Mine Is the Night A Novel

Nine

And as I turn me home,

My shadow walks before.

ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES



arjory woke to find sunlight still filtering through the curtains. She’d napped no more than an hour. The house was quiet, empty. She splashed cool water on her face and dried it with a linen towel, then claimed a sheet of stationery from Elisabeth’s trunk, telling herself it was but one piece of paper and purchased with her late son’s money besides.

Borrowing Anne’s quill pen and ink from the shelf, Marjory settled at the dining table and prayed for a steady hand. This would not be a pleasant letter to compose.

To Mr. Roger Laidlaw, Factor

Tweedsford, Selkirkshire

Sunday, 27 April 1746

Mr. Laidlaw:

How it irked her to write the man’s name! Where was she to begin? No point telling him what he already knew when there was so much else to say.

Marjory inked the quill again.

You have no doubt been told of Tweedsford’s new owner. Therefore, I shall not dwell on that unfortunate subject here.

She had yet to speak aloud this admiral’s name. Committing it to paper would be even more difficult. Another time she might manage it. For now, Mr. Laidlaw’s transgressions were her primary concern.

You have been grossly negligent in your duties, sir, for which you have been well compensated these many years.

Very well compensated. She gripped the quill so tightly the feather shook. Did the man think she would never return to Selkirk and see his carelessness?

This morn I entered the church of my childhood and found the Kerr aisle in an abhorrent state. The wooden pew is decrepit, the floor round it is covered with debris, and the walls are near to collapse.

Marjory lifted her pen, struck by a frightening thought. If Mr. Laidlaw was indifferent toward maintaining the house of the Lord, what of Tweedsford?

Images rose before her. Richly paneled walls. An elegant stair with wooden balustrades. Pink marble chimney pieces. Decorative wrought-iron gates. Terraced gardens to the north …

Enough, Marjory.

Whatever Tweedsford’s condition, it was no longer her home or her responsibility. Her family’s corner of the parish kirk, however, mattered very much.

I shall meet with Reverend Brown this week to discuss what must be done as well as to arrange payment for our annual rent, which I am told is in arrears.

Marjory paused, wondering if she was being too harsh. In truth, the whole of the kirk was ruinous. She would soften her tone, if only to be certain Mr. Laidlaw brought her what she wanted.

Ever since Lady Murray of Philiphaugh had hinted at a new owner for Tweedsford, Marjory had thought of the trivial but dear things she’d left behind. According to General Lord Mark Kerr’s letter on behalf of the king, the contents of her home were to be seized for payment of fines. If she did not speak up now, these cherished objects would be lost to her forever.

She chose her words with care.

Do locate the following personal effects and deliver them to Anne Kerr’s house in Halliwell’s Close as soon as ever you can. I assure you, they would mean nothing to your new owner or to His Majesty. You will be breaking no royal decree in doing me this small favor.

Whether or not that was true, Marjory couldn’t say. But it certainly sounded true.

She made a brief list, describing each item. Lord John’s magnifying glass unintentionally left behind. A small bundle of letters from her late brother, Henry Nesbitt, who at seven-and-twenty was killed while hunting in Ettrick Forest. A wooden toy soldier Gibson had carved for Andrew’s fourth birthday. The Famous History of Thomas Thumb, a chapbook Donald prized when he was a wee lad. And a miniature of Tweedsford she drew as a new bride, done with plumbago on vellum.

Though she wrote as compactly as she could, there was no room for a proper signature. Perhaps that was just as well. Without a title her name carried little weight. She tipped a burning candle over the folded letter, then pressed her thumb into the cooling wax, a poor man’s seal.

Marjory was still wiping the ink from Anne’s quill when the clatter of hoofbeats drew her to the window. A coach-and-four was emptying its passengers into the marketplace. “North!” the coachman bellowed, prompting two new travelers, a valise in each hand, to quicken their steps toward the carriage. Clearly he was bound for Edinburgh and so would pass Tweedsford en route. Might he deliver her letter this very day? Aye, it was the Sabbath, but if he might be willing.

Marjory flew down the stair, her heart racing by the time she reached the coachman, who’d already climbed onto his seat. “Sir!” she called out, holding up her letter as she identified herself. “Would you kindly carry this to Tweedsford?”

He frowned at her, his thick eyebrows drawn tightly together. “I’m certain to be paid?”

“Depend upon it. Mr. Laidlaw or any of the servants at Tweedsford will meet you with coins in hand.” She pictured the small drawer in the lobby table where pennies were kept for that purpose. “It is a matter of great urgency,” she told him, lifting her letter a bit higher.

