by Darci Hannah
At length I found what I was looking for, that oversized, nameless volume bound in vermilion. Truthfully, amongst the respectable titles and some rather scandalous novels indeed, it stood out like an ambitious courtesan in a Quaker church on a Sunday. I pulled it out and brought it to the desk, my sole purpose to descry the page wee Hughie had seen. I closed my eyes, preparing for the distasteful display, and opened the book.
It was the same horrific images that confronted me. I should not have been surprised by the sketches of naked women, but I was, and found myself even more horrified by the thought that this form of entertainment was a predilection of Mr. Campbell’s. With eyes shielded by my left hand against the lurid display (leaving only enough space between my fingers to identify the picture I was in search of), I turned the pages. I gasped. I cringed. I even exclaimed aloud, “Heaven save and preserve me …” while the taste of bile burned the back of my throat. I scanned them as quickly as I could, flipping through page after page of women who unknowingly had laid themselves bare for this perverse voyeur. And then, near the end where some unfilled sheets awaited the master’s pen, I saw her … or me.
My hand came away from my eyes as a knot seized my stomach, nearly taking the breath from me. The page in question contained a plain charcoal sketch, like all the others, but the face was familiar; the body, although quite flattering, was pure fantasy. Begrudgingly, I had to admit that it was a well-drawn image, more tastefully done than all the others. The woman, a remarkable likeness of me, was indeed naked, though it was her backside—high, full and round—that was featured. It was a pose of me looking over my shoulder, an inviting smile on my lips, one that the artist had captured with remarkable accuracy. It was a taunting smile, one designed to tease a man, and I suddenly wondered if this was what he really thought I was doing to him, preposterous though it was. A thick tumble of hair cascaded down my charcoal image’s back, ending just below a narrow waist—one decidedly not pregnant. My, Mr. Campbell’s imagination was good! And my arm, depicted gracefully by my side, made a feeble, yet largely unsuccessful attempt to hide a pair of very full breasts, plump and ripe as summer peaches, complete with pert erect nipples. With a growl of indignation, and eyes watering with burning anger, I steadied my trembling hands and gripped the edge of the page. With one mighty tug I attempted to rip it from the filthy book, only the paper was thicker than I had bargained for.
The whole thing came away, tumbling off the desk, and me with it, nearly taking out the chair as I went down. It was not quite the stealthy operation I had planned on, but I was determined in my effort to rid the book of my image and I grabbed the offending page once again.
The sound of the door shutting stopped me.
I spun around, our eyes met and caught, and then, before he could reach me, I yanked the page with redoubled force. Again I failed. He fell on me then, and we battled like two squabbling children in a schoolyard brawl, although, admittedly, I was the one doing all the kicking and fighting as he successfully pried the book out of my hands.
“Are ye aware that you’re destroying private property—and in my private room, no less?”
“How dare you!” I seethed through gritted teeth, demanding he release me.
The order was finally obeyed, accompanied by an astounding: “No, how dare you, Miss Stevenson! You are in my room, nosing around! I’d be in my rights if I turned ye over my knee this instant and beat ye for it—pregnant or not!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” I cried.
“Oh wouldn’t I?” he seethed, his aquamarine eyes burning with anger and a challenge. The way he said it frightened me.
“And what about this … this vile book of yours?”
His dark brows pulled taut, accenting the remarkable color of his eyes beneath, as he replied, “What about it?”
“It’s positively vile … filled with all manner of filthy images!”
For some reason this seemed to amuse him. “Vile, filthy images? And here I was thinking ye already knew about this book.” As he spoke he lifted the object in question. “This is, in fact, the very book you were perusing so thoroughly the day I found you in the light-room—uninvited. Perhaps you are the one intrigued by it? After all, this is the second time I’ve caught ye looking through the pages when ye thought no one was about.”
My hand came over my mouth, it was so scandalous. “How … dare … you!”
“How dare I? You, lass, should be the one asking yourself that very same question.” And he smiled darkly, assessing me with his crystal gaze. The light-keeper was enjoying my discomfort.
