Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fifty-Six

A day of worry is more exhausting

than a day of work.

JOHN LUBBOCK, LORD AVEBURY



arjory woke with a dull ache beneath her brow, just as she had every morning that week. She trudged to the hearth, then prepared breakfast by rote, the clamor of another Friday market assailing her ears.

Anne was still asleep after another night of tossing and turning in her box bed. Too excited about her upcoming marriage, Marjory decided. Anne’s dark blue gown hung from her bed curtains, well away from the hearth. The gown was older but newly aired and pressed, and the delicate lace trim across the square neckline was the work of Anne’s own hands.

Michael’s needle had been busy as well. Last evening Anne had burst through the door, her expression jubilant. “Oh, Cousins! Wait until you see Michael’s handsome blue coat,” she’d crowed, practically skipping through the house. “And he’s sewn Peter a waistcoat to match.” Anne had dropped into a chair with a happy sigh. “Come the Sabbath, the two lads I love will welcome me into their home.”

And the one man I love will not.

Marjory pushed away the selfish thought, reminding herself that Anne had waited a long time to marry. Could she not wait as well until God provided or Neil Gibson relented?

Better is a dinner of herbs where love is.

Marjory held the proverb close to her heart, intending to share it with Neil when the time was right. They could wait, aye, but not forever.

She glanced toward the partition, hearing noises from the box bed. A moment later her cousin appeared, squinting round the room. “Where’s Bess?”

“She left before dawn.” Marjory told her. “Said she had a maid’s gown to finish in time for the admiral’s monthly supper on the morrow.”

“I suppose Lord Buchanan has already arranged for servants,” Anne said wistfully. “I don’t know when I’ve had a better time than his first supper in June.”

Marjory agreed. “A memorable occasion. Just like your wedding will be.”

Anne studied Marjory more closely. “Is that what’s been troubling you of late? My marriage to Michael?”

“Nae,” Marjory assured her, sidestepping any mention of Gibson. “ ’Tis Rob MacPherson,” she confessed. “He’s dangerous, that one.”

“Dangerous?” Anne’s snort was ladylike but still a snort. “Have you forgotten that Lord Buchanan is in residence? A gentleman who commanded hundreds of sailors can surely manage one Highlander.”

“Oh, Mr. MacPherson would never hurt Bess,” Marjory was quick to say. “Quite the contrary. He was besotted with her in Edinburgh.”

Anne’s eyes widened. “Is that why he came to Selkirk?”

“I fear so, though Bess has not said as much.” As Marjory ladled steaming porridge into their bowls, an idea sprang to mind. “Suppose we pay a visit to Bell Hill this forenoon and see what we can learn? If the walk does not ease my headache, ’twill at least ease my heart.”


A light breeze wafted over the Selkirk Hills as the two women headed east on foot, the late August sun warm on their shoulders. Though Marjory was breathless by the time they reached the summit of Bell Hill, the view was worth the effort. Even after several days without rain, the grass shone emerald green. Bright red berries covered the pair of rowan trees at the entrance gate, and blooming heather turned the distant hillsides a dusky purple.

Greeted at the door by a fair-haired young footman, Marjory and Anne were soon ushered into Elisabeth’s small workroom below stairs.

“Why, look who’s come to Bell Hill!” Elisabeth said, making them welcome. “Mr. MacPherson, you remember my mother-in-law.”

“Verra weel,” the tailor said with a low bow. “ ’Tis guid to see ye again, Mrs. Kerr.”

“And you.” Marjory reminded herself of the many kindnesses Rob MacPherson had done for their family in Edinburgh, even as she tried to forget his last visit to Milne Square, when he’d accused Donald of being unfaithful to Elisabeth. Your son demeaned her well enough. Even though his charge was true, Rob had no right to speak ill of her dead son.

Marjory gazed at her daughter-in-law, recalling how she’d shown Rob the door that evening in no uncertain terms. Please, Bess. Do the same now. For all our sakes.

“Mr. MacPherson has finished sewing his first livery,” Elisabeth was saying, “and brought Roberts along to show me his finished handiwork.”

The butler stood before the hearth, tall and proud in his well-fitted black coat and trousers, with a crisp white linen shirt and neckcloth.

“A fine suit of clothing,” Marjory begrudgingly agreed.

“I’ve meikle mair to do at Bell Hill,” Rob said, “though I’m in nae hurry to bid farewell to my bonny Bess.”

Marjory hastened to correct him. “Mrs. Kerr, you mean.”

He shrugged. “She’s Bess to me, mem.”

