Mine Is the Night (4 page)

Anne slowly pulled her hands from Marjory’s grasp. “Ill news indeed, Cousin.”

She sensed the aloofness in Anne’s tone, the deliberateness of her withdrawal. Nae, this would not do. “Did not our manservant, Gibson, bring a letter to your door?”

“He did not,” Anne said evenly. “I’ve had no correspondence from you—”

“In a very long time,” Marjory quickly agreed. “Gibson traveled ahead on foot so we’d not arrive here unexpected.”

“And yet you have.” Anne took a step backward, putting more distance between them. “What is it you want from me?”

Marjory eyed the woman, a dozen years her junior. Anne Kerr had never married, had never been wealthy or titled, yet she held the upper hand. With a roof over her head and food in her larder, Anne had what they needed but could not afford.

Must I plead with her, Lord? Must I beg?
Pride wrapped itself round Marjory’s throat, choking back her words.

Then Elisabeth stepped in. “We are rather desperate for lodging,” she explained, “and need only the simplest of meals. Might you accommodate us, Miss Kerr?”

Anne turned to Elisabeth with a lift of her brow. “And you are?”

“Donald’s widow,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “Elisabeth Kerr.”

Anne responded with a slight nod. “Did not Andrew marry as well?”

“He did,” Elisabeth said. “This very night his widow, Janet, is returning to her Highland home.”

Marjory grimaced at the reminder. During Janet’s brief marriage to Andrew, the spoiled, selfish woman had not endeared herself to most of the Kerr household. Before leaving Edinburgh, Marjory had purchased a seat for Janet on a northbound carriage. Janet’s halfhearted protest had ended the moment two shillings crossed her gloved palm.

Marjory looked at her younger daughter-in-law now with fond affection.
You should have returned home as well, dear Bess
. But no matter how many times Marjory had entreated her, Elisabeth had refused to leave her side, insisting on traveling with her to Selkirk. She hadn’t planned on Elisabeth’s company, but Marjory was glad for it all the same.

“Come with me.” Anne pushed open her door with a sigh. “I cannot let you sleep out of doors like beggars.”

Horrified at the thought, Marjory murmured her thanks, then followed their cousin through the entrance and up a dozen steps to a smaller interior door with even less paint. She’d never visited Anne’s house, though Lord John
had once described it as cozy and quaint. Whatever awaited them, it was far superior to a cobbled passageway on a chilly April night.

Anne entered first and reached for a candle, then touched the wick to the glowing coals in the hearth and motioned Marjory forward.

The candlelight sent shadows dancing across the low-ceilinged room with its plaster walls and rough wooden floors. Anne’s furnishings were neat but alarmingly few: a box bed, plainly draped; a rustic washstand and basin; two upholstered chairs with threadbare arms; a low table covered with sewing items; an oval dining table that would barely seat four; and several mismatched wooden chairs huddled in a corner like gossips exchanging news.

Marjory found her voice at last. “You keep a tidy house, Cousin Anne.”

“Easily managed when one owns so little.” Anne lit a second tallow candle and placed it on the shelf mounted between her two front windows.

Her only windows, Marjory realized. At least the glazing was clean, and the curtains, surprisingly, were trimmed in lace. An extravagant touch for such mean lodgings. She stepped closer and looked down at the marketplace. “You have a fine view of the town.”

“And the town has a fine view of me,” Anne said curtly. “If you mean to hide your family’s disgrace, Marjory, you’ve knocked on the wrong door.”

She flinched at her harsh words. “Believe me, Cousin, had we anywhere else to go …”

Anne had already turned away to poke at the coals in her grate, jabbing them with savage efficiency.

Marjory stared at her cousin’s back. A dearth of letters over the years would hardly account for this cold reception. Was it the Kerrs’ ill-advised support of Prince Charlie? Or had something else upset Anne?

When Elisabeth crossed the threshold, carrying in the first of their trunks, Anne hurried off to help her, as if glad to escape Marjory’s presence. The two younger women disappeared down the stair, leaving Marjory to examine their surroundings and accept the inevitable.

