Mine Is the Night A Novel

Sixty-Two

Cling to thy home! If there the meanest shed

Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head.

LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM



arjory had never cared for thunder. Lord John had often found it soothing, especially at night when a low rumble traveled across the hills, lulling him to sleep. But a hard rain had followed this evening’s thunder, and Elisabeth was not yet home.

Glancing toward the window, Marjory fretted, “She should leave earlier now that September is here.”

“Aye, and start later in the morn,” Anne agreed, never looking up from the lace work she’d brought with her.

Though Marjory did not have a candle-stool to offer her, she mimicked the effect with clear glasses of water on either side of a tallow candle, allowing the women to work into the evening hours. The glasses belonged to Jane Nicoll, who resided in one of the better houses on Back Row. A widow without issue, Jane had many more glasses on her sideboard and assured the Kerrs that two would never be missed.

Marjory had accepted them as graciously as she could, still learning how to receive instead of give. At first, feelings of resentment and shame had welled up inside her. But she was beginning to understand that those with plenty found joy in giving to those in need. And so she welcomed their generosity and reminded herself that every good gift came from the Lord. Had she not begged the Almighty to provide for her loved ones? To guard them and keep them safe? Well, here was Anne, newly married to a prosperous tailor. And Elisabeth with her eye on a wealthy admiral. And herself with the stalwart love of a good man.

Every day the Kerrs had eaten breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper and wanted for nothing because of God’s provision. Aye, she could accept the gift of Jane’s two glasses without embarrassment. If her pride was gone, was that not just as well?

At the sound of footsteps on the stair, Marjory sighed, relieved to have her daughter-in-law home. Elisabeth was moving slower than usual, Marjory noticed. Who wouldn’t be weary after walking two miles in the rain? She gave her turnip soup a final stir, then moved toward the entrance, calling out a cheerful greeting.

But as the door creaked open and Elisabeth entered with her head bowed, Marjory knew something was wrong. “What is it, Bess?”

When she looked up, Marjory nearly fainted at the sight. One of Elisabeth’s cheeks was red and raw, and her lips were badly swollen. “My dear girl! Did you fall?”

Elisabeth shook her head and quietly closed the door, then lifted the white linen kerchief tucked round her neck

“Bess!” she cried softly. “Who did this to you?”

Tears spilled from her eyes. “R-rob,” she managed to say.

Marjory gasped. “Rob MacPherson?” When Elisabeth nodded, Marjory’s hands began to tremble. “I knew it, I knew it. Did I not say he was dangerous, Annie?”

Her cousin nodded, too shocked to speak.

“He did not violate me,” Elisabeth said in a low voice. “But … he meant to.”

“My poor, sweet Bess!” Marjory swallowed hard, her stomach lurching. “This is my fault. I should have told Lord Buchanan what sort of man he’d hired.”

“Do not punish yourself, Cousin,” Anne said gently, helping Elisabeth ease out of her gown. “None of us could have imagined such behavior from the man.”

“I could have,” Marjory said darkly, “and should have.” She quickly filled the wash basin with hot water and added her treasured bar of lavender soap.

Still dressed in her chemise, Elisabeth began to dab at her body with a wet cloth, wincing everywhere the linen touched. Her arms, her chest, her neck, her shoulders. “By morn,” she said in a thin voice, “I fear my bruises will look far worse. I pray my clothing will cover them all.”

Marjory cautiously touched her cheek. “And what happened here?”

Elisabeth looked away. “His beard was … rough.”

“Oh, Bess …” Marjory could hold back her tears no longer. She sank onto the nearest chair, then clasped Elisabeth’s hand and stroked it over and over, rocking as she did. “I am so sorry … so very sorry …”

Anne sniffed, attending to her damp eyes and runny nose. “Come,” she said at last, “let me dress you for bed.” She slipped a clean nightgown over Elisabeth’s head, then lightly draped a plaid round her shoulders. “Can you eat something?”

Elisabeth shook her head. “Tea perhaps.” She sat beside Marjory at the oval table. “I was much … stronger … before. But on the walk home …”

“Of course,” Marjory said. “We can only be brave so long. Still, you must have been very brave to make him stop.”

“ ’Twas the Lord’s doing,” Elisabeth said, “not mine.” In halting words she described her terrible encounter, taking long drinks of tea whenever her throat grew parched.

When Elisabeth ran out of words, Anne stood and reached for her wool cape. “I shall call upon Reverend Brown tonight,” she declared. “He will summon the sheriff in the morn and inform Lord Buchanan. By noon Rob MacPherson will be locked in the tolbooth—”

“Nae.” Elisabeth’s tone was quite firm. “I sent Rob away. Told him to leave Scotland and never return.”

Anne looked at her aghast. “But he deserves to be punished!”

“Aye, and he will be,” Elisabeth assured her. “Every time he thinks of me. Every time he remembers what he did. Every time he aches for his Highland home. Every time he sees my bruised face in his mind’s eye. As to further chastisement, I leave that to the Almighty.”

Anne fumed, “But Lord Buchanan—”

“Would kill him,” Elisabeth said without hesitation. “And I cannot bear to have that on my conscience. Or on his lordship’s. I’ll stay home tomorrow and see to my wounds. That will buy Rob one day before I must explain to Lord Buchanan what happened to his tailor.”

Marjory plucked at her apron strings, uncertain of her feelings. Proud of Elisabeth on the one hand, fearful for her on the other. “How do you know Rob MacPherson will not come looking for you again? The man cannot stay away from you, Bess.”

“Where he is bound, a return trip would be difficult.” Elisabeth rose, her tea having grown cold. “Just now sleep might be best.”

Marjory was on her feet at once, shaking out the sheet on the hurlie bed. She smoothed it in place, then plumped up the thin feather pillow. “Come to bed, dearest.”

When Elisabeth stretched out on the small bed, her long legs did not fit until she drew them up, knees to chin. Marjory draped first one plaid, then another across her daughter-in-law’s bruised body and gently tucked her in like a child. And she was a child—her child—whom she loved with all her heart. “Sleep well, dear Bess.”

“I will,” she murmured and closed her eyes.

Marjory tiptoed away, motioning Anne to follow her. Their supper was brief, their exchanges mere whispers, and they parted company earlier than expected.

Standing at the door, Anne confessed, “I wish I could be there when Bess tells his lordship.”

Marjory shuddered. “Not I. Whatever Bess may think, Lord Buchanan will not rest until justice is done.”