Mine Is the Night (7 page)

Elisabeth glanced at Anne and saw her nodding absently. Lady Murray, it seemed, was no longer a true friend to Marjory, if indeed she ever was.

“You’ve endured quite enough this Sabbath morn,” Elisabeth told her mother-in-law, moving forward. “A light meal and a long nap are in order. If visitors come knocking, I shall see they venture no farther than the foot of the stair.”

A soft breeze beckoned the women across the stone threshold and onto the grassy knoll of the kirkyard. The mist was gone, and a wash of pale yellow bathed the landscape. Elisabeth paused to take in her new surroundings. Gently shaped hills undulated round the countryside, covered in the first grass of the season, a bright spring green, and the forest edging the kirkyard was thick with oak and elm, birch and pine, hazel and willow. ’Twas nothing like the vast, treeless moors and glens of the Highlands. Would she ever feel at home here?

“We can use the pend this time,” Anne said, then led them through the narrow passageway to Kirk Wynd. A minute’s walk downhill and they were in Halliwell’s Close again.

Early afternoon light poured into the small house, warming the air. Anne served their dinner without a word, placing hot tea and cold mutton at each of their places. Marjory had barely finished her meal before she crawled into the hurlie bed with a soft moan. She quickly fell asleep, the sound of her steady breathing an undercurrent flowing through their quiet lodgings.

Elisabeth eyed her leather trunk. “I should unpack my few belongings. That is, if you’ll not object …”

Anne responded with a faint shrug. “I cannot turn you out. Where else could you stay?”

Nowhere
. How hard that was to admit! “ ’Twill not always be thus,” Elisabeth promised, for her own benefit as well as Anne’s.

Kneeling beside the trunk, Elisabeth lifted out a wrinkled linen chemise and several pairs of stockings, all of which required laundering, a task for Monday morning. She owned no jewelry, no silk fans, no fine hats, only a pair of brocade shoes and a handful of accessories. An ivory comb to tuck in her curls and the hairbrush she’d used that morning found a place on the washstand, then she hung her gray wool cape on a hook by the door.

All that remained was a single gown suitable for evening, though not for a widow.

“Lovely,” Anne murmured, peering over her shoulder.

Elisabeth held up the rich, lavender-colored satin adorned with silk gauze and gold sequins. “A gift from my late husband.”

Anne’s breath caught. “Brussels lace?” She reverently touched the broad, creamy swath that draped from each elbow-length sleeve. “You cannot imagine the months women spent creating this.”

Elisabeth watched Anne examine the delicate needlework, fingers lightly caressing the tiny buttonhole stitches that formed each lacy flower and stem. “You know something of the craft?”

Anne lifted her head. “Did I not tell you? I am a lace maker.” She gestured toward the sewing table between the upholstered chairs. “ ’Tis how I support myself. If you open the drawer, you’ll find some of my work.”

For a dressmaker the invitation was irresistible. Elisabeth eased the silk gown back into her trunk, then moved to the low table and tugged on the drawer. “Oh my.” She lifted out a narrow length of lace in the making, taking care not to disturb the many pins holding it in place. “Such delicate knots! Whatever do you call this?”

“Point de neige,”
Anne said in French, kneeling beside her. “The points are meant to look like snow. Not long before my mother died, she gave me her most treasured possession, a Venetian lace collar. Then I bought a pattern book from a chapman, and …” She shrugged.

Elisabeth held Anne’s work up to the light, marveling at the intricate pattern. “Surely the gentry pay you handsomely for your labors.”

“Aye. Lady Murray once purchased several lace-trimmed handkerchiefs and a jabot for Sir John. I lived on that silver for half a year,” Anne told her. “But few in Selkirk can afford such luxury. I depend upon occasional visits from a traveling merchant who purchases my work for a shop in Covent Garden.” She carefully retrieved her lace from Elisabeth and placed it back in the drawer. “Unfortunately, he’s not come through town in a twelvemonth.”

Elisabeth gaped at her. “Annie, however do you manage?”

Her thin-lipped smile did not reach her eyes. “I teach lace making to the daughters of local gentry who can spare a shilling a week.” She stood and began clearing the dining table. “On Tuesday you’ll meet my two pupils, Miss Caldwell and Miss Boyd. Neither of them enjoys needlework, but they’ve kindly not complained to their mothers. At least not yet.”

Elisabeth joined her, collecting the wooden utensils that, by Sabbath law, could not be washed until morning.
Two shillings a week?
Even in rural Selkirk those coins would be quickly spent. “And yet you served us mutton this noontide.”

Anne turned to meet her gaze. “ ’Tis the one day of the week I have meat.”

Elisabeth glanced in the direction of the hurlie bed, then asked in a low voice, “Might your titled cousins not have provided at least a small income for you?”

Anne was slow to answer. “I was not a close relative of Lord John’s, nor did I travel in the same social circles.” She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “When no one asked for my hand in marriage, Lord John took pity on me and quietly arranged a monthly stipend. Lady Marjory was unaware of his generosity. As she was of many things.”

Elisabeth merely nodded. Three years of living with her mother-in-law had taught her much about the gentry and their willingness to look the other way when it suited them.

Her cousin went on. “The coins were delivered to my door each month by … well, by Lord John’s factor, by …”

“Mr. Laidlaw?”

