Mine Is the Night A Novel

Six

There is in every true woman’s heart

a spark of heavenly fire …

which kindles up, and beams and blazes

in the dark hour of adversity.

WASHINGTON IRVING



arjory stared into her cup of tea, bleary eyed from a poor night’s sleep. Her daughter-in-law had meant well, but the hurlie bed was no prize. The mattress was lumpy, and the wooden frame groaned whenever she tossed and turned.

Even so, you had a bed to yourself, Marjory. And supper before it.

She chafed at the reminder, wishing her conscience were still slumbering. But it was the Sabbath. All of Selkirk would be awake, dressed, and prepared to leave for the parish kirk at the first clang of the bell.

Marjory considered the last bite of her oatcake, then pushed it aside. Her appetite had vanished at the thought of seeing her old neighbors, who would mark her diminished circumstances and quickly learn of her losses. And what would she say to Reverend Brown?

“Come, Marjory.” Elisabeth beckoned her toward the window, hairbrush in hand. “Since every eye will be on you this morn, I would have you look your best.”

Marjory submitted to her daughter-in-law’s ministrations, surprised when her thinning auburn hair turned into a sleek braid, pinned atop her head. Holding up Anne’s small looking glass, Marjory pretended not to see the wrinkles outlining her features and admired Elisabeth’s handiwork instead.

“Another talent put to good use,” Marjory commended her. “Though my gown is frayed, at least my hair is presentable.”

“Someday I shall stitch you a new dress,” Elisabeth promised, still smoothing a few loose strands of hair in place when the kirk bell began to toll.

Marjory’s stomach clenched. Not yet, not yet.

“We must away,” Anne cautioned, pulling her cape round her shoulders. “The reverend has little patience with stragglers.”

Marjory hastily brushed the lint from her skirts, then followed the others down the stair and into the marketplace much too quickly for her comfort. Help me not be afraid, Lord. Help me not be ashamed.

The sky was pale blue, and a faint mist hung in the air. Marjory paused at the mouth of the close, taking it all in. Folk streamed past them on foot and on horseback. Dogs and chickens wandered about as they pleased. Pigs rooted through rubbish piled by the sides of houses, and the cobbled streets had no proper drains. Structures that were new in the sixteenth century were showing their age, with broken shutters and ill-fitting doors.

Still, this was home. However common the streets and buildings of Selkirk, the rolling countryside beyond the town gates soothed the eye. Standing in the marketplace, Marjory spotted Harehead Hill to the west and Bell Hill to the east. Her old estate was two miles north, where the waters of the Tweed and Ettrick meet. When their carriage had passed Tweedsford en route, she’d looked away, unable to bear the heartache of seeing the home that was no longer hers.

At Anne’s urging they joined the throng flowing up Kirk Wynd, a narrow cobblestone street edged with two- and three-story houses. People crowded them on every side. A woman dressed in rags limped by, followed by two young lads with a barking collie, and a gray-haired man with rheumy eyes.

Elisabeth took Marjory’s arm. “Have you spied anyone you know?”

“Not yet,” Marjory said, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. No one had caught her eye. No one had called out her name.

“This way.” Anne tugged them toward a humble dwelling on the right, its yawning door an unspoken invitation. “The Mintos will not object if we slip through their house.”

Marjory frowned, looking a bit farther up the street. “Has the pend leading to the kirk been closed?”

“Oh, the pend is still there,” Anne said, “but so is the kirk elder, standing at the mouth of it with his collection plate.” She ducked through the doorway of the house, signaling for them to follow.

Marjory felt only a small measure of guilt for avoiding the man. After all, what could she put in his wooden plate? A loose button? A pebble from the street?

When Anne thanked Mr. Minto as they entered, he nodded sagely. “Ye canna give what ye dinna have, leddies.”

The Kerrs hastened through one shabby room after another. Marjory politely bobbed her head at various family members, picturing elegant Lady Minto of Cap and Feather Close in Edinburgh with her richly furnished lodgings. If these Mintos were her relatives, her ladyship had sorely neglected them.

The same way you neglected Anne?

Heat flooded Marjory’s cheeks. All those years in Edinburgh she’d never inquired about Anne’s welfare. Even now Marjory had no notion of how her cousin provided for herself.

“This way.” Anne led them through the back door and into the misty kirkyard, not bothering to see if they were behind her.

With Elisabeth by her side, Marjory continued uphill toward the parish kirk, built two centuries past, with a tall, square steeple over the arched entranceway. As they drew closer, her eyes widened. What a dreadful state the preaching house was in! The roof sagged as if prepared to give way, the walls were crumbling, and the main door appeared unhinged.

“Cousin!” Marjory quickened her steps, skirting a row of crooked gravestones. “Is it safe for us to enter?”

Anne paused to look over her shoulder, her expression grim. “You’d best say a prayer, for ’tis far worse within.”

Marjory eyed the kirk with dismay. “I fear you are right.”

“Come, dear.” Elisabeth cupped her elbow, guiding her through the door. “Once we’re all seated, ’twill be easier to spot your friends.”

“I’ve few real friends,” Marjory confessed in a low voice, “only acquaintances.” To her shame, when she was Lady Kerr of Tweedsford, she’d considered herself better than others in her parish. Now she was the least of them. Nae, less than the least.

Marjory scanned the dimly lit sanctuary, hoping one kind soul might greet her. Was the woman with fading red hair Jane Nicoll? Could the mother with the gaggle of daughters be Katherine Shaw? Names and faces spun through her head. Might that be Christina March? Agnes Walker?

