Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-One

My birthday!—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears.

THOMAS MOORE



verwhelmed, Elisabeth picked her way up the steps, aiming for Marjory. “You … remembered.”

Marjory reached for her hands, then pulled her into a tight embrace. “After all you’ve done for us, dear Bess, how could we forget?” She released her with a tender squeeze, then guided her into the house while Peter darted round them, no doubt looking for his father.

The house was even more crowded than the stair. A cup of punch was pressed into her hands, then Elisabeth was led to the dining table, laden with savory pigeon pies, oat puddings, apple tarts, and plum cakes. “Marjory, how did you manage this?”

Her mother-in-law swept her hand above the serving plates with a flourish. “Annie helped, of course. Whenever you quit the house for an hour or two, we baked something at Mrs. Tait’s hearth and stored it in her larder.”

“So I see.” Elisabeth shook her head, both delighted and dismayed. “But the cost—”

“Wheesht!” Anne scolded her, touching her index finger to her lips. “You have Gibson to thank for that.”

Only then did Elisabeth see their old friend standing by the hearth. When she signaled him, Gibson bowed his way past the throng and joined her beside the table. “How may I serve ye, Leddy Kerr?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.

“It seems you’ve already served me.” Elisabeth kissed his cheek, making him blush. “Thank you, Gibson.”

His shrug was gallant. “A leddy celebrates her first quarter century but once.”

By the snippets of conversation she heard, her age was barely a topic of discussion. Instead, fresh rumors concerning the admiral were on the tips of their tongues. What day would he reach Selkirk? By carriage or astride? With an entourage or alone? Wearing an admiral’s uniform or a riding habit?

Elisabeth found their wild speculations amusing. “Our neighbors have come not to toast my birthday but to deal in gossip,” she said, shaking her head before drawing her loved ones closer. “As for you three, I know better. You have done this to bless me, and indeed you have.”

Gibson raised his eyebrows. “ ’Tis not ower yet.”

“Aye,” Anne agreed, her pale face glowing, “there are presents to be opened.”

“We shall save those for later,” Marjory insisted, “when our neighbors have gone home to their suppers. Come, Bess, and welcome your guests.”

Elisabeth wove through the crowd of well-wishers, greeting each one. Though she could not recite all their names by heart, she knew their faces and was beginning to put husband with wife, mother with child, sweetheart with sweetheart.

At last she spied Michael Dalgliesh standing by the window, holding court. Several young women were circled round him, laughing as he told one of his colorful tales. “Glad tidings to ye, Mrs. Kerr,” he said when he caught sight of her, then lifted his cup. His expression was positively smug.

By the time Elisabeth reached him, she had Michael all to herself, the others having momentarily deserted him for the punch bowl.

“I suppose your task was to keep me away from the house,” she began, trying unsuccessfully to sound miffed. “What of that gentleman’s coat you needed to finish?”

He laughed. “ ’Tis done. Tell me, did ye have a bonny afternoon with my lad?”

“I certainly did.” Elisabeth looked across the room at Peter, who’d apparently visited the plates of sweets more than once and was now covered in sugary crumbs.

“Faither!” Peter cried, dragging Anne in their direction. “Here’s a sweetie for ye.”

Michael looked up just as a blushing Anne thrust a small tart into his hands. “Verra kind o’ ye, Miss Kerr,” he said, then popped the apple tart into his mouth without ceremony.

Anne seemed intent on studying her shoes. “It was Peter’s idea,” she murmured.

“I’ve nae doubt.” Michael tugged on his son’s ear. “Can ye find me anither, lad?”

The moment Peter took off, Michael apologized to Anne in a low voice. “Dinna fash yerself, lass. We’ve been freens a’ oor lives, have we not? If ye bring me a sweetie, none will think ill o’ ye.”

When Anne slowly raised her head, Elisabeth saw something travel between them as quick as a flash of lightning in the summer sky. We attended school together. It seemed a great deal more had been left unsaid.

Elisabeth stepped back, feeling like an intruder.

When Peter dashed past her, tart in hand, she sought an empty chair, needing a moment to recover. The heat of the room, she told herself. The press of bodies. The noisy chatter.

Gibson appeared a moment later, bearing a steaming cup of tea. “Drink up, Leddy Kerr, for ye have a dwiny leuk about ye.”

