Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Marjory frowned, looking a bit farther up the street. “Has the pend leading to the kirk been closed?”

  “Oh, the pend is still there,” Anne said, “but so is the kirk elder, standing at the mouth of it with his collection plate.” She ducked through the doorway of the house, signaling for them to follow.

  Marjory felt only a small measure of guilt for avoiding the man. After all, what could she put in his wooden plate? A loose button? A pebble from the street?

  When Anne thanked Mr. Minto as they entered, he nodded sagely. “Ye canna give what ye dinna have, leddies.”

  The Kerrs hastened through one shabby room after another. Marjory politely bobbed her head at various family members, picturing elegant Lady Minto of Cap and Feather Close in Edinburgh with her richly furnished lodgings. If these Mintos were her relatives, her ladyship had sorely neglected them.

  The same way you neglected Anne?

  Heat flooded Marjory’s cheeks. All those years in Edinburgh she’d never inquired about Anne’s welfare. Even now Marjory had no notion of how her cousin provided for herself.

  “This way.” Anne led them through the back door and into the misty kirkyard, not bothering to see if they were behind her.

  With Elisabeth by her side, Marjory continued uphill toward the parish kirk, built two centuries past, with a tall, square steeple over the arched entranceway. As they drew closer, her eyes widened. What a dreadful state the preaching house was in! The roof sagged as if prepared to give way, the walls were crumbling, and the main door appeared unhinged.

  “Cousin!” Marjory quickened her steps, skirting a row of crooked gravestones. “Is it safe for us to enter?”

  Anne paused to look over her shoulder, her expression grim. “You’d best say a prayer, for ’tis far worse within.”

  Marjory eyed the kirk with dismay. “I fear you are right.”

  “Come, dear.” Elisabeth cupped her elbow, guiding her through the door. “Once we’re all seated, ’twill be easier to spot your friends.”

  “I’ve few real friends,” Marjory confessed in a low voice, “only acquaintances.” To her shame, when she was Lady Kerr of Tweedsford, she’d considered herself better than others in her parish. Now she was the least of them. Nae, less than the least.

  Marjory scanned the dimly lit sanctuary, hoping one kind soul might greet her. Was the woman with fading red hair Jane Nicoll? Could the mother with the gaggle of daughters be Katherine Shaw? Names and faces spun through her head. Might that be Christina March? Agnes Walker?

  Marjory was so certain an elderly woman was Jean Scott that she spoke her name aloud, expecting her to turn round.

  “Jean died two years ago,” Anne informed her. “That’s her younger sister, Isobel.”

  Jean, dead? Marjory let the sad news sink in. “What of Margaret Simpson? Or Grisell Lochrie?”

  Her cousin shook her head. “Both are gone.”

  “Then I shall look for their gravestones after services,” Marjory said, grieved by the unexpected news. Though she’d not known them well, they were women not much older than she.

  As they ventured down the center aisle, Marjory surveyed the interior, her heart sinking further. The woodwork, once impressive, was rotting away. Birds flew about the upper reaches, and straw was scattered across the dirt floor. Some of the walls were out of plumb by a full handbreadth, and the tradesmen’s lofts hung at precipitous angles, threatening to collapse.

  Was her life not its mirror? Ruined beyond any hope of restoration.

  “Do you mean to sit in the Kerr aisle?” Anne nodded toward the north side of the kirk. “Since Lord John’s death, it’s been sorely neglected.”

  Marjory stared at the filthy pew and the unstable wall beside it. “Why did Mr. Laidlaw not provide for the upkeep? Surely he paid our rent each Martinmas?”

  “ ’Twould seem he did not,” Anne said as heads began turning. “Nor has he darkened the door of this kirk in many a season.”

  Marjory moved forward on leaden feet. If Gibson were there, he would see the wooden pew scrubbed clean before they took their seats or remove his coat to spare her gown. But Gibson was lost in the woods or waylaid by some blackguard.

  When Marjory turned into the Kerr pew, the voices round them grew louder, rolling up and down the aisles like tenpins.

  “It canna be!”

  “Leddy Kerr?”

  “Surely not …”

  A middle-aged woman pushed her way through the crowd. “Tell us, Annie! Tell us who yer visitors are.”

  Visitors? Marjory turned to face them. Do they not know me at all? When Elisabeth slipped an arm round her waist, Marjory leaned into her, grateful for her height and her strength. Aye, and her courage.

  “These are my cousins,” Anne said loudly enough that all present might hear. “Marjory Kerr, returned from Edinburgh with her daughter-in-law Elisabeth Kerr.”

  Exclamations rang through the kirk. “Not Lady Kerr?” an older woman cried, distress written across her wrinkled features. “But, madam, where are your lads? Where are Donald and Andrew?”

  Marjory recognized her at once. “Miss Cranston!” She stretched out her hands toward the former governess who’d once cared for the Kerrs’ young sons. “Can it be you?”

