by Darci Hannah
It was Mr. Campbell who finally spoke out, inviting Kate along to the tower with us to investigate the telescope once the morning chores were attended to. But for whatever reason, even though she knew what drove me to the observation room, she declined and sent me on alone with Mr. Campbell.
The observation room of late February was the same lofty chamber it had been when I first ventured up the many steps months ago, with the exception of the table where the man on duty sat. It still contained the makeshift spirit stove designed to keep a pot of coffee or tea warm, I noticed, but it was now scrubbed clean and empty of all books and papers except for the few nautical volumes, ledgers and signal books required. Mr. Campbell was waiting by the window, his tall, powerful form silhouetted by the sunlight shining through. Upon hearing me enter, he turned around. His appearance struck me at once, for he had changed. No longer was he wearing his rough and ragged work clothes of the morning but had on a respectable greatcoat, stock, clean linen and fine-fitting tan breeches, along with polished black Hessian boots. His attire was better suited to the streets of Edinburgh than a lighthouse on the edge of the world. His hair was also different, not loose and wild about his head but brushed to a deep chestnut sheen and pulled back into a proper queue. The transformation was remarkable and it did wonders for his luminous eyes. “Good, you’ve come,” he said without preamble, beckoning me over. “Mind the light, aye?” This he cautioned as I rounded the housing for the lamp, and then continued: “I was hoping you’d be along soon, for I’ve something of interest to show you. A small contingent from Ireland, I believe, is making its way down the Minch and should be rounding the Cape in the next hour or so, wind and tide permitting.”
“Really? How fascinating,” I replied, and went to stand next to him at the window. I looked in the direction he pointed and saw nothing but a few little triangles of white on a vast undulating sea. “How can you tell who they are when they’re so far away?” I questioned, thinking it unbelievable.
“Well, have a look and see for yourself.”
Eagerly I put my eye to the eyepiece attached to the swiveling scope, yet all I could see was blue—just a big circle of blue everywhere I aimed. When I said as much to Mr. Campbell he smiled slightly and instructed that I needed to sight the target properly first, then make small adjustments with the knob on the side, bringing objects far away into better focus. This I did, and once I had the ships in my sights, the difference was even more astounding. I could see there were five in all, remarkably similar three-masted vessels that seemed rather low in the water. And though I could not make out faces I could definitely tell there were people aboard them, and just that knowledge alone—that I could see something so far away with such detail—thrilled me. “What are they, do you think?” I questioned.
“They look suspiciously like transports to me. Do ye see the way they’re rigged? Shorter masts for stability, not speed.”
“You can tell by the way they’re rigged?”
“That, and the more telling fact that they sail under the colors of the Transport Board—with the Union Jack flying at the mizzen. They’re the king’s ships, sure enough, but what business they’re about, I haven’t a guess.”
“Transports? Are they going home, do you suppose?”
“Nay, they’re heading in the wrong direction if they are. Perhaps they’re for the continent. Maybe they have it in mind to invade Scotland? One never knows with the Irish aboard.”
“Why do you say they’re Irish when those are British ships?”
“Because if they were transports from west England or even southern Ireland they’d not take this route. They’d head south by way of the Irish Sea and round Land’s End to the English Channel. It’s easier and safer than threading the Minch, though I’ve known some to prefer it. No, those lads there are most likely heading to the North Sea, or even the Baltic, maybe for supplies—but to what end, I wonder?”
“You like watching ships, Mr. Campbell,” I stated, still marveling through the sight of the telescope.
“Sometimes” was his reflective answer.
We stayed like that in the observation room watching the ships move closer, standing in compatible silence while noting aloud every now and again further details that struck us. Mr. Campbell was awed by the notion of soldiers being shipped back to the continent when so many, after years of terrible fighting in the peninsula, were now at home. Were they going to the Baltic? he wondered aloud, but what a time of year to brave that sea! I was finally able to see faces of the men milling about on deck, soaking up the winter sun. But there were so many of them, and they were all dressed in the red coat of the British Army, and still they were too far for any proper recognition. I must have given some indication of my disappointment, for Mr. Campbell asked softly, “Miss Stevenson, where is it ye believe your baby’s father to be?”
