by Darci Hannah
“Aye, Stilton,” he agreed with a knowing grin. “Well, sneaking past your father’s a very brave thing, indeed, Miss Stevenson, but I fear ’tis too great a risk for ye to take. What if he caught ye? I have to tell ye, Sara, the man’s asked me to his office tomorrow, to discuss further employment, and his motives are a puzzle.”
“You’re coming here tomorrow?”
“Aye. One o’clock sharp.”
“I shall watch for you,” I whispered, and kissed his golden-stubbled cheek. “And you must tell me what he says—everything, Thomas.”
“Aye, I shall leave ye a wee note of the whole affair under thon bench, the one beneath the cherry tree. The one ye were sitting on the day I first saw ye. I shall tell ye of it and more. I shall tell ye how I love thee.”
“I shall leave one for you as well,” I said, and delight swept through me. It was another line of surreptitious communication.
“Aye, I shall look forward to it. But now, Sara, now we are together, just you and me, all alone, and it is an opportunity I willna waste. Come, sit with me,” he said, pulling me gently to his lap. He wrapped me in his arms and whispered, “Sit with me and tell me, how are we to do this, lass? How are we to be together? For I willna always be satisfied skulkin’ around in strange barns to steal a moment with ye, ever fearful of your father’s watchful eye. I want more than that, Sara. I want you for my own. How are we to do it, lass?” he asked again, his whisper husky with emotion as his luminous eyes pleaded the same question. I had no answer. Thankfully I didn’t have need of one just yet, for his lips, hungry and succulent, began nibbling my neck. It was too much for me; the thrill of him was too much, and I turned to him, meeting his hunger with my own while diverting his thoughts further from a question to which I had no answer.
We stayed in the barn, whiling away half the night talking, touching and kissing. He was careful not to press for more, reining himself in, never daring to go beyond that point we both longed for but I was not yet prepared to give. Thomas Crichton, for all his humble station in life and great disadvantage in the world, was a true gentleman, or so he made me believe. And when we had a decent understanding of each other, our intentions clear, he took me by the hand and walked me through the garden, nearly to my back door.
“Someday, I pray, I’ll be able to stand here in the broad light of day, boldly holding your hand for all the world to see. However,” he stated, casting a doleful look at the house, “that day has not yet come. Now, be careful,” he warned, “and perhaps I shall see ye tomorrow.”
“Why of course you’ll see me,” I teased, and blew him a kiss as I stood with my hand on the latch. He watched until I was through, and then silently left, making his way back to wherever it was he had come from.
• • •
The next day, precisely at one o’clock, I stood at my bedroom window and peered out into the garden, watching for him. He was prompt. He came through the garden entrance and walked down the path to the office door, where he paused to remove his cap. He then turned around and scanned the house, finally spotting me in a second-story window. Our eyes met, and I caught his smile, though it was only for a second, because just then the office door opened and my father appeared. I jumped behind the curtain at the sight of him. When I thought he could not see me, I peered out again, and caught him looking directly at my window. He then shifted his gaze to Thomas but said nothing to the young man as he ushered him inside. Yet his eyes returned to my window—as if daring me to appear.
Not more than a quarter hour later Thomas emerged. My heart sank, because I thought so short an interview could not bode well for a young man looking for further employment. What was more, I couldn’t read the expression on his face, for his head was bent and his cap back on as he walked to the garden bench. There he sat for a good while, appearing to contemplate some thought, and when his contemplations were done he withdrew a little piece of folded paper from his coat pocket. On this he made a note, scribbling something quickly with a little pencil and then refolding it, placing it gently in a little tuft of grass near one of the back legs. It was there his hand found another piece of paper, a paper that he discreetly stuffed into his pocket. And then he turned to me once more. This time he knew exactly where I was, and when our eyes met, he delivered to me a smile of sublime puzzlement—one of wonder—as his hand came over his heart.