I steeled myself. “You have no right to have such a book, sir! It is unseemly, unprofessional and downright amoral!”
He cocked his head and studied me further, his lips pulling into a taunting, sardonic grin. “Amoral? Unprofessional? Forgive me, but I find it fascinating how your mind works.”
“My mind! You’re the disgusting, vile, perverted recluse!”
“Is that what ye think?” he breathed, and the smile, although not gone, paled measurably. “You do know that I’m a grown man, dear lass? And surely you are not so ignorant …” he said, looking at my swollen midriff, “of the needs and desires of grown men. That being said, I think there is a misunderstanding here.”
“I assure you, there is no misunderstanding!”
“You are aware, then, that this book is not, apparently, what you think it is?”
“I’m well aware of who and what you are, sir! And what … what do ye mean by not what it appears? I have eyes, you know, and those pictures are salacious. I’m not stupid!” I glared at him, still seething with anger.
“I never said that ye were. Meddlesome, however, intrusive and astonishingly ignorant given your past behavior, have sprung to mind. And just so we are on the same page, this is no ordinary book, Miss Stevenson, nor was it devised to arouse a man sexually, although I think it interesting you jumped to that conclusion.” This he punctuated with a very insulting look. “This book here, for your information, with perhaps the exception of only one picture, is a book of anatomy.”
“A book of anatomy?” I looked at the nondescript vermilion cover in his hands, suddenly ashamed that the thought had never occurred to me.
“Aye, anatomy; the science and study of the human body.” And then, noting my great, confounding embarrassment, he offered a soft, placating smile. “Forgive me, but I thought you knew.”
My face, I’m sure, was as red as a poppy. “But … why should you have such a thing … a lighthouse keeper?”
There was a moment of hesitation. “I wasn’t always a lighthouse keeper,” he said, his voice plaintive. And then his smile faded, and a distant wistfulness touched his stoic features.
With a need to redeem myself a measure, I offered, “I know. You were a sailor.”
His eyes found mine again. “I was never a sailor,” he stated matter-of-factly.
This reply confused me. “But … but Mr. MacKay said … I heard him say that you lost half your crew on that ship?”
“Aye, he was correct. But still, I was never a sailor.”
“Really?” I looked closely at him, confused all the more by this admission. Oddly enough he was studying me with a look of equal incredulity.
“You really don’t know? Your father never told ye?” He squinted, and it appeared as if his pale orbs were peering into my soul. “You really have no idea why you are here?”
“I’m here …” I stated a little defensively, feeling very like a fool under this man’s scrutiny. “I’m here,” I started again and lowered my voice to something akin to contrition, “to be punished for my sins, which, sir, I must tell you, I am not ashamed of.”
“Aye,” he breathed, amusement touching the corners of his mouth. And then he came closer with the questionable book in his hands. He stood mere inches away as he whispered, “And so, I find, I too am here for sins of my own. For I, Sara Stevenson, am a physician … was a physician,” he corrected. “But I find I’m nothing o
f the kind any longer; I’m barely even a man, for all that.”
His proximity, the feel of his warm breath on my skin, made me nervous. I pushed him away and countered, “I beg to differ with you there. On the contrary, sir, given that you study pictures like these,” I indicated the book in question, “I’d have to say you’re very much a man. Did you draw them … the women? And are they really dead?”
“Aye, and aye,” he answered haltingly.
“Did you kill them?”
Here he hesitated. My gaze was intense upon him and he had the decency to look away. “No.”
“But you have killed?”
This question was met with silence, yet his look was telling enough.
The silence grew to an uncomfortable level as we studied each other like the strangers we were. The thought that this dark and brooding man standing before me had once been a physician was shocking enough, but that he had actually embarked on a career to help humanity and now shunned all contact with the very souls he had vowed to save was beyond remarkable. Either he awoke to the truth of his debased nature or something catastrophic had occurred to change him entirely. I tried to remember if I had ever heard anything on the matter at home—but then, I recalled, my parents seldom spoke of such things to us children. I forced myself to look deeply into his eyes again and suddenly remembered the curse.
