Far Horizons (4 page)

A solemn silence descended upon the room as they all glanced round at each other's faces, as if memorising the familiar, beloved features.

“We'll talk in private.” Sandy stood abruptly and left Allan to follow him downstairs to the inn’s taproom, and then out into the damp, chilly night.

The wind off the sea caused both men to turn up the collars of their coats and hunch their shoulders against its chill. Although it was midsummer, it had been a cold summer and was sure to be a bad harvest, and at that moment Allan felt a bone-deep iciness within him, as he felt his dreams of the future slipping beyond his reach yet again.

“I know what you and Harriet have is a thing apart,” Sandy said after a moment. “Not everyone has it--not everyone gets to have a love like that.” He turned to face his son, his expression sad. “I'm sorry it has to be like this. If David Campbell had said yes to your suit, you could have been married by now, Harriet with us.”

Frustration bubbled inside him and Allan sought to keep his voice level. “I know that well.”

“But Providence saw otherwise,” Sandy continued staunchly. “And we must trust all these things to the hand of God. And it is as well for it to be so, for Harriet has her own responsibilities. She does not bear a light burden.”

Guilt piled on top of his frustration and Allan turned away. “I’ve known that also, Father.”

“Then why increase it? Her obligation to you is as sure a fetter as any--”

“I appreciate your view,” Allan interrupted as calmly as he could, “but as you said, Harriet and I have a thing apart. If I’d gone without speaking to her, without declaring my own intentions, it would have been far worse a fetter.”

Sandy was silent for a moment. “Perhaps, but one of her own making, not yours. Eventually she might have forgotten you...”

“And that is a better thing?” Allan said, incredulity lacing every word. “We love each other, Father. We want to marry! Neither of us have ever looked at another, not once, I know it. And when I’m established in the new world--”

“God willing, that won’t be long,” Sandy agreed, his calm tone making Allan feel like an unruly schoolboy. “Perhaps you will be able to send back for her, at the same time as I send for Rupert and Margaret. If Providence wills it, we’ll all be together in two years’ time.”

“Then why all this talk of not telling her, and setting her free?” Allan demanded. “I see no dishonour in my actions, Father, I swear I don’t.”

Sandy shook his head. “Because her father asked it of you, Allan, and you must respect a man’s word. And because there are no certainties in this life. We might not see through this winter, much less two years.” He put a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder. “Set her free, Allan,” Sandy said softly. “If you love her, if you
respect
her, it's the only way. You know it is.”

Allan took a deep, shuddering breath. “I thought long and hard before asking her, Father. It wasn’t a whim, I promise you. And Harriet knows what it means.”

“Does she? Perhaps more than you do, lad. You’ve no idea of the sacrifice you’re asking her to make.”

“And I’m making one as well?” Allan demanded. Desperation edged his voice. Sandy shrugged.

“Allan, you’re a man. Harriet must be nearing five and twenty already. By the time you come back--if you come back--”

“She’s twenty-three years old,” Allan interjected flatly.

“Still, most women have a bairn on their hip and one in their belly by this time,” Sandy stated baldly. “If you’d married already...”

“And flown in the face of her father?”

“No, of course not. I feel for you, son, I do, for it’s a hard thing to bear, but many have born the same and lived to tell the tale. And it could be all for naught, and in a few years all your hopes shall come to pass.” He sighed heavily, and in that sound Allan heard the death knell of his own dreams. “The only way is ahead, Allan.” Sandy smiled, although the gesture seemed more one of resigned sorrow than any happiness or joy. “We’ll create a holding together that no man, least of all Campbell, can sneer at. When you return, it will be with pride and honour. Don’t sacrifice one for the other.”

Allan looked away. He remembered the feel of Harriet’s cheek against his own, the love and truth shining in her eyes when she gave her promise. Yet he also saw, with a sobering heaviness, that he’d bound her to a half-life of waiting and wondering, with, as his father had reminded him, no certainties in it.

He let out a sound halfway to a cry and turned away from his father, unwilling to let any man see him in such a state.

“Perhaps she'll wait,” Sandy said quietly. “The way it's between you, I can't imagine her marrying another. But to bind her to you...” 

