Chapter Fourteen #2
No matter what she had thought years ago, she had been wrong about the obstinate, odious Mr. Stewart. She had hurt him when he only wanted to heal the hurt he had brought her.
Simple enough to tell him who she was, she thought. Far harder to tell him about Sean. But she had to try—or even more hurt was inevitable, and all of it her doing.
“Mr. Stewart, there is something—” she began.
Norrie tapped the table. “Not now, girl,” he said in rapid Gaelic. “This is not the time.” He must have sensed she was tempted to draw back the curtain on her life.
“Not the time,” Thora echoed in Gaelic.
“The each-uisge loves the girl,” Elga said in the same language. “Can you not see it?”
Dougal looked from one to the other, clearly bewildered, politely waiting.
Meg subsided, knowing they were right. This was not the time. But once he knew the truth, he might despise her for it. Once he knew about his son, he might take him from her, all within his rights as the father.
But too much truth was a risk for Dougal, too.
If Roderick Matheson discovered that the lighthouse engineer was the father of her child, he could take steps to ruin not just Meg, but Dougal and his career.
The commission that funded the lighthouse would judge their principal engineer’s morals poorly, and society would do the same.
Though Meg could hide on Caransay all her life, Dougal could lose all he had worked toward.
“Miss MacNeill?” He had seen that she had nearly spoken.
She bit her lip, shook her head. First, she must resolve the problem of Roderick and his hold over her. Then she could reveal the truth. Though she feared what Dougal might think of her once he knew, she could feel free at last, and learn to move on without him.
This tangle was of her own making, and the time had come to unravel it.
*
“Thank you for telling me about the Primrose, Mr. MacNeill. I appreciate it more than I can say.” Dougal set his empty glass down. “And thank you for the hospitality, Mrs. MacNeill. I must go before the weather gets worse.”
He stood, refusing while the elderly MacNeills protested with genuine warmth that he should stay. Smiling, he shook his head, and Meg went forward to open the door.
Wind stirred the delicate golden strands of her hair and blew her plain dark skirt back against her lithe form. The sky had grown much darker in the time Dougal had been in the house, and the wind was cold and fast, bringing rain.
“Dirty weather indeed,” Norrie said. “It will blow hard tonight. Best get home, sir.”
“Good night, then.” Dougal nodded toward the others, then looked at Meg. She watched him, eyes wide-eyed and haunted somehow. He could not look away.
Beyond them, the fire crackled in the hearth, the elders sat quietly, the little black terrier asleep at Norrie’s feet. The shadowed room was warm, cozy, and welcoming. In the amber glow of the lamplight, Meg’s golden hair and creamy skin were heavenly.
He was reluctant to leave, but not because of the storm.
The lure that held him was the golden girl in the shadows, as well as the hominess of the place, the goodness of these people.
This humble croft felt as much a home to him as his aunt’s grand manse in Strathclyde, though he dearly loved that place and the kinfolk there who took him and his siblings in after they lost their parents.
Yet he felt just as comfortable among these veritable strangers.
But he did not want Meg to be a stranger in his life. He would not give up on that.
“Good night, Mr. Stewart,” she said, a hand on the door. Wind and rain whipped outside.
“Miss MacNeill, good night.” He reached into his pocket. “I nearly forgot. I wanted to give you this.” He handed her a small paper packet.
Looking at him in surprise, she peeled away the paper—he had wrapped it in a page torn from a notebook—and gasped to see the small aquamarine pendant, polished and glittering. Dougal had cleaned it and strung it on a black cord, with no other suitable chain.
“It’s lovely! Where did you—why—”
“I found it in the sea, at the base of Sgeir Caran,” he said.
“Evan Mackenzie and I went down in the deep the other day, and this was caught in a crevice in the rock. We found coins, too, Spanish doubloons. They must have been caught in there after some old shipwreck. The pendant was encrusted with coral, so it has been down there a long time. It is a bonny wee thing, and I…well, I thought of you. I apologize for the black thread. I had nothing else for it.”
