The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  My hand flew over my mouth. I was aghast; the mere thought was scandalous … repulsive. “But … I’m not married to that man! He’s not my husband! He’s … he’s …”

  “Weel, that dinna stop ye before!” she interrupted with a pragmatic, poignant stare. “Or perhaps ye were married?” she mused with a tilt of her sage head. “Tell me, do ye ken anything about Scottish law? If it will ease your mind, all a man and woman need do tae be legally bound is tae have mutual consent on the matter. Witnesses, however, are a might helpful too.”

  Truthfully, I wasn’t listening to her ramble. I was having a hard enough time swallowing her latest tidbit of advice. “Did he … did he put you up to this?” I demanded, growing beyond indignant.

  “Nay, he did not. ’Tis just that such a physical release—as ye both could use—might help ease some of the mental torment and pain you each suffer in kind. Why, I wouldna be worth my weight in salt if I dinna see that!”

  “Well, and I hate to be the one to contradict you, but you are very, very wrong in your assumption! And I do not suffer!” I declared with a passionate huff. Then, grasping the little sack of herbs in my hand, I turned to go. I hesitated, then looked back at the midwife. “And as for a successful delivery, I believe I’m prepared to take my chances!”

  I was still in a rather viperous mood as I left the cottage, searching for the light-keeper while attempting to clear my mind of all repugnant thoughts. The midwife had been doing remarkably well up until the last moments of our interview, when she spilled her audacious seed—trying to convince me that a romantic interlude with the man that tormented me would be beneficial to all parties involved. I didn’t see it! I would never see it! Yet ironically I was in search of the very creature that caused me such discord. The yard, but for the animals, was empty. After taking a few deep breaths, filling my lungs with the cool air, I headed over to the wagon and thought to wait there until he returned.

  Yet it was there I found him, sleeping peacefully in the bed of the wagon. He was lying flat on his back in the loose hay, his dark coat wrapped snugly about him, an arm thrown over his eyes, exposing only the end of his aquiline nose and the firm set of his clean-shaven jaw. The collie called Geordie slept curled beside him. It was such an incongruous sight. His breathing was deep and relaxed. And although just moments ago I wanted nothing more than to berate him, I found, staring on his recumbent form, that I was loath to wake him; for he looked more at peace than I had ever seen him. Beneath the dappled shade of the rowan branches he looked very young and vulnerable, not at all the brooding recluse that battled his demons alone at night in the light-tower. It occurred to me then that I had no idea who this man even was. With this thought clouding my head—even getting the best of my better judgment—I cast a glance back at the bothy and was in time to see a lacy curtain drop back into place. The old woman had been watching me.

  It was the dog that stirred first, sensing my presence. The head came up, the brown eyes focused and the great fluffy tail began thumping the hay-covered boards. It was then the name William came to my lips, and I whispered to the man beside the dog. I whispered his name: “William.”

  The arm did not move, nor did the body, but the lips, finely shaped and rather full, pulled into what one might almost call a beatific smile. Mr. Campbell was still asleep beneath the warmth of the late winter sun. I was mesmerized by this smile, a smile only the name William seemed to elicit. I had never seen such a thing before. There was no spite or malice in it, only a purity of happiness. And it was the first time I ever considered that this man, at one time in his life, might have actually been happy. The thought touched me. Again, to keep the emotion affixed to this stranger’s face, I leaned over and whispered, “William.”

  The dog, feeling that this was an invitation to play, stood, and prancing over to me whacked his tail repeatedly against the face of the sleeping man. The arm came away. The eyes focused and the body sprang up with alarming speed.

  “How … how long have you been there?” he questioned gruffly, glaring at me with his pale, piercing eyes.

  The change was disappointing. I frowned in response and lied. “I’ve only just come.”

  He looked at the sky, noted the sun, and then pushed the dog out of the wagon. “Och! I must have drifted off,” he said by way of an apology, rubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to wake up. He turned to me again, his eyes less accusing. “Are ye done, then? Is everything all right with you?” I could see his question was genuine.

