Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Anne faintly shook her head. “ ’Tis hard to say what sort of reception we might find.”

  Lord Buchanan stared into the rain-drenched countryside “We shall know shortly.”

  When, a moment later, they rattled through the gates and across the gravel to the entrance, Marjory confessed, “I do wish you could have seen Tweedsford on a better day, milord.”

  He climbed out of the carriage, then turned to offer his hand. “A sailor never objects to water, madam.”

  The Kerr party stood in a small, wet knot while Gibson lifted the brass knocker and banged it upon the imposing front door.

  After several agonizing minutes, a young footman answered, his livery neat, his face unfamiliar. When Gibson announced Marjory and the others by name, the lad fell back a step. “Leddy Kerr?”

  “Aye.” She slowly crossed the threshold, then forced herself to say the words. “This was once my home.”

  He bowed rather clumsily. “I … I ken wha ye are, mem.”

  Marjory tried to take it all in with one sweeping glance. The polished wood floors shone, even on this gloomy morning. The icy blue silk she’d chosen as a young bride still covered the walls. The grand staircase, rising two floors, dominated the entrance hall, as it always had.

  Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.

  She cleared her throat. “If I might speak with Mr. Laidlaw.”

  “Aye … aye.” The footman turned and practically ran toward the rear of the house.

  Marjory found it hard to breathe, so familiar was the scent of the place. Not merely wood and plaster and silk and satin but also the muddy riverbed and the drooping roses in the garden and the rain itself—all crept through the house, creating a sweet, earthy fragrance she could not fully describe yet could never forget. Home.

  With a soft moan she bowed her head, memories pressing down on her, flattening her.

  Elisabeth lightly touched her shoulder. “I am here, Marjory. We all are.”

  Footsteps approached. “Leddy Kerr.” Roger Laidlaw’s voice. “I didna expect ye.”

  Marjory lifted her head. “I am sorry we’ve arrived … unannounced … we …”

  When her voice faltered, Elisabeth stepped in to explain. “We learned just this morn that General Lord Mark Kerr is to be the new owner of Tweedsford.”

  “Aye, mem.” Mr. Laidlaw bobbed his brown head, his close-set eyes blinking rapidly. “I’ve been told to leuk for him at noontide.”

  Soon. A chill ran down Marjory’s spine.

  “Then we shall make our visit brief,” Lord Buchanan told the factor. “You surely understand Mrs. Kerr’s desire to see her home once more.”

  Roger Laidlaw studied her at length before he responded. “Some o’ the sma’ furniture was taken awa to Edinburgh and sold at auction … to … to pay the fines, ye ken. But, aye, ye can take a leuk.”

  Apprehensive, Marjory ventured forth, stepping into the high-ceilinged drawing room with its tall windows and thick velvet drapes. Her heart grew heavier with each step. If they’d never left Selkirk for Edinburgh, this would still be her home. Her sons would be alive. She might have grandchildren by now, running through the halls of Tweedsford.

  Marjory stood in the center of the room, barely seeing the marble chimneypiece, the painted ceiling, the decorative cornices. She saw only what was missing. Not her furnishings. Her family.

  She closed her eyes and began to weep. Forgive me, forgive me.

  Elisabeth’s hand clasped hers.

  Gibson moved closer as well and produced a clean linen handkerchief.

  “ ’Tis my fault.” Marjory dabbed her eyes, but the tears would not stop. “We should never have come.”

  Anne moved round to stand before her, tears glistening in her eyes as well. “ ’Tis naught but a house now, dear Cousin. An empty shell. Do not punish yourself.”

  Marjory quietly blew her nose, then whispered, “How can I not?”

  After a long silence Mr. Laidlaw stepped forward. “Mem, I found some things ye may wish to have. I set them aside, thinking to bring them to ye. Would ye like them noo?”

  “Aye.” She swallowed. “If you please.”

  Gibson led her to a small table and chairs where the gentry of Selkirkshire once spent many happy hours playing whist. No sooner had she settled in place than Mr. Laidlaw reappeared with a wooden box.

  When she looked inside, Marjory stifled a moan. Donald’s books. Andrew’s toys.

  Gibson took away the box at once. “Suppose I put it in the carriage.”

