Far Horizons (3 page)

His mother had said good-bye that morning to her sister, Ann Rankin, an aging widow who would stay at Mingarry after they'd left, at least until James Riddell appointed a new tacksman. After that Ann would have to board with Rankin relatives, either in Kilchoan or further afield. Allan knew it was doubtful the sisters would ever see each other again.

And what of Margaret and Rupert, staying behind? Allan glanced at his younger sister and brother, a sudden, fierce pang of sorrow assailing him. He had a special affection for sixteen year old Margaret, with her black eyes and hair, and her quick, sharp wit. And who could fail to love Rupert, scampish and lovable in his own puppyish way?

He might never see them again. Sandy planned to bring them over in two years, when Rupert's education was complete, but there were no certainties in this life. Two years was a long time, and only God knew whether they would even survive the journey.

Allan glanced at his father, sitting at the head of the table with a benevolent and satisfied look on his face. Of all the family, Alexander MacDougall was the most eager to leave. Allan could still remember when he'd first broached the topic of emigration, five years ago.

“There's space in New Scotland,” he told Allan one evening after the others had gone to bed. “Space to be your own man.”

“There's space here,” Allan protested. “You're one of the most respected men in the county, Father, with one of the most prosperous farms.”

“Bah!” Sandy shook his head in disgusted dismissal. “Respected only because of James Riddell, and the power of his fist.”

James Miles Riddell was the second Baronet of Ardnamurchan; he’d come into his title when he was only a boy of ten. Now a man of some forty years, he was taking a greater interest in the profits of his rents and the lucrative possibility of grazing sheep rather than sowing crops. As tacksman Sandy was the one who had to deliver the news to the crofters who were being displaced.

“There's a debt I owe to James Riddell,” Sandy said quietly, “that I mean to owe to no man. In the New World, Allan, we'll be free. Our house may not be as grand, or our farm so large, but it'll be a better place for all of us.”

At nineteen years old, Allan had felt a kindred longing in his own heart. He had dreams and ambitions of his own. Over the years he'd become increasingly aware of the hold the Riddell family had over them. It was a prison of some luxury, but Allan had come to realise that a prison was still a prison, no matter how comfortable the cell.

From that day, he found himself dreaming about Canada, a place where he too could be his own man, make his own way... wherever that path took him.

Looking at Sandy now, Allan knew that his father would miss no one here. He was respected, but because of his position he had few true friends. For Sandy, leaving Scotland would hold few regrets. He wasn’t, Allan thought with a pang, leaving behind someone he loved.

After supper Allan and Archie went to the docks to check on their baggage, piled high in the shed and watched by two dozy stable lads. Betty had insisted on taking all their linens and china, and her own rocking chair as well. Satisfied all their belongings were well in hand, they turned back to their lodgings. Dusk was falling softly, the breeze rolling in from the murky water cool and damp.

“You've got a knowing smile,” Archie said with a sly glance. “Been to Achlic this morn, have you?”

“So I have,” Allan confirmed, his knowing smile turning to a full fledged grin. Just the memory of Harriet’s promise eased the worry in his heart. She would be faithful; he knew that. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and whistled a merry tune. “And a good visit it was, too.”

Archie raised his eyebrows. “You haven't asked Harriet to marry you?”

Allan shrugged. “I could hardly ask that, what with us sailing on the morrow. You know what her father said.”

“Aye, he sent you packing!”

Allan suppressed the spark of irritation Archie so often kindled in him. “For the meantime, perhaps, but I’ve prospects, and David Campbell knows that. So does Harriet.”

Archie stopped in the street, the cobbles slick with mist, his hands on his hips, a mocking smile curving his mouth. “Does she, indeed? I thought Campbell wanted your interest kept quiet. Said it was the most fair to Harriet.”

“He wants her at his bidding,” Allan retorted, then turned away, struggling for a calm tone. Picking a fight with his brother would serve no one. “I couldn’t leave without her knowing, Archie. It wouldn’t be fair to her. That kind of freedom to Harriet--it would be the worst sort of prison.”