One room. We shall all live in one room
.

Disheartened at the prospect, Marjory walked along the front wall, counting her steps.
Eighteen
. Then she measured from the windows to the back wall.
Eighteen
. The supporting wall that ran halfway through the room provided a modicum of privacy between Anne’s bed and the rest of her lodging yet made the house feel even smaller.

With a muted groan, Marjory sank onto the nearest chair, wondering what Anne Kerr might serve for supper. Moldy cheese and a stale bannock, she imagined, then chastised herself for judging their cousin so harshly. Anne had no notice of their arrival, no time to replenish her stores, and limited resources besides.

Hearing voices on the stair, Marjory rose with a guilty start, then watched Anne and Elisabeth struggle through the door, bearing a heavy trunk between them. “You might put it here,” Marjory suggested, uncertain how else to assist them.

They dutifully placed the trunk near the foot of Anne’s bed and left to fetch the last one, not saying a word.

Like servants, Marjory thought glumly.

Her heart skipped a beat.
Gibson
. How had she forgotten him so quickly?

Appalled, Marjory hastened to the window as if by some miracle she might spot his balding head fringed in silver. Had the rain delayed him? An injury? Illness? Perhaps he’d encountered highwaymen on a lonely road. Or worse, dragoons. Forty miles stretched between Milne Square and Halliwell’s Close. Anything might have happened.

By the time the others returned, Marjory was pacing the floor. “However shall we find Gibson?”

“I am worried as well,” Elisabeth admitted, heading for the washstand by Anne’s bed.

Only then did Marjory notice their faces were red with exertion and their hands soiled.

“We’ll consider your manservant shortly.” Anne brushed past her. “First, I must attend to our supper. Cousin Marjory, if you might set the table.” She
gestured toward a low shelf, which held an assortment of trenchers, knot bowls, and carved cups.

Marjory stared at the woodenware, carved in the crudest design. The spoons and forks were gray from years of use, and some of the plates were badly cracked along the grain. This was her future, then. No pewter plates, no crystal goblets, no beeswax tapers gleaming from a polished mahogany sideboard.

Anne called across the room, “Something wrong, Cousin?”

“Nae,” Marjory said quickly. She dared not refuse to help, however menial the task. Was she not an interloper of the worst kind? A penniless relation begging for bread with a widowed daughter-in-law in tow and a manservant gone astray among the hills.

Marjory reached for a cluster of wooden utensils, her hands shaking.
How am I to manage, Lord? How are we to live like this?

lisabeth had forgotten the odd sensation of a wooden spoon in her mouth. Once the heat and moisture from a steaming bowl of broth made the wood swell, it felt like a second tongue. She hastily put the spoon down, fearing she might retch.

“Is the broth not seasoned to your liking?” Anne asked. “Too much wild thyme, perhaps.”

“ ’Tis very flavorful,” Elisabeth said, though she edged the bowl of watery broth away from her. “I confess I am more tired than hungry.” Not precisely true. She was tired
and
hungry, but she could not bear to offend their cousin.

Anne turned to Marjory, a single candle on the table illuminating the younger woman’s sharp features. “This manservant of yours. He’s resourceful?”

“Aye, and brave,” Marjory answered, “though not in perfect health. Last winter he suffered from a fever and then a lingering cough.”

Elisabeth vividly recalled Marjory assessing Gibson’s fever—placing her hand on his brow, on his cheek, on his chest—her demeanor uncommonly tender, her hazel eyes filled with warm regard for the man who’d so faithfully served their family.

“Cousin,” Anne said firmly, “you must prepare yourself for the worst. An older servant, still recovering from an illness, traveling on foot in this chilly, rainy weather? Why, the man may never reach Selkirk.”

Marjory looked stricken. “Do not say such a thing! I’ve known Neil Gibson the whole of my married life and all through my widowhood as well.”

Elisabeth reached for her hand. “I’ve no doubt Gibson will arrive in a day or two or send word with a passing carriage.”

