Far Horizons (10 page)

“I could keep Rupert company...’

“Ian will see to that. And Harriet will need your help in the kitchen and farm.”

Margaret swallowed, knowing from the set expression on her father’s face that there would be no moving him. Still she tried.

“Even just a few days a week--’

“Nonsense, lass. There’s no sense it. When you come to the New Scotland you’ll marry and run your husband’s farm with him. You’ll learn far more in the Campbell kitchen than in a dusty school room.”

Margaret bit back the retort that she didn’t want to learn how to make a flaky pie crust or bottle jam or tend a garden. Her father would not take kindly to such ideas.

So she’d let it go, and consoled herself that at least at Achlic, away from her father, she might have a bit more freedom. And while she was able to steal out for these walks and read some of Rupert’s books, such a little taste of freedom made her yearn for more. Far more.

Sighing, she eyed the descent of a murky sun in a slate-grey sky and knew she should head back to Achlic. She turned, and ran smack into the hard wall of a man’s chest.

“Oof!”

“My goodness.” A man’s hands gripped her elbows to steady her. “Are you hurt?”

Margaret glanced up at the man’s weather-beaten face, his hair sandy, his eyes a friendly, faded blue. Although his skin was tanned and there were wrinkles around his eyes, she guessed him to be in his late twenties, no more.

"No, not at all, just surprised. I’m sorry I ran into you. I wasn’t looking to where I was going I’m afraid.” She stepped back, blushing, and the man stooped to retrieve a book from the muddy street.

"'The Consolations of Philosophy'," he read. "Boethius, if I'm not mistaken, sixth century. Could this be the reason why you missed your step?”

“What do you mean?” Margaret instinctively bristled.

“Not the usual reading material for a young lady."

"I suppose I should be reading some romantic nonsense," she said tartly.

The man raised his eyebrows. "I have no such notion. Admittedly, most young ladies prefer such novels. Or at least the young ladies of my limited acquaintance. As for what you
should
be doing... that is hardly for me to say." He held the book out to her, and Margaret snatched it.

"Is there somewhere I can escort you to?” the man asked.

Margaret drew herself up. "That would hardly be proper, sir. I do not know you." It wasn't even proper for them to be standing in the street like this, talking, but Margaret found that conversation with this man was oddly stimulating. He might have been surprised by her reading choice, but he had not been scandalized.

"Then let me introduce myself." He bowed with mock flourish that caused Margaret's lips to twitch with suppressed laughter. "Captain Henry Moore, most pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Margaret MacDougall. Are you a sea captain?"

He straightened, his eyes still full of humour. "Yes, I have a ship in port at the moment.
The Allegiance.
She runs between here and the Americas. I've decided to stay in Scotland for the winter, though."

"But you're not Scottish." Margaret knew she should have drawn this conversation to a close long ago, and swept by this strange, forward man with a hint of mockery in his eyes. Yet something about his forthright manner and the laughter lacing his words compelled her to stay.

"No, I'm American. My aunt is Scottish, and lives here in Tobermory." He grinned suddenly. “If I can’t escort you somewhere, could she perhaps invite you to tea? Would that be more proper?"

Margaret’s eyes widened at his audacity--and her own ripple of pleasure that it brought. “I don’t even know her--”

“You hardly seem one to stand on propriety, or am I mistaken?” There was a thread of wistfulness in Captain Moore’s voice, and his eyes were the colour of the sea on a cloudy day. Margaret looked down. “No, you’re not mistaken.”

"Very well, then, Miss MacDougall. An invitation will be sent forthwith. Where should it be addressed?"

"In the care of Achlic Farm," Margaret blurted, before her courage failed her. "Near Craignuire."

Henry Moore bowed again. "Then I hope we will meet again, in more pleasant circumstances. Adieu."

As he strode away, Margaret found herself gawping like a love-struck maid. She shook her head, and turned smartly in the opposite direction. Yet a treacherous hope burned in her heart. At least now there was something interesting to look forward to, in the person of Henry Moore.

"I'm sorry there isn't better news, Mistress Campbell."

"Never mind, Ted." Harriet pushed the accounts book away from her and rubbed her eyes. She didn't bother to add that she was used to bad news by now. Good news would come as a surprise, at this rate.

