Mine Is the Night A Novel

Eight

The secret wound still lives

within the breast.

VIRGIL



lisabeth and the others were nearing the arched entranceway of the kirk when a woman in a striking blue gown swept into view, her ebony hair beautifully styled and her manner regal.

Marjory greeted her at once. “Lady Murray! What a pleasure to see you after all these years.”

The gentlewoman slowly turned and regarded Marjory with a look of disdain. “I cannot say I feel the same. After so bold a confession this morn you will be fortunate if anyone of quality receives you.”

Seeing the pain reflected in Marjory’s eyes, Elisabeth hastened to defend her mother-in-law. “But, madam—”

Lady Murray waved her hand dismissively. “Even so, I suppose I could ask Sir John if he might allow you to call on us at Philiphaugh.”

Marjory straightened her shoulders. “Do not trouble yourself, Lady Murray,” she said evenly. “I have other friends in Selkirk, not to mention the excellent society of my daughter-in-law Elisabeth Kerr and cousin Anne Kerr.”

Elisabeth curtsied briefly, hiding her smile. Well done, Marjory.

Deftly put in her place, Lady Murray gave a ladylike shrug. “You know, Mrs. Kerr, you’re not the only person of note moving to Selkirk this spring. Have you heard of Lord Jack Buchanan?”

Marjory’s brow creased. “I cannot say that I have—”

“Perhaps not, since he is hardly one of your Jacobite rebels,” Lady Murray said with a sniff. “Lord Buchanan served under Admiral Anson of the HMS Centurion when he circumnavigated the globe. They fought the Spaniards and captured a fortune in gold. Surely you followed the Centurion’s triumphant return in ’forty-four?”

“The broadsheets wrote of little else that summer,” Elisabeth agreed.

“And no wonder! Thirty-two wagons loaded with treasure chests, delivered to the Tower of London.” Her ladyship fluttered her silk fan as if overcome by the thought of such riches. “Lord Buchanan is expected in a fortnight or two. Wealthy as Croesus, they say. An admiral now—and unmarried.” She glanced over her shoulder, nodding at a pair of young ladies standing by the door. “Our Clara is too young for him, of course, but Admiral Buchanan would make a fine match for our lovely Rosalind. She’ll reach her majority next spring.”

Elisabeth took note of the older daughter’s glossy black hair and ivory skin, her elegant attire and graceful movements. If this admiral was seeking a wife, Rosalind Murray of Philiphaugh appeared a worthy choice. “But what would bring a British naval officer this far inland?”

“Property.” Lady Murray closed her fan with a snap. “I imagine His Majesty rewarded the admiral’s efforts with a handsome estate in Selkirkshire.”

Elisabeth watched the color drain from her mother-in-law’s face. Not Tweedsford, Lord. Not so soon.

“I’ve tarried here long enough.” Lady Murray gathered her skirts in hand. “Sir John remained at home this morn. Not feeling well, he said. I’d best see to him.” She whirled round and was gone with a whisper of silk.

Elisabeth quietly took her mother-in-law’s arm, alarmed at her vacant expression.

“A handsome estate in Selkirkshire.” Marjory’s voice was thin, devoid of emotion. “King George has awarded this admiral my home. He has given him Tweedsford.”

“We cannot be sure,” Elisabeth said, realizing it was cold comfort. “Wouldn’t Lady Murray have named the property if that were so?”

“You do not know Eleanora Murray.” Marjory looked up, resignation in her eyes. “Her ladyship delights in meting out information when and how it suits her, caring little how it may wound others.”

Elisabeth glanced at Anne and saw her nodding absently. Lady Murray, it seemed, was no longer a true friend to Marjory, if indeed she ever was.

“You’ve endured quite enough this Sabbath morn,” Elisabeth told her mother-in-law, moving forward. “A light meal and a long nap are in order. If visitors come knocking, I shall see they venture no farther than the foot of the stair.”

A soft breeze beckoned the women across the stone threshold and onto the grassy knoll of the kirkyard. The mist was gone, and a wash of pale yellow bathed the landscape. Elisabeth paused to take in her new surroundings. Gently shaped hills undulated round the countryside, covered in the first grass of the season, a bright spring green, and the forest edging the kirkyard was thick with oak and elm, birch and pine, hazel and willow. ’Twas nothing like the vast, treeless moors and glens of the Highlands. Would she ever feel at home here?

“We can use the pend this time,” Anne said, then led them through the narrow passageway to Kirk Wynd. A minute’s walk downhill and they were in Halliwell’s Close again.

Early afternoon light poured into the small house, warming the air. Anne served their dinner without a word, placing hot tea and cold mutton at each of their places. Marjory had barely finished her meal before she crawled into the hurlie bed with a soft moan. She quickly fell asleep, the sound of her steady breathing an undercurrent flowing through their quiet lodgings.

Elisabeth eyed her leather trunk. “I should unpack my few belongings. That is, if you’ll not object …”

Anne responded with a faint shrug. “I cannot turn you out. Where else could you stay?”

Nowhere. How hard that was to admit! “ ’Twill not always be thus,” Elisabeth promised, for her own benefit as well as Anne’s.

