He shifted his stance. “You are … acquainted with his lordship?”
“Very well acquainted.” Marjory kept the rest to herself: Lord Mark was not only Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle; he was also a distant cousin of her late husband’s and a heartless military man who’d done her family many a disservice. She would not correspond with General Lord Mark Kerr if he were the last man on earth.
“We’ve been delayed long enough,” she said, then turned toward the carriage, sensing her bravado beginning to flag. Never in her life had she spoken so boldly to a man, let alone to a dragoon, though he certainly deserved it. Perhaps the Almighty had rescued them just as Elisabeth had said he would.
Marjory held out her hand, amazed to find she was not trembling. “Mr. Dewar?”
“Aye, mem.” He guided her into the coach and cast a withering glance over his shoulder. “Weel, Captain, ’twould appear ye’ve met yer match.”
The dragoon backed away. “If these women are not Jacobite rebels, I have no use for them.” He gestured to his men. “Find your mounts, lads. We’re finished here.”
A grin spread across Mr. Dewar’s ruddy face. “So ye are.”
As the dragoons scattered, the coachman helped Elisabeth into her seat, then shut the carriage door with a firm bang. “I’ll have ye hame afore dark, leddies. Though I doubt either o’ ye have onie fear o’ the nicht.” He clambered onto his seat, then called out to his pair of horses, while the mounted dragoons galloped down the road, their hoofbeats soon fading.
Both women exhaled and sank back against the worn leather upholstery.
“You were very brave,” Elisabeth said at last.
“Or very foolish.” Marjory pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her damp cheeks. “The next soldiers we meet may not be so easily dissuaded.”
“Indeed.” Elisabeth stretched out her long legs. “Nor so short in stature.”
Marjory glanced at her daughter-in-law’s gown. “Remind me, where are your silk roses?”
“Stitched inside the hem of my petticoat.” A smile played at the corners of Elisabeth’s mouth. “Had the captain examined me further, he’d have found a whole row of Jacobite rosettes. But I spoke the truth when I said I don’t own one.”
Marjory wagged her head. “My clever Bess.”
In years past Marjory had not appreciated her daughter-in-law’s ingenuity, thinking her secretive and untrustworthy. How she’d misjudged her! Though Elisabeth was lowborn and Highland bred, she’d grown into a gentlewoman by any measure, with courage and tenacity to spare. And the lass was only four-and-twenty!
Marjory sighed inwardly. Had she ever been so young?
“ ’Tis good we bade the Hedderwicks farewell in Galashiels,” Elisabeth said. “Had they still been with us, they might have talked themselves into an English prison.”
“Might have?” Marjory scoffed. “I’ve never known two men who spoke more and said less.” The father and son who’d traveled south with them from Edinburgh had boasted endlessly of their Jacobite sympathies, though neither had been willing to bear arms for Prince Charlie.
Unlike my brave sons.
As Marjory tucked her handkerchief inside her sleeve, Donald’s parting words echoed in her heart: May I count on you to look after Elisabeth? Naturally Marjory had promised to do so, never imagining a day when she’d have no home and no gold. How would she look after Elisabeth now?
Gazing upward, Marjory pictured the small, heavy trunk strapped atop the carriage, bearing the massive family Bible with its comforting words: They that seek the LORD shall not want any good thing. Could she trust the Almighty to provide for them? Or would he continue to burden her with further losses? In truth, there was nothing left to take.
When Elisabeth reached out to close the curtain, Marjory stayed her hand. “No need, my dear. The rain has finally stopped.”
Beneath the gray evening sky, a dense mist hovered near the ground, rising and falling like a living creature, giving them brief glimpses of the town above them. Stone houses thatched with straw and sod. Windows lit by candle and hearth.
Elisabeth clasped her hands in her lap, her blue eyes glowing. “I’ve waited a long time to see Selkirk.”
“Too long.” Marjory opened the curtain on her side of the carriage, ushering in what light remained. “Welcome to your new home, Bess.”
Home. Ten years had passed since Marjory had looked upon Selkirk parish. Yet so little had changed. The rolling hills tumbled over one another, forming the grassy banks of the Ettrick Water, swollen from the rain. “More than a thousand souls reside in Selkirk,” she said absently. Would any of them remember her? Extend a hand of greeting? Or, once they heard of her disgrace, would they close their doors, shutting her out of all good society?