"Let me put the kettle on. The least I can offer you on a raw day like this is a cup of tea."

Ted murmured his thanks and Harriet went to the kitchen. She stood at the window while the kettle set to a boil, gazing distantly at the bleak, grey landscape of midwinter.

David Campbell had been bedridden for three months, and he was not an easy patient. Although his life was not in immediate danger, it was unlikely he would ever resume his full load of farm work again. The burden fell firmly onto Harriet's shoulders.

The piercing whistle of the kettle caused Harriet to yank it off the stove, burning her hand. David hated loud noises, and she didn't want to give him any more cause to complain, or voice his disappointment yet again that she'd not been a son.

Oh Allan,
Harriet thought.
Why haven't you written? A letter from you would make this all so much more bearable...

Another ship had docked in November, coming from Nova Scotia, and there had been another letter for Margaret and Rupert from their mother, as well as some terse greetings from their father. There had been nothing from Allan.

His silence, Harriet thought not for the first time, was more damning than any words could be. However constant he'd promised to be, his mind--and his heart--had changed like the wind when an ocean separated them.

Yet as long as he was silent, what could she do? She’d not written back, and vowed that she would not bother Allan with her letters until he assured her of his own constancy.

Was she really free? Yes, Harriet knew Allan had freed her, but her heart did not feel free. It yearned for Allan, for his dear face and his promises... even if she now feared they meant nothing.

"It seems like the only solution is to sell some of our acreage," Harriet said bluntly when she returned with the tea. "With the poor harvest return, we won't have enough money to hire the workers we'll need in the spring, as it is."

The corners of Ted's mouth pulled down in dismay. "Your father won't stand for that, Miss Campbell. This farm's been in your family for fifty years or more, and naught changed in all that time."

"Times have changed," Harriet replied, a trifle sharply. "Three years of bad harvests and dropping prices mean everyone has to do without. If Father were well, if we'd some savings put by..." Harriet shook her head despairingly. "Ted, honestly, what else can we do?"

"There's always the sheep," Ted reminded her. "The price of wool is still steady, and there'll be new lambs this spring as well."

"Yes, but it won't be enough." Harriet knew they fetched a good price for their clip, but they'd always been primarily crop farmers, and the wool was used for the family, with a bit left to sell. They could hardly pin all their hopes on that.

"It'll grieve your father mightily to sell," Ted said mournfully.

"Well, then he shouldn't have got us in this
moger
," Harriet retorted. As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. "Never mind what I said, Ted. I'm only tired."

"I know, Miss Campbell. Anna and I think you're a brave lass, if you want to know the truth. I don't ken how you put up with it all."

Neither do I, Harriet wanted to say, but she just smiled instead. "Thank you."

Later that evening, sitting by the fire, a piece of mending lying forgotten in her lap, Harriet's somber thoughts returned to circle uselessly in her mind. There seemed to be no solution but to sell the land, yet even that would only be temporary. If next year's harvest turned out poorly again, they would be as worse off as ever. They might sell another field, but the more land they sold, the less profit they could hope to make. It seemed a hopeless situation.

Eleanor suddenly stood in front of Harriet, a solemn look on her face. With her fingers she gently stroked her older sister's forehead.

"What are you doing, Ellie?" Harriet asked, bemused.

"Don't worry, Harriet, please. I can tell you're worrying because you get that wrinkle in the middle of your forehead, like a dimple."

"Do I?" Harriet briefly touched her brow. "Gives me away, then, doesn't it? I'm sorry. I don't mean to trouble you with my worries."

"But you should," Eleanor protested seriously. "That's what we're here for.”

“She speaks true,” Margaret said quietly, looking up from her game of chess with Rupert. “If we all pull together, perhaps we can think of a solution.”

Eleanor sat on the stool by Harriet’s knee. “It's money, isn't it? That we need, I mean."

Harriet put down her stitching with a sigh. "Yes, it is."

"Why didn't Father tell us things were going badly?" Ian said suddenly, his voice full of frustrated anger. He gazed moodily into the fire. "It's as if he tricked us, all this while."

