Far Horizons (8 page)

Sandy began to pace out the foundations with his feet. “We’ll need two good bedrooms, of course, and a great room with a fireplace. A loft above, and of course a root cellar...”

Allan stared in astonishment, words temporarily deserting him. Most settlers built one room cabins when they first arrived, ten feet by ten feet at the most. There was little time before the onset of winter to build anything else, and grand aspirations could be saved for later. They certainly wouldn’t keep you warm.

“But it won't be finished before the snows,” he said finally, his voice rising despite his attempt to sound reasonable. He saw Archie whistle and gaze up at the sky.

Sandy frowned. “We’ll finish it,” he said flatly. He strode away without looking back. Allan sighed in exasperation and began to follow.

“It’s
our
farm, then?” Archie said softly. Allan kept walking.

Since that day, Sandy had become more and more consumed with building their cabin, and making sure it was the finest dwelling on this side of the island. The foundations now included a pantry and a third bedroom. No wonder they had yet to start on the walls.

Allan had stopped making suggestions weeks ago. He took orders numbly, keeping the smile on his face, hoping that once their cabin was built and the pressure on Sandy eased, things would be different.

He would feel like a son, not a servant.

Now, alone on this cool dawn, Allan breathed in the cool, crisp air. With the sunlight dappling the river in silver, the dew as fine as cobwebs strewn in the yellow-gold leaves of the birches above him, he could almost recover his optimism.

“It won’t be finished.”

Allan was startled to see his mother standing near him. The walk from the Dunmores' farm was considerable, and he hadn't yet seen her venture far from the safety of the cabin. She was thinner now and paler, pulling her shawl tightly round her shoulders.

“It might be,” he said.

“Come now, Allan. We can both see what's before our eyes.” She swept a weary arm towards the unfinished cabin. “It's too big, isn't it? Too grand.”

“It'll be a pleasing house,” Allan said cautiously.

“A house of dreams. Perhaps we could've build such a place in a few years, when we knew the way of this land. But now...” Betty shook her head. “Winter's coming on. All we need is something small, to live in through the worst of it. I've heard about the snow here. It's like nothing you've ever seen.”

“Mother...”

“What shall we do?” She turned to him, and he was surprised to see strength and concern in her eyes, rather than the fear and worry he’d expected. “I understand what your father is trying to do, Allan. Don’t mistake me on that. I know he wants a proper place, a place like we had before. He wants it for me.” She sighed, biting her lip. “We shall have to ask the Dunmores if we can stay with them through the winter. Perhaps if we help more with their own work... Lord knows, there's much to be done in this place. It won't be easy.” She shook her head and smiled wearily at Allan. “I shouldn't be talking to you like this. Your father has such dreams, Allan, but they're good dreams. They've brought us here, and that's a good thing.”

“Yes, it is.” A voice clamoured inside him.
What of my dreams? My place?
With an effort he suppressed that small cry of doubt. There would be time for his dreams later. He could be patient.

Allan put his arm around his mother’s thin shoulders and pulled her close. “It will turn out well, you’ll see,” he said. “We’ll have a grand place here for you and for all of us.”

He could almost believe it.

“A letter from MacDougall?” The shipping agent, Douglas, squinted at Harriet in surprise while Margaret fidgeted next to her. “And who might you be?”

“Harriet Campbell.” She stood in the cramped office along the docks in Tobermory, twisting her gloves in her hands. So close now, she thought. On the walk into town Margaret had convinced her there would be a letter from Allan. Of course there would be! And now the thought of reading it, knowing what he’d been through, where he was now--all of it would bring her closer to him even as an ocean yawned between them.

The man glanced briefly through a packet of letters. “No... I don't see any here. There was a letter to Ann Rankin, which has been delivered, and I've one for Margaret and Rupert MacDougall.”

“I’ll take that,” Margaret said, holding out one hand. The man smiled at her.

“I thought I recognised a MacDougall,” he said, and handed it to her.

Harriet watched as the man handed Margaret a letter. He didn’t even look at her. “You mean...” Her throat was dry and scratchy. “There's nothing else?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“Are you sure?” Harriet knew she sounded desperate. She felt desperate. But no letter from Allan, when others had written? It was unthinkable, and yet--

“I’m certain,” the man said firmly, and Harriet knew better than to harass him, even though she wanted to demand he check the floor, the sack of post, any crevice or cranny where a precious, precious letter may have slipped.