Nae. This was her childhood home. Surely she’d find sympathy here.
As they crossed a new stone bridge spanning the Ettrick Water below the mill, Elisabeth gazed up at the sprawling burgh. “ ’Tis larger than I’d imagined. I do hope Gibson had no difficulty locating Cousin Anne.”
“Gibson once lived here,” Marjory reminded her. “He knows where Anne resides.”
Earlier in the week Marjory had sent ahead their butler, Neil Gibson, bearing a letter for their cousin with an urgent request for lodging. Marjory touched the hanging pocket tied round her waist, knowing very well her purse was empty. Hadn’t she bartered her last knife and spoon to purchase their midday meal? They couldn’t pay for a bed at the Forest Inn even for one night. Cousin Anne had to be home, had to make room for them.
The carriage began the precipitous ascent toward the town center, pressing the women back against their seats. Hearing Mr. Dewar urging his team forward, Marjory said, “ ’Tis a long pull for the horses.”
Elisabeth nodded. “And for Gibson. Do you suppose he arrived yesterday?”
“Or this morn.” Marjory felt guiltier with each turn of the carriage wheels. She’d forgotten what a daunting hill this was, especially for a man of sixty after a long journey on foot.
Not many pedestrians were abroad at that hour. A few men in ragged clothes trudged by, walking sticks in hand, dogs at their heels. They glanced in the carriage windows long enough to satisfy their curiosity but didn’t acknowledge the Kerrs, only plodded forward.
“Gibson climbed the steep streets of Edinburgh many times a day,” Elisabeth reminded her. “We’ll find him drinking tea at Cousin Anne’s table. I’m certain of it.”
But Marjory was not at all certain.
Doubts and fears she’d held at bay the whole of their journey suddenly overwhelmed her. What if Anne had turned Gibson away at the door, unwilling to shelter her tainted relatives? What if she’d married after all these years and moved to a different house in town? Or what if—heaven forbid—Anne no longer resided in Selkirkshire?
Nae, nae, nae. Fretting accomplished nothing, Marjory reminded herself. Had she not learned that by now? Determined to put on a brave front, she focused her attention on the changing scenery. “Once through the East Port, we’ll not travel far before we reach the marketplace and Halliwell’s Close.”
Her daughter-in-law inched forward, gripping her seat. “I do hope Anne will be happy to see us.”
“Aye.” Marjory swallowed. Let Gibson be there. Let Anne be home. Let all be well. She sent forth her prayers like winged messengers as she peered ahead through the mist and gloom.
A moment later the coach gingerly maneuvered through the town gate and onto Water Row. Both sides of the main thoroughfare were crowded with houses and shops, just as Marjory remembered. She could still make out the Borderland names painted over each lintel. Tait. Shaw. Elliot. Murray. Scott. Anderson.
Clasping the edge of the open window, she pulled herself closer, each familiar landmark tugging at her heart. Mr. Fletcher, the cabinetmaker, lived in a whitewashed cottage hard by the road. Mr. Fairbairn, the merchant, sold his goods beneath a canvas awning not a stone’s throw from their carriage wheels.
<
br /> Unbidden, a distant memory swept over her. Two fair-haired, blue-eyed lads skipping up Water Row, singing out the various trades in a kind of rhyme: Cooper, souter, tanner, sawyer, dyer, spinner, potter, saddler. Donald, with his long legs and slender frame, leading the way. Andrew, smaller and frailer, trying his best to keep up.
Had it not always been thus, even to the very end?
My beloved Donald. My precious Andrew.
“Oh, Bess.” Marjory sank against the window. “I never …” Her voice broke. “I never imagined I’d return home without my family.”
Three
Fear not for the future,
weep not for the past.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
lisabeth drew her mother-in-law into a gentle embrace. “I know ’tis hard,” she whispered, holding Marjory close. “I know.” Other words of consolation leaped to mind and were discarded. A fine husband lost and then two sons? Only the Almighty could heal so deep a wound.
But you’ve traveled all this way with her, Bess. Are you not her family too?