When the butler took his leave, Marjory hoped he might drag the Highlander with him. But Rob tarried in the workroom, standing entirely too close to Elisabeth.

“I hear ye’ve a wedding in the family,” he said, glancing at Anne. “Would that be ye, lass?” Belated introductions were made, then Rob finally moved toward the door. “Ye ken whaur I wark if ye need me, Bess.”

Marjory watched him depart, bristling at his familiar manner. “Does he visit you here often?”

“Once a day,” Elisabeth admitted. “Perhaps twice. His workroom is a mirror of mine on the other side of the kitchen, where the menservants reside.”

“ ’Tis where he belongs,” Marjory said, any charitable thoughts toward Rob well quashed. “You’ll forgive me, Bess, but I do not trust him.”

“Nor do I,” she said, surprising her. “He’s not the man we knew in Edinburgh. The prince’s defeat at Culloden changed him, I fear, and not for the better.” With a sigh she added, “I’ll be relieved when his time at Bell Hill is done.”

“Then why not tell Lord Buchanan how you feel?” Anne urged her. “He’d send the man packing in a trice.” A thread of impatience ran through her words. “Truly, Bess, you need not suffer Mr. MacPherson’s company for another month.”

Elisabeth bent forward in her chair, absently petting the gray cat winding round her feet. “I cannot treat an old friend so harshly, Annie. However bold he may seem, inside he’s a broken man, without home or family or silver. As you say, Rob will be gone by Michaelmas. And you, dear Cousin, will soon be a married woman.”

“So I will,” Anne said, brightening.

Marjory looked away. But I will not.





Fifty-Seven

I can make a lord,

but only God Almighty

can make a gentleman.

JAMES VI OF SCOTLAND



ord Buchanan gazed down the length of his crowded dining room table, wishing not for the first time he’d sought Elisabeth’s counsel before engaging Rob MacPherson. Why had he acted in such haste? He could dismiss the tailor, of course, but justice demanded a cause, and he had none. At least, nothing that was honorable.

I do not like the man. Nae, that was not the issue.

I do not like the way he looks at Bess. Closer to the mark.

Rob MacPherson was simply not worthy of the woman. Not because of his station, but because of his character. What Jack had first perceived as meekness or humility, he now realized was a quiet sort of cunning. And whatever story Mr. MacPherson had invented to explain his appearance, it was clear why he’d come to Bell Hill: to seek the company of Elisabeth Kerr. To capture her heart, perhaps even her hand in marriage when her time of mourning ended.

A pity Jack could not fault the man’s tailoring skills. Roberts was the talk of the household in his new livery. If only the tailor might sew faster—much faster—and finish in a fortnight. Still, they’d struck hands on the bargain. Jack was obliged to see things through, however much it grieved him.

He’d at least made certain Rob MacPherson was placed at the far end of the table for their household supper that evening, while Elisabeth was where she belonged: here, close by his side.

Jack smiled at her. “You’ve done something different with your hair.” He lightly touched a wispy curl that trailed down her neck. Her long, graceful neck. “I believe the sun has added a bit of color to your cheeks.”

More color appeared, a rosy tint.

He pulled back at once. “I beg your pardon.”

“No need to apologize,” she murmured. “I blush rather easily.”

While she sipped her claret, Jack studied her profile. The generous mouth, the patrician nose, the large, luminous eyes. If he could be certain of Elisabeth’s present feelings regarding Mr. MacPherson, the month ahead might be easier. She’d convinced him there was no romantic attachment. “Not on my part,” she’d said, and Jack believed her. But the two Highlanders had a long history together. Shared experiences often tipped the scale.

Then throw something on there, Jack, and tip it in your direction.

Prodded by his conscience, Jack knew what needed to be done. It would cost him his pride, but what better way to spend it than procuring Elisabeth’s undivided attention? He couldn’t put things in motion this night. But he would do so come Monday.

The candles were burning low and the dessert plates already cleared when Jack stood, drawing every eye in his direction. “You are invited to retire to the drawing room,” he announced. “Our musicians await us for a night of dancing.”

With a gleeful cry the entire household was on its collective feet and bound for the hallway, any sense of decorum left in their wake. Linen napkins were tossed about at whim and chairs left higgledy-piggledy round the room. General Lord Mark Kerr might not approve, but Jack found their abandon refreshing.

“Mrs. Kerr?” He offered his arm, noting with perverse satisfaction Rob MacPherson glowering at him from the doorway. “May I escort you to the drawing room?”

