Mine Is the Night A Novel

Eighteen

Children sweeten labors.

SIR FRANCIS BACON



his way, mem.” Peter Dalgliesh pulled her toward the marketplace like a horse-drawn cart, making certain her wheels did not veer left or right. “The chapmen! The chapmen!” the boy cried, stopping at the foot of Kirk Wynd, where the peddlers had their stalls. Standing like tall, vertical tents, the portable stalls were made of wood and canvas, with pegs, hooks, and narrow shelves displaying the varied wares.

Elisabeth consulted Michael’s list while his son carefully examined the wooden figures, leather balls, chapbooks, spinning tops, stone marbles, and other treasures. His father’s tally included nothing of the kind; lamb shanks, dried fish, oatmeal, and cheese were scribbled on the paper but not one child’s plaything.

Reluctantly she bent down and touched Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll buy what we must first,” she told him, “and then see how many pennies are left for a toy.” When he didn’t argue with her, Elisabeth decided he’d heard this before, a comforting thought. “Come, let’s find the meal sellers.”

Selkirk, she’d learned, held its market every Friday. Local folk and strangers alike filled the marketplace, elbowing their way about, calling out greetings, and striking bargains. Elisabeth and Peter maneuvered past the souters—the pride of the town—with their handsome men’s shoes done in polished leather and fine calfskin. Elisabeth dared not linger over their ladies’ shoes, fashioned of worsted damask and brocaded silk in rich shades of blue, green, and brown. Someday she would own a new pair of satin slippers but not when she had one shilling to her name.

Elisabeth held on to Peter as they walked, unwilling to let him dart through the crowd, chasing after the other children. She cherished the feel of his little hand in hers, though she would never say as much and embarrass him. Was this what motherhood might feel like? This enormous sense of responsibility mingled with pride and fear and joy? A chance to see the world afresh through a child’s eyes? She looked down at Peter’s bright curls, then swallowed hard. How different her life would be if she’d given Donald Kerr a son or daughter.

“Here’s the oatmeal!” Peter nudged her toward the tables piled with sacks of milled grain, well in view of the tron, where goods were weighed. “This is Mr. Watson, the miller,” the lad said, then turned to her and blushed. “I dinna ken her name, Mr. Watson, but she’s bonny.”

Elisabeth smiled at them both, not offended that Peter had already forgotten. “I am Mrs. Kerr.”

The stout miller bobbed his head. “I ken wha ye are. Miss Anne’s cousin.”

With others crowding round the tables, there was no time for small talk. Elisabeth attended to her shopping, buying small sacks of flour, oats, and barley. Cheese and butter were next, wrapped in cool, wet muslin.

Most of the sellers were polite, some were even kind, but Elisabeth also heard disparaging words muttered in passing and saw several countenances darken at her approach. Peter, too innocent to notice, proudly pulled her along the thoroughfare.

All through the marketplace one name rose above the din: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. “Sailing the high seas,” a cloth merchant marveled. “Can ye imagine such a life?” A pie seller said with a note of yearning, “Onie man wha’s seen the world carries it in his pocket.”

Women seemed more interested in the look of the man. A dairymaid said coyly, “I hear he’s braw,” then winked at Elisabeth. “And I hear he’s rich,” the lass beside her purred.

Elisabeth squeezed Peter’s hand and thought of his kind father. Michael Dalgliesh would never be rich. But as long as men needed shirts, breeches, and waistcoats, a tailor would also never be poor.

As to Lord Buchanan, Elisabeth suspected that the reports were too good to be true, that something unseen and unseemly lurked beneath the surface. Not all men were like Donald Kerr, she reminded herself. Not all men had secrets. But a never-married gentleman surely was hiding something, and a British admiral was to be avoided at all costs.

By the time Elisabeth and Peter had given their custom to the flesher on the far side of the tolbooth, their shillings were reduced to pennies, and the basket was growing heavy on her arm.

“Noo may I have a toy?” Peter asked, his tone plaintive, his expression more so.

She felt her pocket. Michael’s money was all spent, but she had a few copper ha’pence of her own left. “See if you can find something for a penny or two.”

