Far Horizons (16 page)

He craved this, the community and discussion, each man’s voice heard, like a plant to the sun. He needed it.

Sandy did not speak throughout the meeting. He preferred to listen, and take the measure of each man present. Afterwards, he approached Robert MacPherson with a genial smile. “It's a fine group of men here,” he said with a nod.

Robert nodded back, his eyes wary. He still remembered Archie’s winter escapade, and did not thank the MacDougalls for it. Douglas had lost all of his toes on one foot, and three on the other. He needed crutches, and was little use on the farm. Those who knew what happened blamed Archie.

“I've been thinking,” Sandy continued, “this community needs a leader. You've organised yourselves well, of course, but there's nothing like a man in charge to give people comfort, is there?”

“Comfort?” Robert's bark of laughter was devoid of humour. “That's not the kind of comfort we came here to seek.”

Undeterred, Sandy continued. “You've heard I was tacksman of Ardnamurchan. I know what it is to lead men, to give them their due and their say. In Scotland I obliged my uncle, Sir James Riddell, but here I'd do it for my fellow men.”

Robert's face twisted in half grimace, half smile. “Riddell? I've heard of that scoundrel. I wouldn't think it's something to be proud of.”

Sandy flushed. “He's my wife's kin, and while I've no ties to him, it was my duty.”

“Then you'll be relieved to know you're free of such duty here. We don't need another tacksman, not in this country.”

“Of course not.” Sandy shrugged impatiently. “A leader, though, someone to organise.”

“I was warned you might do this.” Robert shook his head. “I thought you had more sense, man, but I can see you're still full of foolish, old world pride. Well, it won't carry here, I can tell you. We're all our own men, and we make our own decisions. Any say or due we have we give ourselves. So you'd best remember that, tacksman, and realise no matter how grand your cabin or great your farm, it doesn't hold with us. Here we help each other, and we see eye to eye. We don't call anyone laird, and we never will.”

Sandy held himself stiffly. “You've misunderstood me.”

“Have I? I don't think so.” Robert glared at him. “If you want authority, then lead your sons! It’s Archie’s foolishness that lost my Douglas the use of his feet.”

Sandy jutted his chin. “You’d blame my son for what your own agreed to do? It was foolishness, no doubt, but they were compatriots in it, I know.”

“See it as you like. Just know we don’t all think as you do... about many things.” Robert paused, and his expression softened slightly. ”Take some advice, Sandy.”

Sandy drew himself up. “And what would that be?”

“This is a harsh country, and you're new to it. You might think you know all you need to now, but I can tell you surely you don't. And if you want help when the time comes you need it, you'd better start seeing yourself as humble--or as grand--as Angus McDermott there, who had a peat and turf croft on Skye. Here, we're all the same, and the island knows no different.”

Sandy was silent, his expression stony. After a long, tense moment he inclined his head and walked away.

Sandy was quiet throughout the dancing, although everyone caroused merrily around him. Allan and Archie took their turns dancing with the few eligible girls, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

“That Elizabeth Campbell is a pretty lass,” Archie remarked as they stood to one side of the swept-dirt dance floor. “I don't suppose she'd turn your head, though. Still pining for a different Campbell, I can see.”

“I love her and plan to marry her, if that's what you mean.”

“Oh, Allan!” Archie laughed. “Always so serious. Have you heard from her, then? A ship docked at Pictou last week.”

“I've had one letter,” Allan said. After such a long silence, the letter from Harriet had been incredibly dear. Apparently his own missives had been lost, and so she hadn't written.

The admission, cased in affectionate terms as it was, still shook him. Did she suspect him of being untrue? If she thought he could forget after a few months only, how would their love fare through the years it would take before he could return?

“Father's had a set down,” Archie said after a moment. “Serves him right.”

“What?” Allan glanced at Archie in surprise.

“Didn't you hear? He spoke to Robert MacPherson about being some sort of leader among the men. He's still stuck in his old world ways, and he doesn't even realise. No one wants a tacksman here! If he's not careful, we'll all be tarred with that brush.”

“Surely not...” Allan glanced at his father, sitting apart, a stony expression on his face. “Father will see reason, in time.”

