by Darci Hannah
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Hughie, and you’re just in time, for I’ve need of a brave lad to have the first slice of what Kate and I are proud to call an apple tart.”
“What would I want tae do that for, Miss Sara?” he challenged, blue eyes flashing daggers at me. “I ken verra weel ye have no art in the kitchen.”
I could see his mother bristle behind me, and I passed her a look that begged her to let the boy speak his mind.
“I think,” I began again earnestly, “that you will find, just as in learning to read, that if one continues to put forth the effort, one’s skills will greatly improve. I’m not going to claim my tart will be the best you’ve ever tasted, because that would indeed be a lie. But I can honestly tell you that your stomach will not rebel from the effort of eating it. And I would like very much if you would. I’m sorry for leaving your family in the rash manner I did, but I had my reasons, just as you have every right to be angry with me now. Yet just because I left that night doesn’t mean I’m giving up on teaching you your letters. I have faith in you, Hughie, and I’ll ask you to put a little of the same in me. Taste our tart, and see for yourself how gifted a teacher your mother is.”
The ice was broken and the boy accepted my apology with a shrug of his shoulders and a half-hearted frown; so too did his mother, though responding with her signature winsome smile. Hugh, with a purplish bruise marring the beauty of his right eye, had a purpose of his own for such a visit, and learning to read wasn’t it. Alighting from his wagon after his wife and children, he came over to Mr. Campbell and, looking levelly into the man’s eye, said, “I’ve got a wee something for ye, Campbell,” and went to rummage in the back of his wagon.
It was a cask, and not just any cask, but one bearing a cachet of the fleur-de-lis. “This washed up in the bay a few nights ago. I thought ye, being the all-knowing eye of these parts, would be interested in it. God only kens what it contains. I’m only doing my duty here, ye understand. But I have it on good authority that more are likely to wash ashore before the spring storms blow in.”
“A cask, ye say?” inquired Mr. Campbell with a good show of curiosity. He then grazed a finger lazily over the imperial seal, and slowly nodded his head. “Well, ye did the right thing here, MacKay. And I thank ye for respecting lighthouse authority. I shall see that this gets into the right hands.” And as he spoke these words his magnificent gaze settled on me.
“Aye, see that it does. Mayhap it will even ease someone’s anxieties a wee bit. Ye ken, cozen the troubled mind of one who might be expecting … something small and wriggly tae appear?” And Hugh MacKay, with one twinkling eye (the other too bloodshot and purple to twinkle properly), gave me a wink. Mary knew very well what her husband was about.
“Aye, I’m certain sure it will. In fact, this cask will improve matters greatly for the ones who are destined to receive it. And that brings to mind a fine-looking tart the ladies made. If you’ll bring the cask to the storage room for the now, MacKay, I’ll go fetch a pitcher and we can celebrate this find of yours with a wee drink while we sample the latest culinary achievement to come from the lighthouse kitchen. I’m not brave enough to brag about the quality of the vittles that grace our table, although I find them perfectly suitable myself, but I do believe I now have something quite proper to wet your lips with.”
And with that said, the two men, along with their suspicious cask, disappeared into the lighthouse while the rest of us made for the table.
The apple tart was surprisingly good, the crust flaky and golden to perfection, and the drink the adults used to wash it down with was piquant and heady. Wee Hughie even dove into the dish for another helping and begrudgingly told me that it would do. And thus the day unfolded with an easy companionship that went beyond even my wildest dreams.
• • •
Another dream of mine, one not yet realized but ever present, thrusting its tenterhooks into the forefront of my mind with greater urgency every passing day, was my dream of finding Thomas before the birth of our child. My only tool for this purpose, besides the hours spent patiently watching the ever-increasing shipping that took place out in the lanes, just beyond the reach of the lighthouse, was my correspondence with the antiquarian, Mr. Seawell. I don’t really know why I thought this was a connection, for he had told me in each letter that the man who saved his life was not the same man that I loved. But for some inexplicable reason—call it the chronometer, that timepiece with a steadily beating heart of its own—he was my link, and oddly enough, he was also my channel for understanding the intricate mind of Mr. Campbell; for the coincidences between them were too great to ignore.
