by Darci Hannah
I believed it was purely for peace of mind that Mr. Campbell insisted I make a visit to a midwife or an accoucheur; for, aside from his predilection for naked, dead pregnant women—a fact I shuddered to think on—I believed that the mere thought of childbirth, to one so far removed from humanity, was likely repugnant. We passed along the few cottages lining the main street, each one advertising on a little wooden sign the service, or multiplicity of services, to be found within. I spied the dwelling advertising that there was a surgeon to be had. The wagon slowed down, Mr. Campbell said something to Robbie, and Robbie along with Kate jumped out. Mr. Campbell, however, did not stop. He kept the team walking on, traveling farther down the rutted path, slowly moving away from the small cluster of civilization.
“I thought …” I began, touching the sleeve of his coat, “I thought the whole purpose of this trip was to visit the doctor?”
“Aye, and that man there is no doctor. He’s a surgeon … a barber-surgeon and tooth-puller forbye. And, not to be coarse on the matter, but I’d no sooner put a young lady before him than I would the crown jewels. He’d have no scruples pinching either.”
“You don’t trust him,” I said, finding that little morsel of fact intriguing. And then, studying him further, I asked, “Then why are we here?”
“Not to see him.” He gestured with a back nod of his head. “There’s another down the way.”
“But where are Robbie and Kate off to? Should they not come with us?”
“Mr. and Mrs. MacKinnon are off to enjoy a well-deserved respite. Unfortunately, that wee village is the best I can offer the man and his wife at the moment. I highly doubt either one of them would relish going where we’re going.”
There was indeed another soul Mr. Campbell had in mind. This particular “practitioner of the arts” dwelled in a little bothy that appeared from a distance to be a good deal shabbier than even the term implied. It was a squat, whitewashed stone hovel. One could almost mistake it for a pile of rubble, but for the tuft of yellow thatch that capped it off, and the gray smoke wafting from the chimney carrying a hint of sage to our nostrils. The whole little homestead was set at a prudent distance from any other dwelling, I noted, and was nestled in the bosom of a vale that protected it from the tenacious winds of the sea. Just the sight of the forlorn little place induced me to believe that I should have taken my chances back in the village with the surgeon, inappropriately roving hands or not.
A large rowan tree was the first sight to greet us as we turned on to the little drive leading to our questionable destination. It was the only tree I had seen for miles, purposely planted and boldly guarding the entrance to the property from evil, I supposed. I watched Mr. Campbell intently as we rolled past, noting with some dismay that the magical tree hadn’t thwarted his arrival; he was still very much alive and breathing. A few curs, upon hearing our approach, barked and harassed the horses, loudly heralding our arrival. But like most intelligent dogs they stayed at a cautious distance from the dangerous hooves and then, losing interest altogether, headed back to the plethora of other domestic animals that rooted under the bare branches of the tree, nibbling unseen delicacies scattered about the grounds. It was then I took a closer look at the suspicious dwelling, getting the strong impression that Mr. Campbell was tormenting me again. The thought of the creature that lived here placing their gnarled hands on my naked flesh invoked a real sense of fear, but I said not a word; I would never give him the satisfaction. Instead I sat stone-faced on the bench beside him, steeling my nerves and readying myself for another bout of his perverse inclination to humiliate and abuse me.
Without a word, or further explanation, he pulled to a stop before the door and alighted from the wagon, coming around to take my hand. I could tell by the mischievous look in his eyes as they delivered to mine a challenge that he was enjoying my discomfort.
“My, this is fitting, isn’t it?” I quipped, stepping down, pushing the disdain from my voice and vowing to play my part upon pain of death. “A fallen bothy for a fallen woman. How charming of you.”
“Is that what ye think?”
I smiled, ignoring his question, and walked on. He grabbed my arm and jerked me roughly around to face him.
“I’m doing you a great favor, Miss Stevenson,” he seethed, apparently affronted by my ungracious attitude. “This, however paltry it may appear, is the best Sutherland has to offer.”
