Mine Is the Night (15 page)

Only when he disappeared from sight could Elisabeth finally tear her gaze away from the child and turn to his father. “He is the dearest of lads.” Her throat tightened round the words. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”

Michael shrugged, his heightened color having eased. “Feel free to borrow Peter whanever it suits ye. ’Tis guid for him to be., weel, to spend time …”

“With a woman,” she finished for him. When Michael nodded, she thought to spare him any further embarrassment and so eased toward the door. “Speaking of women, my mother-in-law will be wondering what’s kept me so long.”

Michael’s exaggerated frown was worthy of the stage. “Must ye leave so soon?”

“I am behind on my sewing,” she reminded him, “and you have work to do.”

“Aye, aye,” he said, sending her on her way.

When she stepped into School Close, Elisabeth decided to plant her ha’pence in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. She hastened across Kirk Wynd and entered the narrow passageway between the manse and Mrs. Thorburn’s house. When she reached the kitchen garden in the rear, Elisabeth chose a small head of cabbage, some ripe lettuce, and a few stems of sage, then laid her coins on the ground. Carefully balancing everything, she gathered up her market fare and started for home, her arms full but her pockets empty.

The joy of her outing with Peter had begun to fade into a sobering reality. She could not hope to provide sufficient food for their household on a few shillings a week. Nor could she add to her earnings by laboring with Michael in his shop, much as he needed her help. A widower and a young widow alone for hours at a time? The gossips would never cease their blethering.

Earlier that morning Michael Dalgliesh had hinted at finding a partner. Elisabeth glanced at the heavens.
Does he mean a tailor, Lord? Or does he mean a wife?

She tripped over a large stone propped against the outer wall of the house, losing her footing for a moment. Righting herself, she wriggled her toe to be sure it wasn’t broken, then shook her head.
Mind your step, Bess
. However trustworthy the tailor might seem, and however dear his son, she could not—nae, would not—risk her heart again. Especially if she might break Anne’s heart in the bargain.

e’ve rain on the way.” Marjory glanced at the windows, noting the thick clouds looming over the empty marketplace on a cool Saturday morning. “The sooner you’re out the door, Gibson, the better.”

“Aye, mem.”

He stood patiently while she brushed the lint from his clothes, borrowed from their neighbor, Mr. Tait. Though the sleeves were too short and the breeches too snug, Gibson certainly looked more presentable than when he’d arrived on Thursday.

Two nights’ sleep had brightened his eyes, and meat and ale had softened the sharp contours of his face. A fresh shave with a razor provided by their landlord and neighbor, Walter Halliwell, had also done wonders. “Should ye be wanting a periwig, ye ken whaur to find me,” the wigmaker had said affably. Gibson had never worn a wig in his life, but Marjory had thanked Mr. Halliwell nonetheless.

At his own insistence Gibson had slept each night rolled up in a plaid, his body pressed against the bottom seam of the door. “To keep ye safe,” he’d said. Gibson was still worried about the British dragoons, especially after Marjory had described their unfortunate encounter on the road to Selkirk. “Bess and I put them in their place,” she’d assured him, trying not to sound
too
prideful.

Smoothing the brush along his sleeve, Marjory reminded him, “I sent a note ahead to Reverend Brown, who’ll be expecting you at noon. Apprise him of your loyalty to the Kerr family—”

“Aye, mem. I ken what must be said.” Gibson’s voice was gentle but firm. “Whan Reverend Brown came to the pulpit in ’twenty-six, I’d already been a member o’ the kirk for forty years. I’ve nae fear o’ the man, Leddy Kerr.”

His confidence pleased her. “I’m beginning to think you’re not afraid of anything.”

“ ’Tis not true.” He looked at her askance. “I’ve a healthy fear o’ ye.”

Marjory shook her head, certain he did not mean it. “You have my written character, should the reverend need it. Though I fear my name no longer carries much weight.”

Anne, bent over her lace work, lifted her head. “
Kerr
will always command respect in the Borderland.”

