The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  He spun around. Our eyes met, his were unusually bright. And the bruise I had detected in the night made itself known. I felt a pang of guilt at the sight of the yellowish-green skin as he cried, “By God, do you see it?”

  “Hmm?” I uttered, my mouth touched with sleep. I then followed his gaze to where, out on the open water, my odd little skiff sailed. The sight of it shocked me fully awake, and I marveled again at the beauty of it.

  “Ye do see it, don’t ye?”

  “Of course I do. That’s the boat that delivers Mr. Seawell’s letters,” I replied.

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously at me.

  “Well, what I meant was, he delivers my post, but I don’t need to tell you that now, do I?” Yet as I said it, I had to squint to see the boat clearly. It was hazy out; the little craft was hovering on the indiscernible horizon with the vaporous image of a mirage. It wavered. It came into view. It wavered again. And then, as the light from the sun grew brighter, climbing the waves—moving ever closer to where the boat was—it finally touched the billowy sails. A bright flash of light appeared as if the sails themselves had caught fire. And then the little craft vanished—just vanished—in the brilliant light. When I finally had the will to look away from the awesome spectacle, I saw that Mr. Campbell had been studying me. I raised my eyebrows; he narrowed his in reply.

  “I suppose,” I began haltingly, “that we should check the jetty now to see if there’s a letter?”

  “I suppose that we should” was his guarded reply. Mary’s suggestion that he was the letter-writer had plagued me ever since she had uttered the ridiculous notion. And now, after having learned a bit more about him, I had to wonder. “Do you think, sir, that there will be a letter awaiting me at the jetty?”

  “I think,” he began, staring intently at me, “that there just might be.”

  “And have you, William Campbell, ever been to Oxford?”

  He raised his dark brows at this but did not answer. It was apparent that he was just as intent on getting to the jetty as I was.

  Making it to the treacherous path that sharply descended to the landing below, he stopped. “Stay here,” he said, and turned to go.

  “No, let me go,” I countered, and watched his face as he processed this.

  “Don’t be foolish, Sara,” he replied as his dark cloak billowed in the wind behind him. “You’ve had a long night, and you’re not supposed to overexert yourself.”

  “Very well,” I relented, “but only if you’re certain you don’t mind.”

  Apparently he didn’t, for he had already turned his sights on the jetty and was well on his way.

  I sat patiently on the horse until a bobbing head appeared, followed by a tall, lean body clad in a fluttering black three-caped cloak. Mr. Campbell’s head was bent in silent reflection as he climbed the last bit of road coming out of the jetty landing. And then he came to me, his hands empty. My heart sank at the thought of not having word from the antiquarian—who might possibly be a work of fiction concocted by this perplexing man. Either way, regardless of the motive, I found a solace in the letters, it was my private refuge, and I was sorry to think that perhaps the mysterious letter-writer had lost his muse.

  Mr. Campbell walked up to the horse and took hold of his halter. “Why so glum?” he asked, peeking over Bruce’s glossy brown neck. I believe he could see that my hopes had been dashed, and before I could express my disappointment, he reached into his coat and drew forth a letter.

  My reaction to the sight of the paper pleased him, and with a gentle look of amusement he quipped, “Did you really think it would not come? After all, ye saw the skiff same as me.”

  “I was unsure,” I replied truthfully. I read the familiar inscription, noting the neat, precise handwriting, and placed it inside my pelisse, pressing it close to my body for safekeeping.

  “So what does he write, this Oxford man?” he inquired rather nonchalantly as we continued to pick our way through the spiny heather and soft mosses that led back to the cottage.

  “It’s rather personal,” I replied, looking at the back of his dark head. He didn’t turn around but kept walking. “But as you’ve been so kind as to retrieve this for me, I shall tell you why I like receiving Mr. Seawell’s letters. I like them because I find them very revealing … not so much because of his connection to Thomas, which is still rather unclear, or the other man who appears to have carried his timepiece … but Mr. Seawell has revealed to me a rather heart-wrenching personal story. And like you, William Campbell, he is a man battling his inner demons.”

  The lighthouse keeper, ignoring this pointed remark, kept on walking.

  I continued. “It’s rather ironic, but he too is plagued by death, and … and I believe Thomas Crichton might just be one of those poor souls who haunts him.”

  At this, he faltered. The horse came to a stop and he slowly turned around. It was something in his eyes, the way they burned with a frightening intensity, causing the spectacular bruise around his left eye to appear more vivid. The sudden change in him frightened me. “Do you still not know if he’s dead?” he inquired harshly.

  “I … it’s uncertain.”

  Without another word he turned his head toward the sea, facing the direction we had seen the little boat disappear over the horizon. His breathing was coming in short quick bursts now, as if something had riled him.

  Concern swept through me. I felt that in some way this change in his demeanor, this quicksilver shift from pleasant company to atrabilious recluse, was somehow my fault, but I didn’t see how. And so, cautiously, I asked, “Is something troubling you, William?”

  “Yes,” he said, but would not turn again to face me.