Mr. Campbell believed he was cursed.
And because of the picture I had found—the drawing of me—I was in no mood to tell him otherwise, and so I prodded. “Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me why it is, if you are no longer a man of medicine, that you insist on looking through that vile book?”
He scowled. “Vile? This book is not vile, Miss Stevenson. I pulled it out in an attempt to …” he began to explain, then halted. “What I mean is that I needed to …” I realized that this pointed question troubled him, and I had to admit, I liked seeing him so harried and flustered. I crossed my arms, tilted my head and waited. He frowned and blurted, “Well, damn it! Because it’s been a muckle long time since I’ve … I was only attempting to familiarize myself with the female body again.”
I raised my eyebrows at this—a very bold admission. “And what, pray tell, makes you think that’s necessary?”
“I was hoping to be prepared when the time comes, as it will inevitably come!” His dander was up; his dark, lustrous hair billowed about his head like a woolly storm cloud.
“Oh really?” I huffed, growing irate again. “Well, that’s awfully presumptuous of you. Besides, why study? I thought such things came as second nature to a man. Oh, but you said it yourself, you’re barely a man any longer. Tell me, did sketching that picture of me help you in any way?” It was delivered as it was meant: all spit and vinegar.
“That picture is none of your business! And don’t fool yourself, lass, ’tis nothing I want any part of. I was merely instructed that I would be the one doing it.” And noting my further outrage he grinned rather maniacally.
“You say you were instructed that you’d be the one to do it? By whom, sir, were you instructed!?” I demanded in a voice far too loud. Yet before he could answer I cut him off. “No. Don’t tell me. That midwife of yours put you up to this, didn’t she?”
“Midwife?” he blurted, looking just as crazed as I felt. “No, Maura never said aught to me on the matter. It was I who told her I’d be the one.”
“Now, that is presumptuous!” I cried in outrage. “And here I thought it was all her idea; after all, she did go to great pains to fill my head with the unsavory notion … said it would be good for us both. Ha!” I nearly spat the word. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Campbell, regardless of what you think of me, I let no man touch me without my consent, and you, sir, I’m sorry to inform, are way down on my list!”
He stepped closer, grabbed both my arms and looked smugly amused by it all. “And I hate to inform you, dear lass, but I believe you have little choice in the matter, bottom of your list or not! I’m the one!”
“Over my dead body!” I declared, and shoved him away. He stumbled backward and hit the bookshelf, causing his disgusting collection of creatures to shudder. One jar toppled over. He caught it in time. I continued, “Or is that the way you prefer your women? Dead, so they won’t have the will to fight you? Well, you can bet I’ll be fighting you! And if you try to force me to it, that, sir, I believe is termed rape! I’ll see you hanged!”
“Rape?” he bellowed, stopping my rant. His expression, eyes wild with confusion and pain, told me he was anything but pleased. “Jesus God!” he uttered in a burst of air. “You have it all wrong! We are not talking about the same thing here, I’m afraid.”
“Are we not?” It was my turn to look alarmed. “If we are not talking about that, then what are we talking about?”
“Sweet Jesus!” he blasphemed again, this time looking truly vexed. And then he raked his fingers through his dark curls in that habitual manner of his. Looking back up, he uttered disbelievingly, “He never told you, did he? Your father never explained to you why you’re here. Jesus God, the bastard! Well, then I’ll be the one to do it,” he said, looking pointedly at me. “You’re here, Miss Stevenson, because I’m the one that’s to deliver your child.”
“You?” I uttered, covering my mouth with my hand to stifle the horrifically unpleasant sound forming in my throat.
“Yes, me,” he affirmed, looking equally affronted. “And I’m afraid I feel much the same as you on the matter. Because ’tis a veritable death sentence … for all parties involved.”
