by Darci Hannah
“Only a messenger,” he replied gently, and I knew then he was an angel.
“You’re the owner of the boat, aren’t you … and the one who tormented him!”
“Love,” he began, looking serenely at me, “especially one born of such purity of heart and held together by unyielding devotion, deserves a second chance. That was my gift to Thomas. Live your life, Sara Crichton, yet always keep him in your heart the way you will always be in his. And when you are ready, many years from now, he shall come for you. That is my promise.”
As the old sailor spoke these words, I was overcome by a feeling of peace and serenity. It was consuming, and relieving in an odd sort of way even though I was still unwilling to fathom what had transpired. And then, just like Thomas, the angel too was gone. The cove turned dark and the rain fell once more. I looked to the end of the pier and saw that the little skiff—my beautiful little skiff—had vanished as well.
It hit me then, what I should have realized all along, but never could: the letters from the stranger Mr. Seawell, the reappearance of Thomas’ timepiece, the haunting presence of the man who convinced me to believe that he still loved me. Thomas had died, and I didn’t even know how or why, and it broke my heart beyond measure. But what I did know—that daft thread I had clung to for all these months—was that beyond doubt, Thomas Crichton had truly loved me as I loved him. And then it hit me: he really had moved heaven and earth for this one last, heartbreaking meeting.
Tears poured from my eyes, silent, helpless tears that mingled with the rain and coursed down my cheeks unchecked. I was filled with a debilitating sorrow that I believed would never go away, because Thomas was dead and he was never coming back. I sat on the pier recalling his face, his voice, his smell, the feel of his warm body next to mine as we made love. I wanted to remember every detail of him, to recall every moment we had spent together. And I grieved the fact that he would never get to hold his child. I let it consume me, these thoughts of him, while trying to make sense of what had happened … knowing I could never make sense of what had happened.
It was only when a terrible gripping pain seized me that I finally moved. And then it came again, squeezing my stomach with a force I had never felt. When it subsided, I stood, and I knew that my baby was preparing to be born. Thomas Crichton was gone. He had told me so himself. And there was nothing this side of heaven I could do about it now. But I would be damned if I didn’t do everything I could to save our child. Tears were still coming, and that I could not help, but I did fight the fatigue and heartache long enough to climb the jetty road. I fought the gush of water as it tumbled down the muddy incline in great rivulets; I fought the wind and the driving rain—and mostly I fought the bone-chilling knowledge that I had been visited by a ghost … and an angel.
Slowly I made my way back to the lighthouse, not only harboring a devastating sadness, but also gripped with fear. The men were attempting a hazardous rescue out in Kervaig Bay. They would be gone all night, and I doubted my child would wait that long to be born. Kate was my only hope—Kate, dear Kate. It was true that at times she drove me to despair, but I needed her now and I knew she wouldn’t disappoint me.
I came into the courtyard, pausing only to suffer the urgent pains that were increasing in strength and frequency, and made my way to the lighthouse tower. On a gust of wind I threw open the door and called up to her, my urgent voice reverberating up the spiral stairs, bouncing off the heavy stone walls. I yelled to her again and again, nearly crying with hysterics. But Kate did not answer.
“Kate, for the love of God, please answer me!” I cried, sobbing, on my knees at the foot of the steps. “My child is coming!” Yet again I was met with silence. I sobbed helplessly as another painful contraction came. And then I realized that even Kate would have answered my call. My heart sunk at this very thought, for it meant that she had likely seen me leave for Kervaig Bay and thought to follow.
I was damned.
Kate was gone.
I was utterly alone.
I made my way back to the cottage and stood by the fire, gripping the mantelpiece tightly in order to keep my body upright as I attempted to get warm. But I feared my body might never be warm again. Nonetheless, I held to the mantel out of sheer will and felt the peat fire slowly permeate my wet clothes. I stood there dumbly, confused and bewildered, heartbroken and destroyed as the impact of what had occurred at the jetty sank in: Thomas had finally come to me—Thomas’ ghost.