  “For now I believe everything is fine, sir; and I believe I owe you an apology. Your midwife, with the exception of one or two wild notions, was quite knowledgeable. Thank you. Now,” I said, climbing onto the bench, “if you don’t mind, I’m ready for that meal you promised me.”

  • • •

  As spring approached, things picked up on the Cape. Strong winds and the hint of war kept us on our toes at the lighthouse, and the sudden willingness of young Hughie MacKay to read lent a sense of importance to my role as nominal keeper-of-the-light.

  Since our visit to Durness, Mr. Campbell had been very cautious of what he would allow me to do. I believed the midwife had conveyed to him her insistence that I indulge in rest. Minimal housework was allowed, cooking as well, and so too was my tutoring. But I was not allowed to ride the horses, nor was I permitted to climb the lighthouse stairs or journey to Kervaig Bay to watch the men with their boat practice. This last precaution was added in order to avoid any wild inclination I might have gotten to ride in one of the lighthouse boats. He had also insisted that Mary and her son come to the cottage for tutoring. I countered this by stating that a brisk walk would suit me fine, and so I should be allowed to go to the MacKay croft once a week. He argued against this, hinting at my proclivity for foolish behavior. I took offense and lashed out with a defense of my own, and so a bargain was finally struck somewhere in the middle. Although Mr. Campbell never said as much, and although he was still rather distantly polite where I was concerned, there was a part of me that did wonder what other suggestions the sly midwife might have made to him; for there was something in his manner that hadn’t been there before. I couldn’t put a name to it. It was just a feeling. But I did notice, as well as did Kate, that Mr. Campbell took particular care to avoid me whenever possible.

  This, Kate surmised as we walked to the MacKay croft, was because Mr. Campbell had been instructed not to upset me. “It’s not good for the baby to have you upset, and everyone knows how you and Mr. Campbell upset each other. It’s very unseemly, and in your case, unwise,” she offered sagely.

  “You upset me too,” I told her plainly. “Perhaps you should learn from his example.” This caused an amusing glower along with a huff of indignation.

  “Only because you draw it out of people, Sara,” she riposted. “Your own mother saw it, your father learned of it too. Why, only a saint could put up with you.”

  “I knew a saint once,” I said, smiling pointedly at her, “and he liked me just fine.”

  “He was no saint, Sara, but a horny wee devil! And you the devil’s maiden, carrying his devil seed!”

  My eyes widened at this venom, and I stopped walking. “Come, now, Kate, that’s harsh, even coming from you.” And then I took a good look at her, the high color touching her cheeks, the flashing, accusatory look in her eyes and the pursed lips. “Dear heavens, you’re not jealous that I’m with child, are you?” It was the first time the thought struck me; unfortunately I had given voice to the impulsive notion. Kate, ignoring me, kept on walking. “Is it true?”

  “Never. Everyone knows children come of their own accord, in their own time.”

  “And you’ve been married over a year now,” I uttered, looking at her again. “You are doing it correctly?” I asked, hoping to be helpful, and then instantly regretting my impulsivity.

  “I’m a married woman!” she cried, indignantly. And then, turning on me with her characteristic show of spite, “Which is more than I can say for you! God
have mercy on ye, Sara Stevenson.”

  “Do you not think I’m paying for my sins?” I asked, beginning to lose my hard-won self-control. “Look at me! I didn’t ask for this,” I said, and placed a hand on my swollen belly. “I will never tell you what you want to hear, Kate. I will never tell you that loving Thomas Crichton was a mistake because it wasn’t. Can’t you take enough satisfaction in the fact that you were right? That he perhaps was using me?” I implored her with my eyes, trying again to make her understand what I was about to tell her. “I gave him my soul, and gladly, and if this child is all I have to show for it, then so be it. But I still believe, in my heart of hearts, that Thomas will come for me someday.”

  I could see the pity thick in her eyes, and the look was so distasteful. I could not abide such a look coming from her. It was cruel of me, to give voice to what I did, but I was driven by six months of pain and hurt. “Have you ever considered that God is punishing you and not me? I am the one, after all, carrying a child.”