He slipped from her grasp and dashed straight for the chapmen’s stalls. By the time she caught up with him, Peter was on his knees, breathlessly examining a soft leather pouch containing a dozen marbles made of polished stones.

The black-haired chapman hovering over Peter was beaming. “ ’Tis a fine set,” he told the lad. “If ye have eight pence, ’tis yers.”

Peter slowly put them back.

“What d’ye think o’ these?” The chapman poured out a handful of inferior clay marbles from a rough linen sack. “Only four pence, lad.”

This time Peter looked up at her with a hope-filled expression.

Much as she hated doing so, Elisabeth shook her head. “Not today, I’m afraid. Is there something else you want?”

Peter stood. “Nae, mem,” he said in a small voice.

Aching for him, Elisabeth took his hand and started toward Kirk Wynd. “I am sorry, Peter. Maybe something could be arranged for your birthday.”

He brightened at that. “ ’Tis in February.”

“Such a long time to wait,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “My birthday is in less than a fortnight. Do you suppose we could exchange them?”

Peter was not fond of the idea. “My faither might forget to gie me a praisent.”

Elisabeth was quite certain that would never happen and told Peter so as they turned down School Close.

When they walked into the shop, Michael was waiting on a customer. She quietly moved toward the stair, thinking to carry up their purchases, but Peter was his father’s son and swiftly made his presence known.

“How d’ye do, Mr. Mitchelhill?” the lad exclaimed, then pointed to the man’s hands, stained the same color as his chestnut brown hair. “He’s a tanner.”

With a wry smile, the man splayed his fingers. “I canna deny it.”

Michael motioned Elisabeth closer. “Here’s one o’ the men ye’ve been sewing for, Mrs. Kerr.” He patted the stack of shirts on the counter. “And a bonny seamstress ye are.”

When she stepped into the candlelight, Mr. Mitchellhill did not hide his admiration. “Aye, verra bonny.” He winked, then tossed two guineas on the counter and quit the shop, tipping his hat to her on the way out.

A troubled look crossed Michael’s face. “He didna mean to offend ye.”

“Truly, he didn’t,” she assured Michael, placing the market basket on the counter.

He quickly added, “What I meant was, yer sewing is bonny.”

“I see.” Now she was amused.

“Och!” he stammered, his skin almost matching his bright red hair. “But ye’re bonny too, Mrs. Kerr. As loosome as they come.”

“No need to explain yourself,” she assured him, then lifted out her butter, flour, and barley from the basket. She turned her attention to Peter, smiling down at him. “What a fine morn we had.”

He grinned back. “Aye, we did.”

Elisabeth longed to touch his wee button of a nose or brush aside the loose curls from his small brow. “Shall I see you on the morrow, Peter, when I bring another shirt?”

The boy nodded with his entire body.

Michael laughed. “Weel, young Peter, ye’ve found a guid freen in Mrs. Kerr. Noo up the stair ye go, and take our oatmeal and such with ye.”

Peter did his father’s bidding without complaint, carrying the heavy basket up one stair step at a time. Plunk, step. Plunk, step.

Only when he disappeared from sight could Elisabeth finally tear her gaze away from the child and turn to his father. “He is the dearest of lads.” Her throat tightened round the words. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”

Michael shrugged, his heightened color having eased. “Feel free to borrow Peter whanever it suits ye. ’Tis guid for him to be., weel, to spend time …”

“With a woman,” she finished for him. When Michael nodded, she thought to spare him any further embarrassment and so eased toward the door. “Speaking of women, my mother-in-law will be wondering what’s kept me so long.”

Michael’s exaggerated frown was worthy of the stage. “Must ye leave so soon?”

“I am behind on my sewing,” she reminded him, “and you have work to do.”

“Aye, aye,” he said, sending her on her way.

When she stepped into School Close, Elisabeth decided to plant her ha’pence in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. She hastened across Kirk Wynd and entered the narrow passageway between the manse and Mrs. Thorburn’s house. When she reached the kitchen garden in the rear, Elisabeth chose a small head of cabbage, some ripe lettuce, and a few stems of sage, then laid her coins on the ground. Carefully balancing everything, she gathered up her market fare and started for home, her arms full but her pockets empty.

