Far Horizons (21 page)

“We’ll miss you at Christmas,” Betty said. “You must tell us all your news. Send letters if you can, on the mail packet from Pictou.”

“I promise.” Archie turned to bid farewell to Allan, and Allan saw the rare hesitation in his brother’s eyes. He could feel the hostility emanating from his own soul, and he was ashamed of his selfish feelings. “Go well, Archie,” he said gruffly.

Archie clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice low enough that neither Sandy nor Betty could hear. Allan nodded. He couldn’t blame Archie for taking charge of his fate. If he were brave enough, Allan thought, he would do the same.

They stayed to watch the soldiers on parade, a motley crew of British nationals and Canadian loyalists, proud and flashing in their bright uniforms. When the soldiers had all filed into the garrison, the MacDougalls finally turned to head home.

Back at Mingarry Farm, Allan retired to the barn. He mucked out the cow pens and put new straw down, hoping the physical activity would relieve him of some of his restless energy.

It was nearing twilight, and he could hear the soft call of the whippoorwill, the tell tale sign of the coming of darkness. The air was cold with the promise of frost, early this year and a sure sign of a long, cold winter.

“Come inside.” Allan stiffened at the sound of his father’s voice. “It’s cold enough for a fire tonight.”

“Aye, so it is.” Allan continued laying down the straw. He knew he should turn to face his father, but he did not want Sandy to see the anger in his eyes.

“You’ve missed your supper,” Sandy said after a moment. He leaned against a bale of hay. “Your mother wanted you to come in, but I said it’d keep. The boy needs to be by himself, is what I said.”

Allan turned slowly to face Sandy. “You’re right, Father. But how would you be knowing that?”

“I know you,” Sandy said simply. “And I know myself. I may be stubborn, Allan, and stuck in my ways, but I’m honest and I’m not blind. I know it wasn’t easy watching Allan march off like that, a spring in his step and a smile on his face.”

“I’m glad for him,” Allan said. “He’ll do well in the Army. Our Archie was never cut out for the farming life, was he?”

“No, he wasn’t at that. And there’s more opportunity for him here in this new country, as well as for us. He wouldn’t get on with the old ways, but in this new Army he could go far. Not all regiments want to be shipped off to the cold North, you can be certain!”

“I’m glad for him,” Allan repeated, and turned back to the stalls.

“Allan.” Sandy put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and Allan stilled. “You were never meant for the Army. You and Archie are as different as can be. You know that.”

“I do. I never wanted a commission, Father. If you’re worried I’m jealous of Archie for that reason, you may rest easy.”

“There’s another reason, then.”

Allan sighed and lay down his pitchfork. “You’ve thought about what Archie wants. What he needs. Have you considered what I need?”

“This is that nonsense about the cabin,” Sandy said. “Wanting your own place, your own acreage even.”

“Is that such a sin?”

“Families stay together,” Sandy objected. “Always have. It’s safer, and there’s a loyalty. When I die, this farm will be yours, Allan.”

“And until then?”

Sandy stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Allan sighed. “This farm is yours, Father. I don’t feel I own one piece of it. I’m as much a hired man as the ones in town you’re thinking to bring on.”

Sandy’s mouth opened and closed, his face reddening. He struggled between temper and reason and finally choked out, “Allan, you’re my son.”

“Then let me have some say! Let me build my own place. You’re still tacksman here, Father, don’t you see it? And I’m the crofter.” Allan gazed at him in desperate appeal, and Sandy shrugged in dismissal.

“This is nonsense.” His voice was brusque. “I’m building up your inheritance, what more do you want? Are you going to whine like a spoiled bairn who doesn’t get its every whim?”

“These are not whims.” By sheer force of will Allan kept his voice steady. “And I am not a bairn, or even a boy.”

“You seem to be acting like one.” Sandy’s voice became louder. “Shall I set you in the corner, or take a strap to you?”

“By God, you’ll do neither!” Allan’s chest heaved, and he realised he was shaking, as close to coming to blows with his own father as he had with any man.

They stared at each other, fists raised, eyes wild and determined. Their breathing was a ragged sawing of the air.

Sandy dropped his hands first. “What has it come to, that we’re at odds like this?” His voice was small and as bewildered as a boy’s. “Allan, this farm, all of it, I’ve built it for you.”