“I see,” she finally managed. “Thank you.” She knew she was close to tears and forced them back. It would not do to cry here, in this stranger's quarters.

“Never mind, Harriet,” Margaret said in a low voice. “There’s bound to be a reason.”

“Yes--” Blindly Harriet turned towards the door.

“There's another ship due in six weeks' time, the last before winter,” the man called. “Perhaps then.”

“Yes,” Harriet agreed hollowly. “Perhaps.”

She stood outside on the road, muddy from recent rains. The sky was the colour of pewter and a cold, unforgiving wind buffeted her from the sea. She swallowed, her mind numb, as blank as the sky above her, or the flat horizon that stretched out to nothing... promised nothing.

No letters. Allan hadn't written. Hadn't bothered to write. Hadn't cared.

“Perhaps there is some news of him in this letter,” Margaret said, and her forehead creased in a frown. If there was news, it surely couldn’t be good.

Panic clutched at Harriet with icy fingers as she considered this new and unwelcome possibility. “Open it,” she whispered. “Open it, Margaret, right now.”

Biting her lip, Margaret broke the seal. Harriet turned away, too fearful even to watch Margaret read the letter. What if Allan had taken ill? What if he’d died? Her stomach roiled and she paced the quayside while Margaret read.

“Dearest Margaret and Rupert,” she read aloud. “Thanks to the hand of Providence, we all of us arrived in this rough and wild country, the New Scotland, in August. It took five weeks and a day to sail, and God be praised not one soul was lost, but four new bairns joined us in the crossing!”

“All of us?” Harriet repeated. She turned back to Margaret, hiding her trembling hands in the heavy folds of her skirt. “Then he’s well.”

“Wait, there's more.” Margaret continued reading, skimming through the lines. Her mouth tightened as she read the last few lines of the letter. “We are much blessed, all of us in good health and strong. I pray that you both are in good health and comfort. You are never out of mind. Your own most affectionate Mother.”

Margaret looked up from the letter, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “They seem so far away now. 'Tis strange, to think of it.”

Harriet nodded. A moment ago her insides had writhed like a nest of snakes, and yet now she felt strangely empty inside. “God be praised, they're well,” she said, but it came out flat. Allan was well. Allan was healthy and strong, and had not written her.

“Harriet, there must be some reason,” Margaret said quietly. She folded up the letter and tucked it in her pocket. “Even though Mother didn't say. I know Allan and I know he loves you.”

“You
knew
Allan,” Harriet corrected in a low voice. “Three months ago, aye, he loved me. But much has happened since then, Margaret. Much could change.”

“Three months is hardly a lifetime! Feelings don't change as quickly as that, and certainly not Allan's. He loved you, and he was not capricious!” Margaret's eyes flashed angrily and Harriet almost laughed to think of them arguing over a man they both loved dearly.

“I know.” How could she doubt Allan's loyalty? She knew he was steadfast, as solid in his word as an oak. Yet the ocean that separated them seemed vast, a distance so great mere miles could not measure it. It
was
a lifetime away.

Margaret laid her hand on Harriet's shoulder. “There is a reason, Harriet, and you will discover it. I vow the next ship will bring a whole packet of letters from Allan to you.”

Harriet smiled weakly. “I hope you are right.”

“I know I am,” Margaret declared. “Allan loves you, and he would not forsake you. He will write.” Her voice softened. “He
will
come back.”

“You could write back,” Harriet said. She couldn’t bear to talk about Allan any longer. “The ship sails in a week’s time.”

Margaret’s expression hardened. “Aye,” she said after a moment, “I have some things to write.”

“Don’t scold Allan,” Harriet said quickly. “I’ll not have him write me on your account.”

Margaret looked as if she wanted to argue, but then she sighed and nodded. “Very well.”

Fighting a tide of despair, Harriet smiled her thanks and turned towards the road and the long walk back to Achlic Farm.

As Harriet and Margaret entered the house, they heard the low murmur of voices from the front parlour. Ted Carmichael, their farm manager, had been speaking with David most of the day.