“She’s
richt,
” Gibson agreed. “Ye can a’ be proud o’ bearing that name.”

Sewing in hand, Elisabeth eyed him. “How handsome you look, Gibson.”

He scuffed his foot against the floor, a school lad again. “Weel, as my
mither
aye said, ‘At least ye’re clean.’ ”

Elisabeth nodded absently, then returned to her work. After sewing all Friday afternoon and eve, she’d picked up her needle again at dawn, barely stopping for tea and a bannock. Marjory appreciated her diligence, though she hated to see her daughter-in-law working so hard.

“I’m aff,” Gibson announced, his posture as straight as a man of thirty years, his head held high.

Marjory opened the door for him—a fitting irony, she thought—and sent him on his way with spoken good wishes and a silent prayer.
With favour wilt thou compass him
. If the minister employed him, the Kerr women might still enjoy his company on occasion. But if Gibson ended up in service at one of the country estates, they would meet only on the Sabbath, if then. Marjory was surprised to find the notion did not sit well with her. Not at all, in fact.

As his footsteps faded down the stair, she turned to her dinner preparations: fresh brown trout, cooked in butter with sweet herbs. “We’re back to broth on the morrow,” she warned the other women, “for we cannot make a habit of dining so richly.”

“Aye, Mother,” Anne chided her.

Elisabeth did not say a word.

Watching her daughter-in-law’s needle move in and out of the fabric in a steady rhythm, Marjory vowed never to take Elisabeth’s hard-earned shillings for granted. Work easily found could just as easily be lost. Anything might happen. Had they not learned that lesson well in Edinburgh?

She quickly chopped an onion and some herbs, then smeared the pan with butter, leaving the fish off the fire until Gibson returned. Flour from the market meant a rare treat—wheaten bread—which was already rising beside the hearth, made according to Elisabeth’s instructions.

Marjory scrubbed her hands at the washbowl, then went looking for Gibson’s livery, rolled and stored in his leather traveling bag. He would need his servant garb again soon; she was sure of it.

“Annie,” she asked, holding up his badly wrinkled black coat. “Might I use your iron?”

Her cousin’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll not mind if I invite the neighbors? For I believe they’d each pay a ha’penny to see Lady Kerr press a servant’s coat.”

“We could certainly use the money,” Marjory said dryly.

“Let me attend to this, Cousin.” Anne placed several linen cloths across the dining table, then claimed the flatiron from the trivet by the coal fire. “He must have cleaned his garments before he left,” she said, flicking a few drops of water on the broadcloth, then pressing firmly. “Not a spot on them.”

“That’s Gibson for you,” Marjory said fondly. “Always presentable.” She shook out his waistcoat, both embarrassed and intrigued to be handling his personal attire, which bore his unique scent; like pepper, she decided, warm and pungent. She’d purchased this livery more than a twelvemonth ago, the usual arrangement with a maid or manservant. Wages were paid at Martinmas and Whitsun, and a new gown or suit of clothing was provided each year.

Anne held up the ironed coat with a satisfied look, then draped it round the wooden chair while the fabric cooled and took the waistcoat from Marjory’s hands. “What have we here?” She pinched a round lump between the
wool broadcloth and the muslin lining, then smiled. “Shillings, I’ll warrant. Sewn in place for safekeeping. Clever man, spreading them out so they wouldn’t jingle.” Anne ironed round the coins, then pressed his shirt and breeches as well while Marjory did her small part, sprinkling water ahead of the hot iron.

Anne was hanging his finished shirt over a chair when Gibson bounded through the doorway, his face brighter than any candle. “Leddies, ye have afore ye Reverend Brown’s new manservant.”

“Oh!” Marjory clapped her hands together. “You’ll be close to us, then.”

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling at her, “verra close.”

Anne seemed less elated. “The reverend is not known for his generosity,” she grumbled. “You might have worked for Lord Jack Buchanan. Once he is in residence, the admiral could surely use a man of your skills, and the wages he’ll offer might be more to your liking.”