Allan dropped his own fists. His heart was racing, and he felt slightly sick. “So you say.”

“You don’t believe me?”

He shrugged. “I believe your actions. They tell another story.”

Sandy narrowed his eyes. “And what story is that?”

“That you’re still tacksman, in your heart and mind. But there’s precious few willing to take your orders.”

“You can’t be your
father’s
lackey.”

“You can feel like it.”

Sandy sighed heavily. “What of Harriet?”

“What of her?”

“Will you not send for her unless you have a cabin and land of your own? Is that how it is?”

“I don’t know how else it could be, with her father’s demands.”

“I never took it as that...” Sandy trailed off, rubbing a hand over his face. “You can build on the other side of the river,” he said at last. “I’ll help you find a good site. I can’t grant you your own fields, not yet. What with Archie leaving, I still need you by my side. But perhaps you can write her and tell her of these arrangements. Write her tonight, so the letter goes on the last ship before winter. She could be here in the spring, as your bride, in this new cabin of yours.”

Allan knew he should be savouring this victory, yet the taste of it was bitter in his mouth. He feared that even across the river, he would not be free from his father’s demands, his own sense of obligation. “All right,” he said quietly. “Thank you, Father.”

“Perhaps I’ve been wrong,” Sandy said. He looked at Allan with a naked honesty. “I want you to stay. You’re my son. I need you here. Betty could use Harriet’s help, Lord knows. If it made a difference to you...”

“It does,” Allan replied. “It does.” Yet he wondered if it truly would. Could things between his father and himself ever truly change? Or was he grasping at frail straws? He might need to go farther than across the river to find what he was looking for.

“You’ll write Harriet?” Sandy pressed, and Allan nodded.

Yet what if she did not want to come? There had been no letters, except for the one, in over a year. Her feelings might have changed.

“Come spring, things will be different,” Sandy said with a tired smile. “We’ll all make sure of that.”

Allan prayed it would be true.

Margaret hurried along the seafront of Tobermory. A bitter, salty wind whipped her hair from its pins and her shawl tighter around her shoulders. It’d been three days since Ian had gone missing, and Harriet was frantic with worry. She still hadn’t told her father, hiding Ian’s absence as best as she could, yet knowing the inevitable was coming. David Campbell would have to be informed of the dire state of his household.

Margaret had offered to go to Tobermory to collect any letters from the MacDougalls’ shipping agent, as well as scour the docks for a sign of Ian. Winter was closing in and there would be no more ships from the Americas till spring, although travel might continue for emigrants to Australia.

Margaret had another, hidden reason for visiting Tobermory’s harbour, one she dared not divulge yet to anyone at Achlic, despite Mistress MacCready’s crafty, knowing looks. She wanted to speak with Henry.

It had been almost nine months since they’d parted, and her affections were still unclaimed. The note he’d left for her at Achlic had been prudently brief, stating only that he would be in port till tomorrow’s sailing.

Margaret hoped she’d be able to find him... and find words to say. What were his expectations, she wondered. What were her own?

He’d told her she could write letters in care of his aunt, but Margaret had been loath to do so. She smiled wryly to herself. That wasn’t true; she’d longed to write him letters, and had poured her heart out in several missives too intimate to share. He was more stranger than not still, and she couldn’t bear the thought of him looking her askance because of the nature of her letters. In the end, she’d kept the letters to herself, waiting to see Henry again, to judge his feelings for her... and hers for him.

Purposefully Margaret strode into the little harbourside office, its shingle ‘Angus Buchanan, Shipping Agent’ swinging in the wind.

“May I help you, miss?” The clerk at the counter, with his great bushy beard and red cheeks, already seemed to be laughing at her. Margaret raised her head haughtily.

“I wanted to inquire as to the whereabouts of Mr. Henry Moore. He told me he is in port. He’s... an acquaintance of mine and mentioned that I might received news of him through his agent. Are you that person?”

The clerk’s eyes twinkled, and Margaret knew he was amused. “I certainly am, but if it’s news of Henry Moore you want, you might as well ask him yourself. His ship
The Allegiance
is outside right now, getting ready to sail on tomorrow evening’s tide. He’s on board.”