“How much time?” Archie shrugged. “Ah, well, it won't matter much to me.”

“Why not?” Allan stared at the insouciant grin on his brother's face and felt that old chill of foreboding.

“Never you mind, brother. Let us just say I have some plans of my own.”

“How bad is it, then?”

Ted Carmichael shook his head in sad regret. “It's bad, miss. I'm terribly sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Ted.” Harriet leaned back in her chair, suddenly unbearably weary. Outside the willow trees were in full foliage, and the world looked happy and at peace with itself. Inside the Campbell home, Harriet thought, there was nothing but turmoil.

Ian sat next to her, his face grim. As the self-proclaimed man of the family, Harriet knew he wanted to be involved, to do something to help. She appreciated the gesture, but knew it for all it was... a gesture. What could any of them do when the debt that engulfed them deepened each passing day?

“You'll have to sell,” Ted continued.

Harriet straightened, her eyes wide. “Not... not everything, surely?”

“Oh no, miss.” Ted patted her arm reassuringly. “It surely isn't as bad as that, and never will be.”

“God willing,” Harriet murmured. Nothing seemed certain at the moment.

“There are about twenty acres of pasture that you could do without, if you had to. Of course, it would be better to keep the farm all together...”

“But it's past that, isn't it?” Harriet shook her head. “No, we must do what is necessary to keep the house and livestock, at any rate. If we can keep our souls together for a bit longer...” She sighed and rose from the table. “I'll speak to Father.”

Harriet's heart beat faster in trepidation as she mounted the stairs to David Campbell's sick room. He had been bedridden for nine months, and there seemed little chance now of his regaining his full health.

Although he was able to walk for short stretches of time, he tired easily. Worse, Harriet knew, his spirit had been broken with the latest crop failure and round of debt.

He was not an easy patient in any case, vacillating between bouts of rage and silent despondency. Harriet took it all in stoic meekness, for she still blamed herself at least partly for his collapse.

She knocked on the door. “Father, may I come in?”

“Very well.”

Harriet entered the room and sat by his bed. “Can I get you something to drink? There's tea brewed.” She reached to adjust the pillow behind his head but David flinched away.

“Don't mollycoddle me. I don't want anything.”

“As you wish, Father.” Harriet sat back and took a deep breath. “I've just been speaking to Ted Carmichael. He suggested that we sell the back pasture. Twenty acres of it. The money from the sale should tide us over till next harvest, and God willing, we'll have a crop then to make good our debts.”

“One year's good harvest won't do it,” David said bleakly. “It'll take more than five.”

“It's a start,” Harriet replied steadily. “And Ted thinks the creditors will wait a bit longer if we can give them something for now. After all, it isn't as if we're the only ones who have had a bad year. It's been bad for everyone.”

David shook his head. “They'll be patient as long as it suits them, and not a moment longer.”

Harriet stifled a pang of irritation. Her father's bleak outlook didn't help anyone, not when she was doing all she could to save their livelihood. “I don't know what else to do, Father,” she said quietly.

David was silent, his face averted. Harriet could hear the skylarks twittering outside in the lilac bush, and the rasp of her father's laboured breathing. “There's naught else to do,” he said at last. “I only pray it is enough.” He turned to face her, the lines of his face harsh with regret and pain. “You should go with Ted to our man in Fort William. He'll know how to go about it. Women shouldn't...” He frowned and began to cough. Harriet waited. She didn't particularly welcome another speech about the limitations of her sex, but she'd learned to mask her emotions when dealing with her father.

“Never mind,” he said when the coughing had stopped. Then, to her complete surprise, he laid his hand on top of hers. “You're a good lass, Harriet.”

She felt a ripple of shock from the simple contact, the sad smile on his father’s face. “Thank you, Father.”

“If I pained you in refusing Allan’s suit, it was for your own good. You wouldn’t be happy there, Harriet. I know it. You’re just like your mam that way.”

“I intend to sail for Scotia when Allan returns,” she said quietly. “You know that.”

“Aye, but then he’ll have his own stead, out from under his father’s thumb.” David managed a small smile. “If he didn’t have the determination to do it before, I surely gave it to him by refusing.”

