by Darci Hannah
Normally, I believe the man would have gloated over this victory, no matter how small it was, but there was no time to do so. One of the men, a baldheaded, pugnacious creature, had pulled just beyond the garden entrance and called out to William in a ragged voice that suggested he had smoked more than his fair share of cheroots. “Are ye the keeper here?”
“I am,” came William’s cautious reply.
“We’re from the Excise, sir, and we’d like to have a word with ye. It seems that there’s been a ship sighted on several occasions making for this coast.”
“I hate to be the one to inform ye, sir, but many a ship makes for this coast. ’Tis why the good gentlemen of the Northern Lighthouse Board thought to put this lighthouse here.”
The man, narrowing his dark, bulgy eyes with displeasure at this remark, added, “This is a French ship, sir, and is well known tae dabble in illegal trade!”
“Aye, don’t all the French?”
The man failed to smile at this flippant remark.
“Very well, you’re in search of a Frenchman, and you believe this ship of yours has business here?” At this Mr. Campbell beheld the man with faint amusement lifting the corners of his mouth.
“And what do ye find so amusing about that, sir? Do ye think it impossible that men smuggle goods here?”
“Not impossible, improbable,” he corrected flatly. “Had ye ever taken a good look at this coast—from the sea, where a ship is likely to approach—then ye would understand why such activity as ye speak of sounds absurd. These waters are inherently dangerous. This coast is too great a hazard to attempt such a thing. One wrong move or the wind not quite right and a ship would be smashed to pieces against the rocks. Why risk it? What kind of captain, Frenchman or other, would dare such a venture?”
“You believe our questioning tae be unsound?”
“No sir. My place is not to question the ways of the law. I’m only here to illuminate the coast, which is what we do.”
“And ye keep a precise logbook of every ship that passes.”
“Aye,” Mr. Campbell replied levelly, before adding pointedly, “and of every vessel that was unlucky enough to wreck among these rocks.”
“That is exactly why we’re here. We would like to see this logbook of yours, Mr.…?”
“Campbell, Willy Campbell,” he said, making no effort to extend a hand to either man.
“Well then, Mr. Willy Campbell,” said the leader, repeating his name while sizing up the light-keeper with a lingering glare, “and whilst I take a look at this logbook of yours, Mr. Liddle is gonna have himself a wee keek around. I hope that willna pose a problem for ye?”
“Only if Mr. Liddle manages to disturb the great lens; otherwise, sir, I don’t see that there’ll be any problem at all.” A disarming smile appeared on his lips and then he turned to me. Although he was trying hard to cover it, there was trouble in those pale eyes of his, evident perhaps only to one who had made a habit out of studying them. I knew exactly what he was thinking, for I was thinking the same. And with a gentle nod he turned to the storeroom and called out for Robbie MacKinnon. Within moments the ginger head appeared and Mr. Campbell beckoned him over.
“Robbie, these are men come from the Excise. They’ve asked to have a look around.”
“Certainly,” Robbie responded with his sanguine grin. “And what might the gentlemen be looking for, Mr. Campbell?”
“Smugglers, Robbie lad, the men are looking for smugglers.” Both light-keepers grinned at this wild notion; the Excise men failed to find any humor in it. “Take Mr. Liddle here and show him around, if ye please, Rob.”
“Aye, sir. This way, if ye please, Mr. Liddle.” And Robbie led the surly Excise man to the storehouses.
Mr. Campbell then turned to me. “Please excuse us, my dear, and thank you for your patient direction in the garden.” There was a teasing smile attached to this remark, but it was soon gone. “I shall be only a moment. You may wish to wait in the cottage until we are finished.” This he phrased as if it were a suggestion, although I knew enough to understand it wasn’t a suggestion at all. “Perhaps you might tell Kate to put on a pot of tea for these gentlemen.” He knew what I would do if left to my own devices. I fought hard not to glance at the stable. His gaze was willing mine away from even thinking of it. I understood although I did not agree. Nonetheless, I performed an awkward curtsey to the men and made my way to the cottage, just as William was beckoning for the baldheaded tax collector to follow.
Kate could sense my nervousness and I hastily told her of the men who were now searching the lighthouse.
Swinging the kettle over the fire, she looked at me. “Well, why so nervous about that? They are only doing their job, same as us.”
“Yes, but we don’t look nearly as intimidating when we do it.”
Kate arched one of her fine brows at this. “You used to be frightened of Mr. Campbell. Are you telling me now that you no longer fear the man?”
“I was never afraid of him!” I lied blithely. “Perhaps I just understand him a little better now.” She nodded slowly and continued to busy herself. I looked out the window. Mr. Campbell and the Excise man were coming to the cottage with the logbook.
As the two sat at the table discussing ships and possible connections to the one the government man was looking for, William, quite knowledgeably and wily I might add, purposely led the man astray, confusing him with other ships—possible links—while never acknowledging that he knew very well what ship the man was talking about. When I saw Robbie returning with Mr. Liddle, my heart stopped for a second. For in the man’s hands was a familiar small cask with the damnable stamp imprinted with the fleur-de-lis.
Coming through the door Mr. Liddle set the barrel down with a bang on the table. “Tell me, Mr. Campbell, are these part o’ your standard provisions at the lighthouse or are ye hiding something?”
Mr. Campbell froze. His eyes, glowing beneath the dark brows, narrowed dangerously. He was backed into a corner and he knew it. The possession of the cask alone was incriminating enough to cause problems. But Mr. Campbell had enough problems, and I would buy his way out of this one.
“Sir,” I chimed up in my most engaging parlor voice, breaking the momentary silence. “Why, goodness me, that would be mine!” And I gave the man what I hoped would be as disarming a smile as any I had in my arsenal. “Of course that’s not part of our standard provisions. Why, bless you, sir, but the Board would never be so frivolous!”
Both men, as well as my fellow keepers, stared incredulously at me. William, however, was catching on. The man Liddle gawked at my very pregnant form, so did the other man, and he asked, “And why would ye have such a thing as a cask o’ French wine in your possession, young lady?”
“Why, my father sent it to me, of course, knowing how important it is for a woman in my condition to have such a thing at hand, while also knowing what dreadful gut-rot the local drink can be!”
“And just who might ye be, Miss …?” the man asked coldly, derision dripping from his voice as he stared unnervingly at my protruding belly. He never bothered to look me in the eye.
I stuck out my chin and declared, “My name is Sara Steve—”
But here the light-keeper broke in, adding, after theatrically clearing his throat, the name, “Campbell. Mrs. Sara Stevenson-Campbell, sir,” he said in a firm tone, while holding the Excise man in a cold, steely gaze. He did not chance a look in my direction, nor did he look at either Kate or Robbie. He merely continued his deception. “She’s my wife and the daughter of the man who built this lighthouse. That,” he said, pointing to the cask, “came from his private stores in Edinburgh, bought when the ban on French imports was lifted. It was his gift when he heard the blessed news that he was soon to be a grandfather. Mr. Robert Stevenson, you must understand, has a real soft spot where his youngest child is concerned.”
The Excise men regarded what he was saying. William was silently warning them to let the matter drop. And with a show
of reluctance they finally backed down, acknowledging that the lighthouse had won this round. But they relayed through suspicious eyes that the Excise would be watching us closely.
When they had left, William turned to Robbie. “So, you let the man Liddle into the stables.”
“He was insistent, sir!” Robbie defended vehemently. “I had no idea it was wrong. I had no idea that was in the tack room! And I had no idea ye and Miss Sara were married!”
William stood up from the table and, looking at his employee with a hint of sorrow in his clear eyes, said wanly, “I have asked a lot of ye already, Robbie man, and I’m likely to ask still more of ye yet, but I will not encumber you or your wife in matters that might lead to trouble, and because so, I ask that you bear with me awhile longer. As for Miss Stevenson …” he added, turning his electric gaze on me. I could tell in an instant that his mood had changed. Gone was the capable lighthouse keeper who stood cool under pressure. Gone was the pleasant and charming gentleman of the garden. In his place, the brooding dark creature reappeared. His gaze bore into mine with frightening intensity as he quietly said, “Miss Stevenson is not my wife. But I’m afraid she has entangled herself too deeply in matters already. I believe the lass has gone so far beyond her understanding that even she will not be able to disengage from events already set in motion. But that, as she must know, was always the danger of pursuing such an unchancy course.” And without another word he turned from me and left the cottage.
I watched in stunned amazement as he walked through the courtyard, head bent in silent torment while his long black cape fluttered on the wind behind him. And then, without a look back, he turned and disappeared into the black cavern of his tower.
• • •
Mr. Campbell, for all my efforts and strong will, was still a mystery to me, as was the elusive Mr. Seawell. Things had been going smoothly between us until the visit from the Excise men. They had disturbed our banter in the garden, and in the garden was where William Campbell and I came together. At first I assumed that he was merely angry because I had forced him to improve relations with our brethren on the Cape. We both agreed that it was not our business that the men we relied on to effect a land-based rescue also happened to engage in illicit activities. He had even been the one to strike the bargain with MacKay and his men resulting in the cask of claret. And, rather gallantly, he had protected me with his name when the Excise men had found the smuggled goods hidden in the stable. For that I was grateful. Yet I thought we were on better terms than for him to brood so privately.
Mr. Campbell, without a doubt, was a diligent and capable lighthouse keeper, never stepping a toe out of line, always master of his domain … until, perhaps, I happened along. It had been a rough beginning for us both, neither one of us willingly accepting our being thrust together. But we had finally breached the wide chasm that stood between us, or so I had thought. And I had been proud of him too, for the effort he had made in showing signs of humanity—for the subtle transformation that suggested he actually liked spending time in my company and the company of others. But ever since the Excise men had come and found the contraband drink, he had become withdrawn again.
I had done my best to defend the presence of the little cask, grasping at whatever I could that would sound viable, within reason. For this diversion I knew he was grateful. But he had become aloof again, tormented by those things unseen that seemed to haunt him in the night; and my baby, with every passing day, was making itself ready to be born.
I was scared.
I was desperate.
