Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fourteen

What is so sweet and dear

As a prosperous morn in May?

SIR WILLIAM WATSON



hen the first rays of the sun stirred Marjory from her sleep on Thursday, the bedframe groaned at the precise same moment she did. Chagrined, she sat up and rubbed her stiff neck, then her aching knees, then her sore back. Surely there was some remedy for growing older. A sprinkle of morning dew on May Day was said to bring health and happiness for the year ahead. If the dew might also make her more youthful, she would bathe in it from head to toe. Aye, and drink it as well.

On a whim Marjory tiptoed to the casement window and eased it open, enough to slip out her hand and touch the wet sill. She patted her forehead and cheeks with her fingertips, then swiftly closed the window, lest the cool air wake the others. Besides, however would she explain herself? A Christian widow dousing her skin in the Beltane dew like pagans of old. Reverend Brown would have something to say about that. With a rueful smile, Marjory dried her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, reminding herself that come August she’d turn nine-and-forty. Not even the rite of May could make her young again.

Fresh coals on the grate brought a small pot of water to boil. Just as Helen Edgar had done many mornings, Marjory added oatmeal in a thin stream with her left hand while stirring sunwise with her right, using a wooden stick Helen called a spurtle. After a bit Marjory swung the pot away from the heat to let the porridge simmer, then quietly dressed herself.

With May Day in mind, she took extra care with her toilette, styling her hair and using a splash of Anne’s rosewater. The others were soon awake and dressed, each seeing to her own tasks. When they finished breakfast Marjory retrieved the sack of items Mr. Laidlaw had brought from Tweedsford and brought it to table. “Small things,” she confessed, “but precious to me, if you’d like to see them.”

After setting aside the letters from her late brother, Marjory drew out the little chapbook. Three inches tall and two dozen pages long, the book was as diminutive as its mischievous hero, Tom. She remembered how alarmed Donald had become when the thumb-sized lad fell into a bowl and was accidentally cooked in a pudding. “I bought it for a penny from a chapman who came through Selkirkshire the summer Donald turned three.” Marjory held it out for Elisabeth to peruse.

“Tom Thumb, is it?” Her daughter-in-law’s smile was bittersweet. “ ’Twas the favorite story of my brother, Simon.”

“And your husband’s favorite as well.” Watching Elisabeth’s eyes grow moist as she turned the pages, Marjory thought of young Simon Ferguson dying in service to Prince Charlie at Gladsmuir and the mournful weeks that followed. “Why don’t you keep it, Bess?”

She clasped it in her hands. “Truly?”

“Aye,” Marjory said, “though I cannot part with this.” She showed them Andrew’s wooden toy soldier, the paint worn off from years of little hands marching the toy round the nursery. “A wee birthday present for Andrew, carved by Gibson.”

Saying their names in tandem brought a lump to Marjory’s throat. The darling son who’d always longed to be a soldier now lay in a Falkirk grave. And Gibson had been traveling on foot for ten days, with one shilling in his pocket and a rough leather bag strapped to his back. Though Marjory did not always voice her concerns, she thought of Gibson almost constantly, fearing for his life one moment, counting on his strength the next. Mr. Haldane was expected back from Middleton Inn today. She would visit the manse as early as she dared and beg the reverend for news.

Marjory slipped the toy soldier in her pocket, reminding herself Gibson was not alone. The LORD will preserve him, and keep him alive.

Still holding Donald’s chapbook, Elisabeth prompted her, “What else did Mr. Laidlaw bring you?”

Marjory lifted out her miniature of Tweedsford, embarrassed to let them see it. “I was a new bride with an indulgent husband,” she said with a shrug. “He ordered sticks of plumbago and sheets of fine vellum from a stationer in Edinburgh, and I pretended to be an artist.”

Anne examined the framed drawing, no larger than a man’s palm. “ ’Tis the very likeness of your old home, with four bays across the front.”

Marjory was not convinced. “Someday when I feel especially brave, we’ll all walk to the estate, and you’ll realize what a poor imitation this is.”

“I would love to see Tweedsford,” Elisabeth admitted.

Marjory was already sorry she’d mentioned the idea. Who knew when she’d be strong enough to face all those memories? It might be months. It might be never.

Thrusting her hand into the cloth sack, she found the last item. “This belonged to Lord John.” Marjory held out his splendid magnifying glass, the ivory handle intricately carved, the circular glass edged in silver. She could still picture him with a delicate wildflower in one hand, his glass in the other, marveling at the tiny petals and leaves. Her husband had loved their country property and all the treasures it contained. Alas, she’d insisted Lord John move their family to fashionable Edinburgh, turning her back on everyone and everything they knew.

