Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “And yet you have.” Anne took a step backward, putting more distance between them. “What is it you want from me?”

  Marjory eyed the woman, a dozen years her junior. Anne Kerr had never married, had never been wealthy or titled, yet she held the upper hand. With a roof over her head and food in her larder, Anne had what they needed but could not afford.

  Must I plead with her, Lord? Must I beg? Pride wrapped itself round Marjory’s throat, choking back her words.

  Then Elisabeth stepped in. “We are rather desperate for lodging,” she explained, “and need only the simplest of meals. Might you accommodate us, Miss Kerr?”

  Anne turned to Elisabeth with a lift of her brow. “And you are?”

  “Donald’s widow,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “Elisabeth Kerr.”

  Anne responded with a slight nod. “Did not Andrew marry as well?”

  “He did,” Elisabeth said. “This very night his widow, Janet, is returning to her Highland home.”

  Marjory grimaced at the reminder. During Janet’s brief marriage to Andrew, the spoiled, selfish woman had not endeared herself to most of the Kerr household. Before leaving Edinburgh, Marjory had purchased a seat for Janet on a northbound carriage. Janet’s halfhearted protest had ended the moment two shillings crossed her gloved palm.

  Marjory looked at her younger daughter-in-law now with fond affection. You should have returned home as well, dear Bess. But no matter how many times Marjory had entreated her, Elisabeth had refused to leave her side, insisting on traveling with her to Selkirk. She hadn’t planned on Elisabeth’s company, but Marjory was glad for it all the same.

  “Come with me.” Anne pushed open her door with a sigh. “I cannot let you sleep out of doors like beggars.”

  Horrified at the thought, Marjory murmured her thanks, then followed their cousin through the entrance and up a dozen steps to a smaller interior door with even less paint. She’d never visited Anne’s house, though Lord John had once described it as cozy and quaint. Whatever awaited them, it was far superior to a cobbled passageway on a chilly April night.

  Anne entered first and reached for a candle, then touched the wick to the glowing coals in the hearth and motioned Marjory forward.

  The candlelight sent shadows dancing across the low-ceilinged room with its plaster walls and rough wooden floors. Anne’s furnishings were neat but alarmingly few: a box bed, plainly draped; a rustic washstand and basin; two upholstered chairs with threadbare arms; a low table covered with sewing items; an oval dining table that would barely seat four; and several mismatched wooden chairs huddled in a corner like gossips exchanging news.

  Marjory found her voice at last. “You keep a tidy house, Cousin Anne.”

  “Easily managed when one owns so little.” Anne lit a second tallow candle and placed it on the shelf mounted between her two front windows.

  Her only windows, Marjory realized. At least the glazing was clean, and the curtains, surprisingly, were trimmed in lace. An extravagant touch for such mean lodgings. She stepped closer and looked down at the marketplace. “You have a fine view of the town.”

  “And the town has a fine view of me,” Anne said curtly. “If you mean to hide your family’s disgrace, Marjory, you’ve knocked on the wrong door.”

  She flinched at her harsh words. “Believe me, Cousin, had we anywhere else to go …”

  Anne had already turned away to poke at the coals in her grate, jabbing them with savage efficiency.

  Marjory stared at her cousin’s back. A dearth of letters over the years would hardly account for this cold reception. Was it the Kerrs’ ill-advised support of Prince Charlie? Or had something else upset Anne?

  When Elisabeth crossed the threshold, carrying in the first of their trunks, Anne hurried off to help her, as if glad to escape Marjory’s presence. The two younger women disappeared down the stair, leaving Marjory to examine their surroundings and accept the inevitable.

  One room. We shall all live in one room.

  Disheartened at the prospect, Marjory walked along the front wall, counting her steps. Eighteen. Then she measured from the windows to the back wall. Eighteen. The supporting wall that ran halfway through the room provided a modicum of privacy between Anne’s bed and the rest of her lodging yet made the house feel even smaller.

  With a muted groan, Marjory sank onto the nearest chair, wondering what Anne Kerr might serve for supper. Moldy cheese and a stale bannock, she imagined, then chastised herself for judging their cousin so harshly. Anne had no notice of their arrival, no time to replenish her stores, and limited resources besides.