"Hush yourself, Ian Campbell," Harriet said sternly. "He was trying to keep us well out of it, and who knows what might've happened if the harvest had been better?" She closed her eyes briefly, the distressing numbers in the accounts book dancing through her mind. "As it is..."

"I wish we could forget it all," Ian said, sounding much younger than his fifteen years. "Who do we owe money to? They should forget it. If everyone's had a bad harvest, it's hardly fair."

"We owe money to just about everyone," Harriet said with a sigh. "Everything's been bought on credit. And I don't think it'll be forgotten, not in these hard times. As for us forgetting it..." she smiled whimsically and quoted, "
Ní dhíolann dearmhad fiacha
... forgetting a debt does not pay it."

"If only it did!" Eleanor said with a wistful sigh. "We wouldn't need money then, just faulty memories."

“Surely we could do something,” Margaret interjected quietly. “I could write Father...”

“My father won’t take charity, and neither will I,” Harriet replied firmly.

“Harriet, we’re as near as family...”

Harriet just shook her head. Never mind that David would refuse all such offers, she knew it would only be a temporary solution and a bad one at that. She patted Eleanor's thin shoulders. "Never mind,
cridhe
. We'll get by, somehow."

"Will we?" Eleanor's hazel eyes seemed to know too much.

"I'll quit my studies," Ian said suddenly. "We won't need money for a tutor then, and I can get a job, a proper one."

Harriet shook her head. "Ian, no. You love your studies."

"There are more important things now, aren't there?" Ian's eyes blazed with determination. "I'm the man of the family now, at least while Father's abed. It's time I did things."

"But Ian,” Harriet said, trying not be reasonable without hurting him, “what sort of job could you get? You're only fifteen."

"There's plenty of lads my age working already," Ian replied. "I could work at the docks in Tobermory, or even Oban. Or do farm work on one of the bigger farms. They're probably doing well for themselves, the fat pigs!"

The bitterness in his voice was impossible to mistake. Harriet sat back with a sigh. How would Ian, with his slight build and fair skin, manage at a job that required the brawn and stamina of a full grown man? He was used to reading and studying all day, nothing more arduous than putting pen to paper.

Even worse, Harriet knew, the pennies Ian could bring to the household from a labourer's job would do little to cover the debt that threatened to drown them all. Desperate measures were required, and Harriet only wished she knew what they were. Still, she turned to Ian and smiled.

"Thank you, Ian," she said softly, for she knew he had pride. "You've become a man. I can see that now."

"Bring him in, bring him in, man!" Sandy's face was suffused with helpless anger and worry as Archie and Neville Dunmore stumbled in with an unconscious Allan between them.

Agnes Dunmore gazed at Allan for a moment before turning briskly to the fire. "We'll need hot water... and whiskey. Lay him on the bed, Neville. But don't take his boots off... not yet. It needs a woman's touch, that."

Betty clutched at Agnes' arm. "What can I do? Will he be all right?"

"Help me with the water," Agnes commanded. Her stern voice belied the gentleness in her eyes. "I know it's hard, but we all need clear heads now, Betty."

Allan lay on the bed, his face white and dusted with frost, his eyes still closed, his breathing slight. Neville stood up. "It was a foolish notion he had, to go out after dark," he said with a shake of his head. "With the snow still falling, you could get lost going to the privy! Didn't he realise?"

Agnes shot him a quelling look. "Pay him no mind. Of course he didn't realise, Neville. Now let's do the best for him we can. Pray God he doesn't lose any toes... or worse."

"Toes," Betty whispered, and leaned gratefully into Sandy's arms. "Oh, please, no..."

Sandy turned fiercely to Agnes. "What do you mean by worse?"

Neville put a hand on Sandy's shoulder. "Easy, man. There's no saying what it is. Wait and see."

Agnes gently eased off Allan's boots and cut away the frozen socks from his feet. Sandy stared at the frozen, grey flesh in horror.

"Fill the tub, Neville," Agnes commanded. "The water shouldn't be too hot. Let's bathe his feet gently, that's the way."

Neville and Sandy supported Allan, who stirred now with faint groans, as Agnes carefully bathed his frozen feet. It seemed an eternity, but to everyone's relief the flesh began to thaw and turn pink. With it Allan began to moan.