Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twelve

Change, indeed, is painful;

yet ever needful.

THOMAS CARLYLE



thunderous voice rumbled through the house. “I would see the elder Mrs. Kerr. Alone.”

Marjory closed her eyes. Reverend Brown. The man who held their future in his hands. As the minister of the parish, he was answerable not only to God but also to King George.

She forced herself to look at him, to move forward, to greet him, then nodded at the others, setting them free. Do not worry. The Lord is with me. Elisabeth and Anne curtsied and retreated into the room, leaving Marjory and the minister standing by the door.

He gazed about the small house. “Where …, eh, might we converse?”

Marjory was at a loss for an answer. “Our cousin’s students are to arrive at any moment. I’m afraid we’ll have no privacy here. Perhaps another day—”

“Nae.” His permanent frown deepened. “We shall speak at the manse. ’Tis but a short walk up Kirk Wynd.”

When she turned to bid the others farewell, their eyes were wide with concern. “I’ll not be long,” she assured them, praying it might be so.

Her legs a bit unsteady, Marjory followed Reverend Brown down the stair and into the bustling, sunlit marketplace, the blithe atmosphere a strange counterpoint to her fears. The rich aroma of meat pies wafted past her, and the sound of a blacksmith’s anvil filled the air. Coaxed from their houses by the warmer weather, Selkirk’s residents mingled round the well or the mercat cross, the council room or the tolbooth, with its impressive new steeple. Looking neither left nor right, Marjory remained close on the minister’s heels, lest someone step between them and begin chattering away, vexing the reverend further.

Draped in shapeless black clothing, with his shoulders hunched forward and his chin against his chest, David Brown resembled a bird of prey, dark plumed and sharp beaked, pecking his way up the steep wynd. He opened the door of the manse, across from the Mintos’ house, and bade Marjory inside.

The interior was less grim than she’d imagined. Beeswax candles were scattered round the parlor, and a heaping pile of coals glowed in the grate. His furnishings were old but well kept, his burgundy carpet thick. She saw no looking glass—too vain for the minister—but a handsome oil painting of the parish kirk hung over the mantelpiece.

Marjory took the offered seat, a straight-backed wooden chair with the thinnest of cushions, and waited for the minister to begin.

“I’ve no tea to offer you,” he said bluntly, sitting across from her. “On Friday last my manservant flitted to Jedburgh. He should have tarried ’til Whitsun Monday, when I might have easily hired another man. Instead, he took a wife.”

Thinking to sympathize with him, Marjory said, “I know how tiresome it can be to find a new servant.”

“Do you?” He regarded her at length. “I should think hiring servants is the least of your concerns now, Mrs. Kerr.”

If the reverend meant to shame her, he was too late for that.

A dog started barking outside the window, setting off several others, which quickly turned into an ugly, snarling row. Withindoors, the two could do nothing but wait until the noise abated. Marjory tried to appear calm, to seem unaffected, but all the while her heart was racing. When at last the dogs moved on, the silence in the room was palpable.

“So, Mrs. Kerr.” The minister’s countenance darkened. “What possessed you to support the Stuart claim to the throne? Did your Highland daughters-in-law bewitch you?”

“They did not,” Marjory hastened to say, protecting Elisabeth. “Nor did my daughters-in-law coerce their husbands. On the contrary, we begged Donald and Andrew not to enlist. Once they did, we were bound to stand behind them.”

He grunted in response. “You gave Prince Charlie money, I suppose.”

“I did.” Fifteen hundred pounds. Unless the reverend inquired further, she would keep the staggering figure to herself.

“The way of a fool is right in his own eyes,” he said, beginning to sound as he did in the pulpit. Louder, sterner. “You have lost everything, madam. Your money, your title, your home, even your family.” He banged his fist on the table beside him. “Everything!”

She cringed. “Reverend—”

“What am I to do with you, Mrs. Kerr? Banish you from my parish? Deliver you into the hands of the dragoons?”

Nae! Marjory looked down, overwhelmed. “I hoped … that is, I prayed you and the elders of the kirk might … forgive me.”

Her request hung in the air.

“Mercy, is it?” He did not shout this time.

“Aye, mercy.” She lifted her head, imploring him with her eyes. “I have nowhere else to go, Reverend Brown. Anne and Elisabeth are all that remain of my family now. Please … please do not ask me to leave Selkirk.”

