Mine Is the Night A Novel

Sixty-Six

Sowe Carrets in your Gardens,

and humbly praise God for them,

as for a singular and great blessing.

RICHARD GARDINER



arjory blinked at Elisabeth. “We’re to pick carrots? On the Sabbath?”

Her daughter-in-law laughed, slipping on a pair of tattered gloves suitable only for gardening. “If Mrs. Thorburn will not mind.”

“And if Reverend Brown will not notice,” Marjory added rather sternly.

Once Elisabeth convinced her the Michaelmas Eve tradition was embraced by Highland ministers of old and would in no way dishonor the Lord, Marjory gave in. “But have not all the root vegetables been harvested by now?”

“There’s always a stray or two among the weeds, waiting to be yanked free.” Clasping Marjory by the hand, Elisabeth pulled her out of the upholstered chair.

“Now I feel like a carrot,” Marjory chided her. Since they had no proper spade for digging, she dropped a wooden fork into her apron pocket, then led the way down the stair, feeling rather ridiculous. Still, if it pleased Elisabeth, what harm was there?

The afternoon sky was pale gray with a thin layer of clouds stretched from east to west. Marjory did not sense rain in the air, though it felt cooler than when they’d hurried off to kirk that morning. She’d thrown a cape over her shoulders for their outing and was grateful for it now as they headed for Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.

“Not much here, I’m afraid.” Marjory treaded gently round the vegetable beds, looking for the telltale foliage: a frothy burst of tiny green leaves.

“Ah.” Elisabeth crouched down, then began tugging at a neglected carrot, grasping it with both hands. “ ’Tis a custom meant to assure a woman will have children,” she said, then smiled as an enormous carrot was unearthed. “See? Chubby as a wee bairn.”

Marjory eyed her lumpy harvest. “Is such a thing ill luck or good?”

“Very good,” Elisabeth assured her, “although children are a gift of the Lord and not of the garden.”

Now that she understood the purpose, Marjory ceased her digging. “Bess, I’m far too old to bear a child.”

“But the perfect age to help raise one someday,” her daughter-in-law insisted. “Come, see what your bit of foliage yields.”

Wanting to be agreeable, Marjory dug and yanked and dug some more until a forked root with not one but two sturdy carrots broke through the soil. They could represent Donald and Andrew, Marjory supposed. Or would she hold Elisabeth’s children when the time came?

She glanced at her daughter-in-law, bursting with health and vigor. Aye, if Elisabeth were to remarry, she might well bear a child or two, though she’d not conceived during the years she was married to Donald. Still, Marjory could not find fault with Elisabeth. Not after all the lass had done to care for her, provide for her. Nor could she blame the Almighty, who knew best in such things—nae, in all things.

Michaelmas carrots in hand, including one for Anne to present to Michael, Elisabeth planted pennies in the soil for Mrs. Thorburn’s children to discover, then walked Marjory home, chanting a rhyme that made them both laugh.

It is myself that has the carrot.

Whoever he be

that would win it from me.

“I daresay Lord Buchanan would gladly claim your carrot,” Marjory observed.

“Unless Rosalind Murray offers him one first.” Elisabeth placed their harvest on the dining room table, her smile fading. “The Murrays are on his lordship’s guest list for tomorrow night’s Michaelmas feast. I can only imagine the gown Rosalind will wear. And the jewels. And the fine perfume.”

Marjory heard the resignation in her daughter-in-law’s voice and hastened to assure her, “Lord Buchanan is not a gentleman whose head is turned by pretty clothes.”

Elisabeth lifted her cape from her shoulders. “But Rosalind is quite clever and has traveled the Continent.”

“Elisabeth Kerr,” Marjory chided her, “I’ve never met a lass more clever than you. Now suppose we get on with Michaelmas Eve and leave Michaelmas Night in God’s hands, aye?”

“Very well.” Elisabeth tied on an apron. “To our bannock, then.”

She moistened ground oatmeal with ewe’s milk, then added berries, seeds, and wild honey, and formed it into a circle. “For eternity,” she explained before beginning work on two smaller bannocks. “These are to honor the loved ones we’ve lost since Michaelmas last. Come, Marjory, and help me prepare the dough as we say their names.”

Marjory pressed her hands into the mealy mixture. “Donald,” she whispered, kneading the dough as she remembered the babe, the lad, the young man, the gentleman whom she’d loved almost more than her own husband. Her throat tightened further as she named aloud her second son. “Andrew,” she said, thinking of her little soldier marching about the nursery, then round Tweedsford’s gardens, then up and down the streets of Edinburgh, and finally across the battlefield at Falkirk. Elisabeth spoke their names with her, kneaded the dough beside her, and helped her give them each a unique shape.

