by Darci Hannah
A frown crossed his lips at the same time the old man smiled cleverly as they stood in the doorway of the dark, hay-infested barn. Alexander chanced a peek inside and saw that it was lined to the rafters with thick bricks of drying peat. Shame flooded him as he stared at the smelly creature. A name so great in literature should not be degraded so, even if the beast that bore it would be carrying his luggage over moorland, and mountain, through peat bog and forest, to the relative metropolis of a town called Durness. The donkey, a suspect and notably unchivalrous beast, brayed loudly and proudly in response to his name. Alexander, not being one to question the ways of the aged or the infirm, nodded his acceptance of this new and trying torture, and attempted to lead his reluctant travel companion (which for reasons of his own he chose to call Odie) down the road, all the while the sound of laughter trailing at their backs. And just when he was out of earshot of the old man and his raucous hilarity, the rain started.
It was coming down in buckets by the time they entered the peat bog. That was pure hell. Even Odie, a loud though somewhat compliant beast, sat down and brayed in protest. Yet Alexander was on a mission, and come hell or high water—even treacherous spongy bog—he would make it to the lighthouse on Cape Wrath! And so, with the help of a willow switch industriously applied, man and donkey pushed on.
And that was when Alexander Seawell of Oxford questioned his sanity and his noble motives.
He had plenty of time to ponder his rash action too as he and Odie trudged along under a black cloud that seemed to be following them. And he traced it back, all the way back to that horrible day in France when that poor young soldier lay dying in his arms, young Jamie Crichton. The lad had given him that remarkable chronometer and had asked with his pleading blue eyes if he would return it to his pregnant wife. It was not an unusual request for a man who had just given his life in battle. And he had assured the young man that he would. But the watch was very fine—too fine for a young Scotsman to be carrying into battle. He was ashamed when he thought back on how he had toyed with the prospect of keeping it. Yet the lad’s eyes had haunted him, and he pushed his greed aside and sent that young man’s fine timepiece to a place called Cape Wrath. He had never even heard of Cape Wrath before, let alone harbored a desire to visit such a place. Scotland, with its rugged beauty and odd-speaking people, was for the Scots and hardly a place to interest a man like him—with, perhaps, the exception of Edinburgh … possibly even Glasgow. But they could keep the rest of the country to themselves for all he cared.
And truthfully he hadn’t cared.
He hadn’t cared about anything until he received that first letter. He never expected a letter in response to his, especially one that smacked of so much venom against some poor bloke named Thomas Crichton. It was from a woman, no less—a young, rather vibrant woman, and not at all the poor widow he had intended to reach. But this woman—this Sara Stevenson, as she called herself—had awakened something buried deep within him with her words; her passion was palpable. And he found that in spite of himself, and his stoic resolve to never be happy again, her words had made him smile.
And God, it had felt good to smile.
It was then he set out to explain himself a little better to this Miss Stevenson, and to assure the feisty creature that young, brave James Crichton was not at all the lecherous blackguard she inquired after. And he certainly did not bear the name of Thomas either!
Again came a letter, this one even more inexplicable than the first, and the sight of it had affected him more than he would have liked to admit. For that wall he had struggled so hard to erect, that impregnable mental structure designed to protect him from ever getting hurt again, was coming down, and all because of some spurned woman who had felt compelled to write him from a lonely outpost called Cape Wrath.
It was her letters alone that had kept him going when nothing else could. When his tour of duty fighting on the continent had ended he came home even more lost and dejected than when he had first enlisted. For so many of his countrymen had died over there. He even tried to get his old job back at the university, researching and teaching in the college of history, and was immediately awarded a seat in the department. But it was too soon, too rash, and his first time in the lecture hall was utterly disastrous.
He had been well prepared. Sparked by the beautiful timepiece of young Mr. Crichton, he decided to talk about chronometers, the art of horology, and the problem of longitude that had so plagued the mariner up until the early nineteenth century. He would talk about John Harrison, the brilliant horologist, and his quest to create an accurate sea-clock. He would talk of his predecessors, the intrepid Earnshaw and his contribution of the spring detent escapement, and the remarkable John Arnolds, father and son, both with an amazing gift to reproduce the chronometer like none before them ever had. And he had held one of their fine pieces, if only for the space of a few weeks.
But in that lecture hall, as he looked out over the young, impressionable faces that sat and listened to his oration, he saw that ghastly blue pallor of death that had so recently plagued him in France.
He tried not to look at the students, but that was not his style. Reflexively he looked up again, and that was when his eyes caught the magnetic blue of another. It was a young man, a hauntingly familiar young man who stared at him with James Crichton’s eyes. But the young man was not James. He was a golden-haired Adonis; yet the blue pallor of death had marred his fine looks. But the eyes … oh how they had glowed! Alexander, unable to take his eyes off the young man, was shaking uncontrollably, and finally had to dash out of the lecture hall in a panic-sweat. He realized then that he could never go back there—back to his old life and his old ways.
He had changed.