Gibson shook his head. “Reverend Brown suits me verra weel.” He started to say something else, then stopped, and glanced toward the hearth. “ ’Tis some fine trout ye have in yer pan, Leddy Kerr.”

Within the half hour the four of them were gathered round the table, dining on herb-seasoned fish and freshly baked bread. Marjory was secretly amazed at the easy camaraderie among them, despite their marked differences. A Highland weaver’s daughter, a
stayed lass
with no prospects, a veteran manservant, and a widow of gentle birth. In no other household would such people sit at the same table and share the same food as if they were truly equal.

But were they not? She’d read the Scripture the whole of her life:
There is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus
. Only now, seeing that truth lived out, did she understand. If such equality made her slightly uncomfortable, so be it. At the moment she was glad to have food on her plate and friends by her side.

“When will your service for Reverend Brown begin?” Elisabeth asked him.

“This verra day. Aye, this verra hour.” Gibson stood and reached for his clothes on the chair. “I see that a kind soul has pressed my livery.”

“Annie did,” Marjory was quick to say, “for I’ve no talent with an iron.”

“Ye’re a woman o’ monie talents, Leddy Kerr.” He gazed down at her. “Ye made me walcome and fed me guid meals. Ye brushed my clothes and wrote a fine character. What leddy would have done
ha’
so much for her ain lord, let alone a manservant?”

Taken aback by his praise, Marjory murmured, “ ’Twas nothing, Gibson.”

His expression said otherwise. “Leddies, if ye’ll not mind, ’tis time I dressed for wark.” Seeking privacy, he took his livery round the partition, while the women remained at table, speaking of the weather and the Sabbath to come.

Elisabeth sewed as they chatted, soon finishing another shirt. She held it up, examining it with a practiced eye. “ ’Twill do,” she finally decided, carefully folding the cambric. “Since the rain has eased, I’ll take this straight to Mr. Dalgliesh.”

“How is Michael these days?” Anne asked. Her tone was nonchalant yet her eyes attentive.

Elisabeth did not look at her, merely answered, “The same as ever, I imagine.”

Marjory eyed them both, trying to sort out what was being said. And not said.

Her daughter-in-law was already donning her cape. “I’ll not be long,” Elisabeth promised and was gone.

Gibson appeared a moment later, looking dapper in his livery, borrowed clothes in hand. “I’ll return these to Mr. Tait on my way.”

Anne reached for their second loaf of bread, untouched, and dusted off the flour. “Give him this with our thanks,” she told Gibson.

“Weel done, mem,” he said, bobbing his head.

Marjory’s mind was still fixed on Elisabeth. Naturally, her daughter-in-law was still mourning Donald; she was hardly alone in that. But something else seemed to occupy her thoughts of late.

“Our Bess will celebrate her birthday in less than a fortnight,” Marjory
informed the others, her thoughts turning at a brisk pace. “She will be five-and-twenty. A quarter of a century, if you will.”

“So young,” Gibson murmured.

“Aye, but not to her,” Anne said. “I well remember that birthday, and ’twas not pleasant.”

“Suppose we make it a fine day for Bess,” Marjory suggested, hoping to cheer her daughter-in-law. “Unfortunately, I’ve no money of my own and nothing left to sell. If we mean to buy her a present, we’ll have to spend her own shillings, which is hardly fair.”

“Wait.” Anne dove behind the curtains of her bed, then reappeared with a small wooden box. “My jewelry, such as it is.” She lifted the lid, revealing her small collection. A single strand of pearls, badly stained. A ribbon choker. A bracelet meant for a child. A small ivory brooch. A pair of earrings made of amber. But what she lifted out was a dainty silver comb that needed only polishing to be as good as new.

“It belonged to my mother.” Anne held it in her palm, a wistful expression on her face. “My hair is so pale the comb disappears when I wear it. But in Bess’s dark hair …”

“It would be lovely,” Marjory agreed. “Still, Annie, a great sacrifice.”

Anne pointed to the half-dozen books on her shelf. “Those were my mother’s too and are far more dear to me.”