Harriet did want to argue. She’d spent all her rage already, wasted tears and time wishing for what had not come to pass. At least she knew now her father had meant what he’d done for good, not ill. It was small comfort, but it was something. She patted his hand.

“Thank you, Father.”

Later that evening, when Eleanor was in bed and all was quiet, Harriet retreated to the front parlour, and the pianoforte. She ran her hands lightly over the keys and let the rippling sound soothe her. For a few moments only, in the quiet comfort of this room, she could forget the worries that lay heavily on her and lose herself in the world of music.

“Harriet?”

She stopped playing and turned to face Ian who stood in the doorway, a mixture of timidity and determination on his young face. “Is something troubling you, Ian?”

“No. Yes. That is...” Ian came into the room and closed the door. “I want to go to Fort William.”

Harriet stared at him blankly. “What for?”

“To talk to our solicitor, of course,” Ian replied, his young voice rising. “I'm the man of the family now, it's my duty to take care of you girls. You know it is.”

Harriet pursed her lips. At fifteen, Ian did very little taking care of anything. When he wasn't at his studies, he was often off with Rupert, on his own lark or pursuit of pleasure. She didn't begrudge him his fleeting youth, yet his sense of duty was more of a burden than a help. “Ian, you may come with Ted and me...”

“No!” Ian shook his head. “I want to go alone. This is a family responsibility, and Ted needn't be involved.”

“The Carmichaels are like family to us, especially since Father took ill,” Harriet reproved. “And I welcome his advice.”

“Please, Harriet.” Ian gave her his most beseeching look, as if he were a boy wheedling for sweets. “I need to do my share, Father expects me to. If I could tell him I'd managed it... by myself...”

Harriet found herself relenting in spite of her every intention otherwise. She knew Ian needed to be given responsibility in order to become a man. She’d learned that much in her dealings with her father, and the MacDougalls.

“Don't you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you.” That didn't stop the twinge of fear that a boy like Ian would not be able to do the thing properly. But then, Harriet reasoned, what was there to go wrong? The solicitor would take care of everything.

“Very well,” she said. “But you must listen to Ted, and do exactly as he says. He knows what he's about.”

“But I may go alone?”

Sighing, Harriet nodded. “You will have to bring written permission from Father, but yes, very well then.”

Twilight was finally stealing upon the world when Harriet retired to her bedchamber. She stood by the window and braided her hair, watching as Margaret strode into the house.

“Going for another one of her midnight strolls,” Harriet said softly, smiling.

A few minutes later a knock sounded on her door.

“May I come in?”

“Margaret, of course. I just saw you outside. Did you have a pleasant walk?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

Harriet could not mistake the grim look on Margaret's face. “What is it?”

“I saw you the other day, alighting from the Riddell carriage.”

Harriet stiffened. “Then you would've seen it was a downpour. Andrew Reid kindly offered to escort me home.”

“Andrew, is it?” Margaret nearly sneered. “I didn't realise you were on such friendly terms with the man.”

“He is your kin, isn't he?” Harriet strove to keep her tone mild. “And I'm not on friendly terms with him at all. Civil, perhaps, but that is all.”

“Distant kin,” Margaret flashed, “hardly at all. You know there's no love lost between the Riddells and us--Sir James nearly drove my father to the new world!”

“How so?”

“My father had to do Sir James’s dirty work, turning crofters out of their own homes.” Margaret shook her head. “I don't even know all of it, Father would never tell me. It was just what I heard as gossip.”

“You know I teach pianoforte at Lanymoor House,” Harriet said. “Why is this bothering you now?”

“You didn't have much choice about that, did you? I remember how it was. But carriage rides with Andrew Reid...!” Margaret stared at her earnestly. “Harriet, are you playing my brother false?”

“I should think not!” Harriet glared at her. “One carriage ride in the rain and it comes to this! For goodness' sake, Margaret...”

“You haven't written Allan though, have you?”

“I sent a letter with the first ship in the spring,” Harriet retorted.

“And several ships since then with not a word for any of my family!”

“And not a word back to me,” Harriet replied sharply. “Allan has only written the one letter, and there's been time enough for him to have received my own, and written back. But there's been nothing!”