The joy of her outing with Peter had begun to fade into a sobering reality. She could not hope to provide sufficient food for their household on a few shillings a week. Nor could she add to her earnings by laboring with Michael in his shop, much as he needed her help. A widower and a young widow alone for hours at a time? The gossips would never cease their blethering.

Earlier that morning Michael Dalgliesh had hinted at finding a partner. Elisabeth glanced at the heavens. Does he mean a tailor, Lord? Or does he mean a wife?

She tripped over a large stone propped against the outer wall of the house, losing her footing for a moment. Righting herself, she wriggled her toe to be sure it wasn’t broken, then shook her head. Mind your step, Bess. However trustworthy the tailor might seem, and however dear his son, she could not—nae, would not—risk her heart again. Especially if she might break Anne’s heart in the bargain.





Nineteen

Poverty is the test of civility

and the touchstone of friendship.

WILLIAM HAZLITT



e’ve rain on the way.” Marjory glanced at the windows, noting the thick clouds looming over the empty marketplace on a cool Saturday morning. “The sooner you’re out the door, Gibson, the better.”

“Aye, mem.”

He stood patiently while she brushed the lint from his clothes, borrowed from their neighbor, Mr. Tait. Though the sleeves were too short and the breeches too snug, Gibson certainly looked more presentable than when he’d arrived on Thursday.

Two nights’ sleep had brightened his eyes, and meat and ale had softened the sharp contours of his face. A fresh shave with a razor provided by their landlord and neighbor, Walter Halliwell, had also done wonders. “Should ye be wanting a periwig, ye ken whaur to find me,” the wigmaker had said affably. Gibson had never worn a wig in his life, but Marjory had thanked Mr. Halliwell nonetheless.

At his own insistence Gibson had slept each night rolled up in a plaid, his body pressed against the bottom seam of the door. “To keep ye safe,” he’d said. Gibson was still worried about the British dragoons, especially after Marjory had described their unfortunate encounter on the road to Selkirk. “Bess and I put them in their place,” she’d assured him, trying not to sound too prideful.

Smoothing the brush along his sleeve, Marjory reminded him, “I sent a note ahead to Reverend Brown, who’ll be expecting you at noon. Apprise him of your loyalty to the Kerr family—”

“Aye, mem. I ken what must be said.” Gibson’s voice was gentle but firm. “Whan Reverend Brown came to the pulpit in ’twenty-six, I’d already been a member o’ the kirk for forty years. I’ve nae fear o’ the man, Leddy Kerr.”

His confidence pleased her. “I’m beginning to think you’re not afraid of anything.”

“ ’Tis not true.” He looked at her askance. “I’ve a healthy fear o’ ye.”

Marjory shook her head, certain he did not mean it. “You have my written character, should the reverend need it. Though I fear my name no longer carries much weight.”

Anne, bent over her lace work, lifted her head. “Kerr will always command respect in the Borderland.”

“She’s richt,” Gibson agreed. “Ye can a’ be proud o’ bearing that name.”

Sewing in hand, Elisabeth eyed him. “How handsome you look, Gibson.”

He scuffed his foot against the floor, a school lad again. “Weel, as my mither aye said, ‘At least ye’re clean.’ ”

Elisabeth nodded absently, then returned to her work. After sewing all Friday afternoon and eve, she’d picked up her needle again at dawn, barely stopping for tea and a bannock. Marjory appreciated her diligence, though she hated to see her daughter-in-law working so hard.

“I’m aff,” Gibson announced, his posture as straight as a man of thirty years, his head held high.

Marjory opened the door for him—a fitting irony, she thought—and sent him on his way with spoken good wishes and a silent prayer. With favour wilt thou compass him. If the minister employed him, the Kerr women might still enjoy his company on occasion. But if Gibson ended up in service at one of the country estates, they would meet only on the Sabbath, if then. Marjory was surprised to find the notion did not sit well with her. Not at all, in fact.

As his footsteps faded down the stair, she turned to her dinner preparations: fresh brown trout, cooked in butter with sweet herbs. “We’re back to broth on the morrow,” she warned the other women, “for we cannot make a habit of dining so richly.”

“Aye, Mother,” Anne chided her.

Elisabeth did not say a word.