I had no idea the exact meaning of this look and gesture, and longed to inquire further from behind the glass, but I didn’t get the chance, for just then two more men emerged from the same door, men I recognized: Captain MacCrea and another sailor from the yacht. They walked over to where Thomas stood, said something to him, and the three left the garden together.
It was only later, when I finally had the courage to retrieve my secret message, that I understood the meaning of Thomas’ expression. After some touching lines written to me came the scrawled message:
Unbelievable! Still employed. To stay on with Capt. Mac on the tender and given a raise of two pounds six pence more a month! Perplexed but did not dare question. Huzza! I owe it all to you—my Love, my Luck, my Treasure!
T.C.
I remember thinking that this was tremendous good news, for not only would Thomas be remaining close by, it also meant that perhaps my father liked him. And if my father liked him, it wouldn’t be impossible to persuade the man to see Thomas as more than a mere sailor, but as a man worthy of his daughter’s affections as well. My heart careened ahead with hope; yet intuition warned to proceed with caution.
We continued meeting clandestinely in the Fergusons’ barn whenever we could, and when we could not, we contrived to leave letters for each other beneath the garden bench. Thomas became a frequent visitor at Baxter Place, charged with delivering reports to my father. And as much as I would have liked to believe things were going well between the two of them, I found this was not the case. Besides, things were growing more difficult for me as well.
“Sara?” came a whisper through the darkness as I snuck through the barn door.
“Nay, ’tis Sara’s father,” I teased, and Thomas opened the cover on the lantern just enough to reveal a soft glow.
“Do not joke about a thing like that,” he chided, pulling me to him and nuzzling my ear. “Did I happen to mention the man truly frightens me? By the way, you’re late. I was beginning to think ye were not coming.”
“I was waylaid a bit. Kate’s been asking far too many questions lately, probing me about my blithe spirits, my rude behavior toward Mr. Graham, my inability to concentrate on what she’s telling me and the mysterious disappearance of my writing paper! And if that weren’t enough, Flora’s taken to lying outside my door every night now, knowing she’ll get a nice bit of cheese if I happen to be leaving my room. It was a precaution I took at first—keeping a stash of cheese in my linen drawer—but the daft creature’s caught on, and now my father’s growing suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” he questioned with a frown. “I pray he doesnae treat ye with polite disdain also.”
“Polite disdain?”
“Aye, a polite tone of voice accompanied by a cold-hearted look in the eye. ‘Thank ye for the report, Mr. Crichton. Anything else? That’ll be all.’ And I’m waved awa’ like a wretched fly on a jam tart.”
This was a little disheartening and I sighed. “Oh, whatever shall we do?”
He looked at me a moment with eyes that glistened in the wavering light. “Ye should come awa’ with me. Be my woman.”
“Thomas, be serious,” I reprimanded.
“Oh, but I am, lass,” he said, pulling me close—so close his lips were nearly touching mine—and I knew that he was, for his look was one of naked desire. Gone was Thomas Crichton the polite, patient gentleman and in his place stood a man of daring adventure, filled with dangerous thoughts and dangerous needs. This hot-blooded urgency both frightened and thrilled me. My knees grew weak and tingly, my pulse quickened. “Dinna be afraid, lass,” he whispered to my lips. And I found his voice,
as well as his soft caresses, soothing. “Surely ye know that I want ye as a man wants a woman? I want to love ye, to make love to ye; I want ye for my wife, Sara. May God help me, but I do.”
“But … how?” I uttered as tears of helplessness stung my eyes.
“I shall get a job on a merchantman. I’ll pay a visit to the lads at the East India Company and beg a job on an Indiaman heading for the Cape! Your father might even be kind enough to write me a recommendation. What d’ye think?”
I sniffed and forced a smile. “I think if he knew it would get you out of his garden, he’d write you the best recommendation in the history of recommendations. But, Thomas, I could not bear it if you went away—and to the Cape of Good Hope, no less!”
“Och, dinna fash. I’ll be taking ye with me. ’Tis the whole point, aye?”
