The Exile of Sara Stevenson

by Darci Hannah

  “This is the sea chest of Jamie’s great-great-grandfather,” she said softly, running a reflective finger over the name while watching how the man reacted to the sight of it. She was not disappointed. “James,” she continued wistfully, “was fascinated with this, for it was always shrouded in such great mystery. And it was always kept under lock and key by his grandfather, James Crichton the second. For auld James was the keeper of the chest, a responsibility passed down by his father, Thomas Crichton the second before him, whose own father was the man who owned this sea chest. It was always kept under lock and key, as I’ve told ye, not to be disturbed ever, until a man named Alexander Seawell should happen to come to the lighthouse.” She looked curiously at him. Still he did not understand. She continued. “It was Thomas Crichton the second who was entrusted with this special duty, for his mother, one Sara Stevenson-Crichton-Campbell, had instructed him on her deathbed that it should be so. For to Alexander Seawell alone she had willed this auld relic. And you, sir, are the first of that name to ever have come along.” Her eyes held to his as she said this.

  He was stunned. His mind could barely make sense of what she had told him. Yet one look at the old wooden chest, with the familiar name emblazoned upon it, made him slowly understand that something very odd and surreal was unfolding before his eyes. Perhaps it was the long journey through the Highlands? Perhaps it was the purchase of the unchancy little donkey from the old crofter? Whatever the cause of the unearthly incident, he was undeniably moved and horrified beyond words.

  The woman, the beautiful pregnant widow of his former comrade, was speaking again. “Of course, no one knew of a man by that name,” she informed him kindly. “And everybody thought the lady had gone daft in her auld age. Many, many years passed between Sara’s time and my Jamie’s, ye understand. ’Twas only when Jamie’s grandfather took himself back to live in Edinburgh that my husband, who was then Keeper of the Light here, received the key and the duty of guarding this chest. But the temptation was too great. Jamie was such a dear lad, Mr. Seawell, such a dear lad indeed, and never a day goes by that I dinna cry for him. But he had an insatiable curiosity, and instead of just keeping the auld chest as is—as legend dictates it should be—he broke the lock and delved into the mystery.

  “Ye see,” she continued softly, “the legend of this family and this chest begins with Jamie’s great-great-grandmother who was the daughter of the man what built this lighthouse. She was said to be quite beautiful, and was from an important Edinburgh family. But when she disgraced them by falling in love with a sailor, a poor sweet lad by the name of Thomas Crichton, they sent her here as punishment. For Sara had gotten herself with child from this man. And here’s where the story thickens. Sara thought she had been abandoned, not only by her family, but also by the man she dearly loved. Yet she could not have been further from the truth! ’Twas her family what had done her a wrong turn. It came out that they had paid a man to knock her lover on the head and press him into service on one of the king’s ships before they could ever marry proper; for there was a war on at the time. The lad died in a bloody battle four months later, but no’s before writing to her every day they were apart. And here, Mr. Seawell, are all his letters to her.”

  The chest gave a deep groan of protest as she lifted the lid for him. Instantly, and with an unheeded curiosity, he bent his head to investigate the cavernous hold. The contents, he noted, contained some vintage, well-preserved sailor’s slops, an old mess kit containing a knife, spoon and pannikin, a beautiful family Bible and a fine and quite collectible first edition of Burns’ poetry. Although that was titillating for a man such as he, it couldn’t hold a candle to what lay in the rest of the chest; for every last inch of it was filled with folded papers.

  They were letters, he saw, yellow with age, and all the wax seals broken. He gingerly picked one up and saw that the edges were terribly worn and dog-eared; they were all like that … as if each one had been read over and over again. But they had all been carefully refolded and tied by lengths of red satin ribbon. He could hardly believe what he was witnessing, let alone what he was feeling. It made no sense. For if all this lady was telling him was true, then he had been communicating these past six months, and falling in love with … a ghost. And then he couldn’t help himself; a tear slipped from his life-hardened eye.

