Mine Is the Night A Novel

Four

Poverty is a bitter weed to most women,

and there are few indeed

who can accept it with dignity.

ELIZA LYNN LINTON



arjory bristled at the shocked expression on Anne’s face. Is it my age? My tattered gown? Or did you think I died too?

“Do not call me ‘Lady,’ ” Marjory finally told her, disowning the title she’d once loved.

Anne’s mouth fell open. “Then you—”

“Call me ‘Marjory,’ ” she insisted. “The king has dealt harshly with me and revoked our family’s title, lands, and fortune.” She’d not meant to spill out the truth all at once, but there it was.

“King George has done this?” Anne frowned. “There must be some explanation—”

“Treason,” Marjory said bluntly. “My sons, Donald and Andrew, fought for the Jacobite cause and died at Falkirk.” There. She jutted out her chin, if only to keep it from trembling.

Anne slowly pulled her hands from Marjory’s grasp. “Ill news indeed, Cousin.”

She sensed the aloofness in Anne’s tone, the deliberateness of her withdrawal. Nae, this would not do. “Did not our manservant, Gibson, bring a letter to your door?”

“He did not,” Anne said evenly. “I’ve had no correspondence from you—”

“In a very long time,” Marjory quickly agreed. “Gibson traveled ahead on foot so we’d not arrive here unexpected.”

“And yet you have.” Anne took a step backward, putting more distance between them. “What is it you want from me?”

Marjory eyed the woman, a dozen years her junior. Anne Kerr had never married, had never been wealthy or titled, yet she held the upper hand. With a roof over her head and food in her larder, Anne had what they needed but could not afford.

Must I plead with her, Lord? Must I beg? Pride wrapped itself round Marjory’s throat, choking back her words.

Then Elisabeth stepped in. “We are rather desperate for lodging,” she explained, “and need only the simplest of meals. Might you accommodate us, Miss Kerr?”

Anne turned to Elisabeth with a lift of her brow. “And you are?”

“Donald’s widow,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “Elisabeth Kerr.”

Anne responded with a slight nod. “Did not Andrew marry as well?”

“He did,” Elisabeth said. “This very night his widow, Janet, is returning to her Highland home.”

Marjory grimaced at the reminder. During Janet’s brief marriage to Andrew, the spoiled, selfish woman had not endeared herself to most of the Kerr household. Before leaving Edinburgh, Marjory had purchased a seat for Janet on a northbound carriage. Janet’s halfhearted protest had ended the moment two shillings crossed her gloved palm.

Marjory looked at her younger daughter-in-law now with fond affection. You should have returned home as well, dear Bess. But no matter how many times Marjory had entreated her, Elisabeth had refused to leave her side, insisting on traveling with her to Selkirk. She hadn’t planned on Elisabeth’s company, but Marjory was glad for it all the same.

“Come with me.” Anne pushed open her door with a sigh. “I cannot let you sleep out of doors like beggars.”

Horrified at the thought, Marjory murmured her thanks, then followed their cousin through the entrance and up a dozen steps to a smaller interior door with even less paint. She’d never visited Anne’s house, though Lord John had once described it as cozy and quaint. Whatever awaited them, it was far superior to a cobbled passageway on a chilly April night.

Anne entered first and reached for a candle, then touched the wick to the glowing coals in the hearth and motioned Marjory forward.

The candlelight sent shadows dancing across the low-ceilinged room with its plaster walls and rough wooden floors. Anne’s furnishings were neat but alarmingly few: a box bed, plainly draped; a rustic washstand and basin; two upholstered chairs with threadbare arms; a low table covered with sewing items; an oval dining table that would barely seat four; and several mismatched wooden chairs huddled in a corner like gossips exchanging news.

Marjory found her voice at last. “You keep a tidy house, Cousin Anne.”

“Easily managed when one owns so little.” Anne lit a second tallow candle and placed it on the shelf mounted between her two front windows.

Her only windows, Marjory realized. At least the glazing was clean, and the curtains, surprisingly, were trimmed in lace. An extravagant touch for such mean lodgings. She stepped closer and looked down at the marketplace. “You have a fine view of the town.”

“And the town has a fine view of me,” Anne said curtly. “If you mean to hide your family’s disgrace, Marjory, you’ve knocked on the wrong door.”

She flinched at her harsh words. “Believe me, Cousin, had we anywhere else to go …”

Anne had already turned away to poke at the coals in her grate, jabbing them with savage efficiency.

Marjory stared at her cousin’s back. A dearth of letters over the years would hardly account for this cold reception. Was it the Kerrs’ ill-advised support of Prince Charlie? Or had something else upset Anne?

When Elisabeth crossed the threshold, carrying in the first of their trunks, Anne hurried off to help her, as if glad to escape Marjory’s presence. The two younger women disappeared down the stair, leaving Marjory to examine their surroundings and accept the inevitable.

One room. We shall all live in one room.

Disheartened at the prospect, Marjory walked along the front wall, counting her steps. Eighteen. Then she measured from the windows to the back wall. Eighteen. The supporting wall that ran halfway through the room provided a modicum of privacy between Anne’s bed and the rest of her lodging yet made the house feel even smaller.

With a muted groan, Marjory sank onto the nearest chair, wondering what Anne Kerr might serve for supper. Moldy cheese and a stale bannock, she imagined, then chastised herself for judging their cousin so harshly. Anne had no notice of their arrival, no time to replenish her stores, and limited resources besides.

Hearing voices on the stair, Marjory rose with a guilty start, then watched Anne and Elisabeth struggle through the door, bearing a heavy trunk between them. “You might put it here,” Marjory suggested, uncertain how else to assist them.

They dutifully placed the trunk near the foot of Anne’s bed and left to fetch the last one, not saying a word.

Like servants, Marjory thought glumly.

Her heart skipped a beat. Gibson. How had she forgotten him so quickly?

Appalled, Marjory hastened to the window as if by some miracle she might spot his balding head fringed in silver. Had the rain delayed him? An injury? Illness? Perhaps he’d encountered highwaymen on a lonely road. Or worse, dragoons. Forty miles stretched between Milne Square and Halliwell’s Close. Anything might have happened.

By the time the others returned, Marjory was pacing the floor. “However shall we find Gibson?”

“I am worried as well,” Elisabeth admitted, heading for the washstand by Anne’s bed.

Only then did Marjory notice their faces were red with exertion and their hands soiled.

“We’ll consider your manservant shortly.” Anne brushed past her. “First, I must attend to our supper. Cousin Marjory, if you might set the table.” She gestured toward a low shelf, which held an assortment of trenchers, knot bowls, and carved cups.

Marjory stared at the woodenware, carved in the crudest design. The spoons and forks were gray from years of use, and some of the plates were badly cracked along the grain. This was her future, then. No pewter plates, no crystal goblets, no beeswax tapers gleaming from a polished mahogany sideboard.

Anne called across the room, “Something wrong, Cousin?”

“Nae,” Marjory said quickly. She dared not refuse to help, however menial the task. Was she not an interloper of the worst kind? A penniless relation begging for bread with a widowed daughter-in-law in tow and a manservant gone astray among the hills.

Marjory reached for a cluster of wooden utensils, her hands shaking. How am I to manage, Lord? How are we to live like this?