The only sound in the room was the creaking of his chair.

Marjory breathed a prayer into the silence, with her eyes open and her heart open and her hands open in her lap like a child waiting for a gift. Look thou upon me, and be merciful unto me.

She saw something change in the reverend’s eyes. A prick of light.

“Please?” she asked again. Her pride was in tatters, but, thanks be to God, so was her shame.

The minister sat back in his chair, his large hands splayed across his knees. “Some might say you’ve already suffered the consequences of your folly. For that is what it was, Mrs. Kerr. Sheer foolishness. You broke no commandments—”

“But I did,” she protested softly. “Thou shalt have none other gods before me.”

He stared at her, aghast. “What god did you worship if not the Almighty?”

“I worshiped …” Marjory cast her gaze round the room, trying to find the words. “I worshiped my sons, my possessions, my place in society. All those things you said I lost. Don’t you see? The Lord took them from me.” She bent forward as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Because I loved them more than I loved him.”

Reverend Brown inched his chair closer to hers. “Mrs. Kerr …,” he said gruffly. “Marjory …” He lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. “The Lord brought you home empty so he might fill you with himself.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I see no need for any discipline from the kirk.”

Marjory sank beneath the weight of his forgiveness, her damp cheek pressed against her hands.

His voice quavered as he spoke. “ ’Tis our task to help you, Mrs. Kerr. To show you God’s mercy. And so we shall.”

When he paused, Marjory slowly rose and dried her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For the sake of those who will ask, I need you to speak the truth. Are you now loyal to the king?”

Marjory knew what the Lord required of her. Fear God. Honour the king. A difficult command after all she’d suffered. Yet Reverend Brown had called her support of the Stuart cause foolish. Had she not come to the same conclusion herself even while her sons lived?

Marjory met the minister’s gaze, lest he doubt her conviction. “Aye.”

He seemed satisfied, leaning back to fold his arms across his chest. “So, how will you make your way in society, Mrs. Kerr?”

She dabbed her cheeks with her handkerchief, then answered him honestly. “I will walk through any doors that are opened to me and pray I find friends there.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “We are expecting a new resident in Selkirkshire within a fortnight. Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. Tread lightly in his presence, for he is the king’s man, make no mistake. Your family’s treason will not sit well with the admiral.”

Marjory stiffened. “I’ll not seek the company of Tweedsford’s new owner.”

“What’s this?” Reverend Brown looked at her oddly. “Madam, you have been misinformed. Admiral Buchanan is to reside at Bell Hill.”

Her mouth fell open. “But I thought the king awarded him—”

“His Majesty had no part in this,” he declared. “The admiral bought the property outright from the Duke of Roxburgh. The Centurion’s officers sailed into Portsmouth very wealthy men, you’ll remember. Since Lord Buchanan’s father once resided in Selkirkshire, the admiral chose to settle here.”

“But Lady Murray of Philiphaugh suggested—”

“Bah!” he said. “A parish minister is privy to news not commonly known by his flock.”

Marjory stared at the wool carpet beneath her feet, struggling to recall precisely what her ladyship had said. A handsome estate in Selkirkshire. Nothing more. “The false assumption was mine,” she finally admitted, chastising herself for leaping to conclusions. “Then who is to have Tweedsford?”

“The duke has not apprised me. In the meantime I imagine Mr. Laidlaw will continue to oversee the property.”

Mr. Laidlaw. Marjory feared she might deposit her salmon on the minister’s fine carpet. Was Reverend Brown aware of the man’s vile nature? Perhaps she might test the waters. “I was disappointed not to see my old factor at kirk on the Sabbath,” she said, watching for his reaction.

But the reverend spoke without guile, his expression unchanged. “Roger Laidlaw honors the Sabbath at the kirk in Galashiels now. It seems your factor, like my manservant, grew weary of the bachelor life and is courting a widow from the next parish.”

“Ah.” Marjory was uncertain how to proceed. She’d been wrong about Tweedsford’s owner. What if her cousin had overstated Mr. Laidlaw’s proposition and the sordid tales about him were unfounded? She would not ruin a man’s reputation on hearsay.

But their crumbling pew in the kirk was another matter. “I understand Mr. Laidlaw has not been prompt in paying our rent for the Kerr aisle,” Marjory said, on surer footing this time.