  Hearing voices on the stair, Marjory rose with a guilty start, then watched Anne and Elisabeth struggle through the door, bearing a heavy trunk between them. “You might put it here,” Marjory suggested, uncertain how else to assist them.

  They dutifully placed the trunk near the foot of Anne’s bed and left to fetch the last one, not saying a word.

  Like servants, Marjory thought glumly.

  Her heart skipped a beat. Gibson. How had she forgotten him so quickly?

  Appalled, Marjory hastened to the window as if by some miracle she might spot his balding head fringed in silver. Had the rain delayed him? An injury? Illness? Perhaps he’d encountered highwaymen on a lonely road. Or worse, dragoons. Forty miles stretched between Milne Square and Halliwell’s Close. Anything might have happened.

  By the time the others returned, Marjory was pacing the floor. “However shall we find Gibson?”

  “I am worried as well,” Elisabeth admitted, heading for the washstand by Anne’s bed.

  Only then did Marjory notice their faces were red with exertion and their hands soiled.

  “We’ll consider your manservant shortly.” Anne brushed past her. “First, I must attend to our supper. Cousin Marjory, if you might set the table.” She gestured toward a low shelf, which held an assortment of trenchers, knot bowls, and carved cups.

  Marjory stared at the woodenware, carved in the crudest design. The spoons and forks were gray from years of use, and some of the plates were badly cracked along the grain. This was her future, then. No pewter plates, no crystal goblets, no beeswax tapers gleaming from a polished mahogany sideboard.

  Anne called across the room, “Something wrong, Cousin?”

  “Nae,” Marjory said quickly. She dared not refuse to help, however menial the task. Was she not an interloper of the worst kind? A penniless relation begging for bread with a widowed daughter-in-law in tow and a manservant gone astray among the hills.

  Marjory reached for a cluster of wooden utensils, her hands shaking. How am I to manage, Lord? How are we to live like this?

  Five

  The night is dark,

  and I am far from home;

  lead Thou me on!

  JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

  lisabeth had forgotten the odd sensation of a wooden spoon in her mouth. Once the heat and moisture from a steaming bowl of broth made the wood swell, it felt like a second tongue. She hastily put the spoon down, fearing she might retch.

  “Is the broth not seasoned to your liking?” Anne asked. “Too much wild thyme, perhaps.”

  “ ’Tis very flavorful,” Elisabeth said, though she edged the bowl of watery broth away from her. “I confess I am more tired than hungry.” Not precisely true. She was tired and hungry, but she could not bear to offend their cousin.

  Anne turned to Marjory, a single candle on the table illuminating the younger woman’s sharp features. “This manservant of yours. He’s resourceful?”

  “Aye, and brave,” Marjory answered, “though not in perfect health. Last winter he suffered from a fever and then a lingering cough.”

  Elisabeth vividly recalled Marjory assessing Gibson’s fever—placing her hand on his brow, on his cheek, on his chest—her demeanor uncommonly tender, her hazel eyes filled with warm regard for the man who’d so faithfully served their family.

  “Cousin,” Anne said firmly, “you must prepare yo
urself for the worst. An older servant, still recovering from an illness, traveling on foot in this chilly, rainy weather? Why, the man may never reach Selkirk.”

  Marjory looked stricken. “Do not say such a thing! I’ve known Neil Gibson the whole of my married life and all through my widowhood as well.”

  Elisabeth reached for her hand. “I’ve no doubt Gibson will arrive in a day or two or send word with a passing carriage.”

  Marjory squeezed her fingers in response, saying nothing more.

  When Anne stood and began gathering their woodenware, Elisabeth leaped up to help her, needing a distraction, wanting to be useful. The two knelt by the fire and washed the dishes with hot water and ragged scraps of linen, then spread out the wooden pieces to dry on the flagstone hearth.

  “I’ve not far to go for water,” Anne said. “The Cross Well is in the marketplace, just beyond the mouth of Halliwell’s Close.”

  Elisabeth was already on her feet. “I’ll draw some for the morn.”

