Mine Is the Night A Novel

Seventy-Two

Uncertainty and expectation

are joys of life.

WILLIAM CONGREVE



arjory clutched the letter in her hand, having read it so many times the creases were beginning to wear. But what else was there to do when she could not sleep? The box bed felt very strange indeed, large and solid compared to the narrow hurlie bed she’d known for months. And the house was entirely too empty without her cousin or daughter-in-law to keep her company.

Anne was happily settled in her new home.

As for Elisabeth, Marjory was beside herself with worry.

You must speak with him in private. She’d not given her daughter-in-law much choice in the matter. Had she asked too much of Elisabeth? Too much of his lordship? Their warm regard for each other was clear. Never more so than in the drawing room last evening when they’d danced together for hours. With Elisabeth’s mourning ended, however prematurely, Marjory felt certain Lord Buchanan would make her his wife.

Please, Admiral. ’Tis God’s will, I am certain of it.

With a sigh Marjory unfolded Neil’s letter once more, if only to cheer her. He’d pressed it into her hand at last evening’s Michaelmas feast. “Dinna read it ’til ye’re hame,” he’d insisted.

Amid the excitement of helping Elisabeth dress, Marjory had all but forgotten his missive until Neil had delivered her to Halliwell’s Close sometime after midnight and reminded her of the letter in the pocket of her gown. “I vowed to surprise ye with a praisent at Michaelmas, aye?”

“You did,” she’d agreed, pulling out the letter, suddenly curious.

“Not ’til I’m gane,” he’d cautioned her, kissing her cheek. Well, both cheeks. Her brow too. Each one felt like a promise of things to come. And the words Neil had spoken! “I will aye want ye by my side,” after the first gentle kiss. “I will aye need ye in my life,” after the second. Then, “I will aye luve ye, Leddy Kerr.”

Naturally, she’d returned the favor. With her own kisses. And her own words.

The memory of their parting made her sigh even now, hours later. Lingering at the door like two young lovers. Whispering endearments old as time yet fresh as spring water in their mouths. Holding hands in the quiet sanctuary of her wee house.

Marjory read his letter once more, though she already knew every word by heart.

To Lady Marjory Kerr

Halliwell’s Close, Selkirkshire

Monday, 29 September 1746

My Beloved Marjory:

She swallowed, hard. Beloved. Lord John had never addressed her so ardently. Dear, aye, but never Beloved.

I hope you will be pleased to find this letter written in my hand.

Pleased? Marjory had burst into tears.

Of all the ways Neil might have blessed her, honored her, this was the finest: he’d spent the summer learning to read and to write, keeping it a secret until now, until he was ready. My sweet Neil. She pictured him sitting at Reverend Brown’s parlor table, laboring over each letter, each word.

I wished to be more worthy of you, milady. And so I asked the minister to teach me, which he kindly did.

Clearly Reverend Brown was more supportive of their courtship than he’d once put forth. Else why would he have helped Neil Gibson become a literate man, lifting him to a higher station, opening the world of books to him?

Oh, Neil, ’tis only the beginning.

Marjory vowed to be nicer—nae, much nicer—to the minister henceforth.

I pray each day for the Almighty to provide a larger income so I might ask for your hand in marriage. Until that day comes, my heart is yours to keep.

And mine is yours. Marjory touched his signature, neatly drawn.

Helen Edgar, their housekeeper at Milne Square, would be so proud of her old friend. Even Janet, her nigh-forgotten daughter-in-law, might have applauded Gibson’s efforts. And Elisabeth would be ecstatic.

Marjory looked toward the window. Hurry home, lass. The sky was already growing lighter, a warm pink nudging the midnight blue toward the western horizon.

When she heard footsteps on the cobblestones below, she swept aside Anne’s lace-trimmed curtains. Bess! Marjory tucked Gibson’s letter in her hanging pocket for safekeeping, then flung open the door and stood at the top of the stair, anxious to greet her daughter-in-law. Whatever had happened last night at Bell Hill, breakfast would wait.

Elisabeth opened the door from the close, then looked up. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Marjory waved her up impatiently. “I’ve not slept all night, worrying about you.” She pulled her inside, then closed the door, noting her daughter-in-law’s damp wool cape, her wrinkled satin gown, her muddy leather shoes, and the mourning gown draped over her arm. “So,” Marjory began, all but crowing, “who are you, then? The next Lady Buchanan?”

A look of surprise lit Elisabeth’s features. “I’d hardly considered it, but, aye, if we marry, I would bear the title ‘Lady’ again.”

“If you marry?” Marjory’s breath caught. “Please do not tell me things ended badly.”

“Nothing has ended. Not yet.” Elisabeth laid aside her satin reticule, then pulled off her gloves. “If there’s hot water in the kettle, I could do with some tea.”

Marjory had never prepared tea with such haste. A minute later they were seated at the oval table, a plate of oatcakes and cheese before them, teacups in hand. Marjory held hers to keep warm, not bothering to take a sip. “Tell me everything,” she begged.