“Would be dishonorable,” Allan finished for him. His vision blurred and he blinked hard.

“In a few years, I'll have one of the best farms in the New World,” Sandy reminded him. “And enough money to send you back to Mull on a first class ticket!”

Allan managed a smile, but something in his father's tone made him think of Archie’s words.
I’ll
have one of the best farms, he’d said. It made Allan feel like a lackey. Now, however, was not the time to grasp that particular nettle.

“Yes, Father,” he said at last, the words drawn from him with both resignation and regret. “I see the way of it.”

“Good lad.” Sandy clapped him on the shoulder, making Allan feel like a child who'd earned a pat on the head rather than the grown man he was, deciding his future and breaking his own heart.

“I'll write her a letter,” he said. “Margaret can give it to Harriet tomorrow.”

Sandy nodded and they both turned back to the inn. In their own rooms the rest of the family had gone to bed, and Allan listened to their sleepy sighs and snores as he gazed unseeingly into the dancing shadows created by a single candle. He thought of the conversation he’d had three months ago with David Campbell, when his hopes for a swift marriage to Harriet had been dashed.

He remembered the contemptuous curl of the older man’s lip, his insistence that his daughter would not marry a man without land or prospects of his own.

“We’ll have a farm in the New Scotland,” Allan had insisted. He’d wanted to add, ‘And bigger than yours by a sight!’

David, however, only shook his head. “That’s dreams, for now. Show me the deed, the harvest, and then I’ll think it over.”

“Harriet wants to marry me,” Allan said, a bit desperately, and David lifted his chin.

“She’s needed here, and she knows it.”

That was the crux of the matter, he realized now. His thoughts now edged with despair, he wondered if Campbell would entertain his suit even with the proof of his prosperity in his hand.

He shook his head. Who knew when that would be. It seemed like a dim, distant dream at this moment, with the shadows of doubt and regret threatening to overwhelm him. A bone-deep weariness settled over him, and he sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, longing for things to be different. For Campbell to have agreed, for Harriet to be his, for his future to be as bright and unfettered as his father’s. The candle had burned down to a waxy stub before Allan finally took parchment and ink and began to write.

CHAPTER THREE

Dawn streaked across the sky in pale, pink fingers when Allan finally stirred. Every bone and muscle ached as he gazed blearily around the room at the inn where he’d fallen asleep over his letter to Harriet, his head pillowed on his arms, the stub and splattered wax of a burned-out candle by his elbow.

He heard the creak of floorboards, and then his sister Margaret’s dark head appeared around the doorway. Allan smiled at the sight of her dark eyes full of hope and a bit of mischief, even though the ache in his heart felt as if it could cripple him.

“Allan!” Margaret hurried forward at the sight of him still in his clothes from last night, no doubt looking the worse for wear now. “Have you been here all night?”

“I suppose I have.” Allan glanced down at the letter he'd been writing, each word drawn from his very soul. The ink on that precious page felt like his own blood.

“You’ve let the candle out,” Margaret scolded gently. “You could’ve caught fire. The whole inn could've gone up in flames!”

“But it didn't.” Allan covered the letter with his nad and smiled at his sister. “Out for one of your dawn walks?”

“I...” Margaret bit her lip. Clearly she hadn't realised that anyone had known about her private jaunts. “I just wanted some fresh air.”

“You can't fool me, Margaret,” Allan said. “I suspect you'll be glad to have a little freedom, with us all gone.”

Margaret blushed, and Allan guessed he had the truth of it.

Boarding with the Campbells and keeping Harriet company would provide Margaret with some female companionship she’d missed living at Mingarry Farm with all of her brothers. “I expect you’d like to listen to Rupert’s lessons as well.”

“And what if I would?” Margaret challenged, her dark eyes flashing.

Allan sat back, startled. He’d been teasing, even though he knew Margaret had always had a head for books. She’d had little learning, though, besides the reading, writing, and arithmetic they’d all done as children. Allan and Archie had both been tutored at Mingarry Farm until they were fifteen and started work on the farm. As a girl, Margaret had never had such access to education. Did she hope for it now, Allan wondered, away from the stern hand of her father? He decided not to ask.