But I did not believe in ghosts, even Mr. Campbell’s ghosts. They were just stories, allegories for darker things. Yet mine had been real enough. I had truly seen Thomas; he had spoken to me. And it was that strange encounter that continued to haunt me.
And then I remembered the letters.
They were real; they had to be. What the angel said about Mr. Seawell made no sense. I released my grip on the mantel and made my way to my room. I went straight to the desk, pushed aside the pile of papers and opened the box where I had kept all Mr. Seawell’s letters.
The box was empty.
I searched frantically, overturning every scrap that lay there, pushing aside books and papers, but none revealed the many letters Mr. Seawell had written. They had vanished … just like Thomas. I had no proof. I had nothing to validate that the man ever existed, that he ever wrote the heart-wrenching tales that brought me closer to the troubled light-keeper. Yet I knew, deep down inside, that he had been very real.
I wanted to cry. I felt my child coming but didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to be alone, and so I went back to stand near the warmth of the fire, fighting the painful contractions that wracked my body, praying that I would be delivered of a miracle.
It was in between these body-splitting pains, when I was standing at the hearth, held upright by stubborn determination and a white-knuckled grip, breathing deliberately and heavily, that the door suddenly burst open.
The sound alone shocked me, for I hadn’t expected anyone to come. And when I turned to look, indeed there was no one. A gust of cold air and rain hit me then, driving the damp sea air straight through me. I would have blamed it on the storm and the high winds if I hadn’t felt his presence, that calming, familiar presence accompanied by a tingle of anticipation that I had felt whenever I held one of his letters. A smell of paper and ink infiltrated the room, and there was something deeper, muskier; something like the essence of male. I closed my eyes. Tears came again, coursing down my cheeks as yet another ghost surrounded me: another ghost beyond my reach. Poor, dear, lost Mr. Alexander Seawell.
It was then that the warm water gushed between my legs. I watched in horror as it pooled on the floor, just as another excruciating pain gripped me. This one brought me to my knees, nearly splitting my body in two.
I was scared.
I was going to die.
And I didn’t want to die—not alone, not with so many ghosts calling to me.
That was when I began to pray for the one man who could save me. The man I had learned to put my faith in; the man I realized I had grown to love. It was a long shot, I knew. But then again, I always believed in long shots. Crouched hands and knees on the floor, my body arching protectively around the baby that was fighting to be born, I implored God to bring him swiftly to me; for William Campbell did not need another death on his hands this night.
I have no idea how long I stayed like that, curled around the pain of birth, crouched like an animal in labor. I was breathing heavily. I was sweating. I was mumbling prayers under my breath, gritting my teeth with determination. Time had no meaning any longer. And just when I believed I would succumb to both the pain and the ghosts that had engulfed me, I heard my name.
It was soft but urgent, uttered with fear, and it was enough to penetrate my private cloak of suffering. I turned and cast a pleading eye at the open doorway. He was standing there, wet, windblown, looking positively tormented. A fleeting smile crossed my lips as recognition hit me. I was alone no longer. My prayers had been answered.
“William …” I uttered, unable to say anything more. The pain had started again. It was nearly nonstop.
“Sara! Oh dear God, lass!” he uttered, and scooped me up in his arms. “How long? When did it start?” he questioned, carrying me swiftly to my bedroom.
“How … did you know?” I asked him as he gently laid me on the bed we had almost made love on half a night ago. He now began the process of making ready for the birth. “How did you know to come?” I asked again with gritted teeth, following him with my eyes.
He came beside me and took up my hand. He pressed it tightly to his chest—so tight I could feel the frantic beating of his heart. He was as scared as I was. “Because I saw him, Sara,” he replied softly.
“Saw who?” I uttered, fighting to sit up. “Who?”
“Thomas Crichton,” he whispered, easing me back down. “I’ve been seeing him for some time now, same as you.”
“What do you mean, William, seeing him? Is he … is he one of your ghosts as well?”
