Far Horizons (7 page)

Archie, who had followed behind his father, gave Allan a smirking look. Allan knew just what he was thinking. His father was not tacksman here.

“This will do nicely,” Betty said, and Sandy pursed his lips into a thin line, looking as if he still wanted to argue.

“Archie and I can sleep in the barn,” Allan offered, “and give Mother some privacy. Plenty of men are doing the same.”

Sandy nodded, satisfied, and behind his back Archie rolled his eyes. “Who said I wanted to sleep in a barn?” he muttered, but at least he went downstairs with Allan to bring up the rest of their trunks.

As Allan left the room, he heard his father say in a low voice, “This will be the last time you have to share a room, I promise you that.”

Betty smiled slightly, her eyebrows raised. “Don’t make promises we’ve no knowledge to keep. I’m not above sharing a room, Sandy, and nor should you be.”

Sandy grunted, and Allan caught another of Archie’s knowing look. It would be hard for Sandy to let go of the privileges of being tacksman.

A sailor jostled Allan's arm as he passed and then gazed at him rudely, clearly spoiling for a fight. Allan passed by quickly. There was no point involving himself in a useless brawl at this stage--not when he had so much to live for.

“Not quite the same, is it?” Archie said cheerfully as they settled into the hay to sleep that night. “A far cry from Mingarry Farm, or even our ship cabin!”

“Lower your voice,” Allan told him. Archie had been in the taproom with the sailors, and it was clear by his jolly manner and bright eyes. “We don't want to cause trouble.”

“It won't come easy to Father,” Archie said. “Nobody cares if he was tacksman of Ardnamurchan here.”

“He realizes that,” Allan said with more conviction than he actually felt. “In any case, there were plenty of Scots aboard the ship. A tacksman will mean something to them.”

Archie chuckled as he kicked off his boots and wriggled his toes. “As innocent as a dove, you are! And how do you suppose they'll be thinking about tacksmen, Allan MacDougall, in this world they've come to?”

Allan stared at his brother, unwelcome realisation dawning. Archie had always grasped things more quickly than he did; it was one of the things about his brother that annoyed him. That, and the fact that Archie knew it.

“It's tacksmen they've come to escape, Allan,” Archie said, as if explaining the alphabet to a slow-witted child. “If they realise Father was a tacksman, it won’t be for his benefit.

“Aye, so you’ve said.” Allan turned over in the hay, preparing to sleep.

“Here there's no one to answer to,” Archie continued softly. ”And no one to do Father's bidding.” He paused, and Allan waited, his back still turned. “No one but us.”

“I seem to remember that we’ve already had this conversation,” Allan said in a weary voice. “You can bait me all you like, Archie, for I know that for what it is. Father might need to adjust to this place, as do we all. I’m not yet thinking he’s going to turn on us like a mad bull or an angry laird. He isn’t Riddell, by any means.”

Allan thought of their previous laird’s cold, shrewd eyes, the little smile he gave before asking Sandy to do something unpleasant. Allan had often been at his father’s side during those visits to Mingarry Castle, had seen his father’s clenched fists and tightened shoulders when he was instructed to turn another crofter out. Riddell’s increasing demands had hastened the MacDougalls’ departure, of that he had no doubt.

He had to believe his father was different than a man like Riddell, no matter what Archie thought.

“Sweet dreams,” Archie whispered mockingly, and Allan gritted his teeth. 

Closing his eyes, he tried to picture Harriet. Just the image of her, the very thought, calmed him. He liked to imagine her as he'd last seen her at Duart, her auburn hair blowing in curls about her face, her eyes shining with love and promise.
I'll come back
. As fanciful as the notion was, Allan imagined she could hear his thoughts, and be certain of his vow.

“I've no head for learning, Maggie. You know that.” Rupert gazed at her mournfully as they broke their fast in the kitchen. In less than an hour they were expected at Master Simon Douglas’s lodgings in Tobermory for their lessons.

Ian, tousle headed and sleepy over his oatcakes, glanced at Rupert with two years’ smug seniority. “Master McIlvain will know it as well,” he replied with a grin. “Or he'll learn, no doubt!”