I nodded. “But how, Thomas? How can we? What do we do about my—” But his finger stilled my lips.
“Trust me,” he said, and then he added with all the sincerity I had ever heard him use, “I will move heaven and earth if I have to so that we can be together, ye do know that?” The words—the very sentiment of rearranging heaven and earth to fit our needs—sent a crackling, electric tingle throughout my body, quite inexplicably, radiating from head to toe. It was not unpleasant, yet I shivered all the same, for I had never felt anything like it. I touched him then, willing him to feel how the magic of his words affected me. For I believed him and trusted that what he said was true.
“Dear Lord,” he uttered, his eyes wide with wonder. I knew he felt it too. “Are ye all right?”
“I want you, Thomas Crichton,” I stated with conviction, “and I too will move heaven and earth for you.” And then I fell into his awaiting arms.
I knew Thomas was a man that my parents would forever shun and repel. He was nothing to them—a goat turd, as he once said—that unpleasant muck beneath the boot one sometimes steps in. But to me he was everything. And I would be damned if I traded true love and happiness for a smelly, pompous man and five thousand pounds a year—including an estate in the country! To reassure myself, and Thomas, I drew him to me for a kiss, one that I knew would take the breath from him.
“Dear Lord above,” he uttered when he could. “Marry me, Sara Stevenson, marry me and I shall endeavor, for all my days, to make ye as happy as ye make me.” And to add more fuel to an already burning fire, he shamelessly recited Burns’ “A Red, Red Rose,” whispering the poem in my ear and delivering it with a passion I seriously doubted had ever touched it before.
“My love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
“So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
“Till a’ the seas gang—”
I didn’t let him finish. I didn’t want him to. Because I was his for the night; I was his for all eternity.
I was as eager for Thomas as he was for me, and we made love that night in the hayloft of the Fergusons’ barn. I didn’t know what to expect, for I had never been told, only that it was a vile, amoral, sinful act to behave so licentiously with a young man. But I was young and wild and naive, and if I thought his desire would tame me, I was wrong; it made me ravenous for more. Thomas was a Roman god, young and virile, gentle yet eager, and he was mine. And when later we lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms, I knew that whatever evils the preachers preached on the sins of the flesh, and however horrid my mother made sexual love out to be, the reality of it was something really quite miraculous and spiritual. How could it be wrong, I thought? How could such a thing be so reviled? And then I had an epiphany; it was the great secret. How else would one control and stifle so magical, so intimate an act between two people? And I smiled then, nuzzling deeper into Thomas’ neck, knowing that he was my secret.
It was four days before we could meet again, and this time I had a surprise for him. In response to my acceptance of his proposal of marriage, and tired of hearing me complain of how I missed seeing him when he was out to sea, he managed to leave a miniature oil likeness of himself before he left again, under the garden bench, with a note attached stating that it was only to tide me over until I had to suffer seeing his face every day. But he had insisted he would never tire of mine. I clutched the little picture to my bosom and ran inside, where I placed it directly under my pillow so I’d be near him as I slept. It was his gift, and I was grateful for it. Yet now I was in pursuit of a gift of my own, one especially for him.
I was scanning the windows of the many shops in the Luckenbooths, as Kate, Robbie and I walked placidly along the Royal Mile. It was a glorious day in early autumn and most of Edinburgh’s residents were out enjoying it, or so it seemed as we weaved our way in and amongst the throng. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but when I passed the window of a watchmaker, I knew. It had been a long day, and I could tell Robbie was growing bored with our women’s demands, looking into all manner of flouncy shops, where we fawned over outrageously colorful fabrics, silk ribbons and bows to match and thoroughly impractical hats that were all the rage in France.