Elisabeth murmured her thanks, then quickly lifted the wooden cup to her lips, consoling herself with the knowledge that she’d not lost her heart. To Peter, perhaps, but not to Michael.

She managed to compose her features by the time Gibson brought Marjory and Anne to her side. “Oor birthday leddy has had enough merriment,” Gibson told them. “ ’Tis time for folk to find their way hame.”

All three women sat round the table and watched Gibson herd their neighbors out the door with efficiency and decorum. “Here’s a wee pie to take with ye,” he said to one man, nudging him forward, and, “Mind the stair as ye go,” he cautioned another.

An hour later candles were lit to dispel the evening gloom, and the house was quiet again, with only the Kerr women and Gibson remaining. Michael had been the last to leave, tarrying at the door, sending folk off with a jovial word or a hearty slap on the shoulder, while Peter drooped about his father’s knees, ready for his supper and a warm bed. Finally Michael carried him off, bidding the Kerrs a good night.

Elisabeth did not follow them with her gaze nor let her thoughts dwell on wee Peter. The lad needed a mother, aye, yet it seemed the Lord had another woman in mind. If ’twas Anne, was that not the best of outcomes?

“Time for yer praisents,” Gibson said, grinning as he rubbed his hands together.

Determined to enjoy the balance of her birthday celebration, Elisabeth sat in the upholstered chair where she slept each night, accustomed to its contours and the feel of the fabric against her cheek. Whenever Marjory or Anne suggested they find some other solution—a mattress made of blankets or a cot borrowed from a neighbor—Elisabeth had assured them she slept soundly.

She looked at her small circle of loved ones and confessed, “I’ll not be happy if you’ve spent any of your precious pennies on me.”

“Have no fear on that account.” Anne held out two ladylike fists. “Choose wisely, for only one holds a present.”

Elisabeth eyed one, then the other, looking for a clue. “What happens if I choose poorly?”

“Then I get to keep my gift,” Anne said, sounding as if she meant it.

“Your hospitality is gift enough,” Elisabeth protested, then was astounded when Anne opened her hand. “Cousin! You cannot give me such a treasure.”

“ ’Tis done.” Anne held out the silver comb, gleaming in the candlelight, then tucked it into Elisabeth’s crown of hair with a satisfied nod. “Just as I’d pictured it.”

Elisabeth touched the comb in awe. “Oh, Annie. To think you would part with such an heirloom.” When their gazes met, Elisabeth prayed her cousin might see what could not be said. Have no fear of me, dear Annie. You are the wife Michael wants and the mother Peter needs.

Then she noticed Gibson carrying something across the room, hidden beneath their cousin’s woolen shawl.

“This praisent is from me,” Gibson said proudly.

“Is it a table?” Elisabeth wondered aloud. He’d not concealed the wooden legs or the crosspiece between them, but she still wasn’t certain what it might be. When he lifted the shawl, she gasped with joy. “A tambour! Gibson, wherever did you find it?”

Enthralled, she ran her hands round the double hoop that held the fabric in place and admired the plain but serviceable legs that positioned the hoop at the perfect height. The tambour Donald had purchased for her soon after they married was fashioned of mahogany, richly polished, and ornately carved. This one was made of sturdy oak along simpler lines but a fine tambour nonetheless. She inched it closer, resting her feet on the crosspiece, already imagining what she might embroider first. “Did you find it at Friday’s market?”

Gibson confessed, “I made it myself, mem. With scraps from the carpenter.”

Trapped in her chair by the tambour frame, Elisabeth could not leap to her feet and embrace Gibson, but she could pull him down for a peck on the cheek. “Whatever did I do to merit such blessings?”

“Birthdays are like the good Lord’s mercy,” Marjory told her. “Undeserved yet always celebrated.” She reached for her apron, her gaze narrowing as she regarded their house, now in shambles. “We’ve work to do before supper and bed. And Gibson has brought news from the manse.”

He bowed. “The honor is yers, Leddy Kerr.”

Marjory struck an aristocratic pose. “Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan is already in Selkirk.”

“Ah!” Anne sat up straighter. “I knew it.”

“He arrived this morn,” Marjory told them, “and has taken up residence at Bell Hill with a handful of servants who traveled with him from London.”

“He’s at Bell Hill?” Elisabeth’s eyes widened. “Then … I saw him.”