“It’s beautiful. I shall treasure it.” She glanced up at him. “The woman who owned this may have lost her life out there on the reef.”
“A very long time ago. It looks to be very old, an old-fashioned thing. I thought you would appreciate its beauty and its value.” He shrugged, though the dazzle of happiness in her eyes meant everything to him just then.
“Thank you, Dougal,” she whispered. “I will always think of you when I wear this.”
That hurt, but he did not react, setting his hand on the door close to hers. “Show it to Lady Strathlin,” he said. “Remind her how many lives have been lost on the reef. Perhaps she would better understand the importance of that lighthouse.”
Her eyes went wide and anxious, though she did not answer, but reached up to tie the black cord behind her neck, suspending the pendant at her throat, over the simple neckline of her blouse. A small golden oval hung there, too, just below the pulse in her throat.
“You already wear a necklace.” He had noticed it the night they had loved on the beach.
“I often wear this,” she said, her slim fingers graceful as they popped the tiny catch.
Framed in the two halves, he saw a miniature portrait of a child with golden curls—and though she closed the locket quickly, he glimpsed what was caught under glass in the other oval: a braided circlet of red thread and looped hairs, golden and brown. The sight struck him to the core.
He carried its twin tucked in the hidden compartment of his pocket watch. Instinctively, he touched the watch pocket in his vest, tempted to show her that he had kept his braided ring too. But he would not be a maudlin fool desperate for her love. Enough to know she had kept her ring, too.
“Well,” he said, stepping back with a cool smile, “I am glad you like the jewel. Good night.”
Thora came toward the door. “Best stay here, Mr. Stooar. This storm could blow up so fast that you might not be able to stand up on your way back.”
“I will be fine. Good night.” Dougal tapped his bowler on his head and stepped out into the battering force of the wind. Holding the brim of his hat, he fought his way across the wet sand of the yard toward the slope leading to the machair.
“Mr. Stewart!” Meg cried out. “Dougal, wait!”
He turned to see her running out of the house. He waited, while the wind pushed at him, nearly whipped the hat from his head, though he held it on. Rain slanted over his shoulders.
“Stop! Come back to the house and wait this out!” She came closer. The reedy grass blew all around them, and the surf pounded loudly on the beach. “Norrie says this is looking more fierce than he thought, and you should come back. A man could get washed out to sea just going home.”
“Go back inside. You’ll be soaked.”
Her gown was already damp, but she shook her head. “You as well. You are so obstinate.”
“As are you, lass,” he said. The next gust of wind beat at her skirts and blew her hair over her eyes. She brushed all of it back and held his gaze.
“I came out to thank you for the gift.”
“You thanked me inside.” He wanted to pull her into his arms for wild kisses in the rain. Instead, he stood with water drizzling from the brim of his hat, heart twisting for love of her, his hands flexing as if to release the feeling.
“I want to give you something in return, to remember me by.” She pulled a cloth-wrapped packet from her skirt pocket. “Do not open it out here in the wet and the wind. Wait until later.”
He crammed the sturdy packet inside his coat, and tipped his hat. “Thank you. But—to remember you? Are you planning to leave?”
“Soon, aye.”
“I must leave for Edinburgh soon to tend to some business. I hope to see you when I return.” He would not be gone long, but he was unsure if she would be on the island when he came back. Why did this feel suddenly and dreadfully like goodbye?
“Perhaps. I must return, ah, home soon. I no longer live on the island.” She clasped her hands, rain slicking down her curls, wind billowing her skirt.
“Mull, I think?” When she did not answer, just stared at him, he was overwhelmed with a renewed urge to pull her to him and claim her stubborn little heart, tell her all that was in his mind and his heart now. He sucked in a breath. “Meg, whatever troubles you, we can solve it.”
She shook her head. “Not this. I do not know how to solve this. Wanting—what cannot be.” She whirled and ran.
