“Well …” Anne glanced at Michael. “We plan to marry at the kirk after services three Sabbaths hence. I’ve a blue gown that will suit, and Michael will see to his own wedding clothes.”
“Will I noo?” he said, patently amused. “I dinna suppose ye’ll let me choose the fabric.”
“Dark blue wool,” Anne told him, her tone brooking no discussion.
News of Anne’s betrothal traveled swiftly up Water Row, round Back Row, and down Kirk Wynd until the couple could not venture out of doors without a well-wisher stepping forward to rub shoulders with Michael or Anne, hoping to capture a bit of their good fortune, or so the old wives believed. Friends came round the house at all hours, bearing small gifts of kitchen linens and woodenware. As for Anne’s students, they were too excited to work on their lace each afternoon, preferring to speak of flowers and veils and handsome bridegrooms.
Elisabeth smiled through it all, her countenance serene, though occasionally Marjory saw a flicker of sadness behind her eyes. Was there something about Anne’s impending marriage that weighed on Elisabeth’s heart? By Friday curiosity got the better of Marjory. She followed her daughter-in-law out the door, then caught her elbow before she reached the marketplace. “Bess, we’ve not had a moment alone all week. Is everything quite well?”
Elisabeth turned, her eyes shimmering in the dim interior of the close. “I fear I’ve done a poor job of hiding my feelings.”
Marjory circled her arm round Elisabeth’s waist. “You’ve no need to conceal them from me, dear girl. Not after all we’ve been through.” She stepped forward, taking Elisabeth with her. “Since you’re bound for Bell Hill this morn, suppose I walk with you as far as the Foul Bridge Port so we might chat.”
Strangers were already pouring into Selkirk for the fifth day of the fair as the women started up Kirk Wynd, arm in arm against the flow. “I’ll be glad when ’tis over,” Marjory grumbled, “though I know the town’s innkeepers are glad for their custom.”
Elisabeth nodded, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
Not wanting to waste a moment, Marjory cast aside small talk and spoke from the heart. “I sense you are not entirely happy for Anne. Did you form … an attachment with Mr. Dalgliesh?”
“Nae!” Elisabeth protested. “He is a friend and former employer, nothing more. I wish them both much joy.”
Marjory could not doubt her, so clear and direct was Elisabeth’s gaze. “Are you unhappy with me, then?” Because of Gibson? Marjory dared not say it aloud. Even the thought made her hands grow damp and her heart skip a beat. What if Elisabeth did not approve?
As they reached the top of the knowe, her daughter-in-law slowed her steps, smiling down at her as she said, “If you mean am I unhappy with your own budding romance, I wish you and Gibson a joyous future as well.”
Taken aback, Marjory stammered, “Wh-whatever do you mean?”
“The man adores you. And I believe you return his affections.”
Marjory could hardly deny the truth. “But he is a servant, Bess, and I am a poor gentlewoman. What future can we possibly have?”
“A bright one, Lord willing.” Elisabeth started downhill toward the town gate, tugging her along. “You once told me that faith is what pleases the Almighty.”
“Aye,” she sighed. “So I did.” If I am to marry Neil Gibson, Lord, you alone will bring it about. Marjory sent her thoughts heavenward, above the dirty cobblestones and thatched roofs of Selkirk, then took a long, steady breath. “You’ve still not told me what’s bothering you, Bess.”
She gave a faint shrug. “Nothing of importance.”
Marjory looked at her. “Now ’tis my turn to speak the truth: you miss Lord Buchanan.”
“Ah … well …” Color stained her cheeks. “Bell Hill isn’t the same without its owner.”
“And you are not the same without your master.” Marjory patted her hand, at a loss for what else to say. She could not in good conscience encourage their growing friendship and risk dishonoring Donald’s memory. Nor could she deny the admiral’s many fine qualities. Very fine, in fact. Exceptional.
A conundrum, to be sure.
They’d reached the town gate, flung open to all who approached from the southeast. Elisabeth released her but not before kissing her cheek. “ ’Twas kind of you to keep me company.”
Marjory confessed, “I have little else to offer you now but hot meals and a listening ear.”
“ ’Tis enough.” With a faint smile Elisabeth turned and lifted her hand in farewell.
Fifty-One
Who loves
Believes the impossible.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
s her daughter-in-law crossed the small footbridge heading east, Marjory started for home, putting aside any thoughts of men or marriage in favor of more pressing concerns: breakfast, dinner, and supper. She touched her pocket to be certain she had a coin or two, then made a mental list of what she needed from the market. Cheese, butter, eggs, and milk. Aye, that she could afford.
Weaving between handcarts and pedestrians moving down Kirk Wynd, Marjory slowed as she neared the manse, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gibson through the window. She felt like a lovesick schoolgirl but eyed the house nonetheless, noting the open curtains, the single candle, and the signs of life withindoors.
Certain she had spied his black livery, Marjory paused at the window and smiled, her nose nearly touching the glass. Good morn, dear Gibson.