“If that’s what you would have me believe, then I shall believe it. After all, I’m well aware that I’m entirely in your care. However, if anything untoward should happen to me in there, or as a result of what I’m about to endure, I swear, Mr. Campbell, I swear that I shall be another poor soul to add to your long list of plaguing ghosts. I’m committed to that,” I averred with a punctuating look. And then, responding to his extreme glare of displeasure with a smile, I added, “Now, let’s get on with it, shall we?”
I got no more than a few steps away from the light-keeper before the cottage door flung open, and there, standing on the threshold, was a woman—an old woman, round-faced and jolly, wiping her hands on a bright purple apron while beaming graciously at the dark, glowering man beyond me.
I was taken aback, even more so when she declared: “Why, Willy Campbell!” and bounded forward to greet him, her sprightly calico frock and sunny greeting looking even more out of place than the smile on my chaperon’s face. Her eyes, I noticed, were even paler than his, appearing almost silver in the full light of day. They were mesmerizing—she was mesmerizing—and aside from her motherly aura and effervescent personality, which was slightly contagious, her eyes were definitely the first things one noticed about her. “’Tis been an age since ye last cropped up on my stoop, and with a wife forbye! Och! And such a pretty child! Well, come along, then, come in, my sweeting, and let auld Maura take a keek at what that randy devil has done tae ye!”
I was about to protest her gross assumption but had not the opportunity. Pressing my arm in the fold of her meaty one, Maura, or auld Maura, as she referred to herself, whisked me away toward her lair.
Thinking I should know more about her than what my imagination had conjured, I politely asked after her surname, yet she was hesitant to give one, cheerfully explaining that she had seen five husbands to the grave, all fine men, and out of respect to their memories refrained from calling herself anything but Maura—although, she did add that her last two husbands had been of the surname MacKay.
I cast a glance behind me and saw Mr. Campbell standing between the team of horses, watching me with his unfathomable azure gaze. Sensing my reluctance yet guessing wrongly at its cause, Maura kindly added that her five husbands had blessed her with fourteen children, ten surviving infancy (a fairly remarkable number), and that she had helped scores of others into this world. Nurturing life was her passion, she said, birthing was her calling; and I believed her. Feeling somewhat comforted by her sheer motherly presence, not to mention her stellar qualifications, I entered her abode.
It was like entering the realm of some twisted fable or nightmarish dream. Cleverly carved, brightly painted, oversized furniture abounded, filling the small space with a surreal air. Add to this the astounding variety of dried plants and weeds that hung in great bunches from the low beams of the ceiling, and the effect was dizzying. The air was especially pungent and tickled the nose with an amalgamation of spices that took one aback at first. While trying to adjust my eyes and nose to these new surroundings, I was brought to the fire, where, to my amazement, a hefty pig with a yellow kerchief tied around its neck, and a black and white collie, lay snuggled together. “Och, Millie, get up, ye lazy sow,” said my hostess, yanking the creature up by the ear. There was a squeal of protest, followed by an ear-splitting snort, before the order was obeyed. “You too, Geordie, ye randy wee de’il. Get! Poor dear is in the same boat as ye, I’m afraid,” she explained to me, patting my cloak at the height of my belly in a knowing way. How she was able to tell my condition was still a mystery. She commented on th
e sow’s great appetite, how it had broken into the larder and did real damage to a barrel of apples, all while placing me in a chair by the fire. She ordered me to prop my feet on the cushion-covered stool; I felt compelled to obey. “What ye need is tae rest your weary bones a spell and tae have a nice hot cup o’ tea!” This she declared while swinging a blackened kettle over the fire. Then, with the same exhaustive flow of energy, she excused herself to have a private word with the man responsible for my current predicament.
Mr. Campbell had reluctantly followed us into the cottage. He stood just inside the doorway, hat off, head slightly bent as he quietly addressed the midwife. They conducted their conversation in a soft murmur, barely audible but for a few words that slipped out, causing the light-keeper to glance my way every so often. What was said, I had no idea, yet it became very clear what Mr. Campbell failed to deny.