“I expect you can accomplish whatever you set your hand to,” he said lightly, and Margaret gave him a quick smile of gratitude.

“I'll miss you, Allan,” she said, her expression turning serious. “And I shall make sure Harriet waits for you. She would never go back on her promise, no matter what Father says.”

“I pray not.” Allan gazed down at the letter it had taken him most of the night to complete. “But that's not Father's point. It's not right for me to bind her, when my future's so uncertain. I did it out of selfish reasons, because I love her so much. What if I took ill, or died? I can't tie Harriet in that way, not when I have so few prospects of my own.” He spoke the words by rote, for although he knew they were true, he didn’t feel them. He felt as if he wanted to run all the way to Achlic Farm and sweep Harriet up in his arms and never let her go. Yet he needed to obey both Harriet’s father and his own. Trust and obey. Allan sighed heavily. “She must be allowed to find her own way,” he told Margaret, “and choose her husband if it comes to that.”

“She won't!”

“I pray not.” Allan folded the letter and after relighting the candle, sealed the paper with a daub of wax from its stub. “Give this to her, Margaret. I think I’ve explained it all, as best as I could. And tell her...” Allan paused, for there were so many things he’d wanted to say to Harriet, things he no longer had any right to say. “Tell her I will think of her every day, and pray for her safekeeping.”

Margaret took the letter with reluctance. “Very well, Allan, if it's your wish.”

“It is.” Allan reached into his coat pocket and took out a bundle of old letters, tied with a faded ribbon. Over the years, he and Harriet had written to each other, the letters going in the mail packet between Tobermory and Kilchoan. Although they'd been able to see each other often enough, those letters contained a sweetness, dreams and hopes shared on ink-splattered pages that could not be so easily confided in conversation. He'd kept the letters close to him, wanting to keep them safe on the long voyage... wanting to while away the long hours reading them, and needing the hope and encouragement they would provide. He would have to do without.

“Give her these.” His face and heart both hardening with resolve, Allan handed the bundle to Margaret.

She took it instinctively, then glanced down at the ribbon-wrapped parcel in surprise and dismay. “Allan! Her letters to you--why? Surely you should keep those! They're all you'll have of her.”

“I give her my lines to show her she's free,” Allan said quietly. “Tell her she may keep mine.”

Margaret shook her head sorrowfully. “You might be giving her freedom, Allan, but to Harriet, it won't feel that way.”

“What's this?” Harriet took the bundle of letters from Margaret with a chill of foreboding. She knew only too well what they were. She recognized her own handwriting, as well as the hair ribbon she’d given Allan when he’d asked for it, years ago. She did not want to ask why Margaret was now handing this all back to her. She did not want to know.

Margaret said nothing, merely placed her hand on top of Harriet's. They'd arrived several hours ago, and most of the time since then had been spent in organising the bedrooms and unpacking cases. Rupert had gone off with Ian, two boys intent on a summer afternoon’s pleasure. Harriet had watched them go with a worried frown, for she knew in summer her father expected Ian to help in the fields. He was fourteen, and certainly old enough to do his share, but he’d never been one for working with his hands. Then Margaret had given her this precious bundle and all thoughts of her brother flew from Harriet’s mind.

Harriet led Margaret into the kitchen, with its wide hearth and scrubbed pine table. David Campbell would've been irritated to see a guest being entertained in the kitchen, but he was out checking on some lambing ewes. Harriet knew she need not rest on formality with Margaret. Although they'd seen each other infrequently over the years, a close friendship had sprung up between them.

She sat at the table, the letters in her lap. “Why are you giving me these?”

“Allan asked me to. He meant well, Harriet, I know he does. Writing to you near tore him apart. He was up all night...” Margaret trailed off, her eyes dark with compassion. “If you want some privacy, I understand. I can look after the noonday meal, if you like, with Eleanor.”

“Thank you.” From somewhere Harriet found her voice, although her throat was so tight and aching she felt as it had closed up completely. She rose from the table, the letters clasped to her chest. “I'll be in the parlor. You're a true friend, Margaret.”