Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-Two

If it were not for a goodly supply of rumors,

half true and half false, what would the gossips do?

THOMAS CHANDLER HALIBURTON



very eye in the sanctuary was trained on the open door, and every parishioner uttered yet another conjecture. Marjory tried not to turn round in the pew, tried not to listen to their whispering, but it was hard since the admiral had been in Selkirkshire for several days and had yet to make an appearance. Surely Lord Buchanan would ride down from Bell Hill and show himself on the Sabbath.

Katherine Shaw and her four pretty daughters were seated behind the Kerrs, spinning yarns as though they were seated at a treadle wheel. “He’s niver taken a wife,” Mrs. Shaw was telling her girls, all of a marriageable age.

“Nae wonder,” her oldest said softly. “He doesna set foot on land for years at a time. What sort o’ husband would a gentleman like that make?”

“A rich one!” the youngest squealed.

“I do hope he’ll tarry in Selkirk,” one of the middle daughters said with a sigh.

“He’s forty years auld,” Mrs. Shaw reminded them. “Nae man would buy so fine a hoose and not live there. Mark my wirds, he means to settle doon and start a family.” At which the young women all giggled, drawing stares from those round them.

Marjory held her tongue, but she could not still her thoughts. The admiral would hardly marry one of the Shaw girls, however charming their smiles or beguiling their figures. Not when he might choose a lady of high standing from anywhere in the world. Had Lord Buchanan not circled the globe aboard the Centurion? Such a man would want a woman with a title of her own and a dowry to match. If and when this wealthy admiral took a wife, he’d not look for her in the wynds and closes of Selkirk.

“Why is Mr. Armstrong not attending to the gathering psalm?” Anne murmured. At the moment the precentor stood near the pulpit counting heads, a satisfied expression on his wizened face. A kirk filled to the rafters boded well for the collection plate.

When Reverend Brown came down the center aisle, all whispering ceased as folk prepared for the start of the service. Gibson trailed a few steps behind his master, pausing at the Kerr pew long enough to exchange a brief nod with Marjory before claiming his seat in the front, where he might serve the reverend at a moment’s notice.

Noting his squared shoulders and lifted chin, Marjory could not keep from smiling. Never mind the good admiral; here was a man who should have married. More than once Marjory had wondered if Gibson and Helen Edgar might have made each other happy. But though their exchanges were friendly while in her employ in Edinburgh, no true spark had struck between them.

Mr. Armstrong stepped before the Psalter, eying the congregation over his spectacles. When the precentor began to sing the metrical psalm chosen for this morning, Marjory’s smile broadened. Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan was not only anticipated; he was expected.

The earth belongs unto the Lord,

and all that it contains;

The world that is inhabited,

and all that there remains.

Who else, other than the Almighty himself, would the precentor have in mind, singing of all the world and all the earth? Marjory considered the psalm a fitting welcome for Selkirk’s newest resident. The parishioners must have thought so too, for they sang the next stanza with unaccustomed zeal.

For the foundations thereof

he on the seas did lay,

And he hath it established

upon the floods to stay.

Marjory almost laughed aloud. The seas and the floods? Why, the admiral might wash through the door any moment! For the next few weeks, she imagined he would sit in the front pew near the pulpit until a proper loft could be built for him. Perhaps in the upper right corner, above the Kerr pew. She would not object to worshiping beneath his shadow.

Eight stanzas later they still had no sign of the man, but Marjory would not give up hope so easily. She continued to sing, stealing glances up and down the pews to see if anyone had spotted an unfamiliar face. Though most parish churches closed their doors once services began, the dim sanctuary in Selkirk, with its narrow, crumbling window openings, needed every bit of light the sky had to offer. Indeed, the admiral could slip through the gaping entrance without a sound.

Ye gates, lift up your heads, ye doors,

Doors that do last for aye,

Be lifted up, that so the King

Of glory enter may.

A final stanza and their singing ended, the last notes hanging in the air like dust motes.

When Reverend Brown ascended the pulpit, his gaze scanned the crowded sanctuary—looking for Lord Buchanan, Marjory was certain of it—before the minister began his sermon drawn from Isaiah. “Thus saith the LORD, thy redeemer,” he charged them, “I am the LORD that maketh all things.” She nodded in approval. If the admiral was a godly man, he would find much to his liking in the parish kirk this day.

Marjory settled against her seat, grateful the floor had been swept and the pew scrubbed. God bless you, Gibson. Other pews had been tidied as well, whether by Gibson’s own hand or because of his good example. But the sagging walls needed more than a good cleaning. Perhaps the admiral might contribute some of his vast fortune toward the sanctuary’s upkeep.

Unless he hoards his gold, as you once did.

Marjory bowed her head, knowing it was true. She’d been blessed with wealth in Edinburgh yet had spared little for their parish kirk beyond the rent for her pew. And here was Elisabeth, who earned only a few shillings a week, quietly slipping one of her silver coins in the collection plate each Sabbath, far more than Reverend Brown would ask of his flock.

The sermon ended as the kirk bell tolled the noon hour. After the closing psalm and the benediction, Marjory stood, a bit stiff from sitting, then turned to survey the congregation.

“I’ve never seen the kirk so full,” Anne confided to her.