And I needed to be on good terms with Mr. Campbell, for I believed my child’s life depended on it.
For days I deliberated on the encounter I knew must come. I was hoping Mr. Campbell would have stepped forward long before it came to this, coming to my room in the dead of night as was his habit, frightening me, comforting me, telling me he had actually been the one to fabricate the story of Mr. Seawell. I longed to know how he had come to possess Thomas’ watch in the first place, and why he had decided to send it under the guise of a stranger. I waited for him while the child in my womb grew to the point of bursting, writhing and wriggling, wreaking havoc on my tender insides until the time was ripe for it to come into the world. And on the very last day in May I felt I could wait no longer.
The wind was picking up, a storm was coming and I knew I must encounter the one man I had left to rely on. Fortifying myself with a generous glass of the contraband claret, I made my approach, knowing very well he wasn’t sleeping.
I knocked on Mr. Campbell’s door. It was long after supper, and he had retired to his room directly, sitting in that den of death to await his first shift for the night. Robbie was already on watch, and so Mr. Campbell, instead of using the time to sleep, waited. Certainly he had heard me coming, for I never bothered to attempt a quiet approach. I marched down the hall with my boots still on. With proof of his duplicity in hand, I knocked firmly on the door and bravely waited. I waited a good minute, bracing myself for the abrupt opening where he would be standing in front of me in a sorry state of dishevel. I waited, but still there was not a sound. I knocked again, harder, urgently, and this time I was rewarded by a voice softly calling out for me to enter.
He was sitting with his back to me at his desk, intently cutting into something with his knife—something that looked suspiciously like a puffin. I could see the jet-black velvet wings pinned outstretched on a board as the man attacked it with his blade. He didn’t turn around. He kept his back to me and continued his macabre exploration.
“I know all about you, William Campbell,” I boldly stated. “You can’t hide it from me any longer.”
At the sound of my voice the knife quieted in his hand, yet still, he didn’t turn around. I continued, deciding to press where it would hurt him the most—deciding to use the very impetus that had driven poor Mr. Seawell half-crazed. “You were married once, weren’t you, William?” I stressed his name, knowing how the sound of it had once made him flinch. “But your wife died, didn’t she? She died giving birth to your child, William, and the pain of it … why, the pain of it nearly destroyed you.”
He spun around. His pellucid eyes set beneath the spectacularly dark brows pierced mine. He looked at once alluring and dangerous. “How?” he croaked, his voice sounding unnatural in his constricted throat. “How the hell would ye know about that?”
I walked toward him, emboldened by this newfound weakness in his nature, and ignored his question. “Unable to bear the pain of her death, and the heartache it caused you, you were driven to join the army … or in your case, the navy. Am I correct?”
“What are you talking about?” he whispered dangerously. “How could you possibly know anything about that?”
“Because you told me of it yourself, didn’t you, William?”
This had him. He was clearly distraught, and I watched as the glowing eyes roved wildly as he fought to recall doing so.
“In your letters, William,” I simply stated.
“What letters!” he demanded. “I didn’t write you any letters but one. And that I remember very well! I only asked for your help … in the garden.”
“You have asked for my help long before that day, in the letters you write under the guise of being a reclusive and suicidal antiquarian.”
“What?” he uttered in raw disbelief, and made ready to refute this.
I stopped him with my hand. “Don’t,” I said, advancing on him. Months of anger and frustration were coming forth, boiling within me like an unholy brew. “Don’t try to confuse me, William. You’re very adept at that! Just tell me, why did you do it? Why did you feel the need to toy with me so? By God, William Campbell, tell me how Thomas’ watch came to be in your possession!” This last request sounded frightfully desperate even to my own ears.
He stood, abandoning his mad dissection of the bird, finally seeming to understand what I was accusing him of. “Dear God, you actually think … you actually believe I was the one wh
o wrote those letters?”
“I don’t think. I know!” I shouted, and pulled from the folds of my gown the note he had written to me and signed, matching it up against the writing and signature of Mr. Alexander Seawell. “Deny it if you can, William. But please, please do not insult me with paltry excuses or this two-penny chicanery of yours any longer!”
“Sara … for God’s sake, lass, listen to me! I swear to you I did not write those letters … not one of them!” he averred, pointing to the one from Mr. Seawell in my hand. “I have never even met the man. Nor have I ever been to Oxford!”
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying!” I cried with hands firmly planted on hips while another wave of white hot anger took me.
“I would never lie to you,” he defended, his own eyes burning with frustration. “However, the same could hardly be said for you!”
“I lie to you purely out of necessity. You lie to me for the mere pleasure of seeing me hurt!”
“That is, in itself, the most damnable lie yet! I have never lied to you, Sara. Nor am I lying about this now.” And with that he ripped the letters from my hand and brought them under his scrutinizing gaze.
And then he stilled.
He was deathly still. “By God … how can that …?” He looked up, holding me with the question. “That does indeed resemble my hand.” He studied the note awhile longer, marveling at the similarities. “It is remarkably similar, but you must believe me when I tell you that I did not write those letters. Nor do I have any connection to this … this enigmatic Mr. Seawell of yours.”