I stood up, forgetting the telescope entirely, and looked at him closely for the first time. There was no anger or malicious intent about him. He looked handsome and cultured, his face set at an earnest tilt, his question polite as if he truly cared. Yet he was a man of such volatile constitution that I was hesitant to trust him with my secrets. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
“The truth is,” I heard myself saying, “I’m not entirely certain.”
“Ye do not know where he is?” he questioned softly.
I shook my head, uttering the word “No.”
“Did he leave ye, then?”
I thought on this, recalling vividly the pain and humiliation of that day on Calton Hill. I could feel the familiar stinging behind my eyes and cursed myself silently for not being stronger. “I …” I began, and then looked away, pretending to watch the ships again while covertly wiping the budding tears. “I cannot believe that he did. He promised he never would …”
“And why is it ye believe he’d be on a ship?”
“Because he’s a sailor,” I replied matter-of-factly, still looking out to sea.
“Ah, I see,” he uttered softly. “And if … if ye did happen to see him one day, by chance on a passing vessel, what is it ye have it in mind to do?”
I never thought of this. Ever since Thomas Crichton came into my life, common sense and reason seemed to have left me. What would I do? What could I do? I lived on a cliff hundreds of feet above the sea; often the promontory was cloaked in fog. Even if I did run to the cliff’s edge and jumped up and down waving my hands frantically, it was unlikely Thomas would see me. I was invisible. And alone. And hidden from the world behind a roving yellow eye.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said, and I could see that he really was. He was about to say something more, when a voice came echoing up the tower stairs. “Willy man, are ye up there?” It was Robbie. Mr. Campbell replied that he was and Robbie called up, “’Tis the wee lad Hughie come to see ye. Says his da’s on his way.”
“Och, I almost forgot!” he uttered, then called back through the doorway, “Tell the lad I’m on my way down.” He turned to me, a conspiratorial smile on his lips, and said, “At least the wee fiend’s good for something, aye?”
“Mr. MacKay’s coming to the lighthouse?” I thought it odd after the way Mary had acted that day.
“Aye, and his wife too.”
I studied him closely, detecting a somewhat smug look on his face as he delivered this message. The fact that he was dressed in a manner to receive company was also noted. “You asked them here … intentionally? That’s why you look so fine today!” It was blurted in a half question, half accusation.
“Ye think I’m fine-looking?” he quipped, his demeanor slightly teasing. He did look fine in his own way; Mr. Campbell was a handsome man, but I shook the question off and repeated, “You asked them here? When?”
“Aye,” he admitted, his face turning serious again. “I saw the lad out on the parve near a fortnight ago when Robbie and I were stalking that buck,” he answered, making reference to the poor, thin creature we had been dining on for the past two we
eks. “The lad had taken a fine brace of hare that day and came over to see what’s afoot. He told us of your wee visit to his croft and was very chatty where you were concerned. Seems he’d taken the measure of ye quite well, from all accounts.” He regarded me with an odd look of amusement so foreign to his serious demeanor. “The lad’s got an ingenuous manner about him both MacKinnon and I found quite disarming, but he also happened to mention that his mother was especially taken with ye and Miss Kate, and was anxious for another visit. I told him ye were unwell at the time but at the next fine day they should come out for a visit. And what day could be finer than this?”
“You asked them here on my account?” I was astounded. I didn’t think he had it in him. And I was certain my voice failed to hide the gratitude I felt. I walked over to the other side of the observation room to peer out the window. There, on the great expanse of undulating moorland, still covered in glistening snow, were two horses pulling what one might almost term a sleigh, but, in fact, looked more like a dogcart on runners, that was most definitely making its way toward us. There was also a horse in the courtyard hobbled to the flagpole; Robbie and the boy, wee Hughie, were leaning against the low wall, talking.
“Actually, Miss Stevenson, I’d be lying if I said yes.” I turned from the window to look at him. He bent his head slightly, dropping his gaze to the floor. “I had a wee incident with Mr. MacKay last summer and haven’t spoken to the man since. Haven’t spoken to anyone on the Cape, for that matter. I thought perhaps it was time to clear the air between us.”