Unease rippled through Harriet, for she didn’t know what business could take so long, but it was replaced quickly enough with the hollow ache of despondency that made her feel no more than a shell. She wished she could stop thinking of Allan, yet he remained persistently in her thoughts--even if she wasn’t in his.

She spent the afternoon in mindless work, first helping Eleanor with her lessons, then rolling out pastry for a pie, kneading bread. At dinnertime Margaret paused in their work and turned to Harriet, anxiety creasing her brow.

“You will write him?”

Harriet hesitated. She had thought about whether she should send a letter to Allan all afternoon. “How can I?” she finally asked. “If he didn’t write me...”

“This isn’t the time for pride! There has to be a reason, and if he has cause to doubt you--”

Harriet felt her face flush and her chest heave. “He does not have cause to doubt me!”

“What is all this racket?” David Campbell stood in the doorway, his shoulders stooped, his face haggard, although his eyes were still sharp. “Ted Carmichael will surely think there’s a pair of cats screeching in here!”

“I surely won’t.” Ted Carmichael, a balding man in his forties, stood behind David, twisting his hat in his hands.

“Hmmph.” David stumped over to the kettle. “Not even hot. What are you about, girl?”

“I’m sorry, Father. I’ll see to it.” Harriet reached for the kettle. “I’ll see to it now. Are you finished your business with Mr. Carmichael? Or shall he stay to supper?”

Ted had disappeared back into the parlour, and David shrugged. “We’re as finished as we’ll ever be.”

His tone was so weary that Harriet looked up in alarm. “Father...?”

David’s eyes were shrewd and he lifted a hand repressively. “I know what you’ve been about. In Tobermory, eh? Fishing for letters. Did the MacDougall boy write you, then?” The way David Campbell spoke, Harriet thought, you’d think the MacDougalls were wastrels and not prosperous farmers--and kin. “He didn’t, did he? Not a single line. I doubt he’ll ever return.” He sounded almost gleeful as he cocked a knowing glance at Harriet, who suddenly found herself burning with a quiet, desperate rage.

“I don’t doubt it,” she said in a low, shaking voice. “Even if you have done your best to see it otherwise!”

David narrowed his eyes. “What are you on about?”

“I know you forbade Allan to marry me,” Harriet said, and David’s face expression turned stony. “I could’ve been on that ship with him, far from here, with a family of my own and a husband at my side.” She clenched her hands into fists as all of her anger and resentment stilled out.

“A landless fool for a husband,” he snapped. “I chose well for you.”

“It was not yours to make!”

“Aye, but it was.” David’s voice came down flat and hard. “You’re my daughter and ward, and I will choose as I see fit.” He threw a quick glance at Margaret, who was standing, rooted in fury, her cheeks and eyes bright. “I’ve nothing against the MacDougalls, lass. We’re blood kin, no matter how distant. But I won’t have my daughter haring off across the world on a whim.” He raised one crooked finger. “You’ll see. They’ll all come back, begging for scraps once again from the Riddell table. Or they won’t come back at all.”

“How can you say that!” Harriet shook her head, tears of temper spilling from her eyes. “You’ve turned into a spiteful old man, Father, and one day there will be no one here to make your bread and sit at your table! I vow I will not!”

Her words fell into a room turned eerily silent, save for the hiss of the kettle and crackle of wood from the fire. David’s face was ashen. Harriet bit her lip, struggling to form an apology she couldn’t even feel.

David opened his mouth, let out a strangled croak, then fell to the floor like a stone.

“Father!” Harriet’s voice rose to a shriek as she flew to her father’s side. “Margaret, get Ted! Someone must go for the doctor.”

Margaret hurried out of the room, and Harriet stared at her father’s pale face, a thready pulse beating at his throat. She’d as good as killed him, she realised in a sickening rush. Words could never be taken back.

Ted came in, his own face pale, but his matter efficient. He took his pulse, then glanced at Harriet, worry deep in his eyes. “I can fetch the doctor from Craignuire. We ought to get him comfortable first though.”

Harriet nodded, unable to find her voice.

“Let’s take him upstairs,” Margaret said quietly.

A few minutes later Ted was on his way to the doctor's and Harriet sat by her father's bedside. His face was still pale and lifeless, his breathing shallow.

Margaret laid a hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”