Mine Is the Night (40 page)

The minister placed a withered hand on each shoulder. “Mrs. Kerr, I see that your mind is fixed on this course. How you and Mr. Gibson will navigate these waters, I cannot say. But whatever God joins, I’ll not put asunder. Go, now, for I’ve kept you long enough.”

“Bless you,” she whispered and turned for the door, thinking only of Gibson. Eager to find him. Eager to tell him.
All is well. God is with us
.

A moment later Marjory found herself in Kirk Wynd, still reeling from the minister’s unexpected benediction. He seemed willing to admit the Almighty might have brought them together.
Can it be true, Lord? Is this your hand at work? Do you mean for this good man to be mine?

When she looked up and saw Neil Gibson walking toward her, all her questions were answered.
Aye, aye, aye
. Marjory reached out, beckoning him forward.

He offered a gentleman’s bow, then clasped her hands. “Have ye come leuking for me, Leddy Kerr?”

“I’ve much to tell you,” she began, “but we cannot meet at Anne’s house, with Peter due for his morning visit.”

“And we canna speak at the manse,” Gibson said. “Nor may we stand in the mercat place with the whole toun watching.”

“To kirk then.” Marjory was already starting uphill. “On a Friday ’tis sure to be empty.”

They slipped through the narrow pend and across the grassy kirkyard, then pulled open the door, cringing when the rust-covered hinges cried out in protest. Leaving behind the forenoon sun, they stepped inside the shadowy interior, cool and still.

“A bit gloomy,” Gibson murmured, “but at least we have it to ourselves.” He walked Marjory down the aisle, her hand tucked round his arm, then brushed clean the Kerr pew and seated her like landed gentry come to church.

Marjory waited until he sat down, her heart beating so hard against her stays she was not certain she could breathe, let alone speak. When she turned to him, their knees almost touched. When he took her ungloved hands in his, she thought she might faint.

“Gibson, I—”

“Neil,” he said softly, never taking his eyes off hers. “ ’Tis time ye called me by my given name.”

Neil, my dear Neil
. Could she say it aloud without blushing? “Neil,” she finally managed. “And you must call me Marjory.”

He smiled at that. “I’ve called ye Marjory in my heart syne I first clapped eyes on ye in May. Whan ye pressed yer wee head against my neck and told me, ‘Ye’re hame.’ I canna tell ye what that meant to me.”

Overcome with emotion, she bowed her head and whispered, “And to me.”

He gently lifted her chin. “Dinna hide from me, lass.”

“
Lass
? I’m hardly a girl—”

“Wheesht!” he said with a low chuckle. “Ye’re a lass from whaur I’m sitting.” He lightly kissed the back of her hand, then said, “Noo, what was it ye were so keen to tell me?”

She described her meeting with Reverend Brown, leaving out any mention of Lord Buchanan for the moment, and watched Neil’s expressions change with each revelation.

“So, ’tis only a sma’ measure o’ happiness ye’re wanting?” Neil teased her. “Nae mair than a farthing’s worth?”

“You know me very well,” she reminded him. “Am I a woman who settles for so little?”

“I’ve niver seen ye do so,” he agreed, looking more serious. “ ’Tis why I must ask if ye’re sure … if ye’re verra sure …”

“That you’ll make me happy?” When he nodded, she looked into his eyes lest she lose her courage. “Neil Gibson, I cannot imagine a future without you at the center of it.”

“Och, Marjory.” He hung his head, clasping her hands tightly in his as if he might never let go. “Ye ken I have naught to offer ye. Not a hame, nor a horse, nor a purse full o’ guineas. And I dare not ask for yer hand ’til I do.”

“My dear Gibson …” She caught herself. “Neil … I have no such expectations.”

He lifted his head. “But I do.” His eyes shone like candles in the murky sanctuary. “D’ye remember me saying in Edinburgh, ‘Ye’ll aye be Leddy Kerr to me’?”

“I remember it well.”
So very well
.

“A leddy like ye deserves a’ the best the world has to offer. I’ll not see ye go without because o’ me.”