  Marjory could not look at the admiral. Whatever must he think of her? “Lord Buchanan, I am … so very sorry …”

  He knelt beside her. “Mrs. Kerr, you were brave to come. But unless you truly wish to see the house, I think it best that we leave at once. It will not do to have Lord Mark find you here.”

  “Nae,” she agreed. “The general may be a distant cousin of my late husband’s, but he is no friend of mine.”

  “Nor of mine,” Elisabeth said firmly.

  The moment Marjory stood, Mr. Laidlaw presented himself. “Mem, I wonder if I might have a wird with ye. In private, if ye’ll not mind.”

  Anne started to protest, but Marjory saw something in the factor’s eyes that could not be ignored. “We must do so quickly,” she told him, following him into the vacant entrance hall, leaving the others behind.

  The two paused before a gilt-edged looking glass. At first Roger Laidlaw said nothing, only looked at his shoes.

  “What is it you wish to tell me?” Marjory asked, not bothering to hide her irritation.

  “I’ll not keep ye lang,” he said, his voice low. “But I must ask yer forgiveness.”

  Marjory stared at him. “My forgiveness?” It was the last thing she expected.

  He was quiet for a long time. When he looked up, the pain in his eyes was undeniable. “In the past I had a reputation for chasing the lasses. Most were willing, but—”

  “My cousin was right, then,” Marjory said sharply. “You are a reprobate.”

  He hung his head. “Whatsomever she said, ’tis true.”

  Marjory eyed the drawing room door, considering summoning the admiral. He would know what was to be done. Should the sheriff be called? Or might the kirk session mete out sufficient punishment?

  But Mr. Laidlaw’s humble demeanor gave her pause. This was not a man bragging about his conquests. “You said ‘in the past,’ Mr. Laidlaw. Are you telling me you’ve changed?”

  He looked up at once. “I have changed. Ye must believe me, Leddy …, eh, Mrs. Kerr.”

  Marjory wanted to be angry with him, wanted to see justice done. But when a man asked for mercy, he deserved to be heard. “Go on.”

  “I’m courting a widow in Galashiels noo. Jessie Briggs is her name. She made me see … what sort o’ man I was. And what I could be.”

  Marjory frowned. “Does this Jessie know all that you’ve done?”

  “Aye, ilka bit. I’ve gone round the countryside and tried to make amends—”

  “Tibbie Cranshaw?” Marjory pressed him.

  He shook his head. “She wouldna let me past her door. I canna say I blame the lass.”

  Nor can I. “I should never have sent Tibbie away,” Marjory admitted, “nor judged her so harshly.”

  “Then … mebbe ye can forgive me?” Roger Laidlaw shifted his weight. “ ’Twas a sickness, mem. Finally I am weel.” He pulled out a tattered handkerchief and blew his nose. “I canna believe it, but a guid woman luves me. Aye, and the guid Lord luves me, though I dinna deserve it.”

  Marjory’s ire was gone, dissipating like smoke from a doused fire. “No one truly deserves his love and mercy. I certainly don’t.”

  He sought her gaze in the quiet entrance hall. “Please, mem. I canna say I’m sorry enough.”

  “Mr. Laidlaw, you don’t need—”

  “But I do.” He pulled off his cap and bunched it in his hands. “Nae man wha behaved as I did should walk round thinking it doesna matt
er.”

  Something about his confession prodded at a tender place she could not name. Roger Laidlaw spoke the truth: his lust for women was a sickness the Lord alone could heal. “If the Lord has forgiven you, Mr. Laidlaw, I must do the same.”

  He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I thank ye, mem.”

  Marjory glanced at the drawing room. “Anne Kerr was wronged far more than I. Have you sought her pardon?”

  “I meant to do so on the day I came to Halliwell’s Close, but …” His gaze followed hers across the hall. “Might ye help me?”

  Forty-Three

  Mercy to him that shows it,

  is the rule.

  WILLIAM COWPER

  lisabeth turned toward the door as her mother-in-law ushered Roger Laidlaw into the drawing room, her tears gone and her demeanor surprisingly calm.

  “Gentlemen, if you might give us a moment.” Marjory inclined her head toward the entrance hall. “Mr. Laidlaw has something to say to our cousin.”

  “We cannot tarry much longer,” Lord Jack reminded her, then departed with Gibson, closing the door behind them.