Marjory nodded, narrowing her eyes to improve her vision. “Who is that dark-haired man in the back? The one already bound for the door?”

“ ’Tis the admiral,” Elisabeth said softly. “At least I think so. On my birthday I caught a glimpse of him on horseback.”

Marjory did not doubt the man’s identity. Heads were turning, and latecomers seated near the entrance were hurrying out of doors. The Kerrs followed them, moving down the aisle with purpose rather than standing about as they had on Sundays past.

Whispered questions quickly escalated into shouts.

“Did ye see the man?”

“Are ye sure ’twas him?”

“Och! Whatsomever did he leuk like?”

By the time Marjory and the others reached the kirkyard, there was no sign of the stranger who’d slipped from their midst. Folk tarried round the gravestones, waiting for more news now that idle rumors had become fact.

“The admiral rode aff on a bonny gray horse,” James Mitchelhill was telling them, pointing east.

“How d’ye ken ’twas him?” Robert Watson demanded to know.

The tanner grinned. “I called oot to him, ‘Guid day to ye, Lord Buchanan,’ and he lifted his hand.”

On the heels of Mr. Mitchelhill’s report, another chorus of voices filled the air.

“Then it was his lordship!”

“Mounted on a gray horse, ye say?”

“I wonder how monie ithers he has in his stables.”

Marjory exchanged glances with Elisabeth and Anne, wishing she might read their thoughts. Anne had no reason to fear their new neighbor, but her Jacobite daughter-in-law certainly did. Marjory took them both by the arm, meaning to steer them down the pend toward home, when Elspeth Cranston asked the question foremost in Marjory’s mind.

“When will we have the pleasure of meeting his lordship?”

Reverend Brown spoke up from the threshold. “I can answer that.”

At once the gathering of parishioners turned toward the doorway, seeking a trustworthy voice amid the uncertain clamor.

“I spoke with the admiral earlier this week,” the minister informed them. “Lord Buchanan will be meeting many of you soon enough.” He paused, either for effect or to be sure they were listening. “The admiral plans to engage the balance of his household staff a week from the morrow on Whitsun Monday. Nearly two dozen experienced hands will be required.”

There was no controlling the crowd now. Cries of glee rang out across the grassy hillside, and maidservants hugged one another.

Marjory well remembered Whitsun Monday at Tweedsford. Servants, gardeners, shepherds, and field workers were hired to labor through the summer and harvest seasons, with their wages to be paid at Martinmas. For those in need of employment, a wealthy newcomer with a large property was cause for celebration.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Tibbie Cranshaw starting toward her. She turned to greet her old maidservant, hoping to make amends. All she had to offer the woman was a heartfelt apology, but she would do so gladly if Tibbie would receive it.

When she drew near, Marjory met her with a smile. “A blessed Sabbath to you.”

“Weel, aren’t ye the gracie one?” Tibbie said, her words laced with sarcasm.

Chagrined, Marjory stepped away from the others so the two might speak privately. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Tibbie—”

“Nae!” The woman’s green eyes flared. “Ye owe me a great deal mair than that. Ye owe me a guid position.” Tibbie nodded toward Bell Hill in the distance. “I’ve a mind to seek wark there on Monday next. Gie me a written character, and I’ll not tell his lordship what sort o’ person ye are.”

Marjory looked at her, appalled. Was Tibbie making an idle threat? Or would she present herself to the admiral and fill his ear with tales of a heartless former employer who later turned her back on the king? Such accusations would destroy any hope of the Kerrs enjoying the admiral’s company and might well bring the dragoons to their door.

“I will do as you ask,” Marjory agreed, knowing she had little choice. “You were a fine kitchen maid, Tibbie. ’Twill not grieve me to say so in writing.”

Tibbie stepped closer, her words low but sharp edged. “And ye’ll make nae mention of the babe?”

“Certainly not,” Marjory promised. “Mr. Laidlaw was far more to blame than you in that unfortunate situation.”

Tibbie shrank back, her eyes narrowing. “Wha told ye that?”

Marjory had no intention of drawing Anne into their conversation. “What matters, Tibbie, is that you find a position in a household where you’ll neither be tempted nor mistreated. Isn’t that so?”

Tibbie’s features softened a bit. “Aye.”

“Then I’ll have a letter for you on the Sabbath next,” Marjory assured her, after which Tibbie abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd, her soiled gown dragging across the grass.

Marjory was still watching her departure when Anne moved closer, a frown on her face. “Whatever did she want?”

Marjory hesitated, wondering what her cousin might say to their agreement. “She requested a written character,” was all Marjory told her. It was an honest answer without raising Anne’s hackles.

“Tibbie wants to work at Bell Hill,” her cousin guessed.

Marjory admitted to that much.

“She’ll not get through the door without a clean gown and God’s mercy,” Anne said, then moved toward the pend, waving to Elisabeth to join them. “At least we’ll not be among the throng walking up Bell Hill on Monday next. For I have my lace making. And you, Bess, have Michael Dalgliesh.”

“Only as long as he requires my needle,” Elisabeth hastened to say.

Anne’s frown returned. “I’ve seen the man’s shop. He will need you all the days of his life.”