Watching her daughter-in-law’s needle move in and out of the fabric in a steady rhythm, Marjory vowed never to take Elisabeth’s hard-earned shillings for granted. Work easily found could just as easily be lost. Anything might happen. Had they not learned that lesson well in Edinburgh?

She quickly chopped an onion and some herbs, then smeared the pan with butter, leaving the fish off the fire until Gibson returned. Flour from the market meant a rare treat—wheaten bread—which was already rising beside the hearth, made according to Elisabeth’s instructions.

Marjory scrubbed her hands at the washbowl, then went looking for Gibson’s livery, rolled and stored in his leather traveling bag. He would need his servant garb again soon; she was sure of it.

“Annie,” she asked, holding up his badly wrinkled black coat. “Might I use your iron?”

Her cousin’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll not mind if I invite the neighbors? For I believe they’d each pay a ha’penny to see Lady Kerr press a servant’s coat.”

“We could certainly use the money,” Marjory said dryly.

“Let me attend to this, Cousin.” Anne placed several linen cloths across the dining table, then claimed the flatiron from the trivet by the coal fire. “He must have cleaned his garments before he left,” she said, flicking a few drops of water on the broadcloth, then pressing firmly. “Not a spot on them.”

“That’s Gibson for you,” Marjory said fondly. “Always presentable.” She shook out his waistcoat, both embarrassed and intrigued to be handling his personal attire, which bore his unique scent; like pepper, she decided, warm and pungent. She’d purchased this livery more than a twelvemonth ago, the usual arrangement with a maid or manservant. Wages were paid at Martinmas and Whitsun, and a new gown or suit of clothing was provided each year.

Anne held up the ironed coat with a satisfied look, then draped it round the wooden chair while the fabric cooled and took the waistcoat from Marjory’s hands. “What have we here?” She pinched a round lump between the wool broadcloth and the muslin lining, then smiled. “Shillings, I’ll warrant. Sewn in place for safekeeping. Clever man, spreading them out so they wouldn’t jingle.” Anne ironed round the coins, then pressed his shirt and breeches as well while Marjory did her small part, sprinkling water ahead of the hot iron.

Anne was hanging his finished shirt over a chair when Gibson bounded through the doorway, his face brighter than any candle. “Leddies, ye have afore ye Reverend Brown’s new manservant.”

“Oh!” Marjory clapped her hands together. “You’ll be close to us, then.”

“Aye,” he agreed, smiling at her, “verra close.”

Anne seemed less elated. “The reverend is not known for his generosity,” she grumbled. “You might have worked for Lord Jack Buchanan. Once he is in residence, the admiral could surely use a man of your skills, and the wages he’ll offer might be more to your liking.”

Gibson shook his head. “Reverend Brown suits me verra weel.” He started to say something else, then stopped, and glanced toward the hearth. “ ’Tis some fine trout ye have in yer pan, Leddy Kerr.”

Within the half hour the four of them were gathered round the table, dining on herb-seasoned fish and freshly baked bread. Marjory was secretly amazed at the easy camaraderie among them, despite their marked differences. A Highland weaver’s daughter, a stayed lass with no prospects, a veteran manservant, and a widow of gentle birth. In no other household would such people sit at the same table and share the same food as if they were truly equal.

But were they not? She’d read the Scripture the whole of her life: There is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. Only now, seeing that truth lived out, did she understand. If such equality made her slightly uncomfortable, so be it. At the moment she was glad to have food on her plate and friends by her side.

“When will your service for Reverend Brown begin?” Elisabeth asked him.

“This verra day. Aye, this verra hour.” Gibson stood and reached for his clothes on the chair. “I see that a kind soul has pressed my livery.”

“Annie did,” Marjory was quick to say, “for I’ve no talent with an iron.”

“Ye’re a woman o’ monie talents, Leddy Kerr.” He gazed down at her. “Ye made me walcome and fed me guid meals. Ye brushed my clothes and wrote a fine character. What leddy would have done ha’ so much for her ain lord, let alone a manservant?”

Taken aback by his praise, Marjory murmured, “ ’Twas nothing, Gibson.”

His expression said otherwise. “Leddies, if ye’ll not mind, ’tis time I dressed for wark.” Seeking privacy, he took his livery round the partition, while the women remained at table, speaking of the weather and the Sabbath to come.