  • • •

  William Campbell said not another word as we traversed the brooding waste the rest of the way to the lighthouse. Even the sight of a lone puffin nestled in the bracken near the cliff’s edge failed to excite notice from him. He walked with head bent, his gait near drudgery as the orange-billed auk followed us with its jet black eye amidst a ring of downy white. The chubby bird, with its splash of color and humorous appearance, was a sharp contrast to the current mood of the man and the Cape. Sensing this, the puffin gave a cry and flapped its slick black wings before disappearing over the edge of the cliff. Bruce and Mr. Campbell continued on.

  Kate was laying out the table as we arrived, a table set for three. I would have liked to say that she was happy to see me back, but there was no warm embrace or kind word from her as I came through the door. Mr. Campbell was finishing up in the stable and had sent me ahead to warn her of our arrival. He had been gentle as he pulled me from the horse, warning me to keep the peace in the cottage, and he struggled hard to offer a smile, but it was a smile that did not reach his eyes. The astonishingly pale orbs were still lost and distant, and they were very much on my mind as Kate practiced her rough exercise on me.

  Her face, as I first came through the door, was one of astonishment. But then she darkened, glowering in my direction before stomping back to the cupboard where after noisily retrieving another bowl and spoon, she slammed them both on the table. The quiet cottage came alive with her hot anger, and I marveled that the earthenware hadn’t cracked. “So, you’ve finally come to grips with your lot, then, eh, and now you have returned? Or do you still feel the need to run away?” she sniped, her dark tendrils bobbing from beneath her linen cap like Medusa’s snakes. “It would have been easier on us all if you and your devil’s spawn had just gone off the cliff—put an end to the misery that plagues us all. That would have been easier to explain to your mother than this … this shameful display!”

  Such asperity was disturbing and deserved a reprimand. I was tired, snappish and could have lit into her as she was begging me to do, but then I heard Mr. Campbell come in behind me. One look at him and I could see that the last thing he needed was more problems to add to his already addled mind. The man needed sleep, and for his sake alone I replied, “It’s nice to see you, Kate. And I’m t
ruly sorry for the trouble I caused.”

  Her answer was chafing silence.

  “Listen,” I began, hoping to ease some of the tension between us, “you don’t need to trouble yourself on my account. I’m exhausted and will retire immediately.”

  “Trouble?” The word oozed from her drawn lips. “Don’t go to any trouble on account of you? You have no idea what sort of trouble your little escapade has caused us! Dear Mr. Campbell here was beside himself with worry. Your disappearance near drove him daft, not to mention the added stress of the storm. My Robbie was as bone-weary as a man can be and still be alive! But you are too self-absorbed and spoiled to even see it! God have pity on you, Sara Stevenson, for being the thoughtless creature that you are!”

  I looked at Mr. Campbell standing solemnly behind me. The bruise maligning his stoic face, the dark circles under his eyes, the tousled hair, and the guilty demeanor suggesting that I had indeed gotten under his skin, made me feel like crying. Remorse came sure and swiftly, yet so too did anger. “I do pray that God pities me, Kate,” I said, turning back to her. “I pray the good Lord takes pity on us all. And I’m truly sorry for the trouble I caused everyone, especially Mr. Campbell. But back to your earlier reproof, why the devil are you still answering to my mother, Kate? Do you really feel the need to report my every fault and failure? Do you not think the woman knows by now what I am? What I can’t understand is why you two insist on believing I will ever be that same person I once was.” Our eyes met, her doe-eyed gaze widening at the question in my own. Yet before she could answer, I turned to go.

  “Do you really want to know why?” she called to me. I did not turn around. “Because we still have hope for you, Sara. God knows why, but people often make a habit of clinging to it, even when, by all accounts, they have little left to hope for.”

  • • •

  I was relieved to be back in my own room again. The soft downy bed, with its mountain of pillows and beautiful quilt, called to me, but I was too worked up to sleep. The knowledge that the good people of the Cape, people I had grown to care deeply about, were involved in illegal smuggling was hard to swallow. Mr. Campbell’s sudden appearance had shocked me as well, but not as much as the knowledge that he perhaps had a deeper attachment to me than pure responsibility. The black eye, given to him by Hugh MacKay, no doubt, was very telling, although Mr. Campbell, of course, had avoided further discussion on the topic. I did find him intriguing; that I could not deny. But it was only, I believed, because I was here—in this vacuous land where even the most peculiar of men might spark a young girl’s fancy. And then there was another letter from the antiquarian. I had secretly been longing to delve into it ever since the odd little skiff had been sighted. Yet Mr. Campbell had pulled it from the depths of his own coat. He could have had it in there all along, and I would have been none the wiser. After all, he was known to frequent the jetty. But was he indeed the letter-writer? Similarities existed between the two men; in dreams I even pictured them one and the same. But why go to the trouble? And how had he gotten the chronometer? It was all too much to contemplate, and I was too tired to even think on it any longer. Instead, I pulled Mr. Seawell’s latest missive from the bodice of my gown and climbed into bed, intending to read the letter.

  I found it odd that the sight of the handwriting alone should raise my pulse. The neat, confident hand had become the only link I had left to the one man I undeniably still loved. And Mr. Seawell was going to tell me now if the brave soldier who had saved his life was indeed my Thomas.