“Nay, he’s not my ghost, love. He’s yours. But he did reveal himself to me on several accounts. Remember your wee little skiff? The one only you and I could see?”
“Only you and I?” I uttered, because the thought that only he and I could see it never crossed my mind. And then I said a little accusatorily, “You knew he was dead?”
“Aye. I thought you did too, but then I realized that you didn’t, and, God forgive me, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell ye. I know how ye loved the man; I knew it would break your heart to learn of it. And I didn’t want your heart to break, not for all the world.”
I reached a hand up to touch his cheek.
“I also know that he loved you.” And the tears in his eyes told me of his fear. “But I too have grown to love you, Sara. You know that by now. I tried to fight it, but God help me, I’m not that strong a man.”
I pulled his hand to my lips and kissed it. I then squeezed him so tightly I made him flinch, while awaiting another pelvic-splitting contraction to subside, and then I kissed him again. “I … love … you too, William. And like you, I also fought it. But I’m afraid …” I waited until the pain passed. He too waited, hanging on my every word. “But I’m afraid I shall never be able to give you all my heart.” It was an honest fear. Because I would always love Thomas Crichton, and William Campbell deserved better than I could give.
Another contraction came. I grimaced, and fought with all my might not to cry out in front of him. He held me, pulling me to him and whispering into my ear while pushing the sweat-soaked hair off my brow, “I swear, I shall never ask it of ye. But I will ask you, although this is hardly the time, to be my wife.”
I looked at him, his pale eyes, his unreadable face, and grunted, “You are joking!”
“Never.” He was sincere.
There could not have been a greater shock to me at that moment. And he knew it; he took a perverse pleasure from it. The smugly mischievous grin on his face made me want to hit him. “So now ye must live, Sara Stevenson-Crichton-Campbell, ye must live and love me as best as ever ye can. I’ll accept no other way.”
“Really?”
“Aye.”
I nodded my acceptance—attempted a smile even as my own eyes filled with tears. “Oh William,” I uttered, feeling like I was being torn apart, both physically and emotionally. “I’m honored, truly … and so sorry to put you through this … all this, and without any … formal … more pleasurable … introduction.” I grunted again, going almost dizzy with the effort. “But … dear God! I beg you, please get yourself down there. My baby is coming!”
• • •
Two remarkable things happened that stormy, windblown night. The first was the successful birth of my son, delivered safely into this world by the capable and gentle hands of William Campbell. The child, the infantile image of his father with his tiny ruddy face, rosebud lips, blue eyes and halo of golden fluff atop his head, was instantly named Thomas Crichton after the man who would have loved him but was somehow deprived of the chance. There was another man, however, who I knew would do his best to honor the memory of the man by loving his child, and he sat beside me on the bed, gazing at the tiny infant in my arms, the pale blue-green eyes never leaving the little boy’s face. It was perhaps William Campbell’s greatest achievement to date.
The other remarkable thing occurred shortly after wee Thomas entered the world, and that was a visit from a man named Jeb Stewart, one of the sailors rescued from the imperiled privateer Le Temeraire.
Dawn had already broken when the man arrived accompanied by Kate and Robbie MacKinnon. Every man on the Cape had played his part in the rescue, and though the ship suffered, no souls were lost. Mr. Stewart had been one of those rescued, but he was no ordinary member of her crew. He was a former sailor with the British Navy, and he was intent on seeing me. He understood that I was tired, having just given birth, but was insistent I hear him, for he had risked much to find me. And so he entered my bedroom, carrying in his great, muscular arms a sea chest that he had been charged to deliver to me.
One look at it and I knew. Unfortunately, it was my time for tears. I had cried so many in the past twelve hours, more than I prayed I would ever do again. But I could not help them now, and so, in front of this stranger, they fell once more. But Mr. Stewart had expected this to happen, bringing such a thing to me, and he smiled consolingly as the shock of seeing Thomas’ belongings subsided.