Kneeling beside the trunk, Elisabeth lifted out a wrinkled linen chemise and several pairs of stockings, all of which required laundering, a task for Monday morning. She owned no jewelry, no silk fans, no fine hats, only a pair of brocade shoes and a handful of accessories. An ivory comb to tuck in her curls and the hairbrush she’d used that morning found a place on the washstand, then she hung her gray wool cape on a hook by the door.

All that remained was a single gown suitable for evening, though not for a widow.

“Lovely,” Anne murmured, peering over her shoulder.

Elisabeth held up the rich, lavender-colored satin adorned with silk gauze and gold sequins. “A gift from my late husband.”

Anne’s breath caught. “Brussels lace?” She reverently touched the broad, creamy swath that draped from each elbow-length sleeve. “You cannot imagine the months women spent creating this.”

Elisabeth watched Anne examine the delicate needlework, fingers lightly caressing the tiny buttonhole stitches that formed each lacy flower and stem. “You know something of the craft?”

Anne lifted her head. “Did I not tell you? I am a lace maker.” She gestured toward the sewing table between the upholstered chairs. “ ’Tis how I support myself. If you open the drawer, you’ll find some of my work.”

For a dressmaker the invitation was irresistible. Elisabeth eased the silk gown back into her trunk, then moved to the low table and tugged on the drawer. “Oh my.” She lifted out a narrow length of lace in the making, taking care not to disturb the many pins holding it in place. “Such delicate knots! Whatever do you call this?”

“Point de neige,” Anne said in French, kneeling beside her. “The points are meant to look like snow. Not long before my mother died, she gave me her most treasured possession, a Venetian lace collar. Then I bought a pattern book from a chapman, and …” She shrugged.

Elisabeth held Anne’s work up to the light, marveling at the intricate pattern. “Surely the gentry pay you handsomely for your labors.”

“Aye. Lady Murray once purchased several lace-trimmed handkerchiefs and a jabot for Sir John. I lived on that silver for half a year,” Anne told her. “But few in Selkirk can afford such luxury. I depend upon occasional visits from a traveling merchant who purchases my work for a shop in Covent Garden.” She carefully retrieved her lace from Elisabeth and placed it back in the drawer. “Unfortunately, he’s not come through town in a twelvemonth.”

Elisabeth gaped at her. “Annie, however do you manage?”

Her thin-lipped smile did not reach her eyes. “I teach lace making to the daughters of local gentry who can spare a shilling a week.” She stood and began clearing the dining table. “On Tuesday you’ll meet my two pupils, Miss Caldwell and Miss Boyd. Neither of them enjoys needlework, but they’ve kindly not complained to their mothers. At least not yet.”

Elisabeth joined her, collecting the wooden utensils that, by Sabbath law, could not be washed until morning. Two shillings a week? Even in rural Selkirk those coins would be quickly spent. “And yet you served us mutton this noontide.”

Anne turned to meet her gaze. “ ’Tis the one day of the week I have meat.”

Elisabeth glanced in the direction of the hurlie bed, then asked in a low voice, “Might your titled cousins not have provided at least a small income for you?”

Anne was slow to answer. “I was not a close relative of Lord John’s, nor did I travel in the same social circles.” She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “When no one asked for my hand in marriage, Lord John took pity on me and quietly arranged a monthly stipend. Lady Marjory was unaware of his generosity. As she was of many things.”

Elisabeth merely nodded. Three years of living with her mother-in-law had taught her much about the gentry and their willingness to look the other way when it suited them.

Her cousin went on. “The coins were delivered to my door each month by … well, by Lord John’s factor, by …”

“Mr. Laidlaw?”

“Aye.” Color bloomed in Anne’s pale cheeks. “When Lord John died, Mr. Laidlaw came to see me.” She averted her gaze, her discomfort all too apparent. “He said he would continue bringing silver to my door each month if I opened my … if I welcomed his … touch.”

A dreadful silence hung in the air.

Elisabeth reached for her hand. “Annie, I’m so sorry. Had Marjory known—”

“But she should have known.” Her cousin drew away from her, a spark of anger in her pale blue eyes. “Mr. Laidlaw made a habit of tormenting her maidservants. He put his hands where they did not belong and took liberties with any lass who gave in to his advances. Ask Tibbie Cranshaw if you don’t believe me.” Anne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Laidlaw is a profligate of the worst kind. A virtuous woman like you cannot imagine such a creature.”

Elisabeth’s heart sank. Oh, but I can.

“I refused him twice before he left me alone,” Anne said proudly. “No silver is worth such degradation.”

“Nae, it is not.” Elisabeth looked down at the wooden floor, wishing the heaviness inside her might lift. Could no man be trusted?

She seldom dwelled on Donald’s many infidelities and never spoke of them to Marjory. What mother could bear to hear such things? Yet, months after his death, the pain of betrayal lingered and with it a nagging sense of guilt. Perhaps if she’d railed at him, punished him, denied him, her husband might have changed his wanton ways.

Instead, she’d loved him. And forgiven him.

I am more sorry than I can ever say. Aye, Donald was always sorry. What Donald was not was faithful. She could still recall every word on the lover’s note she’d found in his glove and the list of paramours he’d confessed in a letter. Forgive me, lass. For all of it.

She’d done so. But the heartache remained.

Elisabeth gazed at the door, longing for fresh air and an hour’s walk. “What do the kirk elders say if a member of their flock ventures out of doors on a Sabbath afternoon?”

Anne reached for her wool cape. “Nothing is said. Unless they see you.”