Elisabeth dismissed her petty complaint before it took root. ’Tis my duty. And my calling. And my joy. She’d spoken those words to Marjory on Thursday morning and meant them with all her heart. Now she had to prove it.
When the carriage bounced in and out of a deep rut, jarring them apart, Elisabeth released her with a firm squeeze. “Our hardest days are behind us, dear Marjory. We’re home. And Gibson is waiting for us.”
Her mother-in-law nodded, though her troubled expression remained.
The carriage slowed. “Selkirk!” Mr. Dewar called out and eased the horses to a stop.
Her heart pounding beneath her stays, Elisabeth quickly gathered their few belongings—her silk reticule, a small book of poetry, Marjory’s linen handkerchiefs—and followed her mother-in-law through the carriage door.
“Not monie folk about the toun this Sabbath eve,” Mr. Dewar observed, helping them step down.
Marjory tightened her cape round her neck. “Have you the time, sir?”
He made a great show of pulling a silver watch from his pocket, the engraved case reflecting the light from his coach lantern. “Just past eight o’ the clock, mem. I meant to reach Selkirk afore this, but”—he shrugged his rounded shoulders—“I didna count on three days o’ bad weather or a broken carriage wheel.”
“Or a party of dragoons,” Marjory said dryly.
Elisabeth walked in a slow circle, assessing her new home. The marketplace was indeed deserted. Vendor stalls were locked and windows shuttered for the night. The ancient mercat cross was a smaller version of the proud pillar that stood in the midst of Edinburgh’s High Street, marking the spot where meat and meal were sold and important events proclaimed.
Two widows are newly arrived from the capital. Elisabeth was certain no one would bother to make such an announcement. The town gossips would spread the news soon enough.
Mr. Dewar jerked his thumb at a foreboding structure at the far end of the fleshmarket. “The tolbooth, ye ken. Dinna be surprised if ye hear prisoners howling from the thieves’ hole.” He unloaded their bags, hefting one small trunk onto each shoulder. “After ye, Mrs. Kerr.”
Marjory led them toward a row of buildings made of rough whinstone, some with ground-floor shops facing the marketplace. “On Monday the scent of baking bread will come wafting through that doorway,” she said, pointing to the corner, “and in the house above it, you’ll find a weaver bending over his loom.”
Like my father once did. Elisabeth looked up at the weaver’s shuttered window. Nights beyond counting she’d fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of her father’s treadle raising and lowering the threads of the warp.
Marjory brought them to an arched passageway fitted between two of the buildings. “And here’s Halliwell’s Close, where Cousin Anne resides.”
Arm in arm the Kerr women ventured within the shadowy close, lit by a single lantern that hung from the stone wall several doors down. The air was dank and smelled of rotting fish. A rat darted past them, its long, thin tail quickly disappearing from sight.
Elisabeth imagined her mother’s voice whispering in her ear. A puir man is glad of a little. However modest their lodgings, Elisabeth was determined to be grateful. She’d been poor as a child and not minded. She’d been wealthy as a wife yet lived frugally. As a widow she had few needs, and they were shrinking by the hour. Food and shelter would suffice.
Marjory stopped at an unmarked wooden door and made use of the round iron knocker. The hollow sound echoed down the long close.
While they waited, Mr. Dewar deposited their trunks beside them. “I’ll fetch the ither,” he said, then lumbered off.
After a lengthy silence Elisabeth reached for the knocker. “I don’t wish to appear impatient, but …” When Marjory nodded, Elisabeth banged the ring against the wood, imagining a warm hearth, a plate of soup, and a snug bed.
But no one came.
Mr. Dewar returned with the last trunk and placed it at their feet. “D’ye need me to stay with ye, leddies?”
“Our cousin is certain to answer our knock any moment,” Elisabeth assured him.
“Then I’m aff to the Forest Inn for my supper. I bid ye both a guid nicht.” He doffed his hat and was gone.
Halliwell’s Close was suddenly quiet and, with nightfall upon them, oppressively dark. The lantern illumined their faces but little else.