Margaret’s heart skipped a beat as she turned and saw Henry’s ship docked right outside the office. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she murmured, and hurried outside.

The ship was a hive of activity, with sailors scurrying about on deck, in preparation for their sailing. Margaret hurried to the gangplank.

“Now, where might you be going, missy?” a sailor asking with a rather leering smile. “You know women on board ship are bad luck.”

“I need to speak to Mr. Moore,” Margaret said with as much hauteur as she could muster.

“Is that so?”

She bit back a furious retort. “Yes, it is.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’s not here at the moment. Away on business till tomorrow.” The sailor seemed to take pity on her, for he added, “He’ll be back tomorrow though. We’re sailing on the evening tide.”

Disappointment swamped Margaret as she returned to the quayside. So close to Henry... and yet as far away as ever!

She was so lost in her thoughts she almost missed sight of the familiar, gangly figure ducking between two buildings. Hitching up her skirts, Margaret ran forward.

“Ian...
Ian
!”

He’d tried to hide from her, she realised, as she grabbed his shoulder to turn him around. “Where have you been? Have you any idea what your family has gone through these last three days?”

Ian’s face was pale and drawn, but there was a glimmer of defiance in his eyes. “There’s no place for me at Achlic,” he said in a low voice. “It’s my fault there won’t be any Achlic! I’m not going back there.”

“And where will you go?” Margaret demanded impatiently. “You must come back with me, Ian. Harriet’s been beside herself with worry for you.”

Ian squared his shoulders. “You can tell her I’m all right, then. I’ve got myself a job.”

“What!” Margaret stared at him in disbelief. “What are you doing? And where?”

Ian shrugged defiantly. “Never you mind. I’ll come back when I’ve made some money--I’ll buy Achlic--”

“Buy Achlic?” Margaret repeated. “Ian, this is nonsense! You won’t even buy your dinner with the few pennies you might make as a bootblack--”

“I’m not a bootblack!”

“Then what are you?” Margaret demanded. “And where are you staying? Don’t add to your sister’s travails by grieving her thus!”

Ian dashed his face against his grimy sleeve. “I’ll get it back, I swear.”

“One day perhaps. No one doubts your regret, Ian. I promise you that.” Margaret laid her hand on his arm. “I know you want to work to regain the property,” she said gently. “But you mustn’t think of it, not now. Harriet needs you at home. She can’t manage by herself, not with your father ill.” Ian looked uncertain, and Margaret pressed her advantage. “You wanted a man’s responsibilities? Then don’t run away like a boy. Come home, where your family needs you. Come home with me now. Please.”

“I’m no good to anyone,” Ian said, his voice very low.

“You’re good to us, Ian. You must come.” Margaret gently pulled his sleeve, helping him to walk alongside her. “Harriet will be so relieved to see you, you don’t even know.”

Unwillingly, silently, Ian let himself be led, and Margaret thanked Providence that she’d found him at last.

Back at home both Harriet and Eleanor fell on Ian with tears and recriminations, which he bore with stoic grimness. Rupert eyed him askance, for the last few weeks had turned Ian into an adult stranger, far removed from the boyhood friend who engaged in meaningless pranks with him.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Margaret,” Harriet said after the others were settled in bed. She stood in the doorway of Margaret’s bedroom, her hair in plaits, wearing her dressing gown and night rail. Her face was pale and still lined with worry. “I was so afraid he wouldn’t come back. I hadn’t even told Father he was missing yet.” She looked down at her hands. “I haven’t told Father anything.”

“He must know,” Margaret said quietly. “I can only think it’s why he’s kept so to his bed. He could not miss the whispers flying round this place--surely Mistress MacCready has told him?”

“She’s said nothing,” Harriet said bleakly. “She can keep her mouth closed when she chooses, and she knows it’s my responsibility.” She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face. “I’m weary of it all, I truly am. Ian--Achlic--Allan--” Her voice broke, and before she could try to compose herself, Margaret was standing beside her, her arms around her.

Harriet broke down and wept. There had been so many times for tears, and she held back out of necessity. She to be the strong one. Now she feared she couldn’t anymore.

After a few moments she stepped away from Margaret, wiping her cheeks with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry. Here I am, acting like a bairn--”