  This thought alone was crushing. There was a part of me that didn’t really want to know. Logic declared that the young Scottish soldier had to have been Thomas; it was his timepiece that Mr. Seawell had sent to me. But the facts were all wrong. And why the devil would he run to the army when he could have spent eternity with me? With trembling hands, and a heart that I feared might give out, I broke the bloodred seal and read Mr. Seawell’s latest letter.

  My dearest Miss Stevenson,

  Let me first tell you how your letters brighten my day and my unbearable loneliness. You are an angel, my dear, my angel, and yet you are not an angel without some demons of your own, I find. Allow me to be the one to comfort you, and to tell you that you did nothing wrong where Mr. Thomas Crichton was concerned. You had the promise of a man; you believed he loved you and you gave him your heart in return. I’ve seen many a woman fall for a good deal less than that. But now the child you carry takes on the greater importance. Your latest letter revealed the pain and torment you suffer at learning of your family’s plans to give the child over to the foundling hospital. After years of love and nurturing, you saw your own family turn you away for a mere slight upon their name. And now, you must consider, should you do the same to one that is innocent?

  I will be honest. I would have gladly traded my own life so that my child and wife might have lived. I know of no man, no parent, who would do less, and I believe, knowing what I do of you already, you are too warm and kind a person to deprive your child his proper place in this world. I now pray every night for your safe delivery and the health of your child. And when it comes—this child that bears the name of Crichton—keep the child. Love the child. And should you wish it, Alexander Seawell will stand by you. It would be an honor, for this war, and this cruel world, has made too many orphans already …

  Mr. Seawell, due to his past experiences, had a reverence for life that bordered on the sacred, and it was hard for me to think of Mr. Alexander Seawell without calling to mind Mr. William Campbell. Although their stories were quite different, there was a similar chord, a familiar echo, and it puzzled me all the more. The light-keeper was still a mystery to me, and we seldom talked of his past at all. But could Mr. Campbell be trying to reach me, delivering me his thoughts and message through this innocuous and enigmatic persona? If indeed he was the letter-writer, it honored me that he would go to such lengths, and at the same time it angered me. Why go to such lengths?

  But it was apparent that whoever Mr. Seawell really was, his hard-won energies were now focused on the welfare of my unborn child—a life he had convinced me he would fight to preserve.

  The last paragraph of the letter was devoted to describing the physical features of James Crichton, just as I had asked. Here my hands shook so terribly that I had trouble deciphering the words. But to my utter astonishment, and joy, the man who saved Mr. Seawell’s life was not Thomas. Whereas his James Crichton had been of a tall and slender build with dark, wavy hair and crystal blue eyes, my Thomas was of a medium build and fair, like a blue-eyed Apollo, complete with golden curls. Thomas was a fine, handsome man indeed … and, according to Mr. Seawell, he was not the man who had died.

  It was this revelation that pushed all other quandaries aside as I set the letter on the bedside table. I lay back, resting my head on the pillows and vowing to learn more about this Mr. Seawell in order to determine if he was indeed Mr. Campbell. There were so many puzzling mysteries here; mysteries seemed to abound on Cape Wrath. But at the moment, none of them mattered. Nothing mattered anymore but the joyous news that Thomas had not died saving Mr. Seawell’s life. That was the selfless act of some other unfortunate soul who carried the name Crichton.

  I released a deep sigh, savoring this thought as I caressed my swollen belly; for it meant that there was still hope. A glimmer, perhaps more. But it was something. And as Kate had so recently reminded me: people often make a habit of clinging to hope, even when, by all accounts, there is little left to hope for …

  TEN

  Willy’s Prayer

  It didn’t take long for Mr. Campbell to recover his senses from the long night in which the smugglers had first made their presence known; nor did he have to reach back very far to feel the same outrage he had felt as he witnessed his boats being used to ply their goods. That was the needle that pricked him, again and again and again. It was that thought that denied him any more than four hours of sleep. It was that thought that kept him pacing back and fo
rth during both his watches in the light-room. In fact, the thought was so execrable to the light-keeper that it only took a mere twenty-four hours before he set off again for another rash visit to the MacKay croft. This time desperation wasn’t in it. It was retribution, I believed, and I silently pitied the intrepid Highlander Hugh MacKay.

  “Please, let me go with you,” I begged, following Mr. Campbell out of the cottage after watching him wolf down his oat porridge, scooping it out with a military economy that could have only been for the sake of keeping him upright. I alone knew where he was off to. I could see the thought behind his eyes, and he knew it. He didn’t mention a word of his intentions to Robbie. We had briefly discussed the situation and thought it best never to mention the smuggling activities of our neighbors to either Robbie or Kate. Robbie, dear man, could be trusted, but Kate (as I very well knew) could not. And she had ways (we both were in agreement here), of making her husband spill all his secrets. Again, while he readied his horse, Wallace this time, I vocalized my wishes. “I think it would be best if I went too. Not so suspicious, you know. I often frequent the MacKays. And besides, you even said so yourself, people actually like me.”