“Incident?” I questioned. “What incident?”
He ignored my probing curiosity and came to stand beside me at the window, watching the little wagon as he spoke. “Truthfully, I wasn’t certain they’d come at all, even if Mrs. MacKay had taken a liking to ye. Highlanders can be a bloody stubborn lot. It was a bit of a long shot, really. But ye see,” he said softly, his magnificent eyes locking on to mine, “I employed a tactic, low though it may be, that was certain to bring them out eventually.”
Mr. Campbell was standing in his observation room, his personal domain, and it was in here he was willing to reveal himself to me, opening up just enough for me to get a glimpse inside his complicated and contradictory mind. Eagerly, perhaps a little too eagerly, I awaited his confessions. “Why … would that be, sir?” I prodded hopefully, placing a hand gently on the sleeve of his jacket. “Why wouldn’t they come, Mr. Campbell? And what sort of tactic did you use to bring them here?”
I truly believed I was winning him into my confidence with my unfeigned sincerity and interest, but he drew away. My touch, gentle though it was, made him flinch. His brows came down, his gaze darkened and I felt as if the door that had just begun to crack open between us was again slammed shut. He walked over to the base of the light and pretended to examine the complicated gears and clockwork mechanisms that when cranked by hand would cause the housing to rotate.
At length he turned to me, and with a sardonic smile said, “I promised the lad I’d show him all the workings of the great lantern if he came, Miss Stevenson—told him I’d let him stand in the observation room to peer through the telescope at passing ships on the sea, titillating his interest all the more. Because I knew a lad like that, a bit wayward, headstrong and coddled in the bosom of his family, would drive his parents positively daft with his incessant begging, with his singular focus on his own desires.”
In his words and dark tone, I felt the personal reprimand. Indignation was rising and I wrestled it back, but I could not refrain from lashing out. “So you used the child for your own end,” I said coldly. “How magnanimous of you. And here I thought you were actually beginning to have a heart.”
“That was your mistake,” he said evenly. “And I will tell you now, Miss Stevenson, so you don’t make the same mistake again: I do not have a heart.”
• • •
Puzzled and wounded by this mix of kindness and cruelty Mr. Campbell seemed to wield at will, I ran into the cottage, only half-heartedly returning wee Hughie’s friendly greeting. Kate was already hard at work on refreshments, making a mess of the little scullery and fully aware that we were expecting guests. “You knew!” I stammered, coming through the door.
“Aye. Robbie told me,” she confirmed in an offhand manner, and after stomping the snow from my boots while shaking my head deprecatingly, I went to my room to make the proper transformation required for receiving guests.
Thankfully I was in possession of many frivolous and fashionably high-waisted Empire gowns, every one of them thoroughly unsuited for remote cottage living. I chose a particularly enchanting one of deep rosy silk, accented with creamy satin ribbons and a matching spencer jacket. It turned heads in Edinburgh and it would likely suit my purpose here. And while I was disrobing, shucking off my ugly, soot-stained blue and cream work frock in exchange for the more elegant attire, I silently seethed with anger, knowing Mr. Campbell had played on my weakness. He knew what I wanted. He had seen the desperate look in my eye that first day he had found me in his tower. And he held the telescope before me like a carrot dangled before a starving cart horse. Foolishly, and apparently with no more control over my desires than wee Hughie, I had jumped at the chance. What was worse, Mr. Campbell now knew why. He knew what drove me. He knew what demon tormented me, yet I was no closer to discovering his. However, secrets revealed themselves slowly. And one secret of Mr. Campbell’s was set to arrive very shortly!
It was a genuine pleasure to see the face of Mary MacKay again. It had been weeks since we had first met, and that under rather suspect circumstances, yet it hadn’t diminished Mary’s desire to renew her acquaintance with us. She bounded out of the sleigh and ran over to Kate and me, grabbing me up in a warm embrace while exclaiming how sorry she was to hear of my illness. “Grab m’bag, Hugh, will ye?” She directed the order to her husband, a tall, broad, fine-looking man with the same shade of effulgent hair as his namesake. He had his little daughter in his arms and was making his way toward us when he stopped, turned and went back to the cart for the bag in question. “I’ve brought some things as ye should have to see ye in better health.”