  “Aye!” Elspeth Cranston hurried forward and briefly clasped her hands in return. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, peering intently at Marjory. “Has something happened, milady? You do not seem … yourself.”

  A murmur of agreement moved through the onlookers as they drew closer.

  When Marjory looked up, they were no longer strangers. Here was Martha Ballantyne, who’d oft come to Tweedsford for an afternoon of whist. Behind her stood Douglas Park, with his somber expression and treble chins. Charles Hogg in the next pew had tutored her sons in Latin. Another whist partner, Sarah Chisholm of Broadmeadows, stood nearby, her black hair as thick as a wool bonnet, while John Curror of Whitmuir Hall tarried close behind her.

  One after another the townsfolk urged her to speak, calling out to her.

  “Whatsomever has happened?”

  “Why’ve ye come hame?”

  “Whaur are yer sons?”

  Marjory’s mouth trembled. Nae, her whole body shook while she struggled to find the right words. “I am not … as you remember me,” she finally said, her voice strained to the breaking point. “When I departed Selkirk, I had a family.” She held out her empty hands. “Now I have nothing.”

  She bowed her head as a wave of anguish washed over her. Help me, please help me. Had she not realized this day would come, when all of Selkirk would learn the truth? Once their murmurings finally ebbed, Marjory said what she must. “My husband died seven years ago. But my sons … my dear sons died in January. On Falkirk Muir.”

  “Nae!” Elspeth Cranston fell back a step, her hand pressed to her mouth. “Not the Jacobite battle?” She looked round as if seeking others’ counsel. “Forgive us, but … we’d not heard of your loss.”

  Out of the ensuing silence came a gruff voice. “Yer lads bore arms for King George, aye?”

  “They’re Kerrs,” another answered. “Wha else would they fight for?”

  Marjory looked round, her vision blurring. Must she confess the rest? Or could she tell Reverend Brown in private and let word travel on its own? Nae, there was no honor in that. The Almighty had not brought her home so she might hide.

  Thou art with me. Aye, she was certain of it.

  Marjory stood taller, lifting her head not with pride but with confidence. “My sons fought for a cause they believed in,” she said as bravely as she could. “Prince Charlie’s cause, the Stuart cause. Call it what you like, my sons embraced it. And died for it.”

  A collective gasp filled the sanctuary. Then the shouting began. She’d heard all the words before. Rebels. Jacobites. Traitors.

  When their angry retorts threatened to drown her response, she held up her hands, praying her voice might remain strong and her courage fast. “The king a
grees with you,” she assured the crowd, bringing their tirade to a swift end. “On Monday last my late son Donald was declared attainted. Our family title was revoked. And Tweedsford was forfeited to the Crown.”

  If the walls had toppled onto them, the congregation could not have looked more shocked.

  All held their tongues but one. “Noo ye’re not so high and michty, are ye, Mistress Kerr?”

  “I am not,” she told the young man who glared at her beneath the brim of his dirty cap.

  She knew it was not King George who’d humbled her. Nae, it was the One who loved her.

  With tears spilling down her cheeks, Marjory lifted his sacred words to the farthest reaches of the sanctuary. “The LORD gave, and the LORD hath taken away.” She swallowed her pride, her fear, her shame. “Blessed be the name of the LORD.”

  Seven

  Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail,

  the poor man’s day.

  JAMES GRAHAME

  lisabeth gazed down at her mother-in-law, her heart near to bursting. How brave you are, dear Marjory.

  “Shall you preach this morn’s sermon, Mrs. Kerr?” a male voice thundered.

  They both turned to find the parish minister glaring at them from his lofty pulpit. A tall, stooped man of perhaps seventy years, he wore a plain black robe and a stern expression.

  Marjory quickly recovered, drying her tears. “Forgive me, Reverend Brown. I only meant—”

  “Oh, I heard every word,” he said evenly. “Glory to God, aye. But no respect for our sovereign king.” His scowl remained in place as he called forth the precentor to lead the gathering psalm. “We shall speak later in private, Mrs. Kerr,” the reverend said, his sharp tone brooking no argument. “You have disrupted the Sabbath enough as it is.”

  Marjory lowered her gaze, though Elisabeth could see her mother-in-law dreaded the prospect of meeting with the reverend. In a parish with the Duke of Roxburgh for its patron, unswerving loyalty to King George was expected, if not demanded. Might the Kerrs be banished from the kirk? Driven from the parish? Or would the tolbooth in the marketplace, with its irons and stocks, have two new prisoners before the week was out?

  Stop it, Bess. She tamped down her fears, reminding herself they served no useful purpose. Had the Lord not kept them safe thus far?

  While the congregation moved to their seats, Elisabeth swiftly brushed the debris from the Kerr pew, thinking to spare Anne’s moss green gown. Their own black dresses were already soiled.

  Soon the precentor appeared. “William Armstrong,” Marjory said under her breath, joining Elisabeth on the pew with Anne beside her.