But it was Reverend Brown, dressed in black, who turned and met her gaze.
Startled, she fell back a step. What must the minister think of her, peering into people’s houses?
A moment later he was standing in the doorway, waving her inside. “Come, Mrs. Kerr. I have been meaning to speak with you.”
Marjory slipped by him as she entered the manse, feeling awkward and ashamed. Gibson, alas, was nowhere in sight. She took the offered seat by the window, keenly aware of how foolish she must have looked tarrying on the other side of the glass.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she began, not knowing how else to phrase it.
“Not at all,” he said gruffly, taking the chair opposite hers. “If you were looking for Gibson, I sent him on an errand, for I cannot bear to venture out during the fair.” He leaned forward, his eyes as sharp as any owl’s. “In the meantime I’ve news of Lord Buchanan that should be of interest to you.”
Her thoughts flew immediately to Elisabeth. “Oh?”
“In truth, his lordship may not be aware of the fact I’m about to share, though I shall inform him at the first opportunity.”
Marjory inched forward on her chair, her curiosity mounting. “And that fact is?”
“Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan is distantly related to Lord John Kerr.”
Marjory swallowed. “To … my late husband?”
“Aye. While reviewing our oldest parish records at the request of the presbytery, I stumbled upon the names Buchanan and Kerr in a marriage entry from the late sixteenth century. To call his lordship your distant cousin would be stretching the truth, but your ancient kinsman he most certainly is.”
“News indeed,” she breathed, trying to grasp what such a connection might mean for her family.
“Madam, I hardly need mention your dire financial needs. Once he is informed of your common ancestry, Lord Buchanan may be moved to …, eh, provide for you and your daughter-in-law.”
“I see.” Marjory pretended to pluck a bit of dust from her black skirts while she searched her conscience. He was a generous man, Lord Buchanan, and would no doubt do his part. But there was more at stake than mere silver or gold. Oh, Bess. Would such provision please you? Or embarrass you? Marjory knew the answer.
She lifted her head. “I wonder, Reverend Brown, if you might delay mentioning this to his lordship.”
He frowned. “But you are the one who’ll benefit. Can you afford to wait?”
“Aye,” Marjory said, “for a few months at least.” Elisabeth was promised employment at
Bell Hill through Saint Andrew’s Day. If they could somehow make ends meet until then, neither Lord Buchanan nor Elisabeth would be thrust into a difficult situation. And who knew where their friendship might lead someday? “ ’Tis best left unspoken,” Marjory told him.
The minister held up his hands in surrender. “As you wish, madam. Should you change your mind, I will gladly approach his lordship regarding this … obligation.”
Hearing the word, Marjory was certain of her decision. Friendship and obligation were not well met.
As she prepared to leave, Reverend Brown cleared his throat. “Madam, you and I discussed another matter of some urgency in late May. Perhaps you recall the subject.”
Gibson. “Indeed I do, sir.”
“May I be so bold as to inquire where things stand with you and my manservant?”
She moistened her parched lips. “Stand?”
“I believe I stated my objections quite clearly. And yet I hear your name pouring from Gibson’s lips, and see you sitting together at services, and find you peering through my window, hoping to catch a glimpse of a man who served you for thirty years. Where is this leading, Mrs. Kerr?”
With each phrase his voice had grown more strident. By the time he reached her name, Marjory was on her feet. Trembling, aye, but standing.
She kept her voice at an even pitch, though she longed to match his volume note for note. “May I remind you, sir, I am an independent woman. Of limited means, aye, but beholden to no man. You’ll not find the name Kerr on the parish’s poor roll nor a beggar’s badge pinned to my gown.”
“Now, now, Mrs. Kerr,” he said, shaking his gray head. “I am merely concerned lest you lose your place in society—”
“My place?” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Reverend Brown, I no longer have a place. What I have are dear friends, who take me as I am.” The truth of her words rang inside her like a bell, clear and strong. “You asked me where things stand with Neil Gibson. They stand very well, sir. I thank you for your interest.”
Marjory wanted to stride from the room, her skirts slapping about her ankles, but a show of pique would accomplish nothing. Furthermore, Reverend Brown was Gibson’s employer and their parish minister and so deserved her respect.
Help me, Lord. Help me do what I must.
Bowing her head, she eased into a curtsy, deeper than required, and did not rise until peace reigned once more in her heart.
When she lifted her head and their eyes met, she found the words she wanted to say. “Reverend Brown, you once promised to show me God’s mercy, and indeed you have. Now I ask only for a small measure of happiness, no greater than the widow’s farthing.”
The minister placed a withered hand on each shoulder. “Mrs. Kerr, I see that your mind is fixed on this course. How you and Mr. Gibson will navigate these waters, I cannot say. But whatever God joins, I’ll not put asunder. Go, now, for I’ve kept you long enough.”
“Bless you,” she whispered and turned for the door, thinking only of Gibson. