Page 30 of Taming the Heiress
"The cranes are used to haul the stones and other materials up to this level," Clarke said, pointing to some of the machinery. "Most of the stones weigh several tons apiece. We cannot bring horses and oxen out here, of course, though we use them on the island to transport the stones from the quarry, so we have to rely on cranes, pulleys, and roller bars. It took a week just to get all the equipment and supplies moved up here and secured in place. See there? We've built a wee shelter to house our things."
The "wee shelter" was a tall structure set at the far end of Sgeir Caran, where the rock rose upward in a natural tower. It resembled a giant spider, its metal walls and roof set high on riveted pylons drilled into stone. "Mr. Stewart was concerned about waves and wind destroying our work, so we built it to survive the weather. We store materials in it, and there's room for hammocks and a cookstove, so men can stay the night if the weather turns bad."
"Ach,"Norrie said. "A good storm will sweep your house away like matchsticks."
"I hope not. Those spikes are driven deep into the rock."
"Where is Mr. Stewart?" Meg asked.
Clarke turned to look toward the edge, where the men cranked the arm of the huge spool. "He'll be up in a moment."
Hearing shouts and hammering from somewhere out of sight, Meg assumed that Dougal was working there. She knew from his letters to the baroness that he never hesitated to roll up his sleeves and work alongside his men. While that increased her grudging respect for him and his dedication to his project, she still wished the lighthouse could be built elsewhere.
Looking around, she sighed. Even if the work crews were to leave tomorrow, Sgeir Caran would never be the same. At the far end of the rock, the high, natural stack-rock tower was unchanged, providing a dramatic background for the future lighthouse and a lee against the winds. Beyond it, hidden in the crevices on the north face of the rock, lay the shallow cave where she and Dougal had once found shelter and solace.
Her heartbeat quickened. Though she had come to Sgeir Caran many times since then to sketch the wildlife, she felt a secret thrill—and an undercurrent of regret—each time she saw the cave where her life had changed so irrevocably. Now she dreaded the moment when she would face Dougal Stewart here.
Alan Clarke went to the cliff edge, where an iron railing had been installed and where the men worked noisy cranks and pumps to guide the stout ropes and hoses that snaked over the edge. He picked up a hose fitted with a funnel end, shouted into it, listened to a reply, and called something to the men on the machinery. They worked furiously to reel the ropes and hoses onto the spools.
He beckoned Meg and Norrie toward the iron railing. "Careful now, Miss MacNeill. Mr. Stewart will be cross with me if his bonny visitor falls into the water."
She saw with surprise that the ropes and hoses dropped far down into the sea. As the men steadily winched the ropes and hoses, the water began to bubble.
"Ah, here he comes," Clarke said, as a platform surged out of the sea, swaying on ropes.
A monstrous creature rode the planks, pale, saturated, and swollen. Its head was a sphere, its paws and feet enormous. Water gushed from the beast and poured off the platform as the ropes drew it toward the roof of the rock. Beside Meg, Norrie exclaimed in astonishment.
Meg had seen divers in engraved illustrations, but never in actuality. "Is that Mr. Stewart?" she asked.
"Oh, aye," Alan Clarke said. "He went doon the deep to look at the base of the rock."
"Huh," Norrie said. "Mother was right. There's your kelpie."
Meg blinked at her grandfather, who grinned and turned back to watch the diver.
As the platform rose higher, Meg glimpsed Dougal Stewart's face behind the small porthole windows set in the brass-and-copper helmet at front and sides. Three valves, attached to the hoses, snaked toward the bellows that she now realized pumped air into the helmet. The third hose ended in the funnel that Alan had used as a speaking tube.
Diving was common, she knew, in salvage and bridge and dock construction. Matheson Bank had financed such ventures on Scotland's east coast, but she had never thought that divers might also be necessary for a lighthouse project.
The platform drew level with the cliff, and men grabbed the ropes to swing it inward to safety. Some held it steady while others took Dougal by the arms and supported him as he walked. His steps were slow and cumbersome, and Meg realized that the diving suit, helmet, boots, and weighted belt were an enormous burden. He lowered to sit on a stone bench, and his assistants unscrewed the helmet while another man stooped to unbuckle his watertight gauntlets.
With helmet and gauntlets lifted away, Dougal reached up a bare hand to tousle his hair and rub his face. He coughed, accepted a drink of water from an offered ladle, and glanced up.
"Miss MacNeill," he murmured, "welcome to Sgeir Caran."
Meg felt her cheeks burn as she looked into his piercing green eyes. Seven years ago, he had also risen out of the sea. Heart pounding, she wondered crazily if Mother Elga had been right after all. "Mr. Stewart," she said calmly, "we decided to accept your invitation to see the progress on the lighthouse."
"Good. Hello, Mr. MacNeill. When I get free of this gear, Mr. Clarke and I will show you both around." He turned to Alan Clarke. "Evan?"
Clarke gestured toward the rim. "They've got him now."
Meg saw that the men had hoisted another platform down to bring up a second diver, who now emerged over the edge. His suit and gear were identical to Dougal's, and an array of tools lay beside his lead-covered feet. Men ran to his aid, supporting him while he stomped forward, dripping water, to sit near Dougal.
"Look there. Two kelpies," Norrie said. "Thora and my mother will want to hear about this! They worried that the construction would keep away the kelpies of Sgeir Caran. Now we can tell them that the creatures are still here." His eyes twinkled.
While the men laughed at Norrie's jest, Meg frowned.
When the second diver's brass helmet was lifted away, he sucked in breaths, rubbing his face as Dougal had done. His hair was black and curling, his eyes singularly beautiful—clear hazel framed in inky lashes under straight brows. He murmured to his assistants, exchanged nods with Dougal, and acknowledged Norrie and Meg with a polite inclination of his head. His gaze was calm and curious. "Madam," he murmured, "I am Evan Mackenzie. So pleased to meet you."