  Her response was pure hatred, and a hatred that deep could only come from some vast insecurity … or perhaps even repressed guilt. With eyes that let me know just what she thought of me, amoral reprobate that I was, she still felt inclined to lash out. “Your behavior with that sailor was no better than an animal in heat … a weak-willed, wanton animal in heat! Mr. MacKinnon and I observe the proprieties of the marriage bed!”

  This was surprising, and I’m sure she saw what I thought of her admission written on my face. “Never on Sundays, nor Lent, and the twelve holy days following Christmas?” I supplied. “Nor on fast days, feast days, the week before and after each solstice and equinox, and those special days reserved each month solely for the female curse?”

  There was silence.

  “You should try being a weak-willed wanton, Kate.”

  “I am no animal!” she averred, her brown eyes flashing, her countenance oozing self-righteousness.

  “Maybe not, but I’ll wager Mr. MacKinnon is. Poor, poor Mr. MacKinnon.”

  • • •

  It was no secret that my skills with mop and broom, try as I might, were less than legendary, nor was the food prepared at our hearth worthy of the trip out to the precarious point, but I did relish my role as teacher, and my two pupils, though just beginning to discover the magic of the written word, positively glowed when they deciphered their first three letters strung together. It made me smile.

  Hughie was still mischievous as ever, but a surprising, and rather touching, proprietary behavior toward myself tempered his wilder notions. He made certain there was no need for me to get up from the table unnecessarily when we worked on his lessons. He checked my tea every few minutes to see that it was still warm and had the addition of milk and honey in the proper measure. He even, much to his mother’s amazement, offered to sweep the cottage for me whenever he came out for a visit. Yet it was after his third visit to the lighthouse that I began to wonder if the boy had other reasons for coming to see me.

  This third appearance of Hughie’s was unbeknownst to any of us until Mr. Campbell discovered the little creature, shortly after breakfast, up in the observation room of the lighthouse. Hughie had come alone, and was caught looking through Mr. Campbell’s prized telescope. I had no doubt harsh words transpired, and it was a quiet, rather sullen Hughie that sat before me, diligently copying the letters on the alphabet cards I had made for him into a thin film of flour put out specifically for that purpose. I watched him form the letters, CAT, RAT, BAT, SAT, and for my own amusement, Miss Sara smells better than Miss Kate. I smiled at his progress, corrected a few mistakes and instructed him on how to better form the letters. Yet I could tell Hughie’s heart wasn’t in it. Something was bothering the boy. He was normally mischievous in my presence and his blue eyes never failed to sparkle whenever he addressed me. But his look, ever since his discovery, had been guarded, his boyish thoughts distant. Finally, he looked up and very softly said, “I suppose you’ll be marrying the man now. ’Tis only right an’ proper that ye do.”

  “Excuse me?” I replied, and stilled his hand, forcing him to look at me. “And exactly which man would you be referring to?”

  His eyes flashed. “Mr. Campbell, of course.” It was said with a derisiveness that was meant to wound.

  “Well, and it would only be right and proper if your infantile assumptions were correct; which, as usual, they are not! I suggest you withhold judgment and stop making wild assumptions about me until you can read. And you’ll need to read very well if you’re planning to decipher the tale that I’m going to write. I’ll not use many three-letter words, I assure you.”

  “Have ye given a thought tae drawin’ any pictures, then?” he sneered. “Ye ken, making sketches and such? I find pictures more telling by far. Besides, they’re a might less befuddlin’ than anything ye might write.”

  “Befuddling? I shall make it especially so,” I promised with a wink and indicated with a finger for him to continue writing. He cast me a sideways glance then did as he was told.

  While Hughie worked I got up and poured another cup of tea. I looked out the window and saw Kate filling the washtub, making ready for the linen. Then, without so much as suffering a pang of guilt, I turned back to Hughie and watched as he traced a few letters into the shallow pan of flour. I sat back down at the table.

  “I’m curious, Hughie, why Mr. Campbell? Why do you think I should marry him?”

