Mine Is the Night (39 page)

Marjory laughed, knowing full well that Isobel Scott was five-and-eighty. “She is a good friend,” she reminded him, “and old enough to be your mother.”

He squeezed her hand. “Then I’ll settle for a leddy young enough to be my—”

“Hush.” She stemmed his words with a touch of her gloved finger. “Less than a dozen years separate us. Hardly worth mentioning.”

Gibson smiled down at her. “If ye say so, Leddy Kerr.”

Call me Marjory
. She looked away, flustered. Whatever was she thinking? Neil Gibson had never, in all their years together, addressed her by her Christian name.

“Cousin?” Anne suddenly appeared at the mouth of the close, clasping
Michael Dalgliesh’s hand. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” The couple hurried toward them, Elisabeth following with Peter in tow.

“And here we are.” Marjory quickly released Gibson’s hand with a parting squeeze.

Her face radiant, Anne pushed open the door. “Come inside, for we’ve much to tell you.” Minutes later the six of them were seated round the small house, the noise of the fair muted by doors and windows firmly latched.

Anne spilled out her news like fresh milk from a pail. “Michael and I are to be married on the last of August.”

Marjory could not mask her surprise. “So soon?”

Anne laughed, slipping her hand through the crook in Michael’s arm. “We’ve known each other since we were Peter’s age. I see no need to wait now that we’re.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining with confidence. “Now that we’re certain.”

Marjory eyed the betrothed couple, sorting through her mixed emotions. She was happy for them, of course. Anne would make a fine tradesman’s wife. But she’d sorely miss their fair-haired cousin, especially with Elisabeth off to Bell Hill from dawn until dusk each day. And however would she and Elisabeth handle the rent, let alone furnish the house, once Anne claimed all her possessions?

Her conscience pricked her, sharp as a pin.
You’re being selfish, Marjory. And not wholly honest
.

Marjory looked at Gibson, seated on a battered wooden chair, and admitted the truth, if only to herself.
I am jealous, dear Cousin Anne. For you are free to marry whom you choose
.

“What is it, Marjory?” Anne knelt beside her, concern knitting her brow. “Are you displeased?”

Marjory clasped her cousin’s small hands, vowing to think only of Anne’s happiness. “I could not be more delighted,” she assured her, hoping her words rang true. “Tell me what you have in mind for the wedding.”

“Well …” Anne glanced at Michael. “We plan to marry at the kirk after
services three Sabbaths hence. I’ve a blue gown that will suit, and Michael will see to his own wedding clothes.”

“Will I noo?” he said, patently amused. “I dinna suppose ye’ll let me choose the fabric.”

“Dark blue wool,” Anne told him, her tone brooking no discussion.

News of Anne’s betrothal traveled swiftly up Water Row, round Back Row, and down Kirk Wynd until the couple could not venture out of doors without a well-wisher stepping forward to rub shoulders with Michael or Anne, hoping to capture a bit of their good fortune, or so the old wives believed. Friends came round the house at all hours, bearing small gifts of kitchen linens and woodenware. As for Anne’s students, they were too excited to work on their lace each afternoon, preferring to speak of flowers and veils and handsome bridegrooms.

Elisabeth smiled through it all, her countenance serene, though occasionally Marjory saw a flicker of sadness behind her eyes. Was there something about Anne’s impending marriage that weighed on Elisabeth’s heart? By Friday curiosity got the better of Marjory. She followed her daughter-in-law out the door, then caught her elbow before she reached the marketplace. “Bess, we’ve not had a moment alone all week. Is everything quite well?”

Elisabeth turned, her eyes shimmering in the dim interior of the close. “I fear I’ve done a poor job of hiding my feelings.”

Marjory circled her arm round Elisabeth’s waist. “You’ve no need to conceal them from me, dear girl. Not after all we’ve been through.” She stepped forward, taking Elisabeth with her. “Since you’re bound for Bell Hill this morn, suppose I walk with you as far as the Foul Bridge Port so we might chat.”

