The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  “Not really. I had a hard time making out much of anything at all.”

  “And are you at all familiar with the art of sailing, or does your knowledge of the sea only extend to sailors?” I turned on him, only to find him grinning.

  “Is that your idea of a joke? You’re lucky I’m in a benevolent mood this morning. To answer your question, yes I do know a little something about sailing, and for your information it was only one sailor I took a particular interest in, not sailors in general, so don’t get your hopes up. Another aside for your private ear, I don’t particularly fancy men in the medical profession either.”

  This made him chuckle. “The reason I ask is not to pry, but to see if you understand the improbability of what we just saw.”

  “We saw a little sailboat at dawn, heading out of the jetty and right into the fogbank … didn’t we?”

  “Aye, we did indeed. And that is what’s even more intriguing, because, Sara dear,” he intoned familiarly, a deep penetrating look on his face as he did so, “that cannot be. The wind’s not right for such a thing.”

  I stopped and turned to look at him. “William Campbell, what are you saying?” I asked, using his first name just as he had used mine. Yet whereas I merely accepted that he should use my Christian name, given that he would, one day soon, be delivering my child, my use of his name made him wince and nearly come to a halt. “I’m sorry. That was impertinent of me. I should not have said that.”

  He recovered quickly and kept his pace. “Forgive me, but most just call me Willy.”

  “You do not like the name William?”

  “I like it fine, Miss Stevenson …” He trailed off.

  “Sara,” I corrected. “Since you have been, unbeknownst to me, appointed my personal physician, I believe you may call me Sara.”

  “As I was saying, Sara.…” My name elicited a charming grin from him this time. “I’m just not used to hearing that name. Now, back to the wee skiff. What I’m getting at is that either that craft was built to defy the wind—sailing right dead into the eye of it—or that wee boat is not of this …”

  “Go on,” I urged, noting how his eyes glowed with an eerie penetration. “What is it, William?”

  He thought better of what he was going to say, shook the thought from his head and smiled. “Well, and maybe I’m wrong too. Lately it seems I’ve been wrong about a great many things.”

  “That, dear sir, is a common affliction of the male sex, I’m afraid.” And I smiled triumphantly as he walked beside me in silence.

  William Campbell was not wrong about one thing; someone had indeed paid a visit to us, and that “someone” had left another letter from the antiquarian—the Oxford man. Holding it in my hand I felt my skin prickle with anticipation, and I carried it back to the cottage as calmly as I could. Mr. Campbell was also intrigued, but the letter did not seem to hold quite the amount of interest for him as did the little skiff. Perhaps, I offered, the craft was the personal tender of the antiquarian himself? This seemed the most logical explanation, and no more was said on the matter.

  Kate was there to greet us at the door and was clearly puzzled that we had both disappeared together. Robbie was up and about too when Mr. Campbell explained what had happened. It was then Kate noticed the letter in my hand. “Is that another letter from the Oxford man?” Mr. Campbell answered for me, and as he did I saw a look pass between the MacKinnons, the meaning of which I could not venture a guess. I looked at the table and saw that breakfast had been laid out. There was the typical watery porridge, a plate of runny eggs and blackened toast that could just pass for edible. I plucked a slice of the burnt bread and made a polite excuse before heading to my room.

  After pulling the rocking chair near the fire I studied the letter, pausing to marvel at the handwriting a moment while attempting to conjure a vision of the mysterious man to whom the writing belonged. On impulse I sniffed the paper, dismayed to find it smelled only like paper with lingering traces of the sea. When I actually mustered the courage to break the seal I found that my heart was beating a little faster at the sight of his words, neatly formed, yet boldly staring at me in black ink. And I’m sorry to admit that I delved into it with the hunger of one who had been starved of humanity for a very long while.