  A thin, nervous sort of man with wiry gray hair and spindles for arms, Mr. Armstrong shuffled to the desk where the Psalter lay open and waiting. He shook out the sleeves of his robe, adjusted his spectacles, and peered down at the psalms, translated into a common meter and rhyme for worship.

  Elisabeth looked beyond the sagging roof to the heavens above as the precentor duly sang each line, then paused while the congregation responded in unison.

  My soul with expectation

  depends on God indeed;

  My strength and my salvation doth

  from him alone proceed.

  The truth of those words filled her like a fresh wind. Elisabeth sang out with her whole heart, not caring if heads turned or tongues wagged. She knew the Almighty and was known by him. She trusted him, depended upon him. Thy faithfulness reacheth unto the clouds.

  To think she’d once found solace in worshiping the moon! Like her Highland mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother before her, Elisabeth had prayed on the sixth day of the moon, recited meaningless words to a nameless god, and clasped a silver ring she no longer owned. Those days were well behind her now. However grim Reverend Brown’s countenance, however dour his sermons, this was where she would spend each Sabbath, finding a secret joy in the holy words themselves.

  As soon as the closing psalm was sung and the benediction given, Marjory urged them toward the door. “I’ve not the strength to face our many neighbors,” she admitted.

  Elisabeth stayed close by her side. “You are stronger than you know, Marjory. I will gladly speak on your behalf, but ’tis you they wish to see.”

  “Your daughter-in-law is right,” Anne said as they started down the center aisle together. “Let them take a gander at you and be done with it.”

  The threesome did not travel far. Parishioners of every age and station pressed round them, tugging their sleeves, blocking their path. They were a sober people, dressed in blues, grays, and browns, with little adornment. Some were merely curious, wanting to see what a Jacobite rebel looked like. A few expressed their sympathy or wished them well. Others apparently felt obligated to scold Marjory for her foolish support of the prince.

  One elderly fellow wagged his finger at her. “Yer lads were aye heidie, demanding their ain way. Ye let them do as they pleased and paid dearly for it.”

  Marjory took their verbal lashing as if it were her due, nodding as they spoke rather than engaging them in further discussion. The naysayers began to wander off, leaving in their wake a cluster of parishioners bent on demonstrating their Christian charity.

  Elisabeth answered what questions she could. “Aye, we are lodging in town with our cousin at the moment.” “Nae, my sister-in-law, Janet, will not be moving to Selkirk.” “Aye, I was born in the Highlands, then educated in Edinburgh.” “Nae, I do not have children.” The last was the hardest to answer. Three years of marriage to Donald had produced nothing but a few tarnished memories and a wounded heart, slow to heal.

  At least none in the sanctuary had whispered of Donald’s unfaithfulness.

  One woman with a sleepy child on her hip turned to Marjory and said with a mother’s sympathy, “I’m sorry for yer loss, mem. Verra sorry.”

  A redheaded maidservant stormed her way to the front. “And why would ye be kind to a woman who was niver kind to ithers?” Her green eyes were hard like gemstones, and her rough, red hands were fisted at her waist.

  “Good day to you, Tibbie,” Marjory said, her voice steady.

  “Nae, ’tis an ill day with ye back in Selkirk.” Her gaze narrowed. “Whosoever humbled ye, I’m blithe to see it.”

  Elisabeth watched Marjory pluck at her skirts, a nervous habit.

  “Tibbie Cranshaw worked for me at Tweedsford,” Marjory said by way of introduction. “She was one of my best kitchen maids.”

  Tibbie snorted. “If I was so guid at my wark, why did ye send me awa?”

  “You know the reason,” Marjory said.

  Tibbie glared at her. “I ken ye’re an ill-kindit woman. That’s what I ken.” She turned on her heel and departed the same way she’d come.

  Elisabeth inclined her head so Marjory alone would hear her. “I am sorry—”

  “Nae,” Marjory countered, “she had every right to speak so to me. I sent Tibbie away because she was with child. When she lost her babe a few days later, I refused to take her back.” Marjory groaned softly. “I was more than cruel.”

  “But you’re a new woman,” Elisabeth said with conviction. “The Almighty has softened you, changed you. Tibbie will see that.”

  Marjory shook her head. “Too late, I fear. I might have helped Tibbie then. I cannot help her now.”

  In the wake of Tibbie Cranshaw’s outburst, the crowd round them began to disperse.

  “Folk are heading home to their Sabbath dinner,” Anne said. “We should do the same. I’ve a slice of mutton for each of us.”

  “We are truly grateful,” Elisabeth hastened to say, “but you cannot continue feeding us, Annie. In the morn I shall offer my needle to a tailor or dressmaker in town and so add to your household coffers.”

  “A gentlewoman like you?” Anne chided her. “Earning money with her hands?”

  “I was once a weaver’s daughter.” Elisabeth watched her cousin’s brows lift in obvious amazement. “You’ll find I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  �
��Nor am I,” was Anne’s quick response.

  When their eyes met, an understanding sparked between them. Not a budding friendship. Not yet. But a small measure of trust. A beginning.

  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.”