When he started to release her, Marjory drew him closer instead. “Listen to me, Neil Gibson. Possessions mean nothing to me now. Surely you, of all people, know that.”

“Aye, but—”

“The Buik tells us only faith, hope, and charity truly matter.” She lifted his hands, his strong, callused hands, praying as she did. “My faith has been renewed,” she assured him, gently kissing one hand. “My hope has been restored,” she promised, kissing the other. “And my regard for you is certain.”

When he smiled, she caught a glimpse of the darling boy of ten he’d surely been. And of the strapping lad of twenty, who must have stolen every maidservant’s heart. And of the handsome man of forty, who’d served her at Tweedsford. But none could match the mature man who sat beside her now, with love in his eyes and laughter in the curve of his mouth.

“I canna see my way through just noo,” he confessed to her, “but if the Almichty means for us to be thegither, then thegither we shall be.” He kissed each hand, as she’d kissed his, then slowly stood, drawing her to her feet. “ ’Tis time I walked ye hame.”

She started up the aisle with him, in no hurry to leave their quiet sanctuary. “I can only imagine what Reverend Brown will say when you return.”

After a moment Neil said, “He’s a guid man, wha cares about his flock. As it happens, the reverend and I have a surprise for ye, though ’twill have to wait ’til Michaelmas.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “We’ve much to look forward to this autumn. Anne and Michael’s marriage, of course, and Lord Buchanan’s return from the Highlands. I do hope he’ll not be delayed. ’Twould be a shame for him to miss Annie’s wedding.”

ack stared at the small Highland cottage with its thatched roof, crooked chimney, and unglazed windows. The battered wooden shutters, meant to keep out the elements, sagged on their hinges. A few hens pecked their way across the garden, and a pot of dead violets sat by the door. “You are certain this was Elisabeth Kerr’s home?”

Rose MacKindlay looked up at him with eyes as green as the grass on the hillocks. “She was a Ferguson then, but, aye, this was whaur Bess lived and whaur her mither lives noo.” An elderly woman, Mrs. MacKindlay shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing as she did. “Her man is oot just noo, but I ken for a fact Fiona is at hame. She’ll be glad to have a letter from Bess.”

Jack had come to Braemar parish solely to shoot grouse, or so he’d told himself. But from the hour he’d reached the Mar estate, his thoughts had circled round nearby Castleton, the hamlet where Bess had spent her first eighteen years. Consisting of a ruinous castle and a knot of stone cottages nestled amid a remote mountain fastness, Castleton of Braemar was as far from Edinburgh’s high society as Persia was from Paris. Why had Bess left, and how? And who was this woman who’d raised her?

He was curious, no denying it. The letter in his pocket would open a door he very much wished to walk through.

The fine, springlike weather had kept him on the heather moorlands with Sir John for a full week—enough hunting to last Jack many a season. “Male grouse are a randy sort,” the gamekeeper had informed them, “with many
partners. And they play nae part in raising their young.” That alone was sufficient motive for Jack to take deadly aim with his fowling piece.

But on this cool, rainy Saturday, Sir John was content to sip whisky by the fire while Jack explored the parish. He’d come straight to Castleton, sought out a friendly face, and found himself in the company of Mrs. MacKindlay, the parish midwife.

“If you’ll not mind an introduction,” he told her, “I would be honored to meet Mrs. Cromar.” He tethered Janvier to a trough, where the horse might drink his fill, then joined Mrs. MacKindlay on the muddy slate by the door.

“Fiona!” she sang out. “Ye’ve a visitor. And a braw lad he is.”

Jack had heard the phrase before, a favorite among his maidservants, though usually directed at far younger men.

The door was pulled open. A dark-haired woman of forty-odd years stood before him. Not so tall as Bess, nor so bonny, but unmistakably her mother. She eyed him closely. “Wha is this ye’ve brought to my door, Rose?”

“Lord Jack Buchanan,” Mrs. MacKindlay answered, emphasizing his title. “He’s acquainted with yer Bess. Even brought ye a letter from the lass.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a fact?”