  “They say,” James’ widow continued in her pure, sweet voice, almost wistfully, “that when she learned the truth of what had befallen her, she broke off with her family and chose to live out her life here on the Cape. Only when her Tom was old enough did she send him to be educated in Edinburgh. He was a bright, honest lad, and her family was quick to take him into the family business. But he soon tired of it and came home, back to the Cape, where he married a local girl by the name of Maggie MacKay. They settled out here at the lighthouse.”

  “But what of …” he heard himself utter in a voice strained with sorrow. “What … what of Sara Stevenson?” There, it was out, and he fought the tightening in his throat while beholding the young lady, feeling his heart breaking yet again.

  Her eyes held him with kind pity. “Why, never ye worry about her, sir. She lived a good life, Mr. Seawell. While she was serving out her time here, awaiting the birth of her illegitimate child and believing that Thomas had left her, she began to harbor certain tender feelings for the man who was the first light-keeper here, a man they say was appointed especially by her father for the job. His name was—”

  “William Campbell,” he finished for her.

  She looked questioningly at him.

  “I know. I know about him. She mentioned him once in a letter.”

  “What do you mean by ‘she mentioned him once in a letter,’ sir? Sara Campbell’s been dead for nigh on fifty years. I highly doubt the lady would be sending any letters.”

  He smiled wanly at her, knowing that just as her mysterious little chest had been hard to explain—having been designated for him nearly one hundred years ago—his own letters from a dead woman named Sara Stevenson would likely also seem odd, but he would try to make sense of it. And he attempted to explain to Jamie’s wife what exactly had brought him out to the Cape in the first place.

  “So that’s how she must have known you would come,” the young lady said, her fine apricot brows drawn together in consternation as she tried to make sense out of a tale that made no sense at all. “If she was writing to ye, and ye were writing to her, but … Oh Mr. Seawell, how could that be? ’Tis impossible!”

  “I can tell you, Mrs. Crichton, how I long to know it myself. All I know is that Sara Stevenson, or Crichton, or whatever she called herself, wrote to me in my time of need. I don’t know how or why, but she did.” He swallowed painfully, looking at the young woman who appeared the very image of what he envisioned Sara would have looked liked had she been alive. “And I, God help me,” he uttered as tears stung at his brown eyes once again, “I fell in love with her.”

  Sara Crichton, the widow, attempted to console Alexander Seawell, kindly offering him a handkerchief pulled from the depths of her calico dress. “Never ye worry about her, sir. She lived a good, happy life here. She was much loved by all who knew her. William Campbell gave her many sons, most of whom decided to live around Edinburgh … some even in England. They were all such bright lads. But she and Willy, for some unknown reason, stayed right here. She helped the local men prosper respectfully, for at that time they were rumored to have engaged in a wee smuggling operation, running a whisky distillery here and smuggling their brew over to the French in exchange for wine. And she even started a school for the local children. If you like, if it will make you feel any better, I can show you where she lies.”

  “She’s … here? She’s buried here?”

  The woman turned to him, her eyes looking suddenly strange and distant. “Aye, she’s still here. Sara Stevenson-Crichton-Campbell has never left us yet.” Her eyes focused on him again. Thank goodness they’d lost that misty-eyed distance, he thought. “I can show
you, if you like.”

  “Yes,” he whispered, fighting back the darkness that was closing in again. “I would like that very much.”

  Sara Crichton, the younger, then took out the stack of letters and handed them to him, suggesting he might want to read them to get a better picture of the woman to whom the letters were written and the man who had written them but was denied her love. Yet when the pile was removed Sara Crichton gasped, noticing something she hadn’t before.

  “Dear Lord,” she uttered, crossing herself. He saw that her green eyes were filling with tears. “How … how did that get in here?” And before he could ask the source of her alarm she pulled from the bottom of the chest a silver pocket watch.