He was a changed man. And the only comfort he found was in the womanly round hand of a strange young lady who lived at the far end of his island home. And he was sorry to think that he found himself fantasizing about her nearly every minute of the day. What did she look like? What did her voice sound like? How would they get along if they were ever to meet? It was wrong of him; he knew that much. But God help him, he was not entirely in his right mind these days!
And then came that little note. It was not her best letter, no heart-wrenching story of her lost love, nor did it speak of the ongoing fight against her family to keep the child she was carrying. No, it was nothing of the kind. It was short and urgent, and touchingly simple. She asked, quite plainly, if he would find it in his heart to be with her when the baby came, for she didn’t think she could bear it alone.
Of course, his mind was already made up on the matter. This young woman had become everything to him, and he would see her child safely into the world. He believed it was fate that deigned it so; his journey north was inevitable. And in that instant, after reading that urgent last letter, he had dropped everything (not that he had been doing much), and took off for the place called Cape Wrath.
• • •
Alexander and the obstinate beast Odie finally made it to the little village of Durness, tired, hungry and positively aching with the effort of getting there. Yet again he was made to realize, as he quenched his thirst and sated his hunger in the local inn, that there was no transportation out to the lighthouse. There was a road, the boy who served him his ale had stated, though not a good one, but at least there was a road. And the boy smiled at this, finding it smugly amusing. He told the cold, wet man that if he was planning to get himself out to the lighthouse that night, as he had insisted on doing, then he was just going to have to walk the eleven miles himself!
Alexander paid for the meal and gave as a tip to the helpful youth his smelly, wet travel companion, Donkey-Odie. Whether the young man wanted the beast or not, Alexander didn’t really care, nor did he wait around to find out. Instead he took his belongings from the donkey’s back, slung them over his shoulder, fed Odie a few apples, and then gave a loving scratch behind the ears as a fond farewell. Before the sky ever thought of opening up again, spilling from the t
hick blanket of black clouds its wind-driven waters, he took himself off in the direction of the ferry at the Kyle of Durness.
In retrospect, Alexander believed he had never behaved with such temerity in all his twenty-nine years. He was getting older now, no longer a young man, and he would need to start to pull his life together if he was ever going to make anything of himself. And this rash trip to the far end of Scotland, character-building though it was, was not likely helping him gain that foothold on reality he so desperately needed.
Also, in retrospect, perhaps he should not have burdened the boy at the inn with the donkey. He might have need to eat there again someday, and soon, he mused while observing the rolling black sky. And he doubted very much if the service would be improved by his generous gift.
He had traveled no more than four miles when the rain began. However, it was not a driving rain … yet. He offered up a quick prayer to keep it so, even though he had lost faith in such things as prayer. But it had long been his habit to utter a wish to the God of his childhood, for that God had been kind to him; it was the God of his manhood that was wanting.
And strangely, crossing the damp, drizzly moorland that sat atop the highest cliffs on the Isle of Britain, he found himself desperately wanting to believe in something again.
It was late when Alexander Seawell arrived at the lighthouse after walking the many miles through undulating moorland, and once there the reality of what he had done began to sink in. He had traveled nearly the length of Great Britain, suffering extreme discomfort and even owning a beast of burden for a day, just to see a woman he had never even met. What if she had changed her mind? What if she really did not want him there?
What if …?
What if …?
But he knew there were a million “what ifs.” He also knew that he was going to have to bite the bullet, as they say, sometime.
Alexander, pulling himself up to his full six-foot height, stood unmoving beneath the towering light that flashed its yellow beam, a beam that had beckoned him onward for these last many miles through rain and darkness. And though he had braved the hellfire in the trenches on the continent with nary a care, he felt himself shake like a newly foaled colt at the thought of what he was about to do.
Dear Lord, how his whole body shook and trembled!
He tried to steady himself; he made a mad attempt at courage. But in the end it was the air, swirling about him wet and cold, charged with the tingle of electricity, that finally drove him to the cottage door. For his body began to tingle and prickle with electric excitement and he truly believed that if he didn’t move soon he would be struck by a rogue bolt of lightning for his stupidity.
Water was pouring off his hatless head in rivulets as he set his hand to the wood of the door. He gave one great, purposeful knock. It was a hard knock, for he was now determined, but not nearly so hard as to burst open the door in the manner it had. The oaken slab flung inward with such rapidity, creating a mighty bang as it hit the inside wall. It was as if a gust of wind had blown it open, and the shock of it stunned him.
Yet it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing her there, standing by the fire, holding tightly to the mantel as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. At the sound of the bursting door, the woman had turned to face him, and in that one moment all his fears were allayed.
She was beautiful, magnificently beautiful beyond even his wildest fancies. And she was as ripe as a melon, he noted with wan dismay, near to bursting with the child she carried; the child he would now see safely into this world.
Yet the surprise on her face startled him. Her look was one of shock, as if she hadn’t expected to see him there. In truth, his arrival was untimely, and he could hardly blame her for the wild-eyed look of fright she had turned on him. Yet after all, she was the one who had asked him to come. And he had told her that he would. But still, the beautiful creature didn’t utter a sound.