“Aye, well …” Reverend Brown shifted forward in his chair. “We’ve not collected pew rents in several years. The kirk session is considering pulling the old kirk down.”

“Truly?” Marjory was taken aback by the news. “Our sanctuary has stood for two hundred years.”

“Some days I feel I’ve done the same.” The minister rose with considerable effort and started toward the door, candle in hand. “I’ve kept you long enough, Mrs. Kerr.”

Clearly her visit had exhausted him. Marjory trailed after the reverend into the entranceway. “I do hope you find a manservant soon.”

“Aye.” He tarried with her at the door, one hand resting on the latch.

“As it happens,” she said, “our former manservant, Neil Gibson, was to arrive in Selkirk ahead of us. Yet here it is Tuesday, and we’ve not heard from him.” Marjory hesitated but only for an instant. “You’ll remember Gibson, I’m sure, from our years at Tweedsford. Might you help us find him, Reverend?”

He did not respond at first, his jaw working as if she’d given him an especially tough cut of meat. Finally he said, “One of the elders, Joseph Haldane, is bound for Middleton in the morn. Suppose I have him inquire at the inn—”

“Would you?” Marjory sank against the wall in relief. Nearly every traveler on the Edinburgh road stopped at the Middleton Inn. “Surely the proprietor will have news for us.”

The minister made no such promise. “We shall see when Mr. Haldane returns on Thursday.”

Two days. Aye, she could bear two more days.

Reverend Brown regarded her, his wrinkled lips tightly drawn like a calfskin purse. “Change is refreshing,” he said, pulling the door open. “ ’Tis an old Gaelic proverb your daughter-in-law will know. You may need that reminder in the months to come, Mrs. Kerr. I am certain I will.”

She gazed at the aging minister who’d given his best years to their parish. From the pulpit he was intimidating, even frightening. But in person, bathed in the flickering candlelight, his wisdom and mercy shone through.

“God be with you,” she said in parting, then stepped into the crowded street, hearing the door close firmly behind her. Each detail of their conversation replayed in her mind as she hastened downhill, ducking round the horses and carts, the fishwives and pie sellers, the tradesmen and laborers who darted in front of her.

She had to get to Anne’s house. Had to tell Elisabeth. We’re here to stay. We’re home.

When she turned into Halliwell’s Close, Marjory paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, then squinted, uncertain what she was seeing. Was someone at their door? A man of middling size and middling age, no more than a shadow. But as she moved forward, the shadow took shape, and a voice she’d not heard in many seasons spoke her name.

“Leddy Kerr?”

She tried to swallow but could not. “Mr. Laidlaw.”

The factor of Tweedsford stood there empty handed, looking precisely as she’d remembered him. Brown, straight hair tied back with a bit of leather, small eyes set rather too close, and a mouth drawn by a firm hand wielding a sharp pen.

But Anne’s description was the one she could not forget. A lecherous man without scruples. She’d pledged to face Mr. Laidlaw without fear. That hour had come.

He cleared his throat. “I received yer letter—”

“Then where are the items I asked you to bring?” Her words were sharper than she intended, but she could not take them back.

He inclined his head toward the door. “I left them up the stair with the leddies.”

“You entered my cousin’s house?” Marjory could only imagine Anne’s reaction.

“I didna stay but a minute,” he quickly explained. “A stranger answered my knock. Tall, with dark hair. She wouldna let me in.”

Elisabeth. Well done, lass.

Roger Laidlaw remained by the door, blocking her way. “Leddy Kerr—”

“I am Mrs. Kerr now, as you well know.”

He shifted his stance. “Beg pardon, mem.”

Only then did she notice a sad look in his eyes. Still, if the rumors about him were true, he had much to account for. “What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Laidlaw?”

Before he could respond, a trio of maidservants came hurrying up the close and squeezed past, bobbing their white caps in apology. When his gaze followed them down the close, Marjory’s control snapped.

“So,” she hissed, “I see you’ve not changed your ways.” If indeed he’d misused Tibbie Cranshaw, his actions would not go unpunished. Were there not laws against such behavior? “I’ve a mind to report you to Tweedsford’s new owner,” she fumed. “Or ask the Sheriff of Selkirk to charge you in court.”

Mr. Laidlaw quickly backed away from her, averting his gaze. “Mebbe we might speak anither time, mem. Whan ye’re not … whan ’tis …” He turned and fled toward the marketplace, quickly disappearing from sight.