“Indeed, madam.” He doffed his hat and bowed, then presented her with the sealed missive. “Your daughter is employed as a dressmaker at my estate in the Borderland.”

“Ye must come in, then,” she said, stepping back, holding the letter to her heart.

As the midwife took her leave, Fiona Cromar hurried to the inglenook, where a peat fire burned with a pungent aroma. “Ye’ll be wanting tea, I ken.”

While she was busy with her preparations, Jack surveyed the candlelit interior. Bare stone walls with clay and straw for mortar. Thick wooden beams, not far above his head. And a dirt floor, hard packed yet newly swept. However humble, the cottage was tidy, with a fine woolen plaid across the bed. A handful of books were given pride of place on a shelf above the hearth. No doubt Bess had read every one a dozen times.

Fiona seated him at a square pine table, unfinished but well scrubbed. Tea
was served in a pottery cup, accompanied by a plate of round sugar biscuits. Fiona joined him, lifting her teacup almost as gracefully as Bess did. She had her daughter’s full lips as well as her striking dark brows. But Fiona’s eyes did not sparkle, and the skin beneath them looked bruised, as if she’d not slept in a long time.

“I owe you an apology, Mrs. Cromar, for my unexpected visit.”

“Not at a’,” she insisted. “In the
Hielands
we’re glad for outlanders wha bring us news, as lang as they’ve naught to do with King Geordie doon in London toun.” She lowered her cup and leaned a bit closer. “Afore I read her letter, what have ye to say about my Bess? For I’ve not seen the lass in ever so lang.”

“She is in fine health,” he assured her, “and in good spirits, considering all she has been through. You already know, I am sure, how she came to live in the Borderland after Prince Charlie’s defeat … after Culloden …” He paused when she looked away, her distress evident. Better not to dwell on the subject. “Your daughter accompanied her mother-in-law to Selkirk, where they reside with a distant cousin, Anne Kerr.”

When Fiona turned to look at him, her eyes were filled with pain. “I didna ken whaur the lass went. For I’ve not had a letter from Bess syne I married nigh a twelvemonth ago.”

Jack stared at her, confused. “How can that be? I was told she wrote you regularly.”

She slowly shook her head. “I’ve had nae letters. But then I didna expect them. Not after what I did with the last one she sent me the day afore my wedding.” Fiona could not meet his gaze. “She begged me not to marry Ben Cromar. Said she’d left Castleton because he … because he frightened her.”

Frightened
? The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Was it something he said, Bess? Or something he did?
Jack nodded at the letter beside her teacup. “Feel free to read it at once, Mrs. Cromar, so you might put your mind at ease.”

Jack’s own mind was racing down very dark paths. A frightening man. A lass barely old enough to marry, fleeing from her mother’s house. Letters
posted but never received. Aye, something was amiss. Jack had no intention of leaving Castleton until he uncovered the truth.

Her mother, in the meantime, was engrossed, her lips moving as she read silently, her eyes awash with tears. “She luves me still. My sweet, sweet Bess!” She clutched the paper with trembling hands. “September last, when I didna like what she wrote about Mr. Cromar, I tossed her letter in the fire.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I should have listened to her. I should have heeded what she said. I didna ken! I didna ken—”

When the door to the cottage flew open, Fiona leaped to her feet, stuffing the letter in her apron pocket. “Ben! Come … come meet oor guest from … from …”

Ben Cromar swaggered across the threshold, then shut the door with a thunderous bang. “Weel, sir. D’ye make a practice o’ visiting ither men’s wives while their husbands are hard at wark?”

Jack stood, refusing to acknowledge the coarse remark. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the man. “I am Lord Jack Buchanan of Bell Hill in the Borderland.”

“Is that so?” Cromar moved forward, his footsteps muffled by the dirt floor. No older than forty, he had the stocky build of a blacksmith, with thick arms and massive thighs and shoulders broad enough to wield a sledgehammer. “What business d’ye have in my hame?”

Jack avoided any mention of the letter hidden in Fiona’s pocket. “Your stepdaughter is in my employ. Since I was shooting grouse on the Mar estate, a visit to her mother seemed in order.”