  My dear Miss Stevenson,

  I am truly sorry for the raw nerve my last letter seemed to have struck, and for the perplexity I seemed to have caused you. For I’ll have you know that was never my intent. The circumstances surrounding the beautiful timepiece are certainly a great mystery, and one, I am sorry to say, I am unable to expound upon. Yet there is one matter I would like to address, and it has to do with a certain disdain you seem to harbor for the name Crichton. It appears that a man named Thomas seems to have wronged you, and for that I am truly sorry. Yet I feel it is my place to explain and defend the character of the extraordinary young man James Crichton, who sacrificed his own promising young life so that one unworthy, undeserving, wretched soul such as myself should live …

  And there began the most extraordinary tale I have ever read. Mr. Seawell explained how he, a man of learning, had thought to submit his body and soul to the rigors of war. Driven by the loss of his beloved wife and child, both taken from him during a complicated childbirth, and succumbing to a level of grief and suffering that no man should ever be made to suffer, he attempted to end his earthly existence. But even at this he had failed, proclaiming that after every sorry attempt visions of the Church loomed large in his consciousness, and the thought of spending all eternity in hell was too much—even for a wretch like him—to contemplate. Finding himself without hope, having nothing on this earth to anchor him any longer, he began his slow descent to the seventh circle of hell. Half-drunk, half-mad, he lost his chair as a professor of history at the university. That was when he decided to join the fighting on the continent. For although he was too much of a coward to take his own life, the enemy, he figured, would have no qualms on the matter.

  He volunteered for service on the front line, entrenching himself in a war that would forever scar the face of the world. He placed himself in harm’s way time and again, yet after each battle he found that somehow he had survived the day. His bravery was rewarded, he climbed the ranks, and slowly, very slowly, he realized that God had given him a purpose for living. He would live to protect the men placed under his care.

  It happened when his regiment found themselves at the forefront of a terrible battle. It was a hopeless situation, he had said. And just when he was ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of his men, a selfless young Scot, newly come to his regiment, came forward and committed an act of undaunted bravery, giving Mr. Seawell a new lease on life. Yet it was a lease he felt wholly undeserving of. He should have been the one lying dead; it was supposed to have been his blood soaking the ground of France that day and not that of young Jamie Crichton.

  I was in tears by the end of the letter. My heart went out to Mr. Seawell, this strange and lost soul. But mostly I cried for Jamie Crichton, for to me there could be no mistake: he was my Thomas. In my mind’s eye he resembled the same brave, selfless man that I had given my heart to, had celebrated his love with my body and now carried his child. I fought hard to come to terms with the meaning of Mr. Seawell’s letter. The return of the timepiece indicated that Thomas was dead; the words of this latest letter confirmed it. Yet why would Thomas join the army if he had been a sailor born and bred? It really made no sense, and this incongruous detail was all I had with which to console myself.

  At length, when all my tears had been cried out, and while still clutching both letter and beating timepiece in my hands, I was determined to write a reply to Mr. Seawell’s letter. Awash with sorrow, yet driven by an indescribable need, I plucked out a quill and attempted to apologize for the venomous tone of my last correspondence. I sought to console the poor man any way I could, and even found myself sharing a sliver of my own sorry tale and why I had been perhaps a little chuff where the name Crichto
n was concerned …

  Dear Mr. Seawell,

  Thank you for the candor of your last letter. Your plight was moving indeed and I don’t mind telling you it brought me to tears. My own sorry tale pales in comparison, seems frivolous and childish even, yet the hurt is real enough. You have honored me with such openness and candor that I now wish to reciprocate in kind, praying that you reserve judgment on one you have never met while at the same time hoping to shed some light on why the name Crichton induced a tad of vitriol from me.