With a dogged determination, I stepped up my letter-writing to the man, consciously probing, strategically questioning—purposely driving to unlock the very soul of the antiquarian so that I might know him intimately. And as I delved into the inkwell, scribbling away with a haste brought about by my absurdly burgeoning figure, my gallant champion, Mr. Alexander Seawell of Oxford, illusorily transformed into the winsomely dark lighthouse recluse, Mr. William Campbell of Cape Wrath—and the man, through this odd circumvention, was slowly being drawn out of his tower.
The connection that drove me to a better understanding of Mr. Campbell, besides Mr. Seawell’s letters, became his odd little garden, that paltry patch of earth on the rocky outcrop that was our home. Yet in spite of the harsh weather and the poor soil, it appeared as fertile as myself; and I found that I liked visiting the little plot every day in order to see what the sun had slowly coaxed from the stone-cold darkness. Mr. Campbell made a habit of visiting the garden too, and he would tell me about each plant, what it was commonly used for and of others he intended to plant once the Pole Star arrived with his seeds. Besides collecting dead creatures in glass bottles and drawing naked, dead ladies, the garden appeared also to be one of his hobbies—one of his more benign hobbies. Along with providing the kitchen with fresh greens and vegetables sorely lacking from the “winter lighthouse diet,” it was his scientific outlet, his place of observation and study, and many of the herbs and plants he cultivated had uses for healing the body.
His face visibly relaxed whenever he entered the little sanctuary, and as I watched him kneel on the ground, gently examining one of the tender young greens, I understood that this was a place where even the most tormented of creatures found peace. Perhaps that was why I liked it too, that and the fact that William Campbell was willing to share this special place with me.
Mr. Seawell, I learned, also had a hobby: collecting antiquities. He wrote of it with the same passion as William talked of his garden. In fact, I could almost see the stranger’s eyes light up as I read the words that explained his obsession in a way William Campbell could never explain his to me.
’Tis odd for a man who has shut himself away from all human contact to be so moved by an inanimate object that it nearly brings him to tears. I don’t expect you, my dear young lady, to understand—you who are still so young and vibrant—but that was the way I felt about your timepiece. Holding it between my hands gave me a rare pleasure, a pleasure very like the sight of your round, womanly script, and I’m sorry to think that I ever harbored thoughts of not returning it to you. But I was moved to do it, and God has blessed me for the heartache it caused, for your letters are an even greater treasure to me …
The words the man wrote were like a balm to my wounded soul, and although I had no idea what I was playing at or to whom I was even writing—so boldly, so tenderly, so honestly—I found that I could not break the connection. A fear was driving me forward, causing me to engage this lonely man because he was my only link to Thomas Crichton, however elusive it was. My own mother even found it necessary to warn against the evils of corresponding with unsuitable males, in a venomous letter she deigned to write me in reply to the only one I had written her. And her closing was especially poignant, instructing that I was also expected to do my duty concerning a certain orphanage in Edinburgh. It was delivered in the middle of Ma
y, the day the tender came to the lighthouse jetty to drop off the next six months of supplies. Ironically, my mother’s warning came just after Mr. Campbell had taken to the jetty the last letter I ever planned to write the antiquarian. He would see to it, just as he had seen to the others, assuring me that it would be in the postbox awaiting our odd little skiff to appear.
I did not go to greet the ship. Only Robbie and Mr. Campbell went down to the jetty that day to meet Captain MacDonald and his men; for the sight of me, as Kate softly suggested, so near to bursting with child, would certainly have shocked them all.
