Free Far Horizons by Kate Hewitt Page B

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