• • •
This new revelation was astounding and it shook me to the core of my being. The matter of the drawing that had driven me to his room in the first place and the notorious “book” fell from my thoughts. Mr. Campbell could sketch my naked image a hundred times over and still the affront would pale in comparison to the knowledge I had just learned. I had been sent here for the sole purpose of being under his care. That my father had knowingly put the life of his daughter and unborn grandchild in the hands of a pariah who not only was responsible for the death of half the crew of a ship he served on, and was party to the death of the previous light-keeper and three locals, but was unconscionable and cruel beyond measure. Was my behavior so appalling that my parents believed I actually deserved this? Did they revile me that much? Would they even care that my image was being manipulated and exploited for the perverse fantasies of the very man made to deliver my child? The punishment seemed cruelly disproportionate to the crime. I had only fallen in love with a man who I believed wholeheartedly loved me in return. Thomas Crichton, for the span of those few shining months, had been everything to me. And that I should suffer this … this death sentence, merely for the sin of disgracing my family, was a thought so ineffable I could barely conceive of it.
I would die here.
My baby would die here.
And I would never have the chance to tell Thomas that had he loved me, I would gladly suffer the same a thousand times over.
Later, alone in my room, I clung to the watch, feeling its beating heart against mine. I read and reread Mr. Seawell’s letter, praying a truly fervent prayer that he would be able to shed more light on the mysterious return of my watch.
• • •
And so it was that I found myself again standing on that windswept precipice in the shadow of the lighthouse in the moment of dawn—that elusive, transitory moment dividing the night from the day. The last day of March was upon us; again there was a prevailing fog and I stood facing the sea, as I always did, praying for the life of my child, praying that Mr. Campbell, however cursed, would find the means to deliver us both safely. When at last I opened my eyes I saw it again, that odd little skiff, shooting out of the bay that guarded the lighthouse jetty. There was not enough light to see much, just the shape of the thing—the cut of her sails that seemed to shimmer slightly against the murky gray of the morning. And then, just as before, the fog swallowed the boat. I looked up at the windows in the o
bservation room, just under the great lantern, and saw that Mr. Campbell had seen it too. He was out on the balcony looking intently in the direction where the little skiff had disappeared. His eye was to the eyepiece on the telescope, but apparently he was too late. Mr. Campbell then turned to me.
Of course he knew I was standing there. He had often seen me in the same spot, and since the incident in his room he had been evermore understanding of me. He knew that I came out to the precipice when I had difficulty sleeping, just as I knew he rarely slept at all.
Our eyes met.
The mere language of his body told me what I already knew: he had seen what I had seen. A moment of absolute stillness followed. Neither one of us had the will to move; yet both of us sensed the possible meaning. I was too far away to see the expression on his face, but I could tell what he was thinking. However, I was the first to move, large and cumbersome as I was, and before he could stop me I bolted off in the direction of the jetty.
I was still within the lighthouse bounds when he found me. Mr. Campbell moved surprisingly fast and caught up with me just as I reached the stables. His voice was mild as he offered, “It appears we’ve had company.”
“Yes,” I agreed, and kept walking briskly. “Did you recognize her?”
“No” was his reply. And then a hand on my arm stopped me. “It is a long way down that road. I’ll saddle Wallace and ride there myself. Won’t take but a moment.”
“I want to go too,” I insisted.
“Aye, I realize that, but ye are not supposed to be astride a horse, or have you forgotten?”
“Did I say I wanted to ride? I was planning to walk. The exercise is good for me; I find it relaxing.”
He looked at me, undoubtedly to see how determined I was. Mr. Campbell might have been socially inept on most accounts, but he had learned enough of me to know that I was a very determined young lady. “It relaxes you, does it? All right,” he relented. “But I’m going with you.”
It was odd indeed for the light-keeper to leave his post during his watch. But I could tell he considered this trip to be very much a part of his business. The reason became clear. “Did you happen to notice anything chancy about that wee boat?” he inquired as we paced along in the light of the growing sun.