Far Horizons (25 page)

“I know. But it wasn't the cards I found... it was something else.”

Harriet stilled, and the coldness within her lodged into an icy ball that made it hard for her to breathe or even think. “And you think you should tell me what you found?” she asked after a moment.

Caroline nodded. “I think... I heard you and Andrew talking once. And I've heard the maids and such talking.”

“About what?”

“You.” Caroline looked miserable. “You were going to marry someone else, weren't you? Before Andrew.”

“I was, but he... it ended. What has this to do with anything, Caroline?”

“I found some letters,” the girl whispered. “In the box where Andrew keeps his cuff links and his watch. He got it from father, it’s ever so shiny--’

“
Caroline
.” Harriet laid a shaking hand on the little girl’s sleeve. “Tell me about these letters.”

Caroline nibbled her lip. “There were ever so many. I thought they were love letters, and so I took a peek. I was going to tease Andrew! But I daren’t say anything, now.”

“Love letters,” Harriet repeated faintly. “To Andrew?”

“No, that was the funny thing.” Caroline frowned, her childish face filled with uncertainty. “They were addressed to you, Harriet.”

Harriet swallowed, trying to ease the sudden dryness in her throat. “Who were they from?”

“I don’t know. Not from Andrew, though.”

Harriet felt dizzy. Caroline could not be saying what she thought... it couldn't be! “Caroline,” she commanded, “show me the letters.”

“I daren't! They're still in Andrew’s room!”

“He's not in, is he?” Harriet remembered that Andrew had business in Tobermory, and would be returning in time for them all to have tea together. “Show me now, before he comes back.”

Caroline eyed her uncertainly before finally giving a reluctant nod. She slipped off the bench and ran from the room, and arriet followed. Her heart thumped loudly against her ribs as she followed Caroline quickly up the stairs, glancing behind her to make sure no one saw. She felt dizzy, as if in a dream.

She'd never been upstairs before, and she walked quickly along the wide corridor, till Caroline pushed open a heavy oak door and darted inside.

Harriet barely noticed the details of Andrew’s chamber, a morning coat thrown carelessly over a chair, the rumpled covers of a wide bed that a maid had not yet seen to.

Caroline thrust a small wooden box, inlaid with ivory, at her, and Harriet took it with trembling hands. Inside it there was a pocket watch and some cufflinks... and a packet of letters. They'd all been opened, read. Harriet recognised the bold handwriting on the outside, and the broken seal. They were from Allan.

She sifted through them in numb amazement. There were at least a dozen. He must have sent more than one letter with each ship, she realised. She unfolded one of the letters and scanned the lines.

My dearest Harriet, How can I express the consternation of my heart, or account for the long and cruel silence on your part? I know you too well to imagine you capable of any change or caprice towards me, and I hope you know me too well to expect any change on my side...

With a cry she clutched the letters to her, unable to believe and yet knowing deep within all along that Allan had written, that he had cared... that he loved her as always.

Just then they both heard Andrew’s cheerful, tuneless whistling in the corridor, and then he opened the door of his bedroom.

“What on earth--” he began, then stopped, the blood draining from his face, at the sight of Harriet and the bundle of letters in her hands.

“Yes, what on earth, Andrew Reid.” Harriet replied in a voice of restrained fury. “What on earth are you doing with all of Allan MacDougall's letters, written to me?”

Andrew’s face was pale and his hand shook as he held it out in supplication. “I beg you, Harriet, give me a moment to explain.”

“I'd like to see you try!” Harriet stared down at the bundle of letters, Allan's dear, familiar scrawl on every one. “He's written me all this time,” she whispered. She looked up at Andrew, her eyes full of fury. “How could you deceive me so?”

“I thought it was kinder...”

“Kinder! To steal something that isn't yours? To lie to the person you claim to love?”

“I do love you.” Andrew took a steadying breath. “This is not the place for such a conversation. Harriet, please come down to the drawing room where we can talk in a civilised manner. You shouldn't be here. If you were discovered...”

“You, Andrew Reid, are the one who has been discovered. But I'd like to hear your explanation, however unlikely it may be!” Clutching the letters to her, Harriet followed Andrew downstairs.