Elisabeth sewed as they chatted, soon finishing another shirt. She held it up, examining it with a practiced eye. “ ’Twill do,” she finally decided, carefully folding the cambric. “Since the rain has eased, I’ll take this straight to Mr. Dalgliesh.”

“How is Michael these days?” Anne asked. Her tone was nonchalant yet her eyes attentive.

Elisabeth did not look at her, merely answered, “The same as ever, I imagine.”

Marjory eyed them both, trying to sort out what was being said. And not said.

Her daughter-in-law was already donning her cape. “I’ll not be long,” Elisabeth promised and was gone.

Gibson appeared a moment later, looking dapper in his livery, borrowed clothes in hand. “I’ll return these to Mr. Tait on my way.”

Anne reached for their second loaf of bread, untouched, and dusted off the flour. “Give him this with our thanks,” she told Gibson.

“Weel done, mem,” he said, bobbing his head.

Marjory’s mind was still fixed on Elisabeth. Naturally, her daughter-in-law was still mourning Donald; she was hardly alone in that. But something else seemed to occupy her thoughts of late.

“Our Bess will celebrate her birthday in less than a fortnight,” Marjory informed the others, her thoughts turning at a brisk pace. “She will be five-and-twenty. A quarter of a century, if you will.”

“So young,” Gibson murmured.

“Aye, but not to her,” Anne said. “I well remember that birthday, and ’twas not pleasant.”

“Suppose we make it a fine day for Bess,” Marjory suggested, hoping to cheer her daughter-in-law. “Unfortunately, I’ve no money of my own and nothing left to sell. If we mean to buy her a present, we’ll have to spend her own shillings, which is hardly fair.”

“Wait.” Anne dove behind the curtains of her bed, then reappeared with a small wooden box. “My jewelry, such as it is.” She lifted the lid, revealing her small collection. A single strand of pearls, badly stained. A ribbon choker. A bracelet meant for a child. A small ivory brooch. A pair of earrings made of amber. But what she lifted out was a dainty silver comb that needed only polishing to be as good as new.

“It belonged to my mother.” Anne held it in her palm, a wistful expression on her face. “My hair is so pale the comb disappears when I wear it. But in Bess’s dark hair …”

“It would be lovely,” Marjory agreed. “Still, Annie, a great sacrifice.”

Anne pointed to the half-dozen books on her shelf. “Those were my mother’s too and are far more dear to me.”

Gibson lifted the comb from Anne’s open palm. “I ken a silversmith wha can make it shine.” He slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket. “If ’twould not be too bold, I’d like to make the young Leddy Kerr a praisent. I’ve an auld freen in Selkirk, a carpenter wha has a few scraps o’ wood he might part with.”

Marjory knew at once what would delight Elisabeth most. “Could you fashion a tambour frame for her embroidery? The dragoons broke her mahogany tambour into pieces and tossed it into the fire.”

“Weel I remember,” Gibson said darkly. “But, aye, ’tis a guid plan.”

At a loss for what she might contribute, Marjory scanned the room, hoping for inspiration. Her gaze landed on the hearth and the remnants of their dinner. “I suppose I could cook something for her, though it is hardly a gift—”

“On the contrary,” Anne said, her eyes alight. “ ’Twill be the perfect gift, if you’ll not mind cooking for … say, three dozen friends and neighbors.”

“Three dozen? However could we afford the food?” Marjory asked.

Gibson smiled and produced four shillings. “ ’Tis the balance o’ my wages for this term. Ye paid me yerself, Leddy Kerr, on the eleventh o’ November.”

Marjory stared at the coins, barely recalling their last Martinmas in Edinburgh. “But that’s your silver. Newly snipped from the lining of your waistcoat, I’ll wager.”

“I’ve nae need o’ them.” He pressed the shillings into her hand. “Reverend Brown will see to my meat and drink.”

Marjory blinked back tears as Gibson folded her fingers round the silver, then wrapped his hands round hers. Though his fingers were callused, they were warm. So very warm.

He winked at her. “Noo ye can have a foy worthy o’ the lass wha brought ye hame.”