Elisabeth patiently described her night in Lord Buchanan’s study, though on occasion Marjory sensed her daughter-in-law skipping over a few details. When she came to the pardon his lordship intended to seek from the king, Marjory gripped her hands. “Can this be true, Bess?”

“No more fear of the dragoons,” Elisabeth assured her. “Nor of Cumberland or the tolbooth or the gallows.”

Marjory could barely take it all in. “ ’Twas the Lord’s plan all along,” she breathed.

“Aye.” Elisabeth touched her hand. “Of course, you will be pardoned as well, which should relieve Gibson immensely.”

“Oh!” Marjory fished out his letter, ashamed at having forgotten. “I have something you must see, Bess.” She placed it in her daughter-in-law’s hands and watched her closely as she read.

“Gibson wrote this?” Elisabeth stared at the paper. “Marjory, ’tis wonderful!”

She smiled, proud as any wife. “His hand is quite accomplished.”

“Nae, I mean ’tis wonderful to know money is all that prevents you and Gibson from marrying.”

Marjory was taken aback. “How can that be good news?”

“Because of this.” Elisabeth reached for her discarded reticule and tugged open the drawstring. “Lord Buchanan filled this just before we left Bell Hill.”

Marjory watched a stream of bank notes spill onto their battered dining table. “The admiral gave these to you?”

“Nae, he gave them to you. His lordship clearly stipulated, ‘For your mother-in-law.’ Is it very much?”

Marjory began to count, her hands shaking. “One hundred pounds. Two hundred. Oh, Bess, this one is five hundred …” Speechless, she laid down each bank note, one after another, never losing track of the number, however unfathomable.

When she finished, Marjory looked up. “ ’Tis fifteen hundred pounds.”

Elisabeth gasped. “I had no idea—”

“But God did. Aye, he most certainly did.”

Marjory could not stem the tears that flowed from her eyes or the joy that poured from her heart. You have dealt kindly with me after all, Lord. You have, you have! I came home empty, and you filled me to overflowing.

Dazed at his boundless provision, Marjory straightened the Royal Bank notes into neat stacks, trying to make sense of it all. But there was nothing sensible about so vast a sum. And this sum in particular. “Bess, did I ever tell you how much I gave to the Jacobite cause?”

“I know ’twas a great deal.”

Marjory lightly touched each stack, her fingertips still wet with tears. “Fifteen hundred pounds.”

“Fifteen hundred …” Elisabeth stared at the table full of money. “Is it possible Lord Buchanan knew that?”

Marjory turned to her. “Let me ask you this. Did he count the notes, as I did just now?”

“Nae,” Elisabeth admitted. “ ’Twas dark in his study.”

“Then this gift is from the Lord.” Marjory was more certain than ever. “Though it passed through the admiral’s hands, it came from above.”

Marjory quietly put the bank notes in the only safe place she could think of: rolled inside a stocking at the bottom of her trunk. She need not worry about paying for her lodgings now. Or shopping at market. Or offering her tithe.

“I wonder …” Elisabeth quickly crossed the room to join her. “I wonder if Gibson might agree on the source of this blessing. Because if he did …, oh, Marjory, if he did see this as a gift from God …”

“We could marry,” Marjory realized, her mouth falling open.

Elisabeth laughed. “Aye, you could. At once.”

Marjory threw her arms round her clever daughter-in-law for a brief hug. “Oh, but, Bess, Gibson must come to that conclusion himself. I would never want him to suffer a moment’s doubt.”

“Can you live on such a sum?”

Marjory clapped her hands like a child at an entertainment. “At our age? Neil Gibson and I could live out the rest of our days in this fine little house, dine on meat and broth daily, and still have money left to share with grandchildren.” She glanced at Elisabeth. “Though I suppose they will not truly be my grandchildren—”

“Any babe I might ever bear shall be nestled in your arms,” Elisabeth assured her. “Though I have no promise of that, do I? Not unless the king is merciful.”

“Blessings come from the Lord, not men,” Marjory insisted. “Do not fret, my dear. His lordship will not rest until this matter is settled. Is he not heading north this very day?”

“He is.” She sighed. “And you are right.”

Thinking to find some worthwhile diversion for her, Marjory eyed Elisabeth’s black gown, heaped on the chair. “You have an important matter to attend to as well, Bess. Since you’re no longer in mourning, your attire must reflect that. What say you to adding a bit of trim round the neckline? I know a fine lace maker in town.”

“An excellent plan,” Elisabeth agreed, “though I thought I was the dressmaker.”

“Not for long,” Marjory reminded her.

“True. Lord Buchanan informed me that my services are no longer needed at Bell Hill.”

“You see? You’ll be Lady Buchanan well before Hallowmas Eve.” Marjory shook out the black gown and laid it across the hurlie bed. “Did his lordship say whom he’ll be meeting with in Edinburgh?”

Their tea grown cold, Elisabeth began to clear the table. “He didn’t mention a name. Only that he was the king’s representative in the capital.”

“Nae!” Marjory dropped onto the hurlie bed, crushing Elisabeth’s mourning gown. “Bess, that can only be one person. ’Tis the Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle, General Lord Mark Kerr.”