Marjory was so certain an elderly woman was Jean Scott that she spoke her name aloud, expecting her to turn round.

“Jean died two years ago,” Anne informed her. “That’s her younger sister, Isobel.”

Jean, dead? Marjory let the sad news sink in. “What of Margaret Simpson? Or Grisell Lochrie?”

Her cousin shook her head. “Both are gone.”

“Then I shall look for their gravestones after services,” Marjory said, grieved by the unexpected news. Though she’d not known them well, they were women not much older than she.

As they ventured down the center aisle, Marjory surveyed the interior, her heart sinking further. The woodwork, once impressive, was rotting away. Birds flew about the upper reaches, and straw was scattered across the dirt floor. Some of the walls were out of plumb by a full handbreadth, and the tradesmen’s lofts hung at precipitous angles, threatening to collapse.

Was her life not its mirror? Ruined beyond any hope of restoration.

“Do you mean to sit in the Kerr aisle?” Anne nodded toward the north side of the kirk. “Since Lord John’s death, it’s been sorely neglected.”

Marjory stared at the filthy pew and the unstable wall beside it. “Why did Mr. Laidlaw not provide for the upkeep? Surely he paid our rent each Martinmas?”

“ ’Twould seem he did not,” Anne said as heads began turning. “Nor has he darkened the door of this kirk in many a season.”

Marjory moved forward on leaden feet. If Gibson were there, he would see the wooden pew scrubbed clean before they took their seats or remove his coat to spare her gown. But Gibson was lost in the woods or waylaid by some blackguard.

When Marjory turned into the Kerr pew, the voices round them grew louder, rolling up and down the aisles like tenpins.

“It canna be!”

“Leddy Kerr?”

“Surely not …”

A middle-aged woman pushed her way through the crowd. “Tell us, Annie! Tell us who yer visitors are.”

Visitors? Marjory turned to face them. Do they not know me at all? When Elisabeth slipped an arm round her waist, Marjory leaned into her, grateful for her height and her strength. Aye, and her courage.

“These are my cousins,” Anne said loudly enough that all present might hear. “Marjory Kerr, returned from Edinburgh with her daughter-in-law Elisabeth Kerr.”

Exclamations rang through the kirk. “Not Lady Kerr?” an older woman cried, distress written across her wrinkled features. “But, madam, where are your lads? Where are Donald and Andrew?”

Marjory recognized her at once. “Miss Cranston!” She stretched out her hands toward the former governess who’d once cared for the Kerrs’ young sons. “Can it be you?”

“Aye!” Elspeth Cranston hurried forward and briefly clasped her hands in return. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, peering intently at Marjory. “Has something happened, milady? You do not seem … yourself.”

A murmur of agreement moved through the onlookers as they drew closer.

When Marjory looked up, they were no longer strangers. Here was Martha Ballantyne, who’d oft come to Tweedsford for an afternoon of whist. Behind her stood Douglas Park, with his somber expression and treble chins. Charles Hogg in the next pew had tutored her sons in Latin. Another whist partner, Sarah Chisholm of Broadmeadows, stood nearby, her black hair as thick as a wool bonnet, while John Curror of Whitmuir Hall tarried close behind her.

One after another the townsfolk urged her to speak, calling out to her.

“Whatsomever has happened?”

“Why’ve ye come hame?”

“Whaur are yer sons?”

Marjory’s mouth trembled. Nae, her whole body shook while she struggled to find the right words. “I am not … as you remember me,” she finally said, her voice strained to the breaking point. “When I departed Selkirk, I had a family.” She held out her empty hands. “Now I have nothing.”

She bowed her head as a wave of anguish washed over her. Help me, please help me. Had she not realized this day would come, when all of Selkirk would learn the truth? Once their murmurings finally ebbed, Marjory said what she must. “My husband died seven years ago. But my sons … my dear sons died in January. On Falkirk Muir.”

“Nae!” Elspeth Cranston fell back a step, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Not the Jacobite battle?” She looked round as if seeking others’ counsel. “Forgive us, but … we’d not heard of your loss.”

Out of the ensuing silence came a gruff voice. “Yer lads bore arms for King George, aye?”

“They’re Kerrs,” another answered. “Wha else would they fight for?”

Marjory looked round, her vision blurring. Must she confess the rest? Or could she tell Reverend Brown in private and let word travel on its own? Nae, there was no honor in that. The Almighty had not brought her home so she might hide.

Thou art with me. Aye, she was certain of it.

Marjory stood taller, lifting her head not with pride but with confidence. “My sons fought for a cause they believed in,” she said as bravely as she could. “Prince Charlie’s cause, the Stuart cause. Call it what you like, my sons embraced it. And died for it.”

A collective gasp filled the sanctuary. Then the shouting began. She’d heard all the words before. Rebels. Jacobites. Traitors.

When their angry retorts threatened to drown her response, she held up her hands, praying her voice might remain strong and her courage fast. “The king agrees with you,” she assured the crowd, bringing their tirade to a swift end. “On Monday last my late son Donald was declared attainted. Our family title was revoked. And Tweedsford was forfeited to the Crown.”

If the walls had toppled onto them, the congregation could not have looked more shocked.

All held their tongues but one. “Noo ye’re not so high and michty, are ye, Mistress Kerr?”

“I am not,” she told the young man who glared at her beneath the brim of his dirty cap.

She knew it was not King George who’d humbled her. Nae, it was the One who loved her.

With tears spilling down her cheeks, Marjory lifted his sacred words to the farthest reaches of the sanctuary. “The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away.” She swallowed her pride, her fear, her shame. “Blessed be the name of the LORD.”