Far Horizons (11 page)

"It will pain him some now," Agnes said quietly. "When the feeling comes back..." Allan thrashed on the bed. "You can see it's not pleasant. Archie, bring him some whiskey."

"Why did he storm out of here like that?" Betty whispered, near tears. "So unlike Allan, to give into temper. And I don't even know why!"

"Don't you?" Agnes glanced at her, her expression shrewd. "It must have been something someone said."

Although he wouldn't lose any toes, Allan had to remain in bed for several days for the spell in the cold had thoroughly weakened him. It gave him time to think, and realise the extent of his foolishness.

"It could've been the end of you," Archie said, his eyes sparkling. "You must have tough skin, brother."

Allan grimaced. "I suppose I must."

"Why did you do it?" Archie's voice was quiet, and serious for once. "Is it that bad?"

Allan regarded him thoughtfully. Archie was always so cheerful and carefree, nothing seemed to bother him. How could his brother understand his own feelings of suffocation, of loss?

"You could get out, you know," Archie continued in a low voice. "Father's will isn't binding. You can go your way, if you feel you must."

"The cost is too high." Allan didn't even like to imagine the betrayal both his parents would feel at such an act. "I'll stay here. I have to... for now."

As Allan rested, the rest of his family and the Dunmores made preparation for the Christmas festivities. Although the snow was deep and there was little to fashion presents out of, merriment was certainly part of a PEI. Christmas. There would be parties and dancing at neighbours' houses, and a Presbyterian minister out of Charlottetown was coming to the community along the river to hold services.

Agnes and Betty set to making the traditional Christmas fare from the old country, raiding the precious winter stores. Soon the house was full of the delicious smells of black buns and sun cakes, and the hearty Christmas drink atholl brose, made from oatmeal and whiskey.

On Christmas Eve another foot of snow fell, so the drifts went as high as the rooftops.

"
Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd
," Agnes quoted with a wry smile. "Christmas without snow is poor fare."

"We've no need to worry about that," Sandy replied. "I've never seen such snow in my life!"

That evening they all sat around the fire, enjoying the warmth of the flames and each other's company.

"By this time next year, you'll be having us in
your
cabin," Neville said as he raised his glass. "Everyone who's built a cabin on this island has had help," he added more quietly. "So never fear about that."

"Thank you." Sandy was silent for a moment, as if struggling with himself. "Your hospitality has been generous to all my family," he said at last. "I trust we will have opportunity to do the same."

Betty smiled and clasped Sandy's hand. Allan thought he seemed more at peace this eve, and he wondered--and hoped--that he'd turned a corner.

"No one could survive on their own here," Agnes said with a shake of her head. "The first Scots on the island had to wade in from the shallows to land, and then walk all the way to Charlottetown to beg for help! It's not like that any longer. We're all here for each other. We must be if anyone is going to survive. It’s as simple as that."

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, Allan told himself as he raised his own glass. Here there was warmth, and love, and true friendship. Perhaps his father
could
change... and his dreams could wait a little while.

The clock on the mantle, the Dunmores' pride and joy brought all the way from the old country, struck its tinny chimes.

Nevil smiled and glasses clinked. "Happy Christmas!"

The Campbells had a sombre Christmas. David had never believed in all the heathen nonsense as he called it. Christmas was just like any other day, and should be treated the same. Since they'd little cause to celebrate anyway, Harriet was happy to keep the work and expense to a minimum.

Still, as Hogmanay approached, Margaret convinced her that they should celebrate.

"Just a little something," she said. "It'll be our first Christmas without Mother and Father... and our brothers. Gladden our hearts, Harriet, you must!"

"Don't try that with me," Harriet said with a laugh. "I can hardly put on the kind of celebration you had at Mingarry."

"Just something quiet, then." Margaret's eyes glinted with mischief, and she looked more animated than she had in a long while. "A few games, a nice pudding... I'll make it, don't fear. A drop of whiskey, perhaps?"

"Margaret!" Harriet tried to look scandalised, but then laughter overcame her. "All right, then. We could all do with a little cheering. But we'll have to keep it quiet... if Father wakes up and hears us, he won't be pleased!"