Strangers were already pouring into Selkirk for the fifth day of the fair as the women started up Kirk Wynd, arm in arm against the flow. “I’ll be glad when ’tis over,” Marjory grumbled, “though I know the town’s innkeepers are glad for their custom.”

Elisabeth nodded, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Not wanting to waste a moment, Marjory cast aside small talk and spoke from the heart. “I sense you are not entirely happy for Anne. Did you form … an attachment with Mr. Dalgliesh?”

“Nae!” Elisabeth protested. “He is a friend and former employer, nothing more. I wish them both much joy.”

Marjory could not doubt her, so clear and direct was Elisabeth’s gaze. “Are you unhappy with me, then?”
Because of Gibson?
Marjory dared not say it aloud. Even the thought made her hands grow damp and her heart skip a beat. What if Elisabeth did not approve?

As they reached the top of the knowe, her daughter-in-law slowed her steps, smiling down at her as she said, “If you mean am I unhappy with your own budding romance, I wish you and Gibson a joyous future as well.”

Taken aback, Marjory stammered, “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

“The man adores you. And I believe you return his affections.”

Marjory could hardly deny the truth. “But he is a servant, Bess, and I am a poor gentlewoman. What future can we possibly have?”

“A bright one, Lord willing.” Elisabeth started downhill toward the town gate, tugging her along. “You once told me that faith is what pleases the Almighty.”

“Aye,” she sighed. “So I did.”
If I am to marry Neil Gibson, Lord, you alone will bring it about
. Marjory sent her thoughts heavenward, above the dirty cobblestones and thatched roofs of Selkirk, then took a long, steady breath. “You’ve still not told me what’s bothering you, Bess.”

She gave a faint shrug. “Nothing of importance.”

Marjory looked at her. “Now ’tis my turn to speak the truth: you miss Lord Buchanan.”

“Ah … well …” Color stained her cheeks. “Bell Hill isn’t the same without its owner.”

“And
you
are not the same without your master.” Marjory patted her hand, at a loss for what else to say. She could not in good conscience encourage their
growing friendship and risk dishonoring Donald’s memory. Nor could she deny the admiral’s many fine qualities. Very fine, in fact. Exceptional.

A conundrum, to be sure.

They’d reached the town gate, flung open to all who approached from the southeast. Elisabeth released her but not before kissing her cheek. “ ’Twas kind of you to keep me company.”

Marjory confessed, “I have little else to offer you now but hot meals and a listening ear.”

“ ’Tis enough.” With a faint smile Elisabeth turned and lifted her hand in farewell.

s her daughter-in-law crossed the small footbridge heading east, Marjory started for home, putting aside any thoughts of men or marriage in favor of more pressing concerns: breakfast, dinner, and supper. She touched her pocket to be certain she had a coin or two, then made a mental list of what she needed from the market.
Cheese, butter, eggs, and milk
. Aye, that she could afford.

Weaving between handcarts and pedestrians moving down Kirk Wynd, Marjory slowed as she neared the manse, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gibson through the window. She felt like a lovesick schoolgirl but eyed the house nonetheless, noting the open curtains, the single candle, and the signs of life withindoors.

Certain she had spied his black livery, Marjory paused at the window and smiled, her nose nearly touching the glass.
Good morn, dear Gibson
.

But it was Reverend Brown, dressed in black, who turned and met her gaze.

Startled, she fell back a step. What must the minister think of her, peering into people’s houses?

A moment later he was standing in the doorway, waving her inside. “Come, Mrs. Kerr. I have been meaning to speak with you.”

Marjory slipped by him as she entered the manse, feeling awkward and ashamed. Gibson, alas, was nowhere in sight. She took the offered seat by the window, keenly aware of how foolish she must have looked tarrying on the other side of the glass.

“Forgive me for intruding,” she began, not knowing how else to phrase it.

