Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Six

The showers of God’s grace fall

into lowly hearts and humble souls.

JOHN WORTHINGTON



arjory did not see Lord Buchanan again until the following Sabbath at kirk. Despite the soggy, rainy weather, the admiral was dressed in a striking burgundy coat and waistcoat with nary a splash of mud on his boots. He greeted each Kerr woman individually before claiming the vacant seat next to Elisabeth.

Marjory could hardly object in so public and sacred a place. Nor could she blame her daughter-in-law for brightening when his lordship appeared. Did not her own heart lift each time they met?

She was turning to address Anne when her cousin suddenly rose. “Come and sit with us, Gibson.”

“Aye, please do.” Marjory patted the seat next to her. “My cousin won’t mind making room.”

Gibson bowed as neatly as any gentleman. “Reverend Brown gave me leave to sit with ye.” Then he added in a low voice, “I think ’twas the ginger biscuits ye sent on Thursday last.”

Marjory smiled. Her plan had worked.

After he settled next to her on the pew, Gibson did a shocking thing: he quietly captured her hand, safely out of view beneath the folds of her skirt. When she didn’t pull away, his strong fingers, rough from years of work, tightened round hers.

Oh my dear Gibson.

Marjory could no longer deny her feelings, at least not to herself. I am falling in love with a servant. And not just any man in service but her own Gibson, her own dear friend. Nae, he was more than that. His warmth, his scent, his touch stirred something inside her that was well beyond friendship.

Was it wrong, their mutual affection? In God’s eyes, in God’s Word, was it wrong?

She knew the answer and was comforted by it. But society had its own rules, and they did not stretch this far. Only the very wealthy could afford to do as they pleased.

Marjory lifted her head, gazing past the leaky roof and rotting beams. Give me wisdom, Lord. And courage. Aye, especially that.

Hearing a slight commotion, she glanced down the pew and saw Michael and Peter Dalgliesh taking their seats next to Anne. Late as usual, though who could fault a man with a child to dress and no wife or valet to help him? Anne’s face glowed like a candle, even as Peter grinned broadly, showing off his latest missing tooth.

Marjory well recalled young Donald on a similar occasion keeping his lips tightly closed, hoping no one would notice the gaps in his teeth, while Andrew ran up and down the kirk aisles, begging everyone to look.

Gibson glanced at Peter, then bent his head toward hers. “Are ye thinking o’ yer lads?”

“I am,” she confessed. Gibson had been there. He remembered too.

As the precentor sang the first line of the gathering psalm, Gibson squeezed her hand once more, then eased away. Marjory was both saddened and relieved. She could not risk Reverend Brown looking down from on high and noticing their hands joined. Not when he’d expressed such opposition to their growing friendship.

Marjory had rehearsed his words many times. One might think Neil Gibson had designs on you. She eyed the black-gowned minister, now waiting to ascend his pulpit. And what if I have designs on him, Reverend? Even the thought made her skin warm.

The sermon that dreich and dreary Sabbath morning was taken from Zechariah. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and with conviction, Reverend Brown seemed quite adamant that his congregation take heed of his words. “Execute true judgment,” he recited from memory. “Show mercy and compassions every man to his brother.” His fierce gaze raked across his audience, landing on one parishioner, then another. Folk squirmed in their seats and looked round the sanctuary, but the minister still did not relent.

When he said, “Oppress not the widow, nor the fatherless, the stranger, nor the poor,” Marjory was quite certain his eyes were directed at the Kerr pew, where two widows sat, both fatherless and poor. When the sermon finally ended, Marjory stood, anxious to move about, to escape the conflicting thoughts batting about inside her like moths trapped in a clay jar.

Gibson is a servant, yet a fine one. And I am a lady, yet a poor one.

Lord Buchanan announced to those in the Kerr pew, “Mrs. Pringle has sent me with a rather large dinner basket. Since the weather will not suit for a picnic, shall we find a spot with a fine prospect where we might dine together in the dry confines of my carriage? Unless, of course, you have other plans.”

Anne chuckled. “Milord, we have cold mutton and stale bread at home. Whatever is in your basket will be most welcome.”

Disappointed that Gibson could not join them, Marjory bade him farewell. “I hope I shall see you soon,” she murmured, then watched Gibson make his way through the crowd, not far behind the admiral, who was off to summon his carriage.

As Marjory and Elisabeth started down the aisle, Anne walked ahead of them, one hand tucked round the crook of Michael Dalgliesh’s elbow, the other firmly clasping Peter’s hand. With each step the threesome drew closer together, matching their strides, smiling into one another’s faces.

“Did you know about this?” Marjory gestured toward the small family in the making.

“Annie has always cared for him,” Elisabeth admitted. “Michael is finally free to return her affections. And Peter adores her, as you can see.”

Marjory heard something in her voice. Not regret, not sadness, not envy. Longing, perhaps.

When they all reached Kirk Wynd, freshly dampened by the rain, Lord Buchanan was waiting with his coach, as promised. The six of them were soon seated inside, dry and cozy.

“Hyslop has assured me we’ll not be disappointed with the view,” Lord Buchanan told them as the carriage jolted forward. “Come, Peter, let me see that new gap in your teeth.”

The lad, seated in his father’s lap, turned to his lordship and opened wide.

The admiral’s frown was exaggerated, the shaking of his head more so. “However shall we fill that? Perhaps I should ask Mrs. Pringle for a china teacup. Mr. Richardson might have a gardening tool that would serve. Or shall your father stitch you a new tooth? One made of black wool would be very dashing.”

Peter giggled as only a boy of seven can. “Faither says I’ll grow new teeth a’ by myself.”

Lord Buchanan feigned shock. “Certainly not during the day, when people are watching.”

“Nae!” Peter cried. “At nicht while I sleep.”

All through their playful exchange, Marjory watched Anne’s gaze shift from Michael to Peter and back again, the love in her eyes unmistakable. Only a fool could have missed such a thing. And you, Marjory Kerr, are certainly that.

Anne piped up with a question. “Lord Buchanan, will you be needing our services for your next household supper?”

“Nae, madam, for I could not possibly expect all of you to serve me again. I’ve asked a half-dozen servants from the Philiphaugh estate to join us on the thirty-first.”

“And what o’ the fiddlers, milord?” Michael asked.

The admiral glanced at Elisabeth. “I’ve something different in mind for this month’s supper. After our dessert we shall move to the drawing room, where I’ve arranged for several musicians to play. Once we’ve banished the furniture, that is.”

“For dancing!” Elisabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Well done, milord.”

He tipped his head. “I believe you were the one who called for a reel or a jig.”

“Aye, but as a widow, I cannot dance.” Her careless shrug belied her feelings.

“I do not care for it myself,” Lord Buchanan confessed.

Whether he spoke the truth or meant simply to put Elisabeth at ease Marjory could not tell. She slipped her arm round Elisabeth’s shoulders. “Your dancing days are far from over, my dear. Half the year has already slipped through our fingers. Why, autumn is almost upon us. Isn’t that so, Admiral?”

He settled his gaze on Elisabeth. “I am counting the days, madam.”