The sailor, Jeb Stewart, had a kindly round face, heavily lined by the sun and many years at sea. His clothes too were those of a mariner, his colorful gingham shirt checkered in red and blue, the stout, loose-fitting breeches and a thick braid of brown hair that reached to the middle of his back. His brown eyes were intelligent yet kind as he pulled a chair beside my bed and gently set down the chest. He then took a long moment sizing me up, scanning my puffy, tear-streaked face as well as the sleeping baby in my arms. The others were in the room with us as well, William sitting quietly on the bed beside me, Robbie and Kate pulling up chairs at the foot. And then Mr. Stewart softly spoke the words in his thick Scottish brogue, “Sara Stevenson. At lang last we meet, lass, and God how I wish ’twere under a more cheerful set o’ circumstances. But I have traveled far and wide tae see ye, an’ bring to ye no’ only the effects, but the heroic tale of the man wha’ loved ye …” And there began the explanation of why Thomas had failed to show up at Calton Hill on that day so long ago.
It had been nearly eight months since the young man had been carried aboard his ship, the HMS Majestic, unconscious. This poor wight, Mr. Stewart had said, had been knocked over the head while on his way to a tryst with a certain Edinburgh lady, and he had been the one instructed to lash him into a hammock lest the lad should awaken before they were safely into the Firth of Forth. At this I exclaimed with a hand to my mouth, “Thomas was kidnapped?”
“Ma’am,” he said to me, kindness sparkling in his brown eyes, “in the service we prefer thae term ‘pressed.’ But aye, your man, why, he was a special case. He was a marked man, if ye get my meaning. An’ I ken this weel, due to the fact that his dunnage came aboard ever afore he did. The lad’s sea chest came from a man working on the tender belonging tae the Northern Lighthouse Board. ’Twas one of Captain MacCrea’s gents wha’ brought it.”
“But … but why?” I questioned, thinking it impossible. “Why would Captain MacCrea do such a thing? He liked Thomas very well.”
Here the man looked around the room, eyeing the couple sitting at the foot of the bed. “Aye, he liked the lad fine enough. But somebody else did no’. And that somebody was the lass’ father.” His eyes then settled back on me. I understood.
As soon as Mr. Stewart spoke these words, a horrible, terrible feeling arose in the pit of my stomach. If what he was telling me was true, then my father had been the one who took my young man from me. But my father didn’t know of our plans! Certainly Thomas never would have said aught to anybody about what we were planning to do, and he was pai
nfully afraid of his employer. That day on Calton Hill was our own affair.
“But sir,” I uttered when I could, still waiting for this information to sink in. “My father would have had no idea that Mr. Crichton and I were planning to elope. He never even knew we were in love, let alone that we had been seeing each other secretly.”
“Fathers ken more than they let on forbye, especially when important information is being leaked to them from one close to the young lady in question.”
Kate.
My eyes flew to hers. The look on her face, the pain in her eyes, was her answer. Even her husband looked at her as if he had never seen her before. I knew Kate had told my parents of Thomas, but I thought it was after I had gone missing that day on Calton Hill, not before. And no one had ever told me otherwise … until now.
“How … how could you do such a thing?” was all I could utter, disbelievingly. And then another bout of great wracking sobs tore through me. It was William who comforted me, pulling me to him, holding me tightly in the shelter of his arms. For he alone knew just how much I hated Kate at that moment.
“Sara … I’m truly … sorry. I thought …” she said helplessly, her own tears obstructing her speech. “God as my witness, if you only knew how sorry I am! I tried to tell you! It was all a mistake! I never realized how much you really …”
I looked at the brown eyes; the whites around the dark irises were bloodshot with pain. Her usual look, the haughtiness, the self-righteousness, was entirely gone. And then I slowly began to realize that the change in her demeanor over the past few weeks had been not that of a woman who’d lost sight of her dream, but a woman who knew she had entirely crushed the dream of another—another she had once deeply cared for. There was nothing either of us could do now but listen to the rest of Mr. Stewart’s tale.
“Mr. Stewart,” spoke William softly, once he realized the worst sting of betrayal was over. “Perhaps, sir, ye will continue your story?”