“There never was a pair to hold a candle to the two of you,” Archie acknowledged. He fell into step with Allan, as easy as before, his quick words forgotten. That was Archie for you, light one moment, darkness the next. Allan had always been steadier, but he also held onto his anger. He knew he needed to let go it, yet his brother always managed to bring up the worst in him. Archie clapped him on the shoulder, giving him an easy smile. “Everyone always hoped you'd be together.”

Allan gave a small smile. “There's a long road ahead of us yet. Although it will be as short as I can make it, I'll grant you that!”

Ahead of them Allan could see the inn, the sign over the door swinging in the wind. The damp mist had turned to drizzle, needling his face.

“Have you told Father?” Archie asked. “He's not likely to be pleased.”

Allan hesitated, for although he had obeyed the letter of David Campbell’s law and not asked Harriet to marry him, he had surely flaunted its spirit, and his own father might not be best pleased. The thought made him uneasy, even as he felt a bone-deep certainty that to say nothing to Harriet would have been cruel. Now he stopped a few yards from the inn door and turned to face Archie. “Why shouldn’t Father be pleased?” he asked, keeping his own voice light. “Harriet's as fine a woman as there can be, and Father's always been fond of her.”

Archie shrugged. “You know him. He doesn't like anything happening without his knowing about it, or even doing it himself.”

“He can hardly ask Harriet for me,” Allan said, making a joke of it. “And I'm a grown man as it is. I'll live my own life, as I see fit.”

“Will you now?” Archie said softly. “And here was I, thinking you the loyal son.”

“I am loyal,” Allan replied sharply. He knew Archie was playing with him, as he often did. Allan never failed to rise to the lighthearted taunts, even though he'd long known better. Even as boys Archie had got the better of him with his mischief.

“Father would still want you to heed Campbell,” Archie continued, a sly note entering his voice. “If he said not to speak to her.”

“I’m my own man.” Allan turned to enter the inn, his hand on the old weathered door. From inside he heard the laughter and chatter of travellers around the fire, the clink of mugs of ale and the irritable shout of the innkeeper.

“And when we get to Canada?” Archie asked. “What will happen then? Father expects us all to work together on the land. There can be no other way, not in that wild country. We'll need every hand as it is.”

“I'm willing to work.” Allan’s hand rested on the door, but he did not turn the handle. Archie’s sly words were stirring up a ferment of doubt inside him, and he did not thank his brother for it.

“Will that satisfy Harriet’s father?” Archie pressed. “A son working his father’s land like a hired hand?”

“It’s not like that,” Allan said shortly. “And you know it. The farm will belong to all of us. When Father dies--”

“Oh, it will belong to us, will it? And who will be obeying Father’s orders, then? The sheep?”

Allan stared at his brother for a moment. He knew his father was autocratic, but he was kind and fair as well. In their work together, he’d never had cause to believe his father thought so little of his own judgment. Sandy often asked his advice on farming matters, and left Allan in charge of their fields when he had to be about his tacksman’s business.

“He won’t be tacksman in Canada,” Archie continued softly. “No one to order about but his own sons, and instead of coin, the price will be blood.”

Allan’s gaze flickered to the lighted window upstairs, where he knew his family waited. For the first time he felt a true sliver of doubt needle his soul. His father didn’t like taking orders from Riddell, but Allan suspected he did enjoy the authority and prestige that came with his position as the baronet’s representative. “If you think like that,” he said quietly, “what do you intend to do about it?”

“I have plans.” Archie’s smile was pleasant, but Allan saw a hard determination in his brother’s eyes that surprised and chilled him.

“You can’t leave the farm,” he said after a moment. He could not even imagine where his brother would go; as far as he knew, there was little to recommend the New Scotland except for the endless expanse of untamed land. “Like you said, it’s a wild country. Father expects it.”

“Aye, he does.”

“It’s the way of it,” Allan continued, though he realised he was speaking as much to himself as to his brother. “If we acted differently...”

“What would happen?” Archie issued the challenge in a dangerously soft voice.

Allan could not imagine turning his back on his own father, the expectations of the life they’d lead in the new world. He wanted to be his own man, and till his own land, but not at the expense of his own father. “It would break him,” he said simply.

Archie laughed shortly. “I don’t think there’s anything to break that old bastard.”