“Away with you, Ian,” Harriet chided as she served more oatcakes to the children gathered around the table. “And enough with your idle chatter.” She smoothed her hair back into the neat bun at the back of her neck, and caught Margaret’s concerned gaze. She knew she’d been irritable lately; everything seemed to conspire against her. Even with Margaret’s help the housework was never-ending, and her father had become surlier and surlier.

Yet despite these cares Harriet knew that none of them were truly the cause of her discontent. The truth was a packet ship had arrived from the New Scotland three days ago, and as far as she knew it held no letters for anyone at Achlic.

Of course, there could be a dozen--a thousand--reasons why Allan hadn’t written.
The Economy
had been delayed, he’d been too consumed with responsibilities to put ink to paper, he was ill. Or dead. Or he’d simply forgotten her.

Harriet shook her head impatiently, the thought buzzing inside like flies she could not simply swat away. Margaret laid a hand on her arm.

“What ails you, Harriet?” she asked quietly, and Harriet bit her lip.

“Nothing. That is... I wonder if any letters have come on the ship that docked. I thought we would have heard by now.”

“Letters!” Margaret brightened, her eyes snapping with excitement. “My father ordered them to remain with his shipping agent until they could be collected. I could call in, if you like--”

“Why don’t we both go?” Harriet suggested. Her heart felt lighter as she considered the new possibility. Perhaps Allan’s letter had simply been waiting for her all this time, in Tobermory. “I could use an outing.”

“So could I,” Margaret said, and Harriet saw a flash of discontent in her friend’s hazel eyes. She suspected Margaret was resentful of Rupert’s opportunity to take lessons with Ian, especially when he had no head for learning--and she did. Yet what use would protesting do? Margaret was sixteen years old, and far past the age when girls were educated. She was lucky, Harriet thought, that Sandy had provided a governess for as long as he had. Harriet had not had such fortune; her mother had taught her her letters and numbers, and that was all.

“May I walk with you?”

Harriet jumped in surprise. She'd been so lost in her thoughts she hadn't even noticed Jane MacCready come alongside her and Margaret on the road to Tobermory.

“Of course,” she murmured. Jane was known on this side of the island for her sharp tongue, even if her observations were often correct. Harriet was discomfited to see the spinster's shrewd eyes now turned upon her.

“Harriet Campbell...” Jane mused, and Harriet imagined the woman was recalling everything she'd ever known about her. “Although it should've been MacDougall, I warrant!”

“Wh--what?” Harriet stammered in her appalled surprise. She’d not realised her friendship with Allan was so well known, even though it should have come as no surprise. Even Margaret looked surprised by this pronouncement, although she smiled.

“I never understood why the pair of you didn't make a match of it,” Jane continued. “Such friends as you were. It's rare, that.”

“So it is.” Harriet couldn't think of anything else to say. She glanced helplessly at Margaret, who smiled in sympathy. How could she admit that her father had refused him? Allan’s promise of return, especially since he'd released her from her own vow, seemed too small a token to explain, and yet too precious to share.

“It won't be easy to find a husband on this island,” Jane said in a warning tone, “especially since you must be nearing five and twenty.”

“I'm twenty-three.” Harriet realised she was blushing, and willed herself to stop. “And I'm not looking for a husband at present.” The only husband she wanted was Allan.

They'd reached the edge of Tobermory, the harbour glinting in the autumn sunshine, the cries of gulls raucous the air. Jane put a steadying hand on her arm. “I mean no harm, lass. You know I always speak my mind.” Harriet nodded stiffly. “There was a man I could've married once. He loved me and I loved him, but he had to wait. I'd promised to care for my father first. He wasn't well.”

Intrigued in spite of herself, Harriet turned to face the older woman. “What happened?”

“My father took five years to die,” Jane replied, her usually sharp tone softened with a trace of sadness. “He didn't wait.”

As they walked towards the harbourside and the shipping agent’s office, Jane MacCready's words seemed to echo through her.
He didn't wait.
It wasn't the same, Harriet told herself.
She
was the one waiting. Yet the treacherous thought kept slipping in, reminding her that it had been his idea for her not to wait after all. What if life in the New Scotland held him in a way she, thousands of miles away, could not?

“It’s not the same, Harriet,” Margaret said quietly, and she turned to her in surprise.

“What do you mean?”

“Mistress MacCready and you. It’s different. Allan is different. He’ll wait.”