“Verra weel,” he grumbled, stuffing her correspondence inside his greatcoat. He nodded toward Halliwell’s Close. “I ken whaur ye live, mem. If I dinna get my money—”

“Oh but you will,” Marjory promised him, stepping back.

He’d lifted the reins, preparing to depart, when she suddenly thought of Gibson.

“Wait!” Marjory stepped forward and grabbed the carriage wheel to keep her balance. “Have you seen or heard of a manservant by the name of Neil Gibson? From an innkeeper perhaps? Or another coachman? Mr. Gibson is traveling alone from Edinburgh on foot. Older fellow, silver hair, with fine posture.”

The coachman dragged a hand across his rough beard. “I’ve not seen such a man on the road. Gibson, ye say?”

“Aye. He has served our family for thirty years.” She pointed to Anne’s window. “Our name is Kerr. Should you hear of him …”

“If I do, I’ll get wird to ye whan I’m next in Selkirk,” he said, then called out to his horses, which responded at once, their iron horseshoes striking the cobblestones.

“Godspeed!” she cried, then hastened withindoors, lest one of the kirk elders spy her in the street.

A moment later Marjory stood before the hearth, catching her breath, pleased to have done something of value that afternoon. Odd, though, to be alone in the house. Wherever had Anne and Elisabeth gone? She was too restless to read, too unsettled to pray—the two pastimes deemed suitable for the Sabbath.

Looking round, she realized Elisabeth had unpacked her few belongings. She could do the same, couldn’t she? It wasn’t truly work, like washing dishes or laundering clothes. As long as Anne wouldn’t think her presumptuous, making herself at home, it seemed a worthy task.

Marjory opened her trunk and placed two pairs of white gloves, her embroidered silk reticule, and a simple black hat on the shelf between the windows. She left her spare whalebone stays, cotton stockings, and embroidered nightgown in her trunk for modesty’s sake, then closed the lid, chagrined at how hollow it sounded. She was wearing the only gown she owned, having sold her many satin, silk, brocade, and velvet costumes in Edinburgh, desperate for guineas.

Elisabeth had set the example, selling all her gowns first. Except for the lavender one. The lass might never have an occasion to wear it in Selkirk, but Marjory was glad her daughter-in-law had chosen to keep Donald’s gift. Despite his shameful behavior, Elisabeth had loved him while he lived and honored his memory. No daughter-in-law could be more faithful.

Marjory was tucking a pair of damask shoes beneath her bed when she heard voices on the stair. Elisabeth and Anne came strolling through the door, their cheeks bright with color.

“Tea,” Anne said without preamble, reaching for clean cups from the shelf by the hearth.

Elisabeth smoothed back the wisps of hair curling round her damp brow. “Forgive us for leaving you, Marjory. We’ve been walking in the forest near the kirk. I trust you slept well.”

“And wrote a letter too,” Marjory said, rather proud of herself. “Already on its way to Tweedsford with a short list of personal items I’ve asked Mr. Laidlaw to bring to me.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Mr. Laidlaw?” Elisabeth repeated as if she’d misunderstood.

Anne put down the cups with a dull bang. “You’ve asked that man to come here? To my house?”

“I’m afraid I did.” Marjory stared at them, confused. “Mr. Laidlaw is the only person who can help me retrieve what is rightfully mine before this admiral arrives to claim my property.”

The younger women exchanged glances.

“Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.

“Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”

“Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”

Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”

“I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.

Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”

“Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”

A half hour later Marjory was still seated at table, hands wrapped round an empty cup, her heart heavy.

How could she have been so blind to Mr. Laidlaw’s devious ways? She’d blamed pregnant Tibbie when it was Sir John’s factor who should have been dismissed. Anne, meanwhile, was forced to choose immorality or poverty, all because her wealthy cousin Marjory paid little attention to the needs of others, thinking only of herself.

She sought Anne’s gaze across the table. “I should have known—”

“And I should have been long married by now,” Anne said abruptly. “So then, what shall we do with this reprobate headed our way?”

Marjory pursed her lips. “If Gibson were here, he would stand up to Roger Laidlaw in our stead.”

“Alas, Gibson is not here,” Elisabeth gently reminded her. “We must prepare to address the man ourselves.”

“Indeed we must,” Anne echoed.

They looked at one another across the table, determination reflected on each face.

“Agreed,” Marjory said at last. “When Mr. Laidlaw knocks on our door, he will find three women who are not afraid to face him.”