“Not at all,” he said gruffly, taking the chair opposite hers. “If you were looking for Gibson, I sent him on an errand, for I cannot bear to venture out during the fair.” He leaned forward, his eyes as sharp as any owl’s. “In the meantime I’ve news of Lord Buchanan that should be of interest to you.”

Her thoughts flew immediately to Elisabeth. “Oh?”

“In truth, his lordship may not be aware of the fact I’m about to share, though I shall inform him at the first opportunity.”

Marjory inched forward on her chair, her curiosity mounting. “And that fact is?”

“Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan is distantly related to Lord John Kerr.”

Marjory swallowed. “To … my late husband?”

“Aye. While reviewing our oldest parish records at the request of the presbytery, I stumbled upon the names Buchanan and Kerr in a marriage entry from the late sixteenth century. To call his lordship your distant cousin would be stretching the truth, but your ancient kinsman he most certainly is.”

“News indeed,” she breathed, trying to grasp what such a connection might mean for her family.

“Madam, I hardly need mention your dire financial needs. Once he is informed of your common ancestry, Lord Buchanan may be moved to …, eh, provide for you and your daughter-in-law.”

“I see.” Marjory pretended to pluck a bit of dust from her black skirts while she searched her conscience. He was a generous man, Lord Buchanan, and would no doubt do his part. But there was more at stake than mere silver or gold.
Oh, Bess. Would such provision please you? Or embarrass you?
Marjory knew the answer.

She lifted her head. “I wonder, Reverend Brown, if you might delay mentioning this to his lordship.”

He frowned. “But you are the one who’ll benefit. Can you afford to wait?”

“Aye,” Marjory said, “for a few months at least.” Elisabeth was promised employment at Bell Hill through Saint Andrew’s Day. If they could somehow make ends meet until then, neither Lord Buchanan nor Elisabeth would be
thrust into a difficult situation. And who knew where their friendship might lead someday? “ ’Tis best left unspoken,” Marjory told him.

The minister held up his hands in surrender. “As you wish, madam. Should you change your mind, I will gladly approach his lordship regarding this … obligation.”

Hearing the word, Marjory was certain of her decision. Friendship and obligation were not well met.

As she prepared to leave, Reverend Brown cleared his throat. “Madam, you and I discussed another matter of some urgency in late May. Perhaps you recall the subject.”

Gibson
. “Indeed I do, sir.”

“May I be so bold as to inquire where things stand with you and my manservant?”

She moistened her parched lips. “Stand?”

“I believe I stated my objections quite clearly. And yet I hear your name pouring from Gibson’s lips, and see you sitting together at services, and find you peering through my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of a man who served you for thirty years. Where is this leading, Mrs. Kerr?”

With each phrase his voice had grown more strident. By the time he reached her name, Marjory was on her feet. Trembling, aye, but standing.

She kept her voice at an even pitch, though she longed to match his volume note for note. “May I remind you, sir, I am an independent woman. Of limited means, aye, but beholden to no man. You’ll not find the name Kerr on the parish’s poor roll nor a beggar’s badge pinned to my gown.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Kerr,” he said, shaking his gray head. “I am merely concerned lest you lose your place in society—”

“My place?” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Reverend Brown, I no longer have a place. What I have are dear friends, who take me as I am.” The truth of her words rang inside her like a bell, clear and strong. “You asked me where things stand with Neil Gibson. They stand very well, sir. I thank you for your interest.”

Marjory wanted to stride from the room, her skirts slapping about her
ankles, but a show of pique would accomplish nothing. Furthermore, Reverend Brown was Gibson’s employer and their parish minister and so deserved her respect.

Help me, Lord. Help me do what I must
.

Bowing her head, she eased into a curtsy, deeper than required, and did not rise until peace reigned once more in her heart.

When she lifted her head and their eyes met, she found the words she wanted to say. “Reverend Brown, you once promised to show me God’s mercy, and indeed you have. Now I ask only for a small measure of happiness, no greater than the widow’s farthing.”