Mine Is the Night A Novel

Seventy-Nine

And half of the world a bridegroom is

And half of the world a bride.

SIR WILLIAM WATSON



weedsford?” Marjory could hardly say the word. “But how did … What of … Nae, it cannot be!”

Yet here was her daughter-in-law promising it was true. And the most generous man she’d ever known insisting the lease was signed and could not be revoked.

Marjory clung to Neil’s arm for support and peered through the door into the entrance hall, hoping she might spy a chair, a bench, a footstool—anything to prevent her from fainting on the spot. “Mr. Gibson—”

“This way, Leddy Kerr.” He steered her firmly into the house and located a comfortable chair within seconds. The man truly was a marvel.

Once seated, she bade him to come closer, then confided, “I’m not certain how I feel about our neighbors learning of his lordship’s provision. Though I suppose they would discover the source soon enough, wouldn’t they?”

Neil’s expression was more somber than usual. “ ’Tis the provision itself that concerns me,” he admitted. “How am I to hold up my head as yer husband whan anither man has paid for the hoose we live in?”

Marjory begged the Lord for a swift answer. “If the rent is already paid, and we’ve yet to marry, it would count as one of my few possessions, all of which are entirely yours once we’re wed.” That seemed to satisfy him, and surely it was true. “Anyway, dear Neil, you’ve lived there before. ’Twill be like going home.” She curled her hand round his elbow, already growing accustomed to the shape and feel of him. “This time, though, you’ll be the master of Tweedsford and not its head servant.”

His expression lightened considerably as he cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “And how will that be different whan I’ll still be serving ye?”

She offered him a coy smile. “For one thing, you’ll be sleeping in the master bedroom.”

Her words had precisely the effect she’d intended: Neil Gibson was smiling broadly.


“Bess, we cannot plan two weddings at once.” Sitting at their dining room table, Marjory frowned at the twin lists of duties to be accomplished, giving serious thought to taking up fretting again. “With my small ceremony on the nineteenth and your large one on the twentieth …” She threw up her hands, dripping ink onto the paper in the process. “However will we manage?”

Elisabeth reached for her own list and dusted it with sand. “I shall give this to Mrs. Pringle. Nothing would please her more than overseeing my wedding. All I care about is standing before the bride stool with the man I love by my side.”

Marjory searched her heart and realized she felt quite the same. When did such a happy occasion become so complicated? She tore her paper in half.

“My guest list will be as follows,” Marjory declared. “Annie and Michael Dalgliesh, Lord Buchanan, and you, dear Bess. My gown will be the one I’m wearing, my flowers will be a single damask rose from Bell Hill’s garden, if his lordship will not object, and the wedding supper will be a pot of cock-a-leekie soup, simmering on the hearth while Mr. Gibson and I speak our vows at the manse. To be served with bread, I suppose. And cheese.”

Elisabeth laughed. “And cakes.”

“Naturally.” Marjory found herself warming to the idea. Small, quiet, simple. “This is, after all, my second wedding.”

“Mine too,” Elisabeth reminded her, taking her hand. “You are quite certain—”

“Elisabeth Kerr,” she said rather pointedly, “you were a wonderful wife to my son. Though I did not realize it at the time, ’tis very clear to me now. You did everything in your power to please him. And honored him when he did not honor you. I could not be …” Marjory’s throat tightened. “I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter. You deserve every happiness.”

Elisabeth looked up, her heart in her eyes. “I will never forget Donald.”

“Nor I. How could we?” Marjory swallowed. “No matter how abominably he behaved, Donald will always be my first son. And your first husband.” She dried her eyes with the hem of her apron, then sniffed. “Now, that is one thing I refuse to have at my wedding: tears.”


Marjory could not look at Anne.

Elisabeth was worse.

’Twas a miracle the manse was not flooded, so copious was their weeping. Happy tears, to be sure, but still tears. Even the weather had confounded Marjory’s wishes, with a steady rain that began at daybreak, then continued all through the Sabbath morning at kirk and well into the afternoon.

Neil, at least, was dry-eyed and looking more handsome than ever in his silvery blue coat, waistcoat, and trousers—a wedding gift from the Dalglieshes. Whatever his upbringing, Neil Gibson was a true gentleman. Now he looked the part.

As for Elisabeth, she’d insisted on stitching a new black gown for her—not of wool but of watered silk—with sufficient ruffles and bows to please her without raising too many eyebrows on Kirk Wynd. Since her daughter-in-law would soon become Lady Elisabeth, Marjory agreed such a gown might prove useful on special occasions at Bell Hill.

Tomorrow’s wedding, for example.

Marjory glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Michael Dalgliesh and Lord Buchanan contributing fresh handkerchiefs to the cause. Perhaps by the time the ceremony began and she spoke her vows, not a sniffle would be heard from the seats behind her. Because truly, Marjory could not hold out much longer.

“How d’ye like the bride stool?” Neil asked her, patting the small wooden pew used only for weddings. “The auld one was a sorry thing.”

“You made this?” She touched the smoothly planed wood, the neatly matched joints. “I believe you are becoming quite a carpenter, Neil Gibson.”

When he smiled, eyes twinkling, Neil looked ten years younger. “Syne ye mentioned it, I wonder if we might spend some o’ yer pounds—”

“Our pounds.”

“Aye, oor pounds, on fine wood. Oak or mahogany or whatsomever ye like. I’ve a mind to make a few pieces o’ furniture. For the hoose, ye ken.”

Marjory saw through his request. If Neil could work with his hands, if he could make something that pleased her, he would feel he was doing his part.

“You clever man,” she told him. “I cannot wait to see what you’ll make first.”

“Och, I’ve already started it,” he said, “which ye’ll see whan we move there come Martinmas.”

Marjory blushed, quite certain she knew what he’d spent the last fortnight designing.

At last the reverend joined them, his black robe flapping round his legs. “Shall we begin?”

Neil stood, bringing Marjory up with him, keeping her close by his side.

She dared not turn to him. Already her eyes were growing moist.

Reverend Brown looked about the drawing room as if surprised to see so few in attendance. “Very well, then. First, is there any impediment to this marriage?”

“None,” the four witnesses said in unison, then grinned at one another like the children they were. Well, not children perhaps, but certainly young.

Reverend Brown spoke of marriage, of its purpose, of its sacredness, then asked for the rings to be produced.

Neil held out a delicate silver band, waiting for Marjory to offer up her hand.

She was embarrassed to find it trembling. Badly.

But Neil was unflappable. He took her hand, calming her at once, then slipped the ring over her finger, stopping at her knuckle, prepared to speak his vows.

The minister said, “Do you, Neil Gibson, take this woman, Marjory Nesbitt Kerr, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Neil looked down at her, smiling. And then he seemed to disappear from view as tears pooled in her eyes. Marjory had no choice but to tip her chin and let them cascade down her cheeks. When she looked up, she could see him again. And fell in love with him again.

Beloved. Aye, he was surely that.

Neil’s voice was steady, yet thick with emotion. “Even so, I take her afore God and in the presence o’ his people.” With that, he gently pushed the ring in place.

I am yours, Neil. Truly yours.

Reverend Brown turned to her and asked the same question he’d surely asked hundreds of brides. But on this day, she was the one to answer.

“And do you, Marjory Nesbitt Kerr, take this man, Neil Gibson, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She slipped a thick silver band, newly purchased, onto his ring finger and looked into his eyes, amazed to find she could speak. “Even so, I take him before God and in the presence of his people.”

You are mine, Neil. Truly mine.

Marjory did not remember what else the minister said, though he spoke at length and all of it was good and right. What she remembered was the warm hand that held hers and the tender kiss that followed at the door of the manse, when the rain stopped and the sun shone and Neil Gibson swept her into his embrace.