“Sara, dear,” came his rich voice, pulling my wandering gaze to him. It was the second time he had used my Christian name. The use of it here shocked me, but only for a moment. He delivered a touchingly sincere smile. “I shall wait outside for you, aye?”
I nodded rather dumbly then watched as he passed the old woman some coins before slipping back outside.
A cup of tea found its way into my hands, tea that was certain to have a touch of something darker in it, something suspiciously like the local whisky so liberally in use. I sipped it politely as the old midwife sat watching me and felt almost at once a heavy warmth enter my empty stomach. I sighed audibly, reveling in the feel of it as it radiated throughout my limbs, and then, wanting yet more of it, I tossed the rest back in one hearty gulp. The result was that my head, and all my troubling thoughts, lightened pleasantly.
“There, now,” she began in soothing tones, her very presence making me feel surprisingly comfortable. I marveled at her plump cheeks as she talked and how the papery soft skin seemed to glow with rosy good health. “What a pleasure it is to have a new face to gaze upon. Let us natter a wee bitty before I examine ye, my dear. Tell me, how do you find life on the Cape?”
“Aside from the isolation, I find it rather pleasant,” I replied, and delivered a convincing smile.
“And Mr. Campbell, how does he treat ye, dear?”
I thought on this a moment, and then decided to plunge on ahead with the lie. “Why, Mr. Campbell is kindness itself. Very kindly indeed,” I added with a soft smile. Yet the old woman was gifted in ways that went beyond my understanding and she gave out a soft chuckle as she patted my thigh.
“You’re quite skilled at deception, almost as good as himself. But I wouldna be very good at the art I practice if I dinna see it.” She tapped her forehead with an old, though capable, finger.
“How is it you know …?” I was about to say “Mr. Campbell,” but thought better of it and said, “William?”
“’Tis all right, dear, I know he is no’ the father of your child, nor are ye his bride. But ’tis a deception that ye should consider for your own good here. And to answer your question, he came to me shortly after his arrival on the Cape, and then again last autumn.”
“After Mr. Duffy, the other keeper, died?”
“Yes. But it was no’ only the other keeper that was lost that day. Three others, good men with families, were also part of the loss, not tae mention the entire crew of the imperiled ship.”
“But why come to you, a midwife?”
“Because I’m no’ only a midwife, dear. Some seek me out for my other abilities; I’m known tae be a healer and at times I have the sight.”
“You’re a seer?” I blurted, staring at the kindly woman disbelievingly. “You can really see the future?”
“Sometimes it comes upon me, aye,” she admitted frankly, and then her eyes narrowed. “But I’m no’ the only one who has it. Many do. Your Mr. Campbell also has abilities, I do believe.”
At this absurdity I chuckled. “Mr. Campbell sees the future?”
“No, no’ the future, per se,” she clarified while holding me in her mesmerizing gaze. “But he does see, and what he sees, my dear, has a chilling effect on him.”
As these words were spoken, and their meaning inferred, the hair on the back of my neck prickled, traveling all the way down my spine. Reflexively, I glanced at the door where Mr. Campbell had so recently been. The old planks had been painted a bright red to hide the fact they were splintered and rotting; yet still, betwixt and between the bright boards a few shafts of daylight had snuck through, illuminating the dusty air. My eyes held to these rogue rays of light until a shadow crossed on the far side of the door, obscuring them. I took a sharp and sudden inhalation of breath. “What …” I uttered in a mere whisper, drawing my attention back to the midwife, “what exactly does he see?”
She cocked her head to better study me. “Ye dinna know?” she asked cautiously. She watched me a moment longer, holding me in her odd silvery gaze. And then, coming to some conclusion, she offered, “Willy Campbell, my dear, sees the past. And the past he sees is full of ghosts.”
It was a frightening admission coming from her lips and I had to ask, “Do … do you believe that he really does?”
She took a moment to poke the fire while pondering her reply. Another brick of peat was added before she turned to me. “I believe Mr. Campbell believes he see them, yes.”