As they tarried by the door, listening for any sound of movement or voices within, Elisabeth watched Marjory grow increasingly distraught, showing all of her eight-and-forty years. The tender skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and her mourning gown hung loosely about her shoulders. Most distressing of all were the deep lines etched across Marjory’s forehead. Was she worried about Gibson’s whereabouts? Or was something else weighing on her mind?
Finally Elisabeth asked, “Are you certain this is Anne’s door?”
Marjory looked down, her voice almost too low to be heard. “I am no longer certain of anything.”
A knot of apprehension tightened inside her. “Marjory, whatever do you mean?”
“Our cousin once resided here, but”—her mother-in-law lifted her head—“I cannot say she still does. Though I have not heard otherwise,” she hastened to add. “Not since Lord John and I moved to Edinburgh.”
“But … that was ten years ago!” Elisabeth could not hide her dismay. “You’ve not corresponded with Anne all this time?”
“Nae, I fear I have not. My factor at Tweedsford …” Marjory sighed heavily. “That is, Mr. Laidlaw kept me apprised of the news from Selkirk over the years. He never mentioned any change in Cousin Anne’s situation.”
Elisabeth was speechless. Did her mother-in-law expect a cordial greeting from a relative so long forsaken? From the look of their surroundings, Anne was a woman of lesser means who’d have benefited from the Kerrs’ attention. Only a merciful soul could overlook such ill treatment.
Marjory gnawed on her lower lip. “Perhaps she’s not at home …”
A woman’s voice floated down the passageway from the far end. “Who is not at home?”
Marjory spun about, nearly stumbling over the baggage at her feet. “If you please, madam,” she called into the darkness. “We are seeking Miss Anne Kerr, my late husband’s cousin. Might you know her?”
Elisabeth held her breath. Please, Lord.
“I am Miss Kerr,” the woman announced, quickening her steps.
With a soft cry Marjory clutched Elisabeth’s arm. “We are saved,” she whispered.
Their cousin soon appeared, lifting the hem of her blue drugget gown above the wet cobblestones as she hurried toward them, her thin wool cape swinging from her shoulders. Her fair hair and complexion took Elisabeth aback, so closely did her coloring match Donald’s. Small in stature, with a trim waist to match, Anne Kerr had a light step, her scuffed leather shoes soundless in the narrow close.
When she reached them, the three women quickly exchanged curts
ies.
Marjory spoke first. “Cousin Anne, I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you.”
Anne nodded, though no spark of recognition shone in her light blue eyes. “Did you say your late husband was a cousin of mine?”
“Aye.” Marjory took Anne’s bare hands in hers. “Lord John Kerr. I feel certain you remember him.”
“The late owner of Tweedsford?” Anne’s skin grew noticeably paler. “I could hardly forget the gentleman, God rest his soul.” She paused, studying Marjory more intently. “But if Lord John was your husband, that means you must be …” Her eyes widened. “Nae, you cannot be … Lady Marjory?”
Four
Poverty is a bitter weed to most women,
and there are few indeed
who can accept it with dignity.
ELIZA LYNN LINTON
arjory bristled at the shocked expression on Anne’s face. Is it my age? My tattered gown? Or did you think I died too?
“Do not call me ‘Lady,’ ” Marjory finally told her, disowning the title she’d once loved.
Anne’s mouth fell open. “Then you—”
“Call me ‘Marjory,’ ” she insisted. “The king has dealt harshly with me and revoked our family’s title, lands, and fortune.” She’d not meant to spill out the truth all at once, but there it was.
“King George has done this?” Anne frowned. “There must be some explanation—”
“Treason,” Marjory said bluntly. “My sons, Donald and Andrew, fought for the Jacobite cause and died at Falkirk.” There. She jutted out her chin, if only to keep it from trembling.
Anne slowly pulled her hands from Marjory’s grasp. “Ill news indeed, Cousin.”
She sensed the aloofness in Anne’s tone, the deliberateness of her withdrawal. Nae, this would not do. “Did not our manservant, Gibson, bring a letter to your door?”
“He did not,” Anne said evenly. “I’ve had no correspondence from you—”
“In a very long time,” Marjory quickly agreed. “Gibson traveled ahead on foot so we’d not arrive here unexpected.”
Mine Is the Night Page 2