  The reason, quite simply, is because I fell madly in love with a young sailor of the name Thomas Crichton—against the rigid principles of my family and, perhaps, my better judgment. My only excuse is that I was young, foolhardy and infinitely happy. Yet in the end I believe Thomas betrayed me, leaving me not only with a broken heart but in a delicate position as well. For this sin I find myself isolated from the entire world, living in a lighthouse of my father’s design on a place known as Cape Wrath. And believe me when I tell you, the name is a fitting one. For I’ve been made to feel the wrath of this paltry existence every day, and with every gust of arctic wind. Yet in actuality the locals tell me Cape Wrath was not named for the condition of this coast, but for a word the Vikings gave to this point when they ruled the sea. The word hvarf in Old Norse was the term used to denote the point of turning, and this lonely Cape marked the southern-most boundary of their empire at that time. Oddly enough, this part of Scotland is still known as Sutherland for that reason. So there’s a bit of history for you, Mr. Historian!

  I hope, dear Mr. Seawell, you can see it in your heart to forgive me my harsh treatment of those who bear the surname Crichton. The young man you described to me in your last letter was certainly the noblest example of mankind regardless, or perhaps as a result of, the name he carried. Do not, for a moment, feel cheated that you lived as a result of this young man’s bravery. For I too at one point believed death was a more fitting punishment than total banishment from society, but I have come to see it otherwise. I may never know the real story of my Thomas, or be certain that your James and my Thomas are indeed one and the same. That they both carry the same surname is, perhaps, beyond coincidental. But the fact remains that I am carrying the man’s child and if indeed he is dead, then this, to me, must be his final blessing, just as your final blessing from him was your life. It is odd to think that death has delivered your sentence, Mr. Seawell, and life is the cause of mine—the life of Mr. Crichton’s unborn child. I pray you shall find reason enough to live, just as I intend to see this through to the best of my God-given ability. May He bless us both in our endeavors!

  If you would be so kind, I must ask one more favor of you. I would like to learn more of this soldier who carried my timepiece, namely what he looked like. If you would please describe his physical characteristics I might better be able to judge the man and his motives. It may be impertinent of me, but you may even have some inkling as to why joining the army for this man was a more favorable alternative than marriage to me? I’d be obliged for any response you feel you can give.

  Sincerely and with the utmost regard,

  Sara Stevenson

  Writing the letter, purging my soul to a complete stranger, felt oddly cathartic. I found it as soothing to my mind as the now medicinal port (taken three times a day) was to my fecund body, both helping to ease a burden unseen yet ever present. What I had learned of Mr. Seawell also had a strange effect on me, for I was the sole confidante of his very personal and hellish plight. All in the space of those two correspondences, an outpouring of words, there had grown a bond between us—two lost souls linked forever by the watch-chain of Thomas Crichton.

  By the time I emerged from my room the men had already gone off on their duties. The kitchen had been tidied and Kate sat knitting a blanket by the fire. She looked up. She noticed the letter in my hand, the fresh wax seal containing my initials, and asked very softly, “Is he dead, then?”

  “Excuse me?” I replied, thinking I hadn’t heard her correctly.

  “I asked if he was dead.”

  I looked at her, my eyes burning with the tears I had shed, yet I saw not even a glimmer of remorse in her own eyes. “I don’t know,” was my feeble reply. “The matter is still unclear.”

  She got up then and came over to me, guiding me to another of the wing-back chairs by the fire. Once seated she then forced a mug into my hands—the steaming liquid, I noted, was light brown.

  “Mr. Campbell said to give it to you. Said it would help calm your nerves in the case you’d be needing them calmed.”

  “What is it?”

  “That coffee of his … with a dousing of cream and a touch of what he terms ‘Scotch hospitality.’”

  I sniffed it, and then took a sip. Scottish hospitality indeed. There was more whisky in the mix than coffee, but it was good, and it went down easily as my companion studied me.

  “It is for the best, you know,” she consoled at length. “It would never have worked, even if you did manage to carry it off.”

  “What are you talking about, Kate?” I said, for I was in no mood for one of her lectures.

  “Your sailor. It’s better this way; it’s better that he’s dead instead of you waking up one morning wishing he was. Maybe now you can turn your attention to more important matters.”

  I was incredulous. That Kate could even think that the unnecessary death of a man—a good and decent man—was justified! And as for more important matters, there wasn’t one. I looked at her, knowing my anger frightened her. “I never imagined you to be so cold-hearted. You still don’t understand, do you?”