Some regrets even time could not erase.

Anne patently admired the magnifying glass, then reached for a sample of her lace. “Look, Cousin.” She held her work beneath the round lens. “Now you can see it properly. I confess the stitches are so tiny my head begins to ache after a few hours.”

Marjory studied Anne’s delicate needlepoint lace with its thousands of buttonhole stitches and knew at once what must be done. “Would my husband’s magnifying glass be of some use to you?”

With a slight gasp Anne lifted it from her hands. “You cannot imagine how much.”

“Then it is yours,” Marjory said without hesitation. “To keep.”

“But …” Anne’s face was scarlet. “I meant only to borrow it.”

Marjory leaned forward and cupped Anne’s cheeks, feeling their warmth against her cool palms. “Lord John would want you to have it. And I want you to have it.” Marjory looked deep into her cousin’s eyes. “One magnifying glass could never repay your kindness to us. Or begin to make amends for the years I neglected you. Please, dear Annie, … may I give you this?”

Anne’s mouth began to tremble. “Oh, Cousin.” She lowered her gaze. “I fear I misjudged you terribly.”

“Nae, you did not. You thought me haughty and prideful and selfish.” Marjory wished it were not so, but it was. “I have been all those things and more, especially toward you.”

“Years ago, perhaps. Not now.” Anne clutched the glass in her hand. “You are a changed woman, Marjory.”

She eased back. “With more changes needed, I’m afraid.”

“True for us all.” Anne traced the carved handle with her fingertip. “Thank you, Marjory.” She sighed, then lifted her head. “I shall be at my lace work until the gloaming. Miss Boyd and Miss Caldwell shan’t be coming since ’tis May Day.”

Elisabeth was already gathering her sewing items. “Perhaps I might complete two shirts with the house quiet.”

Marjory had other plans. Buoyed by the sounds from the marketplace below, she announced, “After I call upon Reverend Brown, I am determined to walk the length of Water Row, greeting everyone who meets my gaze and does not turn away.”

Elisabeth and Anne both turned to her, clearly taken by surprise.

“Marjory, are you certain?” Elisabeth glanced at her pile of unfinished shirts, then looked up, her expression resolute. “I could join you—”

“Nae, Bess,” Marjory said gently. “If I’m to find my place in Selkirk, I must first know who is willing to befriend me.” She did not tarry, lest she lose her nerve. What can man do unto me? Aye, she would cling to those words and keep walking.


Just as she’d imagined, Halliwell’s Close was crowded with folk bringing in the May. Freshly cut hawthorn branches, fragrant with tiny white flowers, were fastened to every doorpost, and the air was filled with merriment. In the marketplace shepherds from the hills mingled with the lasses of the town, circling the mercat cross in an ancient dance while a fiddler spun a lively reel. At least she’d chosen a day when her neighbors might be more charitable.

First, she would learn what she could of Gibson. Anne’s words from days past haunted her. You must prepare yourself for the worst. But Marjory was not prepared. Nae, she would not even consider it.

She crossed Kirk Wynd and headed for the manse, praying in earnest. May there be some report of him, Lord, and may it be favorable. When Reverend Brown yanked open the door before she knocked, her hopes rose. “You’ve news for me?” Marjory asked, thinking he’d watched her approach from the window.

“As it happens, I am bound for the school to meet with the dominie, Daniel Cumming.”

“I see.” Marjory knew the schoolmaster only by name. “My daughter-in-law sews his shirts,” she said without thinking.

The minister’s countenance darkened. “I beg your pardon?”

“That is, she is … helping Mr. Dalgliesh, the tailor …” Marjory stopped before she made a greater fool of herself or, worse, injured Elisabeth’s reputation.

To her surprise the minister’s expression lightened considerably. “As it happens, the Widow Kerr will also be sewing my shirts. And very skillfully, I’m told. But you’ve not come to speak of clothing.” He crossed the threshold and joined her in the street. “I met with Joseph Haldane this morn.”

Marjory almost stood on tiptoe, her heart prepared to soar. “And?”

The reverend shook his head. “No word of Gibson.”

Her spirits sank as quickly as they’d risen. “What am I to do?”

His silence offered little comfort. “None of the coachmen have seen him,” he finally said, “and they’ve traveled the Edinburgh road many times since your arrival. Nor did the proprietor of the Middleton Inn have any inkling of your manservant’s whereabouts. I am sorry, Mrs. Kerr, but …”

Nae! She closed her eyes, wishing she might shut out the truth. “He cannot be dead,” she whispered. “He cannot be.”