“Devil take it,” he muttered, and went after her.
Just a few steps and he reached out, cupping her shoulder in the rain, turning her, taking her in his arms, shielding her from the rain as he kissed her soundly.
She gave a little cry and pushed her fingers through his damp hair, knocking his hat somewhere, rain falling on both their heads as she kissed him, he kissed her, not knowing where it began, where it would lead, how it might end as the rain beat on their heads and shoulders and mud collected around their feet. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
She broke away, breathless. “When you kiss me like that, I cannot think.”
“Do you need to just now? There is something between us, so strong, do you not feel it?”
“I feel it—and I must think,” she burst out, nearly a cry, and pushed at him.
He let go as she spun away. “Meg—”
But she was running again, splashing through rain and mud, and did not stop.
This time, he could not chase her; she needed the chance to think, feel, sort this through.
At first, he had been muddled too, but time with her, and kisses, had clarified his feelings.
Now he had to trust that her thoughts and her heart would favor him.
“Everlasting hell,” he muttered, snatching up his hat and stomping off to make his way up and over the machair toward the clustered huts where sensible men were inside, dry and warm.
Entering his small hut, he removed his wet outer things, lit the lamp, and then extracted the package from inside his vest. Unwrapping the paper that sealed it, he found a leather-covered book tied with a red ribbon. It was one of her journals.
Taking a seat at the wobbly table, he turned the pages carefully.
Filled with pencil and ink studies, some washed with pale color, the pages were crammed with images of flowers, plants, shells, stones, birds, and wildlife.
She had added notations in lovely handwriting, a brief commentary for most of the drawings.
Fetching a drink of whisky against the chill and the rain, and to fortify his sorry heart, rejected again—yet hopeful now, for this was a tender and meaningful gift.
He pored over the pages with care, then sat back, resting his hand on the book.
Something was tapping at his awareness, something he had seen before, recently.
Perhaps her other journal—not that, he thought. Something else familiar.
Outside, the rain was a heavy downpour, noisy on the thin roof and walls. Taking out the letters Norrie had brought, he read them by lamplight; one contained more news from Dundas and Grant, none of it promising.
The wind shook the thin walls of the hut, and he could hear the waves crashing relentlessly onshore, reminding him of another fierce storm on the night his life changed irrevocably.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he was struck by a powerful depth of loneliness for one person. But he must give her distance to discover how she felt about this between them. Then he would take her in his arms again—or walk away.
With a sigh, he turned his attention to the latest salvo from the lady’s insufferable lawyers. And he had letters to write; the Lighthouse Commission needed to be informed of delays and developments. He could trust Norrie to get the letters out as quickly as possible.
First, the island would need to outlast this storm.
*
20 August 1857
To the Northern Lighthouse Commission
George Street, Edinburgh
Dear Sirs,
Recently we endured a storm of considerable force on Caransay, two days of high winds, heavy rain, and breakers taller than any man. We emerged from confinement in our quarters to find a world littered with damage and debris.
On Sgeir Caran, the lighthouse worksite lost one work shed, while the smithy, once riveted to the rock, now lists to one side. Various tools are missing, as well as a workbench, all blown into the sea.
Most astonishing of all, two stone blocks, weighing one ton each, were shifted off the rock by wind and wave, and now lie at the bottom of the sea. We will need to fetch the stones and other items with the help of cranes and divers in gear.
Funds will be needed to repair things and replace equipment. This will increase my original estimate by at least five percent. However, Lady Strathlin’s advocates have informed me by letter that some contributors who have offered their assistance have been told they need not extend it.
I plan to return to Edinburgh shortly and personally appeal to these contributors to reconsider. If the Commission will extend additional funds in the meantime, it is much appreciated.
I also intend to pay a call on Lady Strathlin.
Yrs. respectfully,
Dougal Robertson Stewart
Innish Bay, Caransay, Hebrides