Margaret held a finger to her lips. "As quiet as mice," she promised.

The party proved to be a success, with both the Campbell and MacDougall children as well as Ted and Anna Carmichael making a good crowd.

They all became a bit silly, playing parlour games that Harriet hadn't indulged in since she was a child. She grew weak with laughter at the sight of Ted Carmichael playing bullet pudding, where he poked his face in a dish full of flour to search for the hidden bullet which he'd had to retrieve with his teeth. Unfortunately, his laughter caused him to sneeze, the dish tipped, and soon everyone had a good dusting of flour.

They were still giggling when it came on midnight. As the clock struck twelve, Harriet joined in with the singing of 'Auld Lang Syne', and for the first time in many months she felt something akin to peace. Even if Allan wasn't true, she was a fortunate woman, blessed with family and home. The unease of their financial situation she pushed firmly away.

A sudden, loud knock at the door caused them all to start in surprise. "Firstfooter!" Eleanor cried. "Let's hope he is a tall, dark stranger, to bring us good luck, as well as a handsel."

"You'd best give him a drop of whiskey," Ted warned her, "lest he go away unwelcome!"

Laughing, Harriet went to the door. It was custom for a friend to pretend to be the stranger at midnight that meant good fortune for the coming year. Last year Andrew MacDuff had come upon them, dressed in a long cloak and funny hat.

She threw open the door, ready to greet Andrew or another neighbour, only to find the words die on her lips. The man on the doorstep was a stranger, tall and dark as well. Harriet had never seen him before.

"Excuse the lateness of the hour," the man said with a sweeping bow. He stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamp, and Harriet saw saturnine features, dark eyes full of amusement. "I thought I might bring you good luck as well as this."

He handed her a letter, and Harriet took it in blank surprise. “But who...”

“Read and see, Miss Campbell.”

She opened it with trembling hands.

Sir James Riddell requests an audience with Mistress Harriet Campbell at her earliest convenience.

"Sir James Riddell!" Harriet stared at the stranger in amazement. Of course she knew of the Riddells, but had never cause to meet the powerful family that owned half of Mull and Ardnamurchan too. "Why should he want to meet me?"

The man shrugged and smiled. "He asked that I take your reply. Can you meet him tomorrow?"

Wordlessly Harriet nodded. If Sir James had business with her, she wouldn't keep him waiting.

"Good day then, Mistress Campbell. Till tomorrow."

Harriet watched the stranger disappear into the night, her mind spinning. Margaret appeared at her elbow.

"You didn't invite him in! Why ever not, Harriet? Who was it, anyway? We're sure to have bad luck, now!"

The laughter in her eyes died as she saw Harriet's face. "What's the matter? You look almost ill."

"I... I’m all right." Harriet took a deep breath and turned away from the door. Whatever good luck the stranger had meant to bestow, she knew he'd failed. Business with Sir James Riddell surely did not promise good fortune. Tomorrow she would discover what it was.

CHAPTER SIX

Harriet shivered as an icy wind blew in from the sea. It had taken her most of the morning to walk to Lanymoor, Sir James’s manor house on the southern tip of Mull, and her fingers and toes were numb with cold. Now that she was here at the gate, she felt not relief, but dread.

What could Sir James want with her that was anything good?

His reputation among the farmers and crofters of the island was that of a spider. Cold, cruel, with an ever expanding web. Some said he wouldn’t rest until all of Mull’s property was in his name, the crofters under his heel.

Harriet vowed he would not have the Campbell holding, no matter what their debts. Some prices were too high to pay.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched up the sweeping drive. The house of mellowed stone had been built a century ago, but it retained the elegant lines and spaciousness of a gracious home. Harriet hesitated at the front portico. Should she go round to the servants' entrance?

No, she decided with more courage than her stomach thought she had. She was no one's servant.

A parlour maid answered her knock, and after taking her woollen cloak, directed her into a small morning room. A fire blazed in the hearth, and Harriet stretched her hands out towards its warmth.