“Archie!” Allan glanced again at the lighted window. He’d never heard Archie speak with such cold contempt; it chilled him. “He’s our father,” he said, and Archie just shrugged, his eyes dark with defiance.

“What I say is true, Allan, and the sooner you realise the kind of pleasant cage you live in, the better. Father’s spoken all sorts of claptrap about being your own man, working your own land, but you should realize the only man he’s talking about is himself.” He let out an abrupt laugh and shook his head. “You always did believe the best in everybody.” In one fluid movement, he moved past Allan and opened the front door, disappearing among the heaving crowd within.

Allan stared after him, his mind and heart now splintered with sharp new doubts. First Harriet’s father, now his own demanding from him what his honour insisted he fulfill. He wondered if it could lead him anywhere but to disappointment... or worse.

“Allan, there you are,” Betty said when Allan finally entered their lodging rooms. The remnants of a game of spillikins lay on the rickety wood table, with Archie sprawled next to it, his booted feet stretched out to the small coal fire. The rest of the family was assembled in the small room: Rupert and Margaret, who would return to Achlic on the morrow, and Betty and Sandy in the most comfortable chairs.

“Shall we have a song?” Betty asked with a tremulous smile. “Margaret, you've always had a lovely voice. Give us a song, then, or a poem.”

“Something lively, lass,” Sandy added. “With all these long faces, you'd think it was someone's funeral!”

Margaret stood and cleared her throat, her dark eyes flashing once, compassionately, to Allan. “My love is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June...”

Allan leaned back in his chair as he listened to Margaret recite the familiar poem by Robbie Burns. His thoughts drifted, and he found himself imagining his return to this room, a year or two hence, with Harriet as his bride. He pictured how the candlelight would shine on her red hair, her eyes warm and full of love, not dark and shadowed with pain as they had been this afternoon. She would reach her arms out to him...

“Allan's miles away!” Betty said affectionately, startling him from his bittersweet reverie. “No doubt thinking of your Harriet. I know you'll miss her.” She smiled sadly. “She's a good woman, though, Allan. None of us can know what the future will bring. Perhaps she'll wait for you.”

Still half in thrall to his daydream, Allan smiled and said with more confidence than wisdom, “I know she'll wait for me.”

Silence descended on the room. Allan caught Archie’s knowing smile, and felt a chill of foreboding. Why had he spoken thus? And yet, he acknowledged, how could he keep such a thing from his family? It would be dishonest, as dishonest as saying nothing to Harriet would have been. He could keep the truth from no one.

“How would you be knowing something like that?” Sandy finally asked in an even tone.

“I asked her myself, this afternoon,” Allan admitted, his voice as even as his father’s. “I suppose I should've told you, but it's a happy secret I've been keeping.”

“Oh, Allan!” Margaret's eyes shone as she clasped her hands to her chest, and Allan was glad at least one member of his family seemed pleased by his news.

“A secret?” Sandy's voice rose to a boom like thunder. “A dishonourable secret!”

Allan flushed. “I have no intention of acting dishonorably towards anyone,” he replied, “least of all Harriet.”

“Then perhaps you can tell me why you'd ask a good woman like that to wait for you,” Sandy retorted. “She'll be an old maid upon your return, if Providence sees that you return at all.” He shook his head. “No son of mine should treat a lady such.”

Allan did not want to have this conversation in full view of his entire family, but he saw no other way. “I love her,” he said quietly, “and she loves me. It would have been cruel to say nothing--”

“I know the love you two have had,” Sandy said, his voice softer. “And if things had turned differently with Campbell...” he shook his head. “But what has been said already must be left as such. You know the agreement made.”

“I know what he wanted,” Allan corrected stiffly, “but I had myself--and Harriet--to consider.”

Sandy shook his head. “David Campbell is her father, Allan, and as such must be respect. Besides, think of it, lad. Would you want to see Harriet old and withered, with no child or husband of her own?”

The image chilled him and he shook his head in vehement denial. “I'll be her husband!”

“You can't be sure of that.” Sandy glanced somberly at each member of his family in turn. “None of us can be sure of anything, or whether we'll all sit like this in one room again. It is for God alone to know such things, and for us to trust.”