Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Two

Though it be honest,

it is never good to bring bad news.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE



ae.” Marjory stared at him. “It cannot be Lord Mark’s. Not my home. It cannot be his.”

She rubbed her brow as if trying to erase the words imprinted there. You and your sons were duly warned, madam. Dreadful words, horrible words. I regret to inform you of the consequences of their treason and yours. Words once written by General Lord Mark Kerr, who would live in her home where she’d raised her sons. Her darling sons.

“Nae!” Marjory cried, curling her hands into fists. She banged them, hard, on the table. “He cannot live there! He cannot!”

“Marjory, dearest, please.” Elisabeth bent round her, laying cool hands over her clenched fists. “Your home is here with those who love you.”

“I cannot bear it, Bess.” Her hands began to uncurl as she sank forward. “He has taken everything.”

Elisabeth hovered over her, lightly touching her hair. “When is Lord Mark expected in Selkirk, milord?”

Lord Buchanan’s voice was low. “His men gave me no definite day or time but assured me it will be soon.”

Soon. Marjory stirred.

“Take me there.” She sat up, her eyes wet with tears. “Please, milord. Let me see Tweedsford before it is closed to me forever.”

She feared he might refuse or call her foolish. He did neither.

“At once, Mrs. Kerr.” The admiral stood and helped her to her feet. “If your daughter-in-law might find a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, you’ll need both this wretched morn.”

Anne touched her arm. “Cousin, shall I come too?”

“Aye, aye.” Marjory looked round her, trying to gather her thoughts. “If the carriage will hold us all. Oh, and Gibson! Bess, we must take him with us. He served me at Tweedsford all those years.” She turned to the admiral, daring to press him further. “Reverend Brown will not mind releasing Gibson from service this morn if you request it, milord.”

“Whatever you wish, madam. Haste is best, for I would not care to cross paths with Lord Mark, for your sake.”

A sharp intake of air. “Indeed not. Annie, please bring the tea.”


The jostling of the carriage and the queasiness in Marjory’s stomach made for an uncomfortable hour. But she was seated between Elisabeth and Gibson, the two people whom she cared about most and who cared about her, so she did not complain.

The northbound route from Selkirk, which ran parallel with the Ettrick Water, was a hilly road that hugged the waterside, then veered sharply upward before reaching the River Tweed and the property that stretched along its banks. Tweedsford. Soon they would pass through the wrought-iron gates, always left open as a sign of hospitality. Or would they be locked this morning?

“Tell me what you can of Roger Laidlaw,” Lord Buchanan was saying. “He will not object to our seeing the property?”

Looking at Anne, Marjory lifted her eyebrows, an unspoken question. Will Mr. Laidlaw mind? Will you?

Anne faintly shook her head. “ ’Tis hard to say what sort of reception we might find.”

Lord Buchanan stared into the rain-drenched countryside “We shall know shortly.”

When, a moment later, they rattled through the gates and across the gravel to the entrance, Marjory confessed, “I do wish you could have seen Tweedsford on a better day, milord.”

He climbed out of the carriage, then turned to offer his hand. “A sailor never objects to water, madam.”

The Kerr party stood in a small, wet knot while Gibson lifted the brass knocker and banged it upon the imposing front door.

After several agonizing minutes, a young footman answered, his livery neat, his face unfamiliar. When Gibson announced Marjory and the others by name, the lad fell back a step. “Leddy Kerr?”

“Aye.” She slowly crossed the threshold, then forced herself to say the words. “This was once my home.”

He bowed rather clumsily. “I … I ken wha ye are, mem.”

Marjory tried to take it all in with one sweeping glance. The polished wood floors shone, even on this gloomy morning. The icy blue silk she’d chosen as a young bride still covered the walls. The grand staircase, rising two floors, dominated the entrance hall, as it always had.

Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

She cleared her throat. “If I might speak with Mr. Laidlaw.”

“Aye … aye.” The footman turned and practically ran toward the rear of the house.

Marjory found it hard to breathe, so familiar was the scent of the place. Not merely wood and plaster and silk and satin but also the muddy riverbed and the drooping roses in the garden and the rain itself—all crept through the house, creating a sweet, earthy fragrance she could not fully describe yet could never forget. Home.

With a soft moan she bowed her head, memories pressing down on her, flattening her.

Elisabeth lightly touched her shoulder. “I am here, Marjory. We all are.”

Footsteps approached. “Leddy Kerr.” Roger Laidlaw’s voice. “I didna expect ye.”

Marjory lifted her head. “I am sorry we’ve arrived … unannounced … we …”

When her voice faltered, Elisabeth stepped in to explain. “We learned just this morn that General Lord Mark Kerr is to be the new owner of Tweedsford.”

“Aye, mem.” Mr. Laidlaw bobbed his brown head, his close-set eyes blinking rapidly. “I’ve been told to leuk for him at noontide.”

Soon. A chill ran down Marjory’s spine.

“Then we shall make our visit brief,” Lord Buchanan told the factor. “You surely understand Mrs. Kerr’s desire to see her home once more.”

Roger Laidlaw studied her at length before he responded. “Some o’ the sma’ furniture was taken awa to Edinburgh and sold at auction … to … to pay the fines, ye ken. But, aye, ye can take a leuk.”