“Sara,” he half whispered, half croaked. “It’s me. It’s Alexander. I’ve come at long last, my dear. Please, do not look so alarmed, love. T’will never do. I told you I would make it, and here I am.” Although this speech was delivered with a disarming smile, much to his great dismay, it did nothing to calm the woman. In fact, if he was reading the situation correctly, she seemed even more frightened by far.
She turned fully to face him. Her eyes were as green as emeralds, he saw, silently admiring them as they flashed alarm, and the hair, the magnificent strawberry blond hair that framed her face, had tumbled about her shoulders in a cascade of loose curls. She was stunning! And the color, that soft apricot hue, almost matched the flush of her cheeks. Yet it was her pink rosebud lips that held his attention as they formed the word Who?
She tried again, looking at him as if she had seen a ghost. “Who … who did ye say you were, sir?”
“Why, I’m Alexander, my dear. The man you’ve asked to come? It was like traveling through the very gates of hell to get here, I tell you, but here I am.” His heart—that sensitive organ that had just begun to beat again with a glorious purpose—had now nearly stopped beating within his chest. “Is … is that not what you wanted? Am I not what you imagined I would be?” he uttered in a near whisper.
“I’m afraid, sir, I dinna understand what the devil you’re talking about.”
It was too much, the pain of it—the heartache was too much—and he blurted, “By God, it’s me, Sara! Alexander Seawell! The man who’s been writing you these past six months! The man who sent you the timepiece from James Crichton? By God, I’m the very man whose heart you’ve managed to mend with your kindness!”
Recognition dawned in the green eyes that stared unblinkingly at him, and a wave of relief finally hit home. But then, just as he believed she finally understood, she surprised him yet again by letting out a loud, pain-stricken gasp. “You … you knew my Jamie? Your name is Alexander Seawell and ye knew my Jamie? Dear heavens above …” And then her eyes—those magnificent misty emerald eyes—rolled back in her head. It was all he noted before catching her unconscious form in his arms.
• • •
When the young lady finally awoke she beheld him with a look of awe and wonder, and uttered in a voice very like an angel, “You are Alexander Seawell and ye knew my Jamie!”
“Yes, my dear. I did know a young man by that name. He served under me in my regiment. But I thought you were not married to Jamie. In fact, you heatedly denied as much in your letters. You only spoke of a Thomas, if you’ll recall, a Thomas Crichton. He was the man you loved,” he reminded her gently, silently thinking that the advanced pregnancy had addled her mind.
Yet this did not have the desired effect on the poor creature either. For she, in her fragile state, swore emphatically that James Crichton was her husband.
“Sir,” she began, sitting in one of the chairs near the hearth, “my name indeed is Sara, and your name is legend in our home. I dinna expect ye to understand, but I’m no’ the Sara you came to find.”
“What do you mean, you’re not the Sara I came to find?” he questioned, beginning to feel like a great fool. “How many Sara Stevensons live in a lighthouse on Cape Wrath, Scotland, may I ask?”
She smiled kindly at him and gently took his hand, barely believing it herself. “There were a few women by the name of Sara who have lived in this place, but only one that bore the name Stevenson. I am Sara Crichton, wife of Jamie Crichton, who died in the Battle of Givenchy in France nearly eight months ago.”
“Holy Mother,” he uttered, looking at this young, pregnant woman anew. This was the woman to whom he had written that first letter. He had addressed his letter to Sara Crichton, Keeper of the Light on Cape Wrath, just as Jamie had instructed. And she had kept the fine chronometer but had denied everything. What the hell was she playing at? “You say your husband died in the Battle of Givenchy?” Just uttering the name of the place made him shudder. It brought back all the horrible memories, all the men that had died over those four bloody days. He retur
ned his attention to her, his brown eyes narrowing as he took in the size of her belly. “But … was not your lover one Thomas Crichton? A man you yourself called … How did you put it? Ah yes, a besotted, debauching sailor?” he accused, his ire rising.
At this description, her fine pink lips pulled into a rueful smile. “I’m sorry to inform ye, but no! The only man I ever loved was Jamie Crichton, an honorable man like his father, and his father before him. Mr. Seawell, sir, I dinna profess to know what the devil’s going on here, or what it is that brought ye out to Cape Wrath on such a night as this, but I think ye had best come with me. For there’s something I must show ye that I have no way of explaining.”
She led him out of the cottage, walking rather slowly due to the great weight she carried, which also induced a charming little waddle. He found that it moved him strangely. The rain was still coming down, and they went as fast as they could into the lighthouse. They did not head up the spiral stairs but went instead down a dark hallway to a door at the end. This led to a storage room of sorts, he realized as his eyes adjusted to the wan light. And once they did, he noted that there were all manner of treasures that had been kept there. The antiquarian in him was spellbound by the array of antiquities, but the man in him pressed on; for the woman was intent on showing him something buried at the back of the room.
She brought him to stand before an old wooden chest—finely made, he assessed, and one very like what a sailor might have used a century ago, in the great age of sail. And then he noticed the name etched into the dark wood. The name, to his horror, was Thomas Crichton. He stood speechless.