Marjory squeezed her fingers in response, saying nothing more.

When Anne stood and began gathering their woodenware, Elisabeth leaped up to help her, needing a distraction, wanting to be useful. The two knelt by the fire and washed the dishes with hot water and ragged scraps of linen, then spread out the wooden pieces to dry on the flagstone hearth.

“I’ve not far to go for water,” Anne said. “The Cross Well is in the marketplace, just beyond the mouth of Halliwell’s Close.”

Elisabeth was already on her feet. “I’ll draw some for the morn.”

“Oh, but, Cousin Elisabeth—”

“Bess,” she said, looking down at her. “Please call me ‘Bess.’ ”

“And I prefer ‘Annie,’ ” she said after a bit. “Still, I cannot have my guests—”

“We are hardly guests,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Distant relatives at best. We had no business arriving at your door unannounced, though I do not fault poor Gibson.”

“Nor I.” Anne glanced at Marjory, by now half asleep in one of the upholstered chairs. When Anne spoke again, her voice was low and taut. “I confess ’tis hard to shelter Lady Kerr beneath my roof. She … that is, Lord John …” Anne’s words faded into silence.

Elisabeth did not press the matter. Perhaps when they knew each other better. Perhaps when Anne trusted her.

“I shan’t be a moment,” Elisabeth said, then hurried down the stair and into the murky close, blinking until her eyes adjusted. A few more steps and she reached the marketplace, where the square wellhead stood, black as the night itself. She filled the slender-necked stoup in haste, shivering from the clammy mist that swirled round her skirts. Above her the moon and stars were lost behind the clouds, and the three streets that converged to form the triangular marketplace were all bathed in darkness.

Elisabeth looked up at the curtained windows of Anne’s house, a growing awareness pressing down on her.
I should not have come
. Anne could not
possibly feed them from her paltry stores day after day. And her small house was not meant for three. If Marjory knew what awaited them here in Selkirk, little wonder she’d urged both her daughters-in-law to return to the Highlands.

Janet had honored Marjory’s request.

Alas, I did not
.

With a heavy heart Elisabeth slipped back up the stair and found Anne waiting beside the enclosed box bed, with its wooden walls and woolen curtains.

“I’ve a
hurlie
bed stored underneath,” Anne told her, “but ’twill take two of us to trundle it about.”

After several minutes of tugging and pulling, Elisabeth and Anne managed to free the small hurlie bed from its confines, releasing a plume of dust. They wheeled it into the corner opposite Anne’s box bed and swept the mattress clean with a straw broom.

In most homes hurlie beds were meant for children. Or servants. Marjory stared in obvious dismay at the thin mattress stuffed with chaff and the rickety wooden wheels. “Are we expected to share this?”

Anne jerked her chin, a spark of anger in her eyes. “ ’Tis the only bed I have to offer you, Cousin.”

Elisabeth swiftly intervened. “Marjory, by all means claim the hurlie bed for yourself. I shall sleep by the fire with a
creepie
for my feet.” She angled one of the upholstered chairs toward the hearth and pulled up a low wooden footstool. “Annie, if you’ve a blanket to spare, I’d be grateful.”

“But you cannot sleep in a chair,” Marjory scolded her.

“Certainly I can.” Elisabeth began pulling the pins from her hair. “Highlanders are famous for sleeping on the hills and moors wrapped in naught but their plaids.”

“The men, perhaps,” her mother-in-law grumbled.

“Nae,” Elisabeth assured her, “the women too. I spent many a summer night with my back propped against a tree in the pine woods round Castleton of Braemar.”

“You slept in the woods?” Marjory shook her head. “Truly, Bess, you never cease to astound me.”

Elisabeth glanced across the room, hoping the trifling exchange had given their cousin’s ire time to cool.

But Anne was still frowning. “I’ve a plaid for each of you,” she said, then reached into the recesses of her box bed and pulled out two light wool blankets, woven in muted blues and reds.