  The room fell silent, save the sound of the rain pelting the windows.

  “Please, Bess,” Anne whispered, almost hiding behind her. “I don’t wish to speak with him.”

  Elisabeth looked at the middle-aged man, his eyes downcast, his hat in his hands, and saw nothing to fear. But she was not Anne. “Marjory and I will not leave your side,” she promised, then slipped her arm round Anne’s waist and led her toward him, feeling the tension in her cousin’s body.

  Marjory spoke first. “Mr. Laidlaw has confessed to me that he’s a changed man.”

  A look of incredulity stole across Anne’s features. “And you believe him?”

  “I do,” Marjory said. “When we are not so pressed for time, I shall tell you the whole of it. Until then, please hear him out, Cousin.” She nodded at the factor, who moved one step closer, his gaze fixed on Anne.

  “Miss Kerr …” He rubbed a shaky hand across his mouth. “Whan Lord John died, I had nae richt to speak to ye as I did. To ask ye …, weel, to suggest that …”

  “Enough.” Anne’s voice was rough edged. “I know exactly what you proposed to me, Mr. Laidlaw.”

  “I ken ye do, mem.” He gripped his cap so tightly that Elisabeth feared the wool might never recover. “ ’Tis not the same man ye see standing here,” he said. “The Lord has done a guid wark in me.”

  “Has he?” Anne did not hide her contempt. “I suppose that makes you a good man.”

  “Och! I would niver say I am guid.” He lowered his gaze. “What I did was wrong, Miss Kerr, and I am verra sorry for it. Ye need not forgive me just because I ask. But I do ask.”

  He looked at each woman in turn, seeking absolution.

  Marjory nodded. Anne frowned.

  But Elisabeth did not see dark-haired Mr. Laidlaw. She saw fair-haired Donald Kerr. Forgive me, lass. For all of it. Did men think they could simply do as they pleased, then beg to be forgiven? Was there no man who was honorable or faithful or true?

  Nettled, Elisabeth edged toward the door, taking Anne with her. “Pardon me, Cousin, but we must go.”

  “Indeed, our business here is finished.” Anne lifted her skirts, turning her back on the factor of Tweedsford.

  By the time they reached the carriage, Elisabeth regretted their hasty departure, leaving Marjory to bid the man farewell. Mr. Laidlaw’s apology seemed most sincere and his desire to lead a new life commendable. Could she not see past her own heartache? Donald Kerr was the one who’d wronged her, not Roger Laidlaw.

  With a heavy sigh, Elisabeth took her place on the cushioned leather seat of the carriage, then watched the admiral help Marjory board and climb in after her, having ordered his driver to make haste. Lord Jack removed his hat, but there was still a great deal of him to fit onto the balance of the seat.

  “At least the rain has stopped.” He settled beside her. “And we’ll be heading south. If Lord Mark is en route, he’ll be coming from the north, from Edinburgh. You’ve nothing to fear, Mrs. Kerr.” He looked at Marjory across the carriage interior. “What of your own carriage ride from the capital? Was it exceedingly uncomfortable?”

  Elisabeth listened as he engaged first Marjory, then Anne, then Gibson, dispelling the tension in the air with his thoughtful questions and comments. Though she’d seen other sides of the admiral as well—a flash of impatience, a moment of anger—such things were far outweighed by his warm, generous spirit.

  Careful, Bess.

  She looked down, studying her hands. When a woman began tallying a bachelor’s amiable qualities, thoughts of marriage were sure to follow. But she was a widow in mourning. However unfaithful Donald was, she intended to honor his memory for the full twelvemonth society required. To do otherwise would break her mother-in-law’s heart.

  Her cheeks grew warm. Is it Marjory’s heart that concerns you? Or your own?

  “You’ve slipped away from us,” Lord Jack was saying as Elisabeth lifted her head, hoping to cool her skin.

  “Not far,” she assured him, glad the admiral could not read her mind.

  How foolish even to think her employer might look in her direction, with Rosalind Murray so temptingly near. What gentleman would not choose a wealthy young lady of good breeding over an impoverished widow who might never bear him a child?

  His carriage soon began the steep climb toward the East Port. Since she was facing the back of the coach, Elisabeth had to press her feet against the floor to keep from tipping too far forward and landing on Anne’s shoes.