• • •
After the supplies had been logged in and properly stored away (a time-consuming, laborious task), after all the chores had been seen to and the evening meal cleaned up, I retired to my room, exhausted and sleepy, with a tiny glass of the medicinal dosing the midwife had instructed I take. It was perhaps just a talisman to ensure a safe delivery; and I wanted a safe delivery. With glass in hand I opened the door, having every intent of falling into a dreamless sleep, but the sight of a box placed atop the quilts of my bed stopped me. And when I saw the little note attached, a note written in the now familiar hand, I began to shake uncontrollably. I glanced again at the box, quaffed the heady, pungent liquid in one gulp and set the empty glass on the bedside table. With growing trepidation I perched myself next to the curious delivery and picked up the little note. To my utter astonishment and delight it was not addressed to Sara Crichton, as Mr. Seawell had always addressed his letters to me, but to another appellation of that seemingly whimsical race, an appellation that brought a smile to my face.
Dear Canny Wee Hare,
Enclosed you will find a very thorough book on horticulture, along with a new delivery of seeds. Might I beg of ye to read up on these particular specimens and how best to care for them? And maybe ye’ll agree to sit upon a wee stool in the garden whilst instructing me on how they should lay? I find I am not above taking advice from a knowledgeable wee creature, especially one that happens to add a rare beauty to a place that has been bereft for so long. The roses, a hearty, thorny, tenacious variety, are for your pleasure alone. Again, I would be ever grateful if you might advise as to where I should put them. I give you free rein, with but a few necessary exceptions.
William Campbell
With proof in hand that there could be no mistaking the distinctive script that told me William Campbell was indeed one and the same as Alexander Seawell, I smiled triumphantly, yet at the same time confusion reigned. There ensued a contrary flood of emotions so befuddling to my current state of mind—a mind further addled by advanced pregnancy, the liquid elixir and the gift—that I was at a complete loss as to what course of action I should take. Did William know Thomas? How did he get the watch? Why hide behind the mask of a stranger to confuse me? What the devil was he thinking? How dare he do such a thing to me! How dare he toy with my emotions! Then I saw the infant rosebushes, woody stemmed and covered with thorns, and the way they were tenderly swaddled in brown burlap and thoughtfully placed beside a leather-bound volume inscribed Treatise on the Complete Kitchen Garden Including Identification and Care of Edible Plants and Herbs, moved me.
“Damn him,” I uttered in a voice wrought with total helplessness. “Damn him!” And this time I knew very well which him I meant. I also knew the course of action I would take for the time being. And so, churning and quaking from more than the powerful elixir, I climbed into bed, turned up the lamp, picked up the cumbrous volume and vowed to read every last word of it before the night was through!
In truth, I didn’t get more than a few pages turned.
• • •
It was sometime in the dark of night when I heard the latch to my door rattle and softly click, as if in a far-off dream. The sound of booted feet came light on the floorboards, and at once the room was suffused with the scent of the sea and the cold night air, with just a dark hint of coffee and a sharp tang of expensive wine. With lids still too heavy to open, I lay in a dreamlike state on the bed, fully asleep yet partially awake. In my mind the entity had not a face but a presence, a solid masculine presence, and I could feel him standing beside the bed. The book, still between my two hands, was gently removed, and my arms, limp with sleep, were placed with great care at my sides. The light coverlet was drawn to my chin, and the lamp glowing brightly on the bedside table was extinguished.
Quiet settled over the dark room, yet I could still feel his presence beside me. And then, gently, a light pressure came over my swollen belly. Warmth radiated through my taut skin, and the fecund mound began to tingle pleasantly. My sleeping body knew not to be afraid of this presence, for he was now, with a telltale pop of a knee and the soft groan of the floorboard, kneeling beside me. I imagined the head bent in supplication, when the voice, soft and pleading, began speaking in an Edinburgh burr. The first words uttered echoed through me, and I could feel them surround my unborn child like a downy blanket, bringing a sense of warmth and peace that I had not felt for many a month; for the voice had invoked the name of Thomas Crichton.
My lips, reflexively, pulled into a smile at the sound of it, and the face of the man floated before me in my sleep-drunk mind. Then, in a voice barely discernible, came the name again, and with half a mind I listened to it speak.
“Thomas Crichton, I beg of ye, lad,” came the utterance in a fervent tone, “with the help of your maker, bring this child safely into this world. The Lord knows I am an unworthy soul for the task. And I have little enough to recommend me for such a prayer, but this: see this child safely to its mother’s arms and William Campbell will vow to protect them with his life for as long as he shall live.”