Apprehensive, Marjory ventured forth, stepping into the high-ceilinged drawing room with its tall windows and thick velvet drapes. Her heart grew heavier with each step. If they’d never left Selkirk for Edinburgh, this would still be her home. Her sons would be alive. She might have grandchildren by now, running through the halls of Tweedsford.

Marjory stood in the center of the room, barely seeing the marble chimneypiece, the painted ceiling, the decorative cornices. She saw only what was missing. Not her furnishings. Her family.

She closed her eyes and began to weep. Forgive me, forgive me.

Elisabeth’s hand clasped hers.

Gibson moved closer as well and produced a clean linen handkerchief.

“ ’Tis my fault.” Marjory dabbed her eyes, but the tears would not stop. “We should never have come.”

Anne moved round to stand before her, tears glistening in her eyes as well. “ ’Tis naught but a house now, dear Cousin. An empty shell. Do not punish yourself.”

Marjory quietly blew her nose, then whispered, “How can I not?”

After a long silence Mr. Laidlaw stepped forward. “Mem, I found some things ye may wish to have. I set them aside, thinking to bring them to ye. Would ye like them noo?”

“Aye.” She swallowed. “If you please.”

Gibson led her to a small table and chairs where the gentry of Selkirkshire once spent many happy hours playing whist. No sooner had she settled in place than Mr. Laidlaw reappeared with a wooden box.

When she looked inside, Marjory stifled a moan. Donald’s books. Andrew’s toys.

Gibson took away the box at once. “Suppose I put it in the carriage.”

Marjory could not look at the admiral. Whatever must he think of her? “Lord Buchanan, I am … so very sorry …”

He knelt beside her. “Mrs. Kerr, you were brave to come. But unless you truly wish to see the house, I think it best that we leave at once. It will not do to have Lord Mark find you here.”

“Nae,” she agreed. “The general may be a distant cousin of my late husband’s, but he is no friend of mine.”

“Nor of mine,” Elisabeth said firmly.

The moment Marjory stood, Mr. Laidlaw presented himself. “Mem, I wonder if I might have a wird with ye. In private, if ye’ll not mind.”

Anne started to protest, but Marjory saw something in the factor’s eyes that could not be ignored. “We must do so quickly,” she told him, following him into the vacant entrance hall, leaving the others behind.

The two paused before a gilt-edged looking glass. At first Roger Laidlaw said nothing, only looked at his shoes.

“What is it you wish to tell me?” Marjory asked, not bothering to hide her irritation.

“I’ll not keep ye lang,” he said, his voice low. “But I must ask yer forgiveness.”

Marjory stared at him. “My forgiveness?” It was the last thing she expected.

He was quiet for a long time. When he looked up, the pain in his eyes was undeniable. “In the past I had a reputation for chasing the lasses. Most were willing, but—”

“My cousin was right, then,” Marjory said sharply. “You are a reprobate.”

He hung his head. “Whatsomever she said, ’tis true.”

Marjory eyed the drawing room door, considering summoning the admiral. He would know what was to be done. Should the sheriff be called? Or might the kirk session mete out sufficient punishment?

But Mr. Laidlaw’s humble demeanor gave her pause. This was not a man bragging about his conquests. “You said ‘in the past,’ Mr. Laidlaw. Are you telling me you’ve changed?”

He looked up at once. “I have changed. Ye must believe me, Leddy …, eh, Mrs. Kerr.”

Marjory wanted to be angry with him, wanted to see justice done. But when a man asked for mercy, he deserved to be heard. “Go on.”

“I’m courting a widow in Galashiels noo. Jessie Briggs is her name. She made me see … what sort o’ man I was. And what I could be.”

Marjory frowned. “Does this Jessie know all that you’ve done?”

“Aye, ilka bit. I’ve gone round the countryside and tried to make amends—”

“Tibbie Cranshaw?” Marjory pressed him.

He shook his head. “She wouldna let me past her door. I canna say I blame the lass.”

Nor can I. “I should never have sent Tibbie away,” Marjory admitted, “nor judged her so harshly.”

“Then … mebbe ye can forgive me?” Roger Laidlaw shifted his weight. “ ’Twas a sickness, mem. Finally I am weel.” He pulled out a tattered handkerchief and blew his nose. “I canna believe it, but a guid woman luves me. Aye, and the guid Lord luves me, though I dinna deserve it.”

Marjory’s ire was gone, dissipating like smoke from a doused fire. “No one truly deserves his love and mercy. I certainly don’t.”

He sought her gaze in the quiet entrance hall. “Please, mem. I canna say I’m sorry enough.”

“Mr. Laidlaw, you don’t need—”

“But I do.” He pulled off his cap and bunched it in his hands. “Nae man wha behaved as I did should walk round thinking it doesna matter.”

Something about his confession prodded at a tender place she could not name. Roger Laidlaw spoke the truth: his lust for women was a sickness the Lord alone could heal. “If the Lord has forgiven you, Mr. Laidlaw, I must do the same.”

He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I thank ye, mem.”

Marjory glanced at the drawing room. “Anne Kerr was wronged far more than I. Have you sought her pardon?”

“I meant to do so on the day I came to Halliwell’s Close, but …” His gaze followed hers across the hall. “Might ye help me?”