  “I understand duty,” she replied unbendingly. “And I was speaking of your unborn child. Stop thinking about that sailor for once and focus on the problem at hand! I received a letter from your mother while we were in Durness. If the baby should happen to live, she has made arrangements for it at the foundling hospital.”

  My heart stopped. All I could do was stare at her disbelievingly.

  “Oh, don’t pretend you didn’t see this coming. The father’s gone. They shall never let you back, unwed and with a child, nobody would be that foolish. And don’t even think of taking this to Mr. Campbell. When I told him of your family’s arrangements, he said he was already well apprised of how the situation stood. The man was a wee snappish about the whole affair, but it seems to me that your father had it in mind all along. There is another bit of news your mother wanted me to pass along, and that is that Mr. Talbot’s second wife passed away shortly after Christmas. He’s always been fond of you, and by summer’s end he’ll be looking to wed again. Perfect timing, if you play your cards right.”

  Again it was so perfidious that all I could do was stare dumbly at her.

  “You could have had an easy life, you know, if you had just behaved like a lady. Poor Mr. Graham was a fine gentleman, and infatuated with you as he was, even he had the good sense to know that such a marriage would have spelled disaster for him. But as this would be Mr. Talbot’s third marriage, a good deal can be overlooked, including taking for a wife a silly girl who once got it into her daft wee head to run off with a poor nobody of a sailor. Put the sailor behind you now, Sara. And start to think for once of your future.”

  My hand holding the letter was squeezing so hard that my knuckles had turned white. A wave of nausea washed over me and settled in the pit of my stomach, causing my whole being to sicken and shake with renewed hurt and anger. And all the hatred I had ever felt for this woman came flooding back tenfold. It was with great effort that I restrained myself from strangling her. I slowly stood up from the chair. “His name … is Thomas … Crichton!” I issued defiantly.

  “Who, dear?” she remarked with raised eyebrows, looking smugly ignorant.

  “He is not ‘a sailor’!” I cried. “He has a name, and his name is Thomas Crichton! And I shall never, ever put him behind me!”

  And I meant every word as I left the lighthouse cottage, heading straight for the jetty, my vi
sion blinded by tears once again.

  NINE

  Neighborly Secrets

  Again I had been betrayed. Only this new wave of despair was a direct result of my own foolishness, because I had never questioned the future of my child—I just accepted that I would be the one to love it. But without a husband, it would never work. Written in the dark history of my sex, there has never been a place for unwed mothers. Children of such unfortunate wretches were given over to the Church, or to foundling hospitals, or drowned outright by those less discerning. In fact, I never knew of anyone, never heard of anyone, in the same predicament as myself, and that thought alone revealed to me what an outcast I was. Certainly there were other women as headstrong and foolish as myself? Certainly I was not the only one to fall under the sublime spell of love? But I was pretty confident that I had been the only one to have been banished to a desolate lighthouse for the sins I committed. No other family could be so devious as to enlist a cursed light-keeper to dispose of their daughter’s bastard while the rest of the world remained largely ignorant. But they, none of them, had ever bargained on the fact that I very much wanted to keep my child; for we two alone shared the secret of Thomas Crichton’s love.

  Without much choice, and finding myself on the underside of hope, the only prayer I had left to cling to was the safe return of my child’s father. But even I knew how unlikely that was.

  After Kate had revealed the “arrangements” that had been made for me, I had not the stomach to even be around any of my companions. I hated them all, even poor innocent Robbie for his mere association with Kate. Really, he could have done so much better for himself! Yet he had made his own bed, as the saying goes, so he, of course, was just as much to blame as Kate, my mother’s tool. My renewed hatred for Mr. Campbell, among the more obvious reasons, stemmed from the mere fact that he had agreed to the absurd arrangements all along. Yet he was used to death and killing people. My hatred for him only made his job that much easier; it released him from the odious emotion of guilt should I not survive the ordeal.