  But gravity was working against her. At the very moment Elisabeth feared she might slip from her seat, Lord Jack braced her against the cushioned back, his long, muscular arm pressing into her ribs. Mortified, she turned her head.

  “We’ve managed to avoid generals and dragoons this morn,” the admiral said smoothly. “Now if we can all remain in our seats, I shall return you home without injury.”

  The moment the carriage crested the hill, Elisabeth eased back into place. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “My pleasure,” he said. Even more softly.

  She looked out the window as if the tradesmen’s cottages were the most interesting sight she’d ever beheld. Guard your heart, Bess.

  Forty-Four

  What say you to such a supper

  with such a woman?

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  ack could not remember when he’d last sat down. On his dawn ride, perhaps. Even breakfast had been consumed on the run. He’d tasted a summer pear while inspecting the orchards. Then gulped down a cup of tea while discussing last-minute details with Roberts and finally sampled a yeast roll while reviewing Mrs. Tudhope’s menu.

  He simply did not have time for lolling about. Bell Hill’s first household supper was only seven hours hence, and Jack wanted everything to be perfect.

  “Your lordship?” Mrs. Pringle appeared at his study door. “Will you be having dinner at two o’ the clock, as usual?”

  “Dinner?” Hearing the sharp tone in his voice, he swiftly apologized. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pringle. At the moment I’m afraid I have no appetite and even less patience.”

  “I quite understand,” she said kindly. “The house is at sixes and sevens with maidservants colliding into one another in the hall and menservants tripping over their own feet in their haste to have everything ready.”

  Jack sighed. “Perhaps my plan was too ambitious.”

  “Nae, milord.” Mrs. Pringle stepped farther into the room. “We are proud to be part of that plan. To gather at one table and sup with our master as if he were our friend.” She looked away for a moment. “I only hope we meet your expectations. Roberts and I have done our best to teach them proper table manners. We will none of us embarrass you this night.”

  “What a shame,” Jack said, hoping to put her at ease. “I was counting on at least two dropped plates, numerous overturned glasses, and a
host of rolls being tossed from one end of the dining room to the other.”

  Mrs. Pringle gave him a grateful smile. “I’ll see what can be arranged, milord.”

  The supper hour was drawing near when Roberts came looking for him. “Your …, eh, staff for this eve has arrived. Shall I bring them in, sir?”

  Jack moved to the front of his desk, prepared to greet them. “By all means.”

  He would never have asked the five of them to serve him in any capacity, least of all juggling plates of food and glasses of claret. But on the Sabbath at kirk, when he’d confessed needing several people to serve the meal, they’d all volunteered.

  “I’d be honored to help,” Marjory Kerr had said. “It is the least I can do after all you’ve done for my family.”

  “I’m a servant, milord,” Gibson had insisted, “and richt guid at it.”

  Anne Kerr had also agreed to join them, then recruited Michael and Peter Dalgliesh. A press gang could not have been more persuasive. “We’ll serve you well,” Anne had vowed.

  Jack had protested, of course. Offered to pay them handsomely for their efforts. The elder Widow Kerr in particular was offended. “I cannot be bought, milord. You must accept my service as a gift of thanks. I believe I speak for all of us.”

  Now here they were, filing into his study, reporting for duty.

  Marjory and Anne wore freshly starched aprons and white, round-eared caps. Gibson had on his usual livery, and Michael had stitched up two black waistcoats for the occasion, one of them perfectly fitted to a seven-year-old boy.

  “What a fine-looking group,” Jack told them. “Gibson will rightly serve as butler and put the rest of you through your paces. If you’ll report to Mrs. Tudhope, I’m certain she’ll be greatly relieved to see you.” He could not resist asking young Peter, “And how will you be of service?”

  The lad held out his hands, pretending to hold a dish between them. “I’m to carry the food,” he said, standing very tall, “but I’m not to go like this.” Peter tipped his hands forward, sending imaginary vegetables spilling onto the floor.

  “What will you do if that happens?” Jack wanted to know.

  Peter stood on tiptoe, waving Jack closer so he might whisper in his ear. “I will cry,” Peter said softly. “Then Annie will feel sorry for me and help me clean things up.”