Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fifty

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

Could have recovered greenness?

GEORGE HERBERT



arjory tarried outside Anne’s door in Halliwell’s Close, grateful for the cool respite from the day’s heat and even more pleased to have Gibson’s warm hand in hers, discreetly hidden from view. After a few hours she’d had quite enough of the fair, though she never tired of having Gibson by her side.

“You will join us for supper?” she asked him.

“Nae,” Gibson said blithely, “for I’ve anither widow keen for my company this eve.”

She arched her brows, going along with his ploy. “And who might that be?”

“Mrs. Scott.” Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “Mind, the leddy is a bit lang in the tooth.”

Marjory laughed, knowing full well that Isobel Scott was five-and-eighty. “She is a good friend,” she reminded him, “and old enough to be your mother.”

He squeezed her hand. “Then I’ll settle for a leddy young enough to be my—”

“Hush.” She stemmed his words with a touch of her gloved finger. “Less than a dozen years separate us. Hardly worth mentioning.”

Gibson smiled down at her. “If ye say so, Leddy Kerr.”

Call me Marjory. She looked away, flustered. Whatever was she thinking? Neil Gibson had never, in all their years together, addressed her by her Christian name.

“Cousin?” Anne suddenly appeared at the mouth of the close, clasping Michael Dalgliesh’s hand. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” The couple hurried toward them, Elisabeth following with Peter in tow.

“And here we are.” Marjory quickly released Gibson’s hand with a parting squeeze.

Her face radiant, Anne pushed open the door. “Come inside, for we’ve much to tell you.” Minutes later the six of them were seated round the small house, the noise of the fair muted by doors and windows firmly latched.

Anne spilled out her news like fresh milk from a pail. “Michael and I are to be married on the last of August.”

Marjory could not mask her surprise. “So soon?”

Anne laughed, slipping her hand through the crook in Michael’s arm. “We’ve known each other since we were Peter’s age. I see no need to wait now that we’re.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining with confidence. “Now that we’re certain.”

Marjory eyed the betrothed couple, sorting through her mixed emotions. She was happy for them, of course. Anne would make a fine tradesman’s wife. But she’d sorely miss their fair-haired cousin, especially with Elisabeth off to Bell Hill from dawn until dusk each day. And however would she and Elisabeth handle the rent, let alone furnish the house, once Anne claimed all her possessions?

Her conscience pricked her, sharp as a pin. You’re being selfish, Marjory. And not wholly honest.

Marjory looked at Gibson, seated on a battered wooden chair, and admitted the truth, if only to herself. I am jealous, dear Cousin Anne. For you are free to marry whom you choose.

“What is it, Marjory?” Anne knelt beside her, concern knitting her brow. “Are you displeased?”

Marjory clasped her cousin’s small hands, vowing to think only of Anne’s happiness. “I could not be more delighted,” she assured her, hoping her words rang true. “Tell me what you have in mind for the wedding.”

“Well …” Anne glanced at Michael. “We plan to marry at the kirk after services three Sabbaths hence. I’ve a blue gown that will suit, and Michael will see to his own wedding clothes.”

“Will I noo?” he said, patently amused. “I dinna suppose ye’ll let me choose the fabric.”

“Dark blue wool,” Anne told him, her tone brooking no discussion.


News of Anne’s betrothal traveled swiftly up Water Row, round Back Row, and down Kirk Wynd until the couple could not venture out of doors without a well-wisher stepping forward to rub shoulders with Michael or Anne, hoping to capture a bit of their good fortune, or so the old wives believed. Friends came round the house at all hours, bearing small gifts of kitchen linens and woodenware. As for Anne’s students, they were too excited to work on their lace each afternoon, preferring to speak of flowers and veils and handsome bridegrooms.

Elisabeth smiled through it all, her countenance serene, though occasionally Marjory saw a flicker of sadness behind her eyes. Was there something about Anne’s impending marriage that weighed on Elisabeth’s heart? By Friday curiosity got the better of Marjory. She followed her daughter-in-law out the door, then caught her elbow before she reached the marketplace. “Bess, we’ve not had a moment alone all week. Is everything quite well?”

Elisabeth turned, her eyes shimmering in the dim interior of the close. “I fear I’ve done a poor job of hiding my feelings.”

Marjory circled her arm round Elisabeth’s waist. “You’ve no need to conceal them from me, dear girl. Not after all we’ve been through.” She stepped forward, taking Elisabeth with her. “Since you’re bound for Bell Hill this morn, suppose I walk with you as far as the Foul Bridge Port so we might chat.”

Strangers were already pouring into Selkirk for the fifth day of the fair as the women started up Kirk Wynd, arm in arm against the flow. “I’ll be glad when ’tis over,” Marjory grumbled, “though I know the town’s innkeepers are glad for their custom.”

Elisabeth nodded, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Not wanting to waste a moment, Marjory cast aside small talk and spoke from the heart. “I sense you are not entirely happy for Anne. Did you form … an attachment with Mr. Dalgliesh?”

“Nae!” Elisabeth protested. “He is a friend and former employer, nothing more. I wish them both much joy.”

Marjory could not doubt her, so clear and direct was Elisabeth’s gaze. “Are you unhappy with me, then?” Because of Gibson? Marjory dared not say it aloud. Even the thought made her hands grow damp and her heart skip a beat. What if Elisabeth did not approve?

As they reached the top of the knowe, her daughter-in-law slowed her steps, smiling down at her as she said, “If you mean am I unhappy with your own budding romance, I wish you and Gibson a joyous future as well.”

Taken aback, Marjory stammered, “Wh-whatever do you mean?”

“The man adores you. And I believe you return his affections.”

Marjory could hardly deny the truth. “But he is a servant, Bess, and I am a poor gentlewoman. What future can we possibly have?”

“A bright one, Lord willing.” Elisabeth started downhill toward the town gate, tugging her along. “You once told me that faith is what pleases the Almighty.”

“Aye,” she sighed. “So I did.” If I am to marry Neil Gibson, Lord, you alone will bring it about. Marjory sent her thoughts heavenward, above the dirty cobblestones and thatched roofs of Selkirk, then took a long, steady breath. “You’ve still not told me what’s bothering you, Bess.”

She gave a faint shrug. “Nothing of importance.”

Marjory looked at her. “Now ’tis my turn to speak the truth: you miss Lord Buchanan.”

“Ah … well …” Color stained her cheeks. “Bell Hill isn’t the same without its owner.”

“And you are not the same without your master.” Marjory patted her hand, at a loss for what else to say. She could not in good conscience encourage their growing friendship and risk dishonoring Donald’s memory. Nor could she deny the admiral’s many fine qualities. Very fine, in fact. Exceptional.

A conundrum, to be sure.

They’d reached the town gate, flung open to all who approached from the southeast. Elisabeth released her but not before kissing her cheek. “ ’Twas kind of you to keep me company.”

Marjory confessed, “I have little else to offer you now but hot meals and a listening ear.”

“ ’Tis enough.” With a faint smile Elisabeth turned and lifted her hand in farewell.