I didn’t know why the words were spoken, for what was conscious in me was entirely focused on the image of Thomas that swam before my mind’s eye. But then the gentle pressure on my belly slowly came away, and with it the image of my love. The warm, tingling sensation had also subsided. And that presence of male, so comforting in the dark night, was gone as well, leaving the room silent once more.
• • •
I had been sitting on a chair, brought specially to the garden by the man I was now infuriating with my indecision, when the men arrived. We hadn’t heard them approach, being too busy squabbling about the placement of the peas, a vegetable I doubted would do very well on the Cape, and one I wasn’t particularly fond of in the first place.
“You’re going to have to dig those up, I’m afraid,” I said, disapproval thick in my voice. “I thought that was where we decided the cabbage should go, not the peas. The peas would look best over there.”
“Did ye, by chance, even bother to read the book?” he questioned, looking at me from his ignoble stance on hands and knees in the dirt, doubt dripping from his piercing aqua eyes.
I lifted my chin. “Of course I did, and I should tell you, the man who wrote it was rather vague on the proper placement of such things as legumes. The cabbage he was quite fond of and stated that it will come up in big, round, happy faces, totally outshining all in its path. They should be in nice, neat rows all down here,” I indicated with the edge of my hand, “and the leeks and onions beside them. The turnips and carrots can go over there, and your precious herbs along that wall. There are better things to take up dirt than peas, William.”
He narrowed his eyes skeptically at this. “Ye dinna like peas, do ye?” he accused thickly, rising slowly from the dirt he had worked so hard to prepare. He brushed off his hands and squared to me with that annoying disapproval clear on his face. “You are forbidding me to plant the wee peas merely on account that you do not want to eat them! Am I correct?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Because that is very selfish of ye, Sara Stevenson. If ye don’t want to eat peas, I will not force ye to do so, but for heaven’s sake, don’t deprive the rest of us of the pleasure!”
I never was one to take accusations kindly, and unfortunately for him, pregnancy did nothing to temper this default in my nature. “Are you accusing me of being self
ish, William Campbell? Are we to go down that inglorious road again, sir?”
“Aye, if we must,” he challenged bravely. He was not a man who lacked courage, I knew. “And I believe I’m only telling it like I see it.”
“Well then, let me tell you a little something, sir; you are seeing it all wrong! The reason, if you must know, why I suggested taking out the peas and throwing them away in the first place is simply because they will attract hares. Everyone knows that, Mr. Campbell … everyone with the exception, perhaps, of renegade lighthouse keepers with a penchant for peas. Hares love peas! Plant the peas and all else will be eaten by those seemingly innocent, though catastrophically damaging, rodents! One tenacious hare in your garden can cause real damage, sir!”
“Aye, and don’t I know it well!” he replied, glaring at me with perhaps a deeper pleasure. And then, with a smile bordering on malicious, he recovered with, “Well, and hares are good eating too. Did ye bother to think on that? It might be a sound practice to plant the peas, aye? In fact, I shall plant them all over here, and over there,” he said, indicating the same large portion of the garden as I had. “I shall lure the canny wee besoms into my pea-garden, and then, whilst they’re nibbling away on the sweet wee fruits, growing ever fatter with the effort, I’ll grab ’em up, snagging ’em from behind, and wring their wee flea-bitten necks!”
It was in the middle of this rather juvenile tirade of Mr. Campbell’s, where he demonstrated with great pleasure his prowess at snuffing the life out of innocent creatures (and I had every reason to believe that he would relish doing so), that the newcomers made their presence known. We both turned to look at the two men, their ominous dark coats fluttering in the steady wind as they rode two shaggy black mounts, horses bred for rugged duty. They were armed, these men, and made no effort to hide that fact and, I noted with some alarm, they were heading directly for us. With a feeble lack of heart, I turned back to the light-keeper and rescinded softly, “Very well, Mr. Campbell, have it your way. Plant the peas wherever you like.”