“Why, thank you, Mary. How kind, truly. But as you can see, I’m much improved.”
“Aye, perhaps. But ye caused me a terrible fright, Sara, when I heard what happened. I would ha’ never forgiven myself. Especially since I told Hugh all about your visit and he being so anxious tae meet the both of ye.”
Hugh came forward with child and bag in hand and introduced himself. He was definitely his son’s father, for wee Hughie was the man’s miniature. Yet the father’s manner was more polished by far. “So ye are the ladies who ventured out in a blizzard tae meet my wife?” he began with a disarming smile. Put like that, our little escapade sounded rather foolish, and both Kate and I humbly acknowledged that we had. “Well, I’m certain ye’ve already had an earful for your efforts, but I, for one, am impressed, and grateful too. My wife has talked endlessly of your wee visit. Ye made a long winter brighter for her and the children, and for that ye have my deepest respect.” He performed a slight bow.
“How refreshing to finally meet a man of reason!” I exclaimed impulsively, taking his proffered hand. “Because on our end here, Mr. MacKay, respect wasn’t in it. An earful, however, was. Welcome to the lighthouse. We’re overjoyed to finally make your acquaintance, and honored that you saw fit to visit us on this fine winter day.”
We ushered our guests into the cottage, anticipating an afternoon of leisurely pleasure. Yet as soon as Mr. MacKay poked his head through the doorway, scanning the main room with a scrutinizing gaze, he paused. “Where has wee Hughie gotten off to? I’d expected him to be here waiting, as he promised he would when he begged to be let to ride ahead.”
“Why, sure he’s here, never you worry, sir,” offered Kate. “My Robbie took him up to the light-room a short while ago to have a look around. The wee lad was most anxious to see it.”
“He’s in thon tower?” th
e powerful Highlander exclaimed, looking none-too-pleased, his ruddy face going a few shades ruddier. “Is Campbell up there too?” It was more of a demand than a question, and before I could answer he exclaimed, “Och! But o’ course he is, thon wicked glib-tongued gomeral, luring my boy here like the canny de’il he is! He’s got the lad up in the tower filling his wee impressionable mind wi’ all manner o’ dark notions. By God—”
“Hugh, please!”
“No, no, ’tis quite all right,” I assured Mary, while silently admiring her husband’s venomous tirade and willing it to go on and on. But that would never do. The poor dear had gone nearly as red as her husband, though out of embarrassment, not anger, and was grappling the sleeve of his coat as one would rein in a spooked horse careening toward the edge of a cliff. “Mr. MacKay, please allow me to take you to the light-room myself. By no means should you be excluded from Mr. Campbell’s tour. Why, he told me himself how eagerly he was awaiting your arrival. I’m certain he’s looking forward to having a word with you.”
“Aye, I just bet he is,” Hugh MacKay replied, breathing a little too heavily for a man engaged on a friendly visit. He thrust his wiggling daughter into his wife’s arms and then, excusing himself civilly, stalked off in the direction of the tower.
That Mr. Campbell was expecting Hugh MacKay was a certainty, yet he took great care to look nonplussed at our arrival, leaning his tall, elegantly dressed frame laconically against the casement of the window and talking to the boy, whose eye was bent to the telescope, with avuncular familiarity as the two discussed the ships rounding the Cape. Robbie was seated at the table, silently scribbling in the log. Both men looked our way as we entered. There was a moment of awkward silence, the cold air alive with a palpable tension, and then Mr. Campbell’s eyes rested on me. He clearly had not expected my return after so inauspicious an exit only a short while ago, an exit spurred by hurt, anger and absolute frustration. He was also not expecting my transformation from dowdy pot-scrubber to Edinburgh debutante, and the flicker of appreciation crossed his luminescent eyes. Yet before his predatory gaze could linger I cut him off with a mocking smile.