing stare.

  “Aye, I have. I’ve been drivin’ this auld rig and the Duchess of Sutherland since the verra day I was breeched.” He said it with a straight face, proclaiming his prodigy-like strength and cunning with aplomb. I sized up the dun-colored cart horse, noting that the Duchess of Sutherland (a rather shabby-looking creature to bear such a noble title) had barely enough spunk in her to overpower a toddler.

  “Very well,” I replied amicably, “I shall take you at your word, Master MacKay. And what is more, I shall entrust Mrs. MacKinnon into your good care as well. Kate, will you be so good as to climb aboard next to young Master MacKay here? I shall be with you both shortly.” At this Kate hesitated, looking skeptically at the rickety old cart as well as the precocious little boy gallantly lending his hand. With a nod of my head I urged her to take it, fighting back a smile as she did so. I then took out the letter I had written to the Englishman and handed the bag up to her. “Take the books, will you? I’m just going to drop this at the postbox where I found my package this morning.”

  “Ye are goin’ down there?” asked the boy through narrowed eyes. “Where all thon men have gathered?”

  I looked down the steep incline to where some of the men could be seen standing near the boathouse. “Yes, that was my intent.”

  “Are ye gonna talk to them?”

  “I very well might. That is generally the kind thing to do when one meets new people.”

  “Well, how lang are ye gonna stay and gab? I’ve promised my ma’ I wouldna linger overlong with the men about.”

  “She’ll only be a minute, Hughie,” offered Kate, glaring at me to make it so.

  “Yes, only a minute,” I reiterated, and shifted my attention to the ill-looking cadre that had gathered beside the boathouse. I could sense the confrontation. The men were making no effort to launch the two boats, painted lighthouse white with a black stripe, which had spent the winter upside down on a bed of logs in the boathouse. They appeared, instead, to be engaged in a heated discussion. I shifted my attention back to our undersized, fledgling cart-driver. “Would you mind stepping down here, Hughie?” I beckoned him with a gloved finger to the edge of the road with me. Hughie, after a moment of suspicious hesitation, alighted from the cart while Kate patiently remained on the bench, casting a warning glance with her narrowed brown eyes. “How would you like to make a little wager with me?” I whispered, being extra cautious that Kate could not hear us. “If you win, I’ll give you a guinea. If I win, you spend an hour with me this afternoon—on your best behavior—learning to read. No complaints or snide comments; no infantile attacks on my character or behavior. What do you say?”

  “I get a whole gold guinea from ye?” he questioned, looking intrigued by the notion. I nodded. “Wha’ do I have tae do?”

  I left Hughie with instructions and started down the steep road, watching all the while the men who had gathered near the boathouse. There were seven new faces, along with the familiar person of Mr. MacKay, who was standing tall and broad-shouldered as he listened politely, with his fiery head slightly inclined, to what the men were saying. Coming closer, yet still unknown to the group, I caught snatches of the argument, deep voices with the thick brogue of the Cape countering Mr. Campbell and Robbie with cries of “Why should we risk it?” “Ye ken very well wha’ happened last time we
listened to ye!” “We’re shepherds, no’ sailors!” “Mariners know the risk and take it willingly. ’Tis wha’ they’re paid for, by Christ!” And then one man chimed, “I dinna gi’ a rat’s arse that Napoleon’s on thae loose an’ marchin’ on Paris. He could be stormin’ the continent for all I care and still I’m no’ gonna row your wee boat, Campbell!”

  I was less than twenty feet away, and still the men were too preoccupied to notice my arrival. I gripped the letter tighter, took a deep breath and said, “Napoleon?” rolling the distasteful name a bit theatrically in my mouth as I continued forward. Mr. Campbell looked up. Other heads turned and the talking died down.

  It was my cue; I was on.

  With an inward smile I relished the look on the light-keeper’s face, knowing that he had been expecting a more auspicious entrance than a young woman with an old calash bonnet tied snugly over her hair, a tight-fitting riding habit that had seen better days—just visible beneath an unbuttoned men’s boat-cloak. He was also not expecting my amicable greeting of: “Tell me, gentlemen, why do you mention that man’s name, and on such a glorious day as this? Please, do not ruin it for me. ’Tis been a bleak enough winter. I cannot begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to spring and the promise of new ventures!” Then, shifting my smile and attention to the light-keepers, I waved my letter in the air. “Mr. Campbell, Mr. MacKinnon, good day, sirs. And Mr. MacKay, how fine it is to see you here! I ran into your charming son not a moment ago at the top of the road. Such a good lad you have there.” Then, coming to stand before the man, I untied my bonnet and folded it back, letting my hair tumble out in a freshly washed, vigorously brushed, lavender-scented, auburn cascade. “Tell me, who are your friends?”

  The Highlander looked suspiciously at me, then at Mr. Campbell, and finally replied, with a polite bow, “Miss Stevenson, how nice it is to see ye here today. Allow me to introduce some kinsmen of mine.” The introductions were brief and cogent, yet I listened intently to what Mr. MacKay said as he went around the ill-formed circle of mates, filing the names and faces away in the recesses of my memory.