by Laura Frantz
Jane Austen
By dusk the next day tongues were worn out wagging. Even as the castle decorations were taken down, those too ill and infirm to weather the tenants’ ball were stuffed full of morsels they’d missed. Who danced with whom. Who drained the punch bowl. The number of delicacies to be had. The quality of the musicians. The lateness of the hour. Who the laird had chosen for the first reel. Why the mistress of Kerrera Castle was missing. Even the Thistle was abuzz. Jillian had told Lark so.
Never mind that Magnus had danced with every willing woman present as he did every tenants’ ball. That he’d led out with Lark was tantalizing enough.
“Where no wood is, the fire goeth out,” Granny muttered as she hung the kettle over the hearth’s flame.
Lark mulled this to solace herself all the long afternoon as she savored the Sabbath after kirk, staying near the warm hearth and drinking several cups of fragrant tea as rain slashed sideways in the rising wind, clouds marring her magnificent view.
In the adjoining bedchamber Granny snored softly. Lark’s only company besides Tibby the cat was the book the captain had lent her, the title onerous. Travels into Several Remote Nations of the World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver. First a Surgeon, and Then a Captain of Several Ships.
Gotten from Ireland? Rory had the wanderlust, no doubt, like Mr. Gulliver. She purposed to read one chapter, the cat warming her lap. But the book did not hold her, and her thoughts ran back and forth between the Thistle where the captain lodged and the castle.
What did Magnus do on a day with the mistress away?
Granny snorted, stirring awake. Her cobwebbed mind seemed on the verge of some remedy for Isla. But what? Lark had thought of everything, had even raided the castle library for apothecary books. She’d best have some answer when Isla returned, especially if the Edinburgh physics did not help her.
From where she sat in the rocking chair by the hearth, she had no view of the castle, but its shadow seemed to fall over her. It now seemed to blanket Magnus, who’d once been unlined and carefree. Since his father’s death—and then his mother’s and sister’s—his joie de vivre had leached out of him by degrees. They’d all hoped his marriage would spell new life. Lark was not the only islander who longed to see Kerrera Castle restored, a true family seat again.
Truly, any gossip about her and the laird was laughable and would soon fizzle. Magnus was the brother she did not have, their shared history and love of the island’s tumultuous beauty lashing them together. His leaving on the verge of manhood seemed a little death, snatched from her life as he’d been. She stroked Tibby’s fur, traveling backwards through long corridors of dusty memories. Away a year or better in a succession of longer and longer absences, he’d left a boy but somehow returned a man with little warning, the wall between them ever widening. She felt it but was powerless to stop it or cross it, though it rent her heart.
Once he’d written her a letter. But she’d had no ink to pen a reply nor coin to post it, and so it lay unanswered. Later, she’d cobbled together enough coin to pen more. But he’d never written another. She’d saved it, the ink faded from the passage of lonesome years though the fine flourish of his script remained. Now she reached for the Bible and opened it to Ecclesiastes, where the letter lay pressed between the pages. Her eyes focused on the blurred words, but truly there was no call to read it, for she knew it by heart.
Dear Lark,
Because the time seems very long since I first left Kerrera, I finally write. With you continually in mind, I remain half there, in the salt spray and wind, not the smoke and soot of the city with its myriad wynds and closes.
Before I sleep and when I wake, I set you on Kerrera’s cliff edge in my mind’s eye, the sea at your back, waiting for me as you used to. Then and only then can I shut out the strange smells and sounds of Edinburgh and close the onerous distance.
You once said you would never leave the isle. Would that I had not left it too. I long to be free as you, with no title or ties to weight me. If so, I would return and find you waiting, and together we would make a different sort of life.
Yours entire,
Magnus
The letter lay open in her lap. Still a thorn. Still capable of piercing her heart. Folding it up, she allowed herself a final remembrance, mulling the day Magnus had told her he was to take a bride. ’Twas April of her nineteenth year, the hard, hungry winter giving way to a fragile spring. Had fate arranged for him to find her on that very cliff’s edge he wrote about, the sea at her back? Recovering from a fever, she’d paused as she crested the cliff’s top, still weak and a bit winded from her climb. ’Twas all she could do to stay standing in the face of the wind. And then his shattering words.
