Free Far Horizons by Kate Hewitt Page A

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