Mine Is the Night (12 page)

On a whim Marjory tiptoed to the casement window and eased it open, enough to slip out her hand and touch the wet sill. She patted her forehead and cheeks with her fingertips, then swiftly closed the window, lest the cool air wake the others. Besides, however would she explain herself? A Christian widow dousing her skin in the Beltane dew like pagans of old. Reverend Brown would have something to say about that. With a rueful smile, Marjory dried her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, reminding herself that come August she’d turn nine-and-forty. Not even the rite of May could make her young again.

Fresh coals on the grate brought a small pot of water to boil. Just as Helen Edgar had done many mornings, Marjory added oatmeal in a thin stream with her left hand while stirring sunwise with her right, using a wooden stick Helen called a
spurtle
. After a bit Marjory swung the pot away from the heat to let the porridge simmer, then quietly dressed herself.

With May Day in mind, she took extra care with her toilette, styling her
hair and using a splash of Anne’s rosewater. The others were soon awake and dressed, each seeing to her own tasks. When they finished breakfast Marjory retrieved the sack of items Mr. Laidlaw had brought from Tweedsford and brought it to table. “Small things,” she confessed, “but precious to me, if you’d like to see them.”

After setting aside the letters from her late brother, Marjory drew out the little chapbook. Three inches tall and two dozen pages long, the book was as diminutive as its mischievous hero, Tom. She remembered how alarmed Donald had become when the thumb-sized lad fell into a bowl and was accidentally cooked in a pudding. “I bought it for a penny from a chapman who came through Selkirkshire the summer Donald turned three.” Marjory held it out for Elisabeth to peruse.

“Tom Thumb, is it?” Her daughter-in-law’s smile was bittersweet. “ ’Twas the favorite story of my brother, Simon.”

“And your husband’s favorite as well.” Watching Elisabeth’s eyes grow moist as she turned the pages, Marjory thought of young Simon Ferguson dying in service to Prince Charlie at Gladsmuir and the mournful weeks that followed. “Why don’t you keep it, Bess?”

She clasped it in her hands. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Marjory said, “though I cannot part with this.” She showed them Andrew’s wooden toy soldier, the paint worn off from years of little hands marching the toy round the nursery. “A wee birthday present for Andrew, carved by Gibson.”

Saying their names in tandem brought a lump to Marjory’s throat. The darling son who’d always longed to be a soldier now lay in a Falkirk grave. And Gibson had been traveling on foot for ten days, with one shilling in his pocket and a rough leather bag strapped to his back. Though Marjory did not always voice her concerns, she thought of Gibson almost constantly, fearing for his life one moment, counting on his strength the next. Mr. Haldane was expected back from Middleton Inn today. She would visit the manse as early as she dared and beg the reverend for news.

Marjory slipped the toy soldier in her pocket, reminding herself Gibson was not alone.
The L
ORD
will preserve him, and keep him alive
.

Still holding Donald’s chapbook, Elisabeth prompted her, “What else did Mr. Laidlaw bring you?”

Marjory lifted out her miniature of Tweedsford, embarrassed to let them see it. “I was a new bride with an indulgent husband,” she said with a shrug. “He ordered sticks of plumbago and sheets of fine vellum from a stationer in Edinburgh, and I pretended to be an artist.”

Anne examined the framed drawing, no larger than a man’s palm. “ ’Tis the very likeness of your old home, with four bays across the front.”

Marjory was not convinced. “Someday when I feel especially brave, we’ll all walk to the estate, and you’ll realize what a poor imitation this is.”

“I would love to see Tweedsford,” Elisabeth admitted.

Marjory was already sorry she’d mentioned the idea. Who knew when she’d be strong enough to face all those memories? It might be months. It might be never.

Thrusting her hand into the cloth sack, she found the last item. “This belonged to Lord John.” Marjory held out his splendid magnifying glass, the ivory handle intricately carved, the circular glass edged in silver. She could still picture him with a delicate wildflower in one hand, his glass in the other, marveling at the tiny petals and leaves. Her husband had loved their country property and all the treasures it contained. Alas, she’d insisted Lord John move their family to fashionable Edinburgh, turning her back on everyone and everything they knew.

Some regrets even time could not erase.

Anne patently admired the magnifying glass, then reached for a sample of her lace. “Look, Cousin.” She held her work beneath the round lens. “Now you can see it properly. I confess the stitches are so tiny my head begins to ache after a few hours.”

Marjory studied Anne’s delicate needlepoint lace with its thousands of buttonhole stitches and knew at once what must be done. “Would my husband’s magnifying glass be of some use to you?”

With a slight gasp Anne lifted it from her hands. “You cannot imagine how much.”

“Then it is yours,” Marjory said without hesitation. “To keep.”

“But …” Anne’s face was scarlet. “I meant only to borrow it.”

Marjory leaned forward and cupped Anne’s cheeks, feeling their warmth against her cool palms. “Lord John would want you to have it. And
I
want you to have it.” Marjory looked deep into her cousin’s eyes. “One magnifying glass could never repay your kindness to us. Or begin to make amends for the years I neglected you. Please, dear Annie, … may I give you this?”

Anne’s mouth began to tremble. “Oh, Cousin.” She lowered her gaze. “I fear I misjudged you terribly.”

“Nae, you did not. You thought me haughty and prideful and selfish.” Marjory wished it were not so, but it was. “I have been all those things and more, especially toward you.”

“Years ago, perhaps. Not now.” Anne clutched the glass in her hand. “You are a changed woman, Marjory.”

She eased back. “With more changes needed, I’m afraid.”

“True for us all.” Anne traced the carved handle with her fingertip. “Thank you, Marjory.” She sighed, then lifted her head. “I shall be at my lace work until the gloaming. Miss Boyd and Miss Caldwell shan’t be coming since ’tis May Day.”

Elisabeth was already gathering her sewing items. “Perhaps I might complete
two
shirts with the house quiet.”

Marjory had other plans. Buoyed by the sounds from the marketplace below, she announced, “After I call upon Reverend Brown, I am determined to walk the length of Water Row, greeting everyone who meets my gaze and does not turn away.”

Elisabeth and Anne both turned to her, clearly taken by surprise.

“Marjory, are you certain?” Elisabeth glanced at her pile of unfinished shirts, then looked up, her expression resolute. “I could join you—”

“Nae, Bess,” Marjory said gently. “If I’m to find my place in Selkirk, I must first know who is willing to befriend me.” She did not tarry, lest she lose
her nerve.
What can man do unto me?
Aye, she would cling to those words and keep walking.

Just as she’d imagined, Halliwell’s Close was crowded with folk bringing in the May. Freshly cut hawthorn branches, fragrant with tiny white flowers, were fastened to every doorpost, and the air was filled with merriment. In the marketplace shepherds from the hills mingled with the lasses of the town, circling the mercat cross in an ancient dance while a fiddler spun a lively reel. At least she’d chosen a day when her neighbors might be more charitable.

First, she would learn what she could of Gibson. Anne’s words from days past haunted her.
You must prepare yourself for the worst
. But Marjory was not prepared. Nae, she would not even consider it.

She crossed Kirk Wynd and headed for the manse, praying in earnest.
May there be some report of him, Lord, and may it be favorable
. When Reverend Brown yanked open the door before she knocked, her hopes rose. “You’ve news for me?” Marjory asked, thinking he’d watched her approach from the window.

“As it happens, I am bound for the school to meet with the
dominie
, Daniel Cumming.”

“I see.” Marjory knew the schoolmaster only by name. “My daughter-in-law sews his shirts,” she said without thinking.

The minister’s countenance darkened. “I beg your pardon?”

“That is, she is … helping Mr. Dalgliesh, the tailor …” Marjory stopped before she made a greater fool of herself or, worse, injured Elisabeth’s reputation.