Above the kestrels and crashing waves he’d called to her. “Lark.”
She turned, disbelief and delight turning her girlish again. So long he’d been away this last time, months crowded with two wakes, three births, and a good many missed holidays. A whole year lay between them, full of the unspoken and unshared.
He stood apart, arms crossed, Nonesuch by his side, the cape he wore furling and unfurling like an indigo flag. Edinburgh had turned him a stranger. In that instant she felt a wild, everlasting hatred for the city.
“Magnus?” The question held heartache. Could it be him? Aye, but not the Magnus she knew and loved—the young laird, the lad he’d been.
“I’ve come home to announce my impending nuptials.” A sudden gust nearly flung his unwelcome words away.
She took a step closer. “Yer to wed?”
“Aye. An Edinburgh lass.” He did not smile. Why, when even the basest fisherfolk announced such news with joy?
She looked to her battered shoes, trying to take it in. Why was she fashed? Truly, no one on the island was his equal. No woman worthy.
Yet a town-bred lass?
“The daughter of an auld friend of my father who is Lord Ordinary of the Court of Session. Isla Erskine-Shand.”
The proud name seemed a comeuppance to the simple Lark. At once she knew all his schooling in law had come to this. He was a rising advocate—a barrister—not only laird of Kerrera Island. ’Twas said that when in court or chambers he wore fine robes and a powdered wig. She’d never seen such, but it sounded high and mighty. But ’twas more than this, truly. Such a father-in-law would protect him, protect Kerrera from English revenge over the Jacobite cause. When lairds and clansmen were being imprisoned and tried for their Scottish loyalties, such a marriage might give him immunity. Was that why he was to marry, now that he’d just come out of mourning?
She looked up then, half afraid of what she’d find if she met his gaze. But he was staring past her to the sea, the jut of his jaw signaling determination. Or resignation.
She swallowed hard and dredged up polite words she had no wish to say. “I’m pleased for ye both.” And then, weak-kneed and half-fevered still, she set her own jaw, dangerously close to tears. She’d always tried never to tell a lie, but she just had.
“I wanted ye to be the first to ken.”
First? Was it an honor? Still he did not look at her. Her own gaze strayed to the basket on her arm, brimming with bannocks.
“Feel free to speak of it,” he finished, knowing that if she told but one person it would be all over the island by sunset.
She gave a nod, wanting a swift end to this excruciating reunion. Though she’d widened her stance to fight off light-headedness, she swayed. His hands shot out to steady her. She’d not realized he was standing so close.
The warmth of his touch seemed to burn her. “What ails ye, Lark?”
“The tail end of a fever.” Before he could respond in sympathy or otherwise, she changed course. “Will ye and yer bride live at the castle?”
“Aye.” His hands fell away. “We wed the first of June in Edinburgh. After our honeymoon we’ll come here.”
Honeymoon. How lovely the sound. All the emotion behind it. If she was a bride she’d want to spend it on Kerrera, tucked away in some sunny
cove, just she and her groom . . .
Her skin grew hotter. “My work awaits.” She sidestepped him, gaze on the rocky ground.
“Lark . . .”
Unwillingly, she turned around, but not before dashing a tear away. Seeing her so, he seemed to think better of saying anything at all, and so he turned away a second before she did. ’Twas the last time she spoke to him untethered.
7
Lost time is never found again.
Benjamin Franklin
The castle stillroom was blessedly quiet at midday as May inched on. The coming calendar change had been all the buzz, replacing the stale gossip from the tenants’ ball. Word had just reached the island that come September, no longer would their year begin in March but in January. King George seemed to think he could rearrange time to suit him, and now with Parliament’s blessing, all British subjects must adjust to a year unlike any other and the loss of eleven days in September.
Finished with the noon meal in the servants’ hall, Lark returned to the rose lotion she was making, spying the remedy Granny had given her. The small, blown-glass bottle bore a parchment label marked “Fertility Herbs.”