Elisabeth rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, then followed him through the gilded doors, down the hallway, and into the candlelit drawing room, where the carpet was rolled back and a small band of musicians gathered in a circle, tuning their instruments. Amid much giggling and blushing, partners were found and lines were formed in anticipation of the first note.

“How I’d love to dance,” Elisabeth said on a sigh. “Just as well I’m not yet permitted to do so since you do not care for dancing. Isn’t that so, milord?”

“Quite right, madam.”

Not care for dancing? He loathed it. Too many years at sea without any good reason to acquire that particular social skill had left him with no knowledge of the necessary steps and little confidence in learning them. One hardly engaged a dancing master at forty years of age. Unless, of course, one wished to dance with a certain young woman.

When a lively reel filled the air, the polished oak floor almost disappeared beneath swirling skirts and dancing feet. Elisabeth stood, her toe tapping in time to the music, her shoulders faintly swaying as couples moved forward, backward, and round, following the intricate patterns of a country dance.

Jack watched their feet, discouraged at the thought of trying to keep up with them. Was it step to the right, then turn? Or turn to the right, then step? His only consolation was that Rob MacPherson wasn’t dancing either, though the tailor had a valid reason.

Standing as close as propriety allowed, Jack remained by Elisabeth’s side all evening. She described each dance to him as if she were privy to his musings on the subject, applauded the musicians whenever appropriate, and smiled each time an opportunity presented itself. Elisabeth was, in truth, the perfect companion.

Even if she was once a Jacobite rebel?

Aye, even then.

Of this Jack was certain: any expression of affection would have to wait. Through Michaelmas and Hallowmas, through Martinmas and Christmas, until the seventeenth of January, when all of society, and Marjory Kerr especially, would permit his deep regard for Elisabeth to take its natural course.

Five months was a very long time, even for a patient man.

Jack was not a patient man. Nor, he feared, was Rob MacPherson.


“She’ll make a lovely bride, milord,” Roberts said, nodding at Anne Kerr, who tarried outside the open kirk door, awaiting her cue.

“Indeed she will,” Jack agreed, all the while gazing at Elisabeth.

The kirk was nearly full, only a few parishioners having departed at the end of the morning service, the Murrays of Philiphaugh among them. Jack had spoken briefly to Rosalind and her family beforehand, if only to be polite, then was relieved to see them make a hasty exit. Sabbath weddings were more subdued than most since the kirk frowned on any sort of merrymaking. But curiosity alone had kept most folk in their pews, eager to see two neighbors joined in marriage.

When a fiddler in the kirkyard struck up a familiar tune, Anne stepped through the door, a bouquet of Michaelmas daises in hand. Jack had to admit she made a bonny bride with her fair hair curled high on top of her head.

Escorting her down the aisle was Peter Dalgliesh, smartly dressed for a wee lad and beaming at the crowd. “This is my new mither!” he announced proudly, delivering Anne to his father’s side. The groom looked surprisingly calm, Jack thought, and decidedly happy, standing before the congregation, his red hair bright against the dull gray walls of the kirk. The moment the fiddler ended his tune with a flourish, Reverend Brown stepped forward to do his part.

The minister’s expression was stern, his tone of voice more so. “We are gathered here to join Anne Kerr of Halliwell’s Close and Michael Dalgliesh of School Close in holy matrimony. Stand for a reading from the Book of Common Order.”

The congregation rose to hear the familiar words, followed by a lengthy prayer, and the necessary question. “Is there any impediment to this marriage?” Reverend Brown asked the crowd of witnesses. “Any reason why these two people should not be joined together as husband and wife?”

When no objection was offered, the minister proceeded with the vows.

But it was not the voice of Reverend Brown that Jack heard. Nae, it was King George shouting in his head. Admiral Buchanan, you cannot woo a traitor. For what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness? Put her aside, Buchanan, and marry a woman loyal to her sovereign.

While the ceremony continued, Jack argued with the king in his head. Can you not see what a good woman Bess is, Your Majesty? Can you not look beyond her Highland past? ’Twould be no easy thing to tell King George one of his admirals intended to marry the widow of an attainted rebel. But tell him Jack would, when the time came. Not because the king required it, but because the king’s blessing would keep Elisabeth safe forever.

“Even so,” Anne was saying, her voice clear, “I take him before God and in the presence of his people.”

Looking down at Elisabeth, Jack imagined her saying those words. Imagined their hands joined together. Imagined a benediction being spoken over them. Imagined the kiss that would seal their vows. As if sensing his thoughts, she turned to meet his gaze and smiled. “Isn’t it a lovely wedding?” she whispered.

“Aye,” he whispered back. “Most assuredly.”