  It was the John Roger Arnold silver detent chronometer, circa 1805. The one he had taken from James’ hand as the young man lay dying in a trench, and promised to return it to his wife. Tied around the watch was a folded piece of paper, terribly yellowed with age, yet addressed to one Alexander Seawell of Oxford. Her hand shook. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Jamie … my Jamie had taken that watch from the chest and carried it with him off to war!” she cried. “I warned him against it … said that it should not be removed! Family legend says it must stay! It must stay until a man named Alexander Seawell of Oxford arrived! But my Jamie dinnae believe in the legend, Mr. Seawell. He thought ’twas all nonsense. How … how is it possible?”

  Like the poor widow, his hand also shook as he took the watch from her, and he noticed with some alarm that it was still ticking. But this he did not mention, nor was he certain of what to tell this poor woman. His eyes were then drawn to the note.

  A note written in her hand.

  The sight of it took the breath from him and he found, to his great dismay and astonishment, that he was again brought to tears. He itched to read it. He longed for her hand, for that round womanly script was like a balm to his very soul. Yet before he could read her last letter to him, the young lady let out a bloodcurdling cry. He turned at the sound and saw that she was grabbing her pregnant belly. A gush of water then fell to the storeroom floor, darkening her long calico skirt in the process. He knew in that moment James Crichton’s child was coming.

  • • •

  Alexander Seawell of Oxford delivered Sara Crichton of Cape Wrath a little boy early in the morning of June 1 in the year 1915. The mother instantly named her infant son, who sported a tuft of dark hair and blue eyes like his father, James Thomas Crichton, after the man who would have loved him but was denied the chance. Once mother and child had been attended to by the doctor—the man Alexander had wandered the lonely moorland through rain and driving wind in search of, and found residing at a little croft five miles away—and he saw that both mother and child lay sleeping peacefully in bed, only then did he pull a chair by the fire in the parlor and take out the pocket watch.

  He carefully untied the note, taking great care not to tear the fragile paper. And then, instinctively, he smelled it. He didn’t know why, but he had always smelled her letters, letting the faint hint of lavender and chamomile create a picture in his mind of the woman to whom the beautiful script belonged. His hand, he noticed, was trembling. He studied the watch for a moment, amazed that the old thing still worked—that it could still keep time—and comforted by that fact alone, he thrust it in his shirt pocket, pressing it close to his heart, where he could feel the steady, mechanical beat. And then, still with a trembling hand, he read the note.

  June 1, 1815

  My dear Alexander,

  During the month of May, in the year of our Lord, 1815, I waited for your arrival, but you never came. How could you? You had not yet been born. I don’t know how else to explain it but for this: our lives were touched by the mysterious power of love causing our paths to cross the insurmountable chasm of time. And to what end, my dear Mr. Seawell, our unearthly correspondence will come to, I cannot tell you. But I do know that one day, many, many years from now, you will come to my home on Cape Wrath, and walk through my door, just as I have envisioned you doing many a time. I do not know what you will find when you arrive, but I do believe you will find what you are looking for, just as I have found the answer to my prayers this night.

  I am giving to you the timepiece you once sent to me, the very one I once gave to the young man I loved. I know now that he never stopped loving me, and because of that love, I will raise his son and tell him of the fine and brave man who was his father, and of another brave young man from Oxford who helped in a no less poignant, yet utterly unbelievable way, to save his life.

  Thank you for all your heartfelt words and kindness, and for helping me through a dark and lonely time. You were a godsend. Literally. And I hope you too will find the peace and love you so well deserve, just as have I. I wish for all that makes your life complete.

  With my sincere and deepest affection,

  Sara Stevenson Crichton, Keeper of the Light

  Cape Wrath, Scotland

  Alexander gently folded the letter and wiped the tears from his cheeks, knowing they would keep on coming for some time. It was nearly dark and the storm had finally abated by the time he walked out of the cottage, intent on laying eyes on the grave of the woman who had touched his life from another place and time.

  He found the little gravesite alongside another, bearing the name of William Campbell, the man she married instead of him. It was irrational, untimely even, but a flash of jealousy took him at the sight of the name beside her. “I hope you treated her well, old man,” he stated plainly. “For she once told me what a bastard you could be. Of course she was too much of a lady to use such a word, but it was implied. How I do pray her initial impression of you was wrong.” And then, feeling an unexpected kinship with the name on the tombstone he felt compelled to add, “I envy you, though, Campbell. God, how I envy you.”