One long whiff gave rise to a few ingredients. Plantain seeds to prevent miscarriage. Milk thistle. Licorice root. Raspberry leaf. Returning the stopper, she breathed in ginger and goldenseal.
A potent tonic.
Lark opened a cupboard and set the bottle in a cool, dark corner. When Isla returned, this might aid her. Bethankit, she said as much to the Almighty as Granny. A weight seemed to slide off her to have something in hand at last. But what if Granny erred? Slipped in something harmful unintentionally? Her mind was growing more muddled. Recently she had put salt instead of sugar in their tea.
Shaking off the worry, Lark looked through the open window at the sun spilling into the sea. It drew her out into the kitchen garden to weed the parsley bed, and her hands were soon stained a rich brown, the sun warming her shoulders like a shawl.
Summer was at hand. A sennight had passed since the tenants’ ball, and island life seemed sleepy again. Lark’s heirloom gown was returned to the trunk. The Merry Lass had put out to sea with nary a fare-thee-well from its handsome captain. Granny’s rheumatism flared with the change of seasons. No murmur was heard of Isla’s return. Or the laird’s leaving.
As for Magnus, he went about as usual, donning the garb of an islander and carrying on as he’d done in days of old before he’d wed, Nonesuch at his side whether he was on foot or horseback. He was especially fond of tending his large flock of sheep. Lark oft saw him carrying a struggling lamb or minding a ewe though his farm managers were never far. He stayed connected to the land, to his people, in this way. Islanders who wouldn’t dare approach him in his Court of Session attire did not hesitate when he wore common dress.
“A word with ye, Lark.” Jillian had left the kitchen and stood over her, her considerable bulk blocking the sun. “From the captain.”
Sitting back on her heels, Lark ceased weeding. “All right.”
“He’s set to land in Cinnamon Cove two nights hence and needs ye to signal him from Gylen’s ruins with a flash.”
Cinnamon Cove was a favored landing with Gylen Castle, an ideal vantage point, sitting so high on its cliffside perch. And packing her father’s old flintlock pistol for the desired beckoning blue light was easy enough. But nay, she could not.
She looked Jillian in the eye. “I told ye I dinna want any more to do with such.”
“And why not?”
“I dinna feel easy about it. Something about all this secrecy and darkness jars sourly with my need to walk uprightly.”
“Hoot! Yer righteous, ye are!” Jillian’s voice was scathing. “I’m needed with the tubmen to fetch and carry the haul. Jack Blaylock is going to light a fire on the heath near the mill to foil any Philistines about. The captain believes there’s a spy among us.”
Lark settled on her backside with a little thud, her thin petticoats a dismal cushion. “Someone on the island?”
“Aye. Likely Balliemore.”
“All the more reason to say nay.”
Jillian glowered. “The captain’ll be sore wi’ ye, Lark MacDougall.” She began moving away as Cook’s voice rose in the background, calling her back to the kitchen. “Ye’ll regret it, ye will.”
The captain stood on the quarterdeck of the Merry Lass, watching grimy wharfmen on the Isle of Man load cargo. Fifty matts leaf tobacco. Twenty small casks sweet liquorice and prunes. A dozen hampers earthenware. Three casks molasses and black pepper. Twenty firkins soap. Twenty-two reams writing paper. One hundred bars iron.
He kept a close eye on a bale of silk and card of lace. For Lark. The dress she’d worn to the ball was an embarrassment of wrinkles and worn cloth. An antique. Though he knew she prized it as an heirloom, her beauty called for something newer. Finer. If she was a true MacDougall she should dress the part. She wasn’t in ruins. Gylen Castle was.
He threw a word to his quartermaster. “Stash the cloth and lace in my cabin.”
The memory of Lark in the garden, so close on the bench beside him, was molasses sweet. She’d hung on his every word about America despite her reluctance, giving rise to the hope he might somehow woo her away from the island. ’Twas mostly Granny that held her. But if the old crone was to pass . . .
He shook off the base thought. Lark’s clan was aggravatingly long lived, Granny at least. He might well reach midlife before Granny passed. Mayhap those tonics and potions of hers were to blame. The truth was, he gave Granny wide berth. He did not fancy the old woman, nor she him. ’Twas Magnus who shone in her eyes. No matter how Rory had tried, there was simply no way into Granny’s good graces when the laird was near.