“Then … is he mad?”
This question provoked another spell under the silvery eyes—eyes, I noted, that matched the wayward strands of hair that had escaped her cap. I could not look away as she said: “Mad. Brilliant. Lost. He is all those things, but he is especially diligent; and because he is, he did voice a particular concern for ye.”
“For me?”
“Aye. He mentioned ye received a package the other day; its contents had a particularly jarring effect on ye. I believe he is concerned that the shock of it might have affected the bairn ye now carry.”
I looked down at my hands, folded neatly in my lap, and recalled the horrific shock of seeing the watch, knowing its connection to the man I loved. My hands trembled slightly. It was then an old hand came over mine; the touch, the warmth, the confidence it relayed consoled me. “Come,” she said, pulling me to my feet. “Ye shall lie on the cot while I have a wee keek at ye and determine for myself the health of your bairn. Ye do understand you’ll have tae remove your clothes?” I nodded. “Ye dinna wear stays or thae corset, I presume?” To this, I shook my head. “Good. Ye look a might too sensible a lass for all that!”
While the examination took place, the midwife asked more questions specific to my condition and to how I was feeling. She talked as she poked and prodded, her voice always calm and distracting. And when the experienced hands began a vigorous campaign on my stomach, inducing a small foot to retaliate from just under my rib cage, she said, “Och, splendid! Let me guess, five, nearly six months?” I nodded and smiled at the accuracy. She continued to press and palpate the swollen mound, all the while stirring the tiny life within me, when her hands suddenly stopped. She was still, unmoving. So too was the baby. Her eyes, I noted, seemed brighter, yet distant. This change in demeanor frightened me and I asked her more than a few times what was amiss. At length she looked at me and slowly, softly, she uttered, “There’s nothing amiss, Sara.” A forced smile appeared on her thin lips, a smile that did not entirely reach her eyes. “’Tis just that I thought I felt a wee something.”
“Felt something? The baby? Is something wrong with my baby?” I gasped, struggling to sit up.
“Nothing is wrong with the child, my dear,” she was quick to console. “It appears quite healthy.”
“Then … what was it? What did ye feel?”
There was sadness in her bright, pale eyes as she spoke. “I felt …” she began, and then halted. When at last she had the will to look at me, I could see on her face an overwhelming empathy, and perhaps the welling of tears. “I felt,” she began again, and smiled kindly, “a great and abounding love.” And that was all she said. The examination was over.
> I was left to arrange my gown along with my colliding thoughts before joining her at the little cupboard. She was working industriously, her stout hands grinding dried herbs for a mixture I was to take with me. She turned and handed the little cloth sack over. “Give this to Mr. Campbell, he’ll know how to mix it for ye. Ye are tae take it twice a day, six weeks before delivery. Starting immediately I recommend ye take a glass of wine in the morning—warmed claret, if ye can, port if ye canna procure it—and a glass or two before bed. Also, I must insist ye indulge in rest. A brisk walk in the morning is fine, but nothing strenuous, aye? I’ve already had a wee word with himself on the matter. I know what a taskmaster he can be. Also,” she said, looking purposely into my eyes, “he must pay particular regard to gratifying your every desire.”
“My every desire?” I repeated, and giggled at the thought. For Mr. Campbell, unbeknownst to the midwife, would go out of his way to begrudge me even the meanest request. “I’m sorry,” I said, clearing my throat when she failed to see the humor of this statement. “It’s just that perhaps I’m a bit unclear by what you mean by my every desire?”
“What I mean, dear, is that pregnant women—young, healthy women, in general—have particular desires that should be gratified by their menfolk. ’Tis in your own best interest to do so.”
I was taken aback. The way she looked at me, her knowing smile and the long list of husbands attached to her name, confirmed for me her implication. “Are you suggesting …?”
“I am,” she confirmed with a nod of her head. “Intercourse, sexual intercourse, I highly recommend for a young woman; ’tis good for the health and complexion. The vigorous exercise will also improve your chances of having a successful delivery.”