Once in the drawing room, Andrew dismissed Caroline to find

Cook, which the pale-faced little girl was more than eager to do.

Alone, the silence between them was taut with unvoiced suspicions. Andrew rested his hands on the fireplace mantle, his back towards Harriet. Harriet knew he was troubled, she could see it in the set of his shoulders, but she felt no sympathy. He had deceived her.

“Whatever I did, Harriet,” Andrew said in a low voice, “I did for you. For us.”

“All right, then.” Harriet deliberately kept her voice even. “Tell me just what you did. I want to hear it from your own lips.”

Andrew turned to face her. “All you suspect, and worse,” he admitted. “But out of love for you. I knew if you received MacDougall's letters you'd hold on to the slim hope that he'd return for you. You wouldn't even consider my suit, not with that forsaken promise you made him.”

“So you intercepted the letters so I'd think he'd forgotten me,” Harriet whispered. She shook her head, hardly able to believe that he was capable of such treachery. “Andrew, how could you?”

“What were the chances that he'd come back for you? He's made a new life for himself there, Harriet. It could've been years before he returned... maybe never, and you would have waited... and withered.”

“How are you to know such things? And shouldn't it be me who decides?” Harriet cried. “You'd no right to take such matters into your own hands!”

“I know.” Andrew reached for her hands, but Harriet jerked them out of his reach. Allan's letters fell from her grasp, fluttering to the ground. “Harriet, I love you. We can be happy together, I know it. I took the letters so you could have peace in your mind about our marriage--so you wouldn't feel you'd deserted MacDougall.”

“But I have!” Tears sprang to her eyes. “You've made me faithless, Andrew. How do you think I can live with that?”

He shook his head, his eyes dark with pain. “You were never to know.”

“You're despicable, Andrew Reid.” Harriet’s voice was choked. “I'll never trust you again.”

“Harriet, please. This need not ruin us. I only meant it for the best, if you can forgive me...” He stepped over the fallen letters to tightly clasp her cold hands in his. “We can still have a happy marriage, my love. A good one. Don't turn away from me, not now.”

Harriet saw the sincerity in his face, and suppressed a shudder. How could she marry someone who'd deceived her in such a fashion? She would never trust him... perhaps never even come to love him. Yet did she really have the liberty to refuse? Despair swamped her and she shook her head.

Slipping her hands from his, she bent to gather the letters to herself. “Please give me some time to think, Andrew. This has given me such a shock... I must reconsider.”

“Of course,” Andrew agreed quickly. “Of course you need time. Just remember that I love you... and that I'm here, waiting.”

Back at Achlic Farm, Harriet retired to her bed chamber. She spread Allan's letters on her counterpane, staring at the many envelopes and feeling the treachery of her own soul. How could she have doubted him!

She picked up one letter and began to read.

Dearest Harriet. How I miss you, and think of you often. The land here is wild, but I know with strength and love we can tame it.I look forward to the not too distant day when we are here together, building our home and our life...

She let out a choked cry and closed her eyes, the letter falling back to the bed. Then, resolutely, she opened them again and picked up the page.

She read them all, torturing herself with every loving word and gentle reproof of her own cold silence. Her throat ached with unshed tears as she read of his plans to have her join him.

If your heart has not changed, as you know mine has remained steadfast, you could travel next summer with Margaret and Rupert. I have plans for our own cabin, on the other side of the river. It would be a humble place, but we could call it our own...

The letter slipped from her fingers as tears spilled from her eyes. “Oh, Allan,” Harriet whispered. She missed him now, more than ever. “Allan, forgive me.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ian had to keep his legs from shaking as he left the dark brig, blinking in the sunlight. The sailor led him down a narrow hallway and knocked on the ship master's door.

“Enter.”

“Here he is, sir.” With more of a leer than a smile, the sailor pushed Ian into Henry Moore's private chamber.

Henry sat at a desk in front of him, ink and parchment on its surface. He wore spectacles, which gave him a bookish air and eased Ian's fear slightly.

The room they were in was small but comfortable, with a sleeping berth and desk, a shelf of books with leather straps buckled over them to keep the tomes from falling out during rough weather. Maps were tacked to the walls, with even more scattered across the one table.