“Almost ready, Captain,” a mate called.
By midafternoon they’d left the premises of the smuggling company Ross, Black, and Christian. This day the Merry Lass was part of a smuggling fleet, one of a dozen ships, heavily laden and steering for southwest Scotland to land their cargoes at various points. Rory’s crew was so skilled that within a quarter of an hour the ship’s cargo could be unloaded and the waiting tubmen would whisk it away to the horses the islanders had lent for transport. Speed was of the essence in avoiding the tax men.
He took out a spyglass and studied the churlish water and clumps of craggy islands off Britain’s west coast, alert for English revenue cutters. Customs officers had the power to board and search all vessels at will. Though thus far Magnus’s influence secured immunity from prosecution near Kerrera, it did not extend this far south to the Merry Lass and crew, at least in these waters.
“All hands shorten sail.” He gave the order before sliding back the hatch and climbing down the ladder to the companionway. First door to the right opened to his quarters, a low-ceilinged affair that nearly left him scraping his head. His hammock swung a bit as the ship tilted, the groan of timber and shriek of the rigging like cantankerous old friends.
Mindful of Lark, he opened the bale of cloth and examined the finely worked Brussels lace atop it, fit to adorn a wedding dress. Would she like such fripperies? Daft he was. What woman wouldn’t? He’d seen Isla wear lesser quality. Somehow the thought gave him pleasure.
’Twould be a personal thank-ye for her signaling them ashore from Gylen’s ruins. If the Philistines were about, the Merry Lass would wait offshore till fishing boats could ferry the goods, as was oft done beneath a moonless sky, before the authorities could reach them.
Now there was the added threat of a spy. Had Jillian warned Lark as he’d instructed? To be more wary? The stakes were indeed high, the risk of discovery great. Would Lark, suddenly distancing herself from the whole business of free trading, refuse to take part? He well knew why, her Christian sentiments aside.
The penalty for smuggling was death.
Gylen Castle by day was a different creature completely. Lark liked to pretend it was more than crumbled stone and she herself more than a common crofter. Up the crumbling steps she o
ft went in broad daylight to the first floor, where a fireplace survived along with the ancient chimney and bread ovens in one blackened wall. Though the castle was roofless, its carvings above the sole oriel window were still beautiful and enduring. Little remained of her family’s stronghold but the unparalleled view.
By night the castle assumed an eerie unfamiliarity. Tonight she stood a bit paralyzed in the dark, gaze swiveling from the sea landward. Nary a sliver of light. She missed the magic of moonlight shining on pale stone. The chasing away of shadows. Positioned by a castle window, she leaned into the cold opening and waited. ’Twas long past midnight, and all was black as the earl of Hades’ waistcoat, as Granny said. She’d come here to make a stand not only against smuggling for herself but against the island’s children taking part.
What’s more, smuggling seemed especially wrong on the Sabbath. Thou shalt not steal. This and a certain Proverb followed her here, nipping at her with convicting claws. Men do not despise a thief, if he steal to satisfy his soul when he is hungry. But if he be found, he shall restore sevenfold; he shall give all the substance of his house.
All her life she’d believed their free trading was to sustain their very lives. She knew the awful hollowness of hunger, had seen its ugly work in the gravesites of islanders too weakened by want to fight disease. The laird did what he could to relieve them, but only the king himself could maintain so many for so long. Smuggling seemed a godsend, a practical answer. Were the king’s ministers not thieves, taxing the people so? Even the American colonies rebelled against unjust taxes, so the captain told her. Still . . .
A quarter of an hour brought a village lad, so young and full of promise. He jumped at the sound of her voice. “Brodie, ’tis ye?”
“Jings! Ye look like Gylen’s ghaist!” he exclaimed, backing up at the sight of her, pistol in hand. “The light needs flashing.”
“I’ve come to talk ye out of it. To warn ye to return home.”
He studied her soberly, his cowlick accenting his youth. “Why d’ye?”