  And then he remembered, Sara Stevenson never told him she loved him. How could he even think she had wanted him that way? He knew she had been in love with another man, Thomas Crichton, just as he had been deeply in love with his wife, Jane. But he had hoped … God, but it was useless! The woman was long dead, and so too were his hopes and dreams.

  After saying a heartfelt, private prayer over the grave of the woman who had impelled him to journey to the end of the world—the woman he had fantasized about these many months—he then began walking toward the sea, in order to clear his addled, aching head.

  His mind was a jumble of emotions and he was at a loss about what to do. He sought solace in the shadow of the great lighthouse, staring out at the vast darkness that was the Atlantic Ocean. Every now and then the light would come around, penetrating the darkness. But it was a misty night. A soft drizzle and low clouds obscured most of the heavens, but there was a breeze, and it felt good on his hot face.

  He kept his face to the sea, his eyes closed, thinking of the woman Sara Stevenson while utterly unable to comprehend what had happened to him—and the damnable unfairness of it all.

  At length he felt the wind shift. The suddenness of it caused him to open his eyes. And that’s when he saw her.

  It was the image of a woman, a breathtakingly beautiful woman, wearing a translucent gown in the style of an era long past. And she, just like he, was looking out to sea. She was not standing more than fifteen feet from him. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld her, and he wanted to call out to her, to tell her he had finally come. But he could see that she was not looking at him, she was searching for something, someone. He took a few steps closer, but still she did not look his way. And then he spoke her name. “Sara Stevenson …”

  She turned to him, and a soft, wistful smile touched her full lips. It was breathtaking—heartbreaking—and without any warning at all she walked right through him.

  The shock of it, the jolt of cold air, and the smell—the womanly essence of her—filled him completely. Emotions he had long buried came rushing to the surface again—absurd happiness, calming tranquillity, pure contentment—yet prominent ab
ove them all was the utter fulfillment of love. It washed through him; he wanted to bask in its heady glow. But then he realized it was not his love he was feeling. Nor were they his emotions. They were hers … they were the emotions of a ghost.

  With the wetness of tears coursing down his hot cheeks he followed her, for she was intent on going somewhere.

  It was by chance he saw it. It was so dark, no moon or stars to light the way, but the glow from the woman before him was enough. He had followed her gaze out to sea as she headed along the cliff’s edge to a point unknown. And what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks.

  It was a ship. A ghost ship.

  The boat the woman was running to meet was not overly large, just a coastal sailing craft, yet of a make and model long forgotten. He was puzzled by the sight of it, but only for a moment, because that’s when he recalled the sea chest. Thomas Crichton had been a sailor; he had also been her lover.

  Alexander followed his ghost down to a little cove well below the high cliff walls, knowing all along that he was witnessing something transcendental. It was there, at the end of an old wooden pier, that the unearthly little craft had finally come to rest, and he marveled at it, watching it bob gently on the still, black waters of the narrow bay. And then he saw her again, that ghostly beauty. She was on the pier, heading straight toward the boat.

  He stood at the landing watching with his heart in his throat as a young man sprang onto the dock. The mere sight of him caused another shock, for Alexander recognized the winsome lad. He had seen this golden youth before, in Oxford; he was the university student staring at him in the lecture hall with those eyes so like Jamie’s. And now he realized that he had seen this image more than once, though it had been just the outline of the man, really—his fleeting shadow cast on the brick wall of the alleyway as he traveled past. He had only appeared whenever a letter from Miss Stevenson had been delivered. But he had never suspected the connection. Why would he? He had been too befuddled and daft trying to find the mere will to live, let alone take note of a ghost. But God, it was unbelievable, even to his heavily burdened mind! He had been seeing the very man that the woman of his dreams had been in love with, and he never knew. He had been visited by the ghost of Thomas Crichton.