“Aye.” Color bloomed in Anne’s pale cheeks. “When Lord John died, Mr.
Laidlaw came to see me.” She averted her gaze, her discomfort all too apparent. “He said he would continue bringing silver to my door each month if I opened my … if I welcomed his … touch.”

A dreadful silence hung in the air.

Elisabeth reached for her hand. “Annie, I’m so sorry. Had Marjory known—”

“But she
should
have known.” Her cousin drew away from her, a spark of anger in her pale blue eyes. “Mr. Laidlaw made a habit of tormenting her maidservants. He put his hands where they did not belong and took liberties with any lass who gave in to his advances. Ask Tibbie Cranshaw if you don’t believe me.” Anne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Laidlaw is a profligate of the worst kind. A virtuous woman like you cannot imagine such a creature.”

Elisabeth’s heart sank.
Oh, but I can
.

“I refused him twice before he left me alone,” Anne said proudly. “No silver is worth such degradation.”

“Nae, it is not.” Elisabeth looked down at the wooden floor, wishing the heaviness inside her might lift. Could no man be trusted?

She seldom dwelled on Donald’s many infidelities and never spoke of them to Marjory. What mother could bear to hear such things? Yet, months after his death, the pain of betrayal lingered and with it a nagging sense of guilt. Perhaps if she’d railed at him, punished him, denied him, her husband might have changed his wanton ways.

Instead, she’d loved him. And forgiven him.

I am more sorry than I can ever say
. Aye, Donald was always sorry. What Donald was not was faithful. She could still recall every word on the lover’s note she’d found in his glove and the list of paramours he’d confessed in a letter.
Forgive me, lass. For all of it
.

She’d done so. But the heartache remained.

Elisabeth gazed at the door, longing for fresh air and an hour’s walk. “What do the kirk elders say if a member of their flock ventures out of doors on a Sabbath afternoon?”

Anne reached for her wool cape. “Nothing is said. Unless they see you.”

arjory woke to find sunlight still filtering through the curtains. She’d napped no more than an hour. The house was quiet, empty. She splashed cool water on her face and dried it with a linen towel, then claimed a sheet of stationery from Elisabeth’s trunk, telling herself it was but one piece of paper and purchased with her late son’s money besides.

Borrowing Anne’s quill pen and ink from the shelf, Marjory settled at the dining table and prayed for a steady hand. This would not be a pleasant letter to compose.

How it irked her to write the man’s name! Where was she to begin? No point telling him what he already knew when there was so much else to say.

Marjory inked the quill again.

She had yet to speak aloud this admiral’s name. Committing it to paper would be even more difficult. Another time she might manage it. For now, Mr. Laidlaw’s transgressions were her primary concern.

Very well compensated
. She gripped the quill so tightly the feather shook. Did the man think she would never return to Selkirk and see his carelessness?

Marjory lifted her pen, struck by a frightening thought. If Mr. Laidlaw was indifferent toward maintaining the house of the Lord, what of Tweedsford?

Images rose before her. Richly paneled walls. An elegant stair with wooden balustrades. Pink marble chimney pieces. Decorative wrought-iron gates. Terraced gardens to the north …

Enough, Marjory
.

Whatever Tweedsford’s condition, it was no longer her home or her responsibility. Her family’s corner of the parish kirk, however, mattered very much.

Marjory paused, wondering if she was being too harsh. In truth, the whole of the kirk was ruinous. She would soften her tone, if only to be certain Mr. Laidlaw brought her what she wanted.

Ever since Lady Murray of Philiphaugh had hinted at a new owner for Tweedsford, Marjory had thought of the trivial but dear things she’d left behind. According to General Lord Mark Kerr’s letter on behalf of the king, the contents of her home were to be seized for payment of fines. If she did not speak up now, these cherished objects would be lost to her forever.

She chose her words with care.

Whether or not that was true, Marjory couldn’t say. But it certainly
sounded
true.

She made a brief list, describing each item. Lord John’s magnifying glass unintentionally left behind. A small bundle of letters from her late brother, Henry Nesbitt, who at seven-and-twenty was killed while hunting in Ettrick Forest. A wooden toy soldier Gibson had carved for Andrew’s fourth birthday.
The Famous History of Thomas Thumb
, a chapbook Donald prized when he was a wee lad. And a miniature of Tweedsford she drew as a new bride, done with plumbago on vellum.

Though she wrote as compactly as she could, there was no room for a proper signature. Perhaps that was just as well. Without a title her name carried little weight. She tipped a burning candle over the folded letter, then pressed her thumb into the cooling wax, a poor man’s seal.

Marjory was still wiping the ink from Anne’s quill when the clatter of hoofbeats drew her to the window. A coach-and-four was emptying its passengers into the marketplace. “North!” the coachman bellowed, prompting two new travelers, a valise in each hand, to quicken their steps toward the carriage. Clearly he was bound for Edinburgh and so would pass Tweedsford en
route. Might he deliver her letter this very day? Aye, it was the Sabbath, but if he might be willing.

Marjory flew down the stair, her heart racing by the time she reached the coachman, who’d already climbed onto his seat. “Sir!” she called out, holding up her letter as she identified herself. “Would you kindly carry this to Tweedsford?”

He frowned at her, his thick eyebrows drawn tightly together. “I’m certain to be paid?”

“Depend upon it. Mr. Laidlaw or any of the servants at Tweedsford will meet you with coins in hand.” She pictured the small drawer in the lobby table where pennies were kept for that purpose. “It is a matter of great urgency,” she told him, lifting her letter a bit higher.