"Sir James will be with you shortly." With a flounce of her skirts, the maid disappeared. Harriet looked round at her sumptuous surroundings in both amazement and trepidation. She was conscious that even her best dress was well out of fashion, and the lace on the collar she'd added herself. She didn’t fit into this world.

"Miss Campbell."

Harriet whirled around at the voice. Sir James Riddell stood in the doorway, surveying her with shrewd eyes. He was tall and spare, with short greying hair and a finely trimmed moustache. His breeches and morning coat were of the finest quality, his boots polished and gleaming. He looked to be no more than forty or forty-five.

"Good morning, sir." Harriet sketched a curtsey. "I believe you have business with me?"

"Ah, yes." Riddell smiled, and the sight made Harriet feel even more unsure of herself. It was the look of a man who knew he was in control, in power, and relished it. "Why don't you sit down?" he invited. "I've asked for a dish of tea."

Reluctantly Harriet sat on a silk striped divan. Sir James sat across from her.

"Things have not been easy for you, have they?" he asked in what Harriet suspected was meant to be a kindly tone.

She clenched her hands in her lap, and tried to cover the motion with her skirt. "Everyone has had their share of difficulties in these trying times."

"Of course...” Riddell nodded in understanding, steepling his fingers under his chin. “But what with your father's illness, and of course the dire straits Achlic Farm is in..." he trailed off delicately.

Harriet forced herself to unclench her hands. Her gloves were damp with sweat. How did he know these things?

"And of course, your sweetheart... my dear cousin's son..." Riddell’s smile turned feral. "Leaving for Scotia like that. The whole family just upped and went. I lost a very good tacksman." His eyes were cold even as he asked pleasantly, "What was his name? Your beau?"

Harriet forced herself to speak calmly. She supposed Riddell knew about her through the MacDougalls, although it hardly seemed likely they would discuss her. The question was,
why
did he know--and care? "His name is Allan."

"Yes, of course. I remember him. A pity you weren’t able to marry before he emigrated.”

Harriet felt her heart twist painfully inside her. With effort she lifted her chin and met Riddell’s sly gaze. “Yes, a pity.”

His smile widened, looking falser than ever. “Forgive my rudeness. I only ask because I commiserate with you, my dear. I loved someone once, you know.”

“Did you indeed?” Harriet could not imagine it.

“Unfortunately, my guardian did not think it a good match. Understandable, of course, as I was an impressionable young man with a title and fortune since I was but ten years old.” Harriet inclined her head. Riddell sat back in his seat, crossing one leg neatly over the other. “By the time I had gained my independence to make an offer, the lady in question had changed her mind.” For a moment, his expression hardened, the charming smile slipping out of place.

“I’m sorry.” Harriet couldn’t fathom why Riddell was telling her his history, but she was still wary of his honeyed words and compassionate tone. There was a sting hidden somewhere, she knew it. “Of course,” she felt compelled to add, “Allan need have no such fear of me.”

“Ah, but we are all capricious.” His eyes glittered and he leaned forward. “Tell me, have you received any letters from your Allan?"

Harriet's mouth was dry. Riddell almost sounded as if he knew something. But what could he possibly know? And why did he care so much?

"His family has corresponded," she said in a small, tight voice.

"Ah, good." The maid brought in a tea tray and they were both silent until she'd left the room again. "Would you be so kind as to pour?"

Harriet nodded, and willed her hands not to shake as she lifted the heavy teapot. “Cream or sugar?” she asked in little more than a whisper.

“Both, thank you.” Riddell took the delicate china cup and sipped. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've brought you here, and the answer is simple. You have something I want, and I have something you want."

Harriet stared at him in amazement. The teapot slipped slightly in her grasp, and she set it down with an awkward clatter. "What could you have that I want?"

Riddell laughed. "I imagine," he said dryly, his gaze flicking around the room, "that I have many things you want. However... I'm speaking in this instance of one particular item." He reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a letter, the parchment weathered and sealed with wax. Harriet felt the blood drain from her face. She had quite a good idea who it was from--and no idea why Sir James possessed it. Her teacup rattled as she replaced it in its saucer.