“Well, Mr. Douglas.” Henry slipped off his spectacles and stared at Ian sternly. “How are you to account for yourself?”

“I'm sorry, sir. It was an accident.”

“An accident? Or simple carelessness?”

Ian flushed. “Carelessness, sir,” he whispered. “I know I should've taken more care...”

“Have you been down to the surgeon's quarters, Mr. Douglas?”

“No, sir.”

“The sailor who was tangled in your careless rope is there presently, with a broken leg. Fortunately it was a clean break and the leg will mend. If it hadn't been, the man would've lost his leg.”

Ian blanched. “I'm sorry, sir.”

“I expect so.” Henry leaned back in his chair. “As a result, I've lost a fine sailor for the rest of this voyage. Do you think his wages should come out of your pocket?”

Ian knew a sailor earned much more than a mere ship's boy. “I... couldn't...” he began.

“No, Mr. Douglas, I'm not about to take all your wages, and then some. But I do think it is important you realised the gravity of your carelessness. None of us, not the master nor the bosun nor the merest ship's boy, can afford a moment's carelessness. As you've seen, lives depend on it. We must all work together, trust each other. I'm afraid the other men's trust in you has been sorely tested.”

“I realise that, sir.” Ian swallowed painfully. “I know I should be punished, and if you want to let me off at Boston...”

Henry chuckled, a strange, dry sound amid the present circumstances. “Ah, now there's a thought. I'm afraid, Mr. Douglas,, that you aren't to get off so easily.”

Ian's face was the colour of skimmed milk. “Am I to be whipped?”

“I didn't mean it that way, lad. No, what I meant is you shan't get off my ship so easily. I'm not a cruel man, though I believe in discipline. You're not happy, Mr. Douglas, are you?”

Ian stared down at his bare feet. “No, sir.”

“Ship's life not to your liking, then?”

“It's passing strange, sir. I'll get used to it, I know.”

“Perhaps your particular skills are wasted coiling ropes and such, Mr. Douglas,” Henry mused. “I'm a merchant first, and I like to see a profit. I've hired you for this voyage, and if you're causing me a loss as a ship's boy then I need to rethink your responsibilities.”

Ian shook his head, confused. “I don't understand.”

“I've a fair guess that you're not a true orphan, Mr. Douglas. You've a family back in Scotland, haven't you?”

“Yes, but...”

“Never mind what's happened between you and them. That's not for me to know. But you've some learning, I'd guess.”

“I... I had a tutor,” Ian ventured. “He taught me history, and maths and Latin. A bit of Greek too. I liked it.”

“Liked it well?”

“Well enough, sir. If I could've continued...”

Something must've happened to the family fortunes, Henry surmised. It was not a new story, what with the bad harvests and the clearances. Perhaps, though, he could give this boy a bit of hope and joy.

“We're missing a surgeon's mate on this voyage,” he told Ian. “Someone to assist him in his duties, organise the medicines, take inventory, and such. There'd be a bit of learning in it as well. My surgeon, Mr. Fingal, is a fine, learned man. Educated in America, at Harvard. You probably haven't heard of it, but it's a fine institution.” Henry smiled wryly. “Do you think you'd be interested in such a position?”

Ian could hardly believe his good fortune. Was he really to be spared a punishment, and instead receive this boon? “Oh, yes, sir,” he stammered, “that would suit me very well, I should think.”

“So do I.” Henry smiled. “I shall speak with Mr. Fingal today. Now...” he paused, and a flicker of sympathy showed in his eyes. “There is the matter of a punishment.”

“I'm still to be punished?” Ian said, his hopes sinking.

“I'm afraid that it would not be good for the crew's morale if they saw you going scot free,” Henry explained almost gently. “And not only free, but given a better position. No, they must see that carelessness is punished, whether it is caused by a ship's boy or the first mate. You see that, don't you?”

Miserably Ian nodded. Yes, he could understand why he must be punished. It was only fair, considering what he'd done. He quaked at the thought of the whip. He'd never been beaten in his life.

“Yes, I think it's the tops for you, Mr. Douglas.”

“The tops?”

“You will spend three hours this afternoon on the top masts. It's fine weather, so you might even enjoy it.”