To her surprise the minister’s expression lightened considerably. “As it happens, the Widow Kerr will also be sewing my shirts. And very skillfully, I’m told. But you’ve not come to speak of clothing.” He crossed the threshold and joined her in the street. “I met with Joseph Haldane this morn.”

Marjory almost stood on tiptoe, her heart prepared to soar. “And?”

The reverend shook his head. “No word of Gibson.”

Her spirits sank as quickly as they’d risen. “What am I to do?”

His silence offered little comfort. “None of the coachmen have seen him,” he finally said, “and they’ve traveled the Edinburgh road many times since your arrival. Nor did the proprietor of the Middleton Inn have any inkling of your manservant’s whereabouts. I am sorry, Mrs. Kerr, but …”

Nae!
She closed her eyes, wishing she might shut out the truth. “He cannot be dead,” she whispered. “He cannot be.”

arjory trudged across the marketplace, hardly able to lift her feet.
My dear Gibson, dead. Because of me
.

“We cannot be certain,” Reverend Brown had cautioned her before hurrying off to meet with the schoolmaster. “The weather has been milder than usual. As I recall, he’s a capable man, your Gibson.”

Aye, he was. And loyal. And kind
.

Tears stung her eyes. Could Neil Gibson truly be gone from this world?

“I’ll reach Selkirk
lang
afore ye do,” Gibson had said before bidding her farewell at Milne Square. She’d believed him, convincing herself that no obstacle strewed in Gibson’s path could deter him. Though she’d not had a shilling to spare when they’d left Edinburgh, the fact was, if she’d managed to pay for his seat in a carriage, Gibson would be alive now, safe by her side. How could she live with that awful truth?

Forgive me, forgive me
. She’d begged that of Lord John when he lay in his grave and then of both her sons when she learned of their deaths. Perhaps she bore some terrible curse, condemning any man she held dear.

Marjory avoided the May Day revelers with their youthful exuberance and aimed her steps toward the East Port. Any plan to greet her neighbors was quickly forsaken. Such banter required a light heart, a kind word, a ready smile. She could produce none of those. Not this day.

Keeping to one side of Water Row, Marjory fixed her gaze on the broad thoroughfare where strangers on horseback trotted into town and the occasional carriage rattled past. She scanned the men’s faces, desperate to see a silver fringe of hair, a wrinkled brow. For the journey south Gibson had traded his neatly pressed livery for a plain brown coat and breeches, so she kept an eye out for such clothing among the passersby.

But her search was in vain. Was the whole world no older than forty? And dressed in every color but brown?

Stop it, Marjory. Stop looking for him
.

She jutted out her chin to keep it from trembling, brushed away the last of her tears, then spun on her heel. If she could not save Gibson, then she would mourn him in private.

It seemed the whole of Selkirk stood between her and Halliwell’s Close. Folk congregated round one another’s doors—talking, arguing, laughing—while children skipped about with their hoops and sticks, dogs barking at their heels. Silver flasks were passed from hand to hand, and young girls threw caution to the winds, flirting with lads they would never speak to were it not May Day.

Marjory did not notice a carriage drawing near until a man’s voice called down to her in warning, “Have a care, mem!”

As the horses lurched to a stop, she looked over her shoulder and immediately recognized the coachman, with his thick eyebrows and deeply lined face. “Thank you for delivering my letter to Tweedsford,” she said, stepping close enough to be heard. “I trust you were paid?”

“Oo aye,”
he answered in a gruff voice. “Yer man gave me mair than I asked for.”

Though Mr. Laidlaw was no longer in her employ, she did not correct the coachman on that point. “I don’t imagine you have any news of Neil Gibson, the manservant I described to you on the Sabbath?”

He wagged his head. “Nae, mem. I’ve yet to hear his name bandied about.”

Marjory sighed. Just as she’d feared: more ill news.

But the coachman wasn’t finished. “Noo that ye ask, I did pass a man on foot. Balding, did ye say? With a bit o’ gray?”