I had done a good job of lulling my companion and her amiable husband through my compliance and good cheer, talking of the smelly Mr. Graham in the kindest light while professing how agreeable I found him during his last visit. At first, naturally, both Kate and Robbie were skeptical of my change of heart, knowing what a stubborn creature I was. But my acting skills were greatly improved since my adventures with Mr. Crichton, and they were finally pulled into my web. I sent them ahead to the little pub where we were to have refreshments, feigning that I had seen some silk ribbon in the window of Lady Rebecca’s that I absolutely must have. Given Robbie’s aversion for shopping, and how tired he must have been, he promptly agreed and pulled Kate with him down the lane, despite her protests. I stepped into the storefront of Lady Rebecca’s and watched them go, assuring them I wouldn’t be long. As soon as they were out of sight I slipped back into the street and made my way to the watchmaker.
It was a narrow, woody shop I entered, filled with the scent of lemon oil, varnish and sweet pipe smoke. The many timepieces and case clocks ticked and chimed away as I walked past; but my eye was intent on one in particular, the one that had caught my eye in the window. I didn’t know anything about timepieces apart from the fact that they usually kept time. And I didn’t know why the little watch in the window struck my fancy the way it did. But the truth was that I could see—no, feel—the joy of owning such a smart-looking piece reflected in the eyes of the man I loved. It was not a gaudy, gilded piece to constantly cause him worry if he should lose it, nor was it too plain as to surpass notice. The watch that caught my eye was a strong, solid piece, handsome but not flashy and encased in brilliant polished silver. In short, it reminded me of the man I loved: it reminded me of Thomas.
Quickly, and with no time to spare, I found the little watch and bent to pick it up, yet before I could grasp the object in question a voice near my ear stopped me.
“Either ye are the destined owner of that watch, or you have very fine taste, m’lady.” I turned, shocked to see the curator of the shop standing directly behind me. Realizing that I had likely been so absorbed in my arrant quest that I had not heard him walk up, I stood and offered him my kindest smile in apology. The watchmaker, gray-haired and bespectacled, was industriously polishing a tiny circle of glass in his hands. He performed a few last wipes and then dropped the corner of his apron and thrust the lens in a large pocket on the front. He then peered at me with owlish blue eyes from behind his spectacles. “That,” he said, shifting his gaze from me to the timepiece still sitting in the window, “is a rare fine chronometer. Came in just two days ago, all the way from London.”
“From London?” I questioned. “You didn’t make this, then?”
Thi
s caused him to chuckle. “I can see,” he began, and bent to pick up the watch, “that ye have little experience with chronometers. So maybe ye are the destined owner of the wee watch after all?”
I smiled, for I was not unused to sly salesmen. “Dear sir, I don’t believe that inanimate objects have destined owners. However, I am in need of a special gift. And that pocket watch certainly caught my eye. Can you tell me about it?”
“But of course, m’lady. Why, if this isn’t a very special watch indeed.” And with a twinkle still in his eye he flipped the watch over. “Eighteen-oh-five it says, only one previous owner, an astronomer forbye.”
“So it’s not new?” I said and scrunched up my nose at the thought.
“No, ’tis not new, but that does not matter with a chronometer as fine as this. The previous owner was a meticulous man. I was told,” he added, bending close so that only I could hear, which was just silly because I was the only other person in the shop, “that he was attempting to measure eternity, certain that the heavens had no end and that God lived just beyond the reach of his mighty lens.” He quirked a wiry brow. “He believed in angels too! But for all his peculiarities, he certainly kept this in fine working condition. Ye could hardly do better than a John Roger Arnold detent chronometer like this.”
“John Roger Arnold,” I repeated. “That was the name of the astronomer?”
“Heavens, no,” he replied, and let out another chuckle. “He’s the one what made the watch. Why, he’s quite a reputation for the making of such pieces. In fact, in the year this fine piece was made, the Arnolds received a handsome cash award for their work on such chronometers by the Board of Longitude. Tell me, miss, did ye have anyone in particular in mind for this?”
I looked at him and replied very truthfully, “A mariner.”
“Well then,” he said with all seriousness, “this is just the thing for a man of the sea! Deadly accurate, none more so, and handsome! Why, if kept well oiled and promptly wound, this little chronometer will keep ticking away forever!”