  He didn’t look up; he didn’t need to. I could see the bright flush of red in the alabaster skin of his neck, reaching all the way to the tips of his round little ears. Something had made the precocious child blush. He swallowed in the silence and continued ignoring me, feigning to concentrate extra hard on his letters.

  “Hughie, I asked you a question. Why him?”

  He wouldn’t look at me. It was most unusual for the boy to back down at a chance to skewer me, and quite frankly, I found it unnerving. “May I remind you that you were the one who brought up this subject in the first place?” I pulled the tray of flour away, watching his fingers trail in a serpentine pattern through the hard-won letters. He turned to me, his face as red as his effulgent hair.

  And then, very hesitantly, he said, “Because I saw a sketch of ye … in one of that man’s books. And ye, Miss Sara, were mother-naked!”

  • • •

  Hughie’s lesson came to an abrupt end, but not before I cajoled some information out of him first. The poor lad had been traumatized by what he had seen in the tower, perhaps even more so than I was after learning of it. I did my best to set him at his ease, smoothing the matter over as best I could before I saw him to his horse (the beast had been stabled in the barn with the others) and sent him on his way, suggesting that next time he should come out with the accompaniment of a parent.

  I was in turmoil. My insides were racing. And to calm myself until I could get at the insidious book in the tower—the one the poor boy had seen, with images a child of that tender, impressionable age should never have glimpsed—I rolled up my sleeves and helped Kate with the washing. I plucked out of the pile a shirt of Mr. Campbell’s and wrung it so fiercely—imagining it the man’s neck—until not a drop of water was left and I felt I might pass out from the effort. Kate, oblivious to the world around her for a change, commented, “Well done, Sara. I see you are finally getting the way of it.”

  I waited until the men had finished their work in the lighthouse and had retired for the afternoon to their own quarters, Kate disappearing as well, and then I ventured up to the light-room in search of the book bound in red leather. The stairs were much harder going with the additional weight I carried, but I would not be stopped. I would find the book, rip out the offensive page Hughie had seen and burn it. And then I would confront the monster. Yet when I reached the landing and ventured inside the observation room, I found it immaculate. Everything had been cleaned, the lens polished, the windows translucent as fine crystal and the table cleared of everything but for the spirit stove and pot. I se
arched the room, going over the whole structure for any sign of the book. And then I realized that of course he would have removed it. He would never leave it up here again. Not after this morning. The man might be dark and twisted, but he was also clever; brilliant, the old midwife had said. No. The book was no longer in the lighthouse. The book would be in his room.

  Again I waited, busying myself with the preparations for the evening meal. Yet after about an hour of working in the quiet cottage, the stew ready to go over the fire, I decided to retire to my own room and wait until I knew for certain Mr. Campbell’s room was vacant. I headed down the back hallway but stopped suddenly when I saw that the door to the light-keeper’s room was ajar, but only just. What were the odds of him being in there?—of this being another one of his clever ploys? But then, my anger getting the best of me, I realized it didn’t matter. An opportunity had showed itself, and I was going to take it.

  Standing before the door, I coaxed it open … just enough for me to have a look inside. The blasted thing creaked, and I held my breath, waiting for Mr. Campbell to spring out at me. Thankfully, he never came. Growing bolder, I pushed it again, this time creating enough of a gap for me to peer in. The room was messy, just as I remembered, and I scanned the unmade bed until I was satisfied it was empty. Mr. Campbell was not inside. He must have gotten up and slipped out unnoticed. But that thought I would not ponder. His room was beckoning to me; a cluttered den of secrets awaited, and a book bound in red leather was soon to meet its end.

  Not wishing to be too obtrusive, I confined my search to his desk and bookshelves. The desk, I saw, had been recently cleaned and therefore gave over nothing but for some black ink smudges, indicating that the man had written something not long ago. But it was a book I was interested in, a specific book, and so I turned my attention to the bookshelves and began scanning the spines, feeling slightly unnerved by all the ghastly creatures in their aqueous prisons glaring down on me.