“He’s not waiting,” Harriet said with a tiny trace of resentment. “I am.”

“My brother is faithful,” Margaret insisted. “How can you doubt him?”

Harriet sighed. “I don’t. At least, I don’t mean to. But so much could happen, Margaret. So much could go wrong. I’m afraid.” Her voice trembled and she blinked back tears. Margaret squeezed her hand.

“Just wait. We’ll go to the shipping agent and find a nice fat packet of letters. I warrant he’s written you everyday while he’s been on that ship! Just you wait and see.”

There was frost on the ground. Allan stared at the thin white film of ice and felt as if were creeping into his soul. Frost on the ground in mid-September did not bode well. They'd barely laid the foundations for their cabin.

He glanced at the building site now, the sun just beginning to rise behind a stand of birch trees. It was early morning, the time of day he liked best. Now he could be alone with his thoughts and the peace of the countryside.

The beauty of this rough, wild country had taken him by surprise. At first it had seemed threatening, the towering trees and darkness a menace just as his mother had felt on that first day.

Prince Edward Island, with its beaches and rolling hills, its rich red soil and winding rivers, had a gentler wildness than Scotia, although it was still untamed. Alone in the quiet of the dawn, Allan knew he was beginning to love it if not as his homeland, then at least a place he’d be content to live out his days. He loved the dazzling sky, the distinctive red soil, the brilliant green of the leaves. He respected the savagery that lurked underneath the beauty, the blue of the sky that would turn to slate, the red soil which would soon be covered in snow.

This was a land that spared no mercy for weakness, error, or faintness of heart. Looking at the foundation of the cabin, just a few blocks of stone set in the dirt, the ice clutched at his soul once more. They would not be ready for winter.

And it was their own fault.

When they’d first arrived on the island, they’d had the fortune of befriending another family, the Dunmores.

The Dunmores had emigrated five years ago and possessed a solid, pleasing cabin as well as a cautiously prosperous farm. Their land bordered the MacDougalls' and they'd agreed to let Sandy and his family stay with them until their own cabin was built.

In midsummer, with the sun shining and the air warm, the breezes soft, they'd all been confident the cabin would have walls and a roof before the leaves began to change colour.

The leaves were red now, scarlet and crimson and gold. They were already beginning to fall, and they'd barely started on the walls.

And all because of Sandy’s stubbornness. Allan tasted resentment, like acid on the back of his throat.

In July, when they’d arrived, he’d argued for a smaller cabin. They’d stood in a clearing, a thicket of raspberry bushes dripping with ruby-coloured fruit framing a view of the river, the water dazzled by sunlight.

“Why don’t we build here?” Allan said. He breathed in the clean air, still cool in the morning light, and grinned at his father. “There’s everything to hand, and we can start with something small. Four walls and a roof to see through the winter.”

“That sounds like a barn,” Sandy had replied shortly. “I didn’t come all this way to live like a crofter.”

“A crofter doesn’t own two hundred acres,” Allan replied, slightly startled by his father’s curt tone. Archie stood nearby, staring at his boots, a nonchalant grin still visible on his lowered face.

Sandy strode away, leaving Allan no choice but to follow him like a lackey. Sandy strode through the raspberry thickets, pushing the brambles back with disregard to his son behind him.

Allan pushed a thorny branch from his face, and waited. Tension seemed to crackle in the air, tension that had not been there a moment ago, when every dew drop seemed to sparkle like a diamond.

A bird chirped, an unfamiliar breed, the sound lonely and mournful, and then fell silent.

Sandy stood on the other side of the thicket. It was a smaller clearing, closer to the river, and bordering a stand of birch trees.

“We’ll build here,” he announced, and his voice brooked no argument.

“Are you sure?” Allan pressed. “There was more sunlight in the other, and room for Mother’s garden.”

Sandy turned to look coolly at his son. “The garden doesn’t need to be next to the house, and I want to be close to the river, especially in winter. We’ll be chopping through the ice every morning, I warrant.” He smiled as if to ease the finality of his words, but his eyes were still flinty.

Allan forced himself to shrug. This battle was not one worth fighting to the death, and one clearing was surely as good as another. Yet he could not shake the feeling that his father had changed locations simply because he wanted to be in charge. Almost out of spite. Still he managed to keep his voice equable as he gave his assent. “All right, then.”