“I am not sure I can eat them,” Marjory confessed.

“Not to worry,” Elisabeth said, brushing the flour from her hands. “They’re meant to be given to the poor who have no bread of their own.”

While the bannocks browned on the hearth, Marjory prepared a rich mutton broth for supper, eying their fat carrots. When she asked Elisabeth if the vegetables might be added to her soup pot, the answer was swift and sure.

“Nae!” Elisabeth pretended to be shocked. “ ’Tis a Michaelmas gift for your beloved.”

A carrot? Marjory hid her smile. Won’t Gibson be delighted?

Under Elisabeth’s watchful eye, Marjory coated their Michaelmas bannock with a caudle of flour and cream, eggs and sugar. “Three times,” Elisabeth said, “for Father, Son, and Spirit.”

After the bannock was placed back on the fire to finish baking, Elisabeth washed her hands, then slipped on her cape. “I am off to Mr. Riddell’s stables to be certain Belda is safe.”

“Safe?” Marjory echoed. “Why would you worry about a mare?”

“ ’Tis Michaelmas Eve,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Anything might happen, especially where horses are concerned.”

She was gone before Marjory could offer any objection. Not that she would have. The stables were a two-minute walk up Kirk Wynd. If Elisabeth would sleep better knowing Lord Buchanan’s mare was secure, Marjory was happy for her to go.

But the house was suddenly very quiet, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts.

Marjory walked from one corner to the other, as she had on the night they’d arrived, when she’d measured Anne’s small house and fretted over their living arrangements. We shall all live in one room. Aye, so they had.

Come Martinmas, when accounts were settled, the rent for this house would become Marjory’s responsibility. Until then she would make a home for Elisabeth, guarding her from the Rob MacPhersons of the world.

Wasn’t that what Donald would have wanted?

Marjory sank onto the upholstered chair, no longer sure what her late son expected of her. He’d played the part of the doting heir, all the while sullying their family’s name in the closes and wynds of Edinburgh. He’d also broken his wife’s heart, reaching for other women who couldn’t hold a candle to her. Yet when he’d departed Edinburgh, Lord Donald had made one wish quite clear: May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?

Marjory stared at the dying coals in the hearth. What can I do for her, Lord? How may I see her well cared for?

The answer rose in her heart like the sun. Let her marry Lord Buchanan now.

“Aye,” she breathed into the quiet room.

What possible advantage could there be to waiting until January? Out of sheer necessity young widows often remarried mere months after losing their husbands. Such haste was frowned upon only in the very highest levels of society. And hadn’t Saint Paul himself said of widows, “Let them marry”?

“Then let them marry,” Marjory said aloud. There were no impediments she could think of. Lord Buchanan was rich and surely desirous of a family. Elisabeth was beautiful and in need of a husband.

The only thing required was a proposal. Gentleman that he was, Lord Buchanan would never cut short Elisabeth’s time of mourning. But she could.

And stop Rosalind Murray in her tracks.

Marjory couldn’t bear to sit, so eager was she to spill out her plans. She darted to the window, then the hearth, then the door. Might she seek out her daughter-in-law returning from the stables? Nae, such details could never be discussed on the street. No one must know until the deed was done, lest Lord Buchanan refuse Elisabeth.

Marjory blanched at the very idea. Nae, nae, he loves her. She was certain of it.

Moments later when Elisabeth crossed the threshold, Marjory practically dragged her to a chair beside the dining table and plunked her down without ceremony.

“Now then, Bess,” she said, sitting across from her, “it is time you found a home of your own.”

Elisabeth looked round. “But this is our home.”

“More than a home,” Marjory said firmly. “A husband.”

Her eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean? I cannot think of marriage when I am in mourning—”

“Listen to me, Bess.” Marjory clasped her daughter-in-law’s hands in hers. “You have more than honored my son’s memory these many months.”

“Aye, but, Marjory—”

“We must look to your future now. God has surely brought Lord Buchanan into your life for a reason.”

“Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth tried to stand, but Marjory held her in place. “Dearest, he has not asked for my hand—”

“Only because he wishes to honor the rules of society.”

Elisabeth shook her head. “I believe he means to honor you.”

“Well, then.” Marjory released her and sat back, triumphant. “If I am the only impediment, you have my permission to marry as soon as ever the banns may be read in the kirk three Sabbaths in a row.”

Elisabeth shook her head, disbelief written across her features. “How can I tell Lord Buchanan such a thing without seeming presumptuous? The man has never even mentioned marriage.”

Marjory couldn’t keep from smiling. “That is why you must be the one to broach the subject.”