  “Oh, but, Cousin Elisabeth—”

  “Bess,” she said, looking down at her. “Please call me ‘Bess.’ ”

  “And I prefer ‘Annie,’ ” she said after a bit. “Still, I cannot have my guests—”

  “We are hardly guests,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Distant relatives at best. We had no business arriving at your door unannounced, though I do not fault poor Gibson.”

  “Nor I.” Anne glanced at Marjory, by now half asleep in one of the upholstered chairs. When Anne spoke again, her voice was low and taut. “I confess ’tis hard to shelter Lady Kerr beneath my roof. She … that is, Lord John …” Anne’s words faded into silence.

  Elisabeth did not press the matter. Perhaps when they knew each other better. Perhaps when Anne trusted her.

  “I shan’t be a moment,” Elisabeth said, then hurried down the stair and into the murky close, blinking until her eyes adjusted. A few more steps and she reached the marketplace, where the square wellhead stood, black as the night itself. She filled the slender-necked stoup in haste, shivering from the clammy mist that swirled round her skirts. Above her the moon and stars were lost behind the clouds, and the three streets that converged to form the triangular marketplace were all bathed in darkness.

  Elisabeth looked up at the curtained windows of Anne’s house, a growing awareness pressing down on her. I should not have come. Anne could not possibly feed them from her paltry stores day after day. And her small house was not meant for three. If Marjory knew what awaited them here in Selkirk, little wonder she’d urged both her daughters-in-law to return to the Highlands.

  Janet had honored Marjory’s request.

  Alas, I did not.

  With a heavy heart Elisabeth slipped back up the stair and found Anne waiting beside the enclosed box bed, with its wooden walls and woolen curtains.

  “I’ve a hurlie bed stored underneath,” Anne told her, “but ’twill take two of us to trundle it about.”

  After several minutes of tugging and pulling, Elisabeth and Anne managed to free the small hurlie bed from its confines, releasing a plume of dust. They wheeled it into the corner opposite Anne’s box bed and swept the mattress clean with a straw broom.

  In most homes hurlie beds were meant for children. Or servants. Marjory stared in obvious dismay at the thin mattress stuffed with chaff and the rickety wooden wheels. “Are we expected to share this?”

  Anne jerked her chin, a spark of anger in her eyes. “ ’Tis the only bed I have to offer you, Cousin.”

  Elisabeth swiftly intervened. “Marjory, by all means claim the hurlie bed for yourself. I shall sleep by the fire with a creepie for my feet.” She angled one of the upholstered chairs toward the hearth and pulled up a low wooden footstool. “Annie, if you’ve a blanket to spare, I’d be grateful.”

  “But you cannot sleep in a chair,” Marjory scolded her.

  “Certainly I can.” Elisabeth began pulling the pins from her hair. “Highlanders are famous for sleeping on the hills and moors wrapped in naught but their plaids.”

  “The men, perhaps,” her mother-in-law grumbled.

  “Nae,” Elisabeth assured her, “the women too. I spent many a summer night with my back propped against a tree in the pine woods round Castleton of Braemar.”

  “You slept in the woods?” Marjory shook her head. “Truly, Bess, you never cease to astound me.”

  Elisabeth glanced across the room, hoping the trifling exchange had given their cousin’s ire time to cool.

  But Anne was still frowning. “I’ve a plaid for each of you,” she said, then reached into the recesses of her box bed and pulled out two light wool blankets, woven in muted blues and reds.

  “You’ll not miss them tonight?” Elisabeth asked, wanting to be certain.

  Anne shook her head. “But I’ll soon miss my sleep.”

  They took turns at the washstand, then slipped off their gowns and retired for the night. When Anne blew out the last candle, an awkward silence thicker than any plaid fell across the darkened room.

  “Good night,” Elisabeth said softly, hoping the others might respond and so end the evening on a sweeter note. But Anne closed her bed curtains without a word, and Marjory exhaled in obvious frustration.

  With the Sabbath almost upon them, Elisabeth refused to be discouraged. The light of day and the warmth of society would surely improve things. She quietly arranged her plaid by the faint glow of the coal fire, then closed her eyes and called upon the Almighty.

  I remember thee upon my bed, and meditate on thee in the night watches. Since winter she’d consumed the psalms until the words had become her daily bread, feeding her soul, nourishing her mind. When the family Bible was out of reach, or the hour late, or the firelight dim, she could draw upon his holy truth buried inside her.

  The words came swiftly, silently, yet surely.

  My soul followeth hard after thee. Her heart stirred at the thought. The Lord had led her to Selkirk, of that she was certain. Now came the harder task: resting in the knowledge that he’d brought her here for some good purpose.

  Thy right hand upholdeth me. If the Almighty supported her, might she not support others? Elisabeth lifted her head, buoyed by the realization. Rather than be a burden to Anne, she could provide for their cousin’s upkeep by plying her needle. Had she not once earned her living in a tailor’s shop? And stitched her own gowns for the sheer pleasure of working with her hands?

  She would sew, then, and pray Anne’s heart might soften toward them. Sinking deeper into her chair, Elisabeth embraced the gift of sleep and let the Almighty shape her dreams.

  Six

  There is in every true woman’s heart

  a spark of heavenly fire …

  which kindles up, and beams and blazes

  in the dark hour of adversity.

  WASHINGTON IRVING

  arjory stared into her cup of tea, bleary eyed from a poor night’s sleep. Her daughter-in-law had meant well, but the hurlie bed was no prize. The mattress was lumpy, and the wooden frame groaned whenever she tossed and turned.

  Even so, you had a bed to yourself, Marjory. And supper before it.

  She chafed at the reminder, wishing her conscience were still slumbering. But it was the Sabbath. All of Selkirk would be awake, dressed, and prepared to leave for the parish kirk at the first clang of the bell.

  Marjory considered the last bite of her oatcake, then pushed it aside. Her appetite had vanished at the thought of seeing her old neighbors, who would mark her diminished circumstances and quickly learn of her losses. And what would she say to Reverend Brown?

  “Come, Marjory.” Elisabeth beckoned her toward the window, hairbrush in hand. “Since every eye will be on you this morn, I would have you look your best.”

  Marjory submitted to her daughter-in-law’s ministrations, surprised when her thinning auburn hair turned into a sleek braid, pinned atop her head. Holding up Anne’s small looking glass, Marjory pretended not to see the wrinkles outlining her features and ad
mired Elisabeth’s handiwork instead.

  “Another talent put to good use,” Marjory commended her. “Though my gown is frayed, at least my hair is presentable.”

  “Someday I shall stitch you a new dress,” Elisabeth promised, still smoothing a few loose strands of hair in place when the kirk bell began to toll.

  Marjory’s stomach clenched. Not yet, not yet.

  “We must away,” Anne cautioned, pulling her cape round her shoulders. “The reverend has little patience with stragglers.”

  Marjory hastily brushed the lint from her skirts, then followed the others down the stair and into the marketplace much too quickly for her comfort. Help me not be afraid, Lord. Help me not be ashamed.

  The sky was pale blue, and a faint mist hung in the air. Marjory paused at the mouth of the close, taking it all in. Folk streamed past them on foot and on horseback. Dogs and chickens wandered about as they pleased. Pigs rooted through rubbish piled by the sides of houses, and the cobbled streets had no proper drains. Structures that were new in the sixteenth century were showing their age, with broken shutters and ill-fitting doors.

  Still, this was home. However common the streets and buildings of Selkirk, the rolling countryside beyond the town gates soothed the eye. Standing in the marketplace, Marjory spotted Harehead Hill to the west and Bell Hill to the east. Her old estate was two miles north, where the waters of the Tweed and Ettrick meet. When their carriage had passed Tweedsford en route, she’d looked away, unable to bear the heartache of seeing the home that was no longer hers.

  At Anne’s urging they joined the throng flowing up Kirk Wynd, a narrow cobblestone street edged with two-and three-story houses. People crowded them on every side. A woman dressed in rags limped by, followed by two young lads with a barking collie, and a gray-haired man with rheumy eyes.

  Elisabeth took Marjory’s arm. “Have you spied anyone you know?”

  “Not yet,” Marjory said, unsure if she was relieved or disappointed. No one had caught her eye. No one had called out her name.

  “This way.” Anne tugged them toward a humble dwelling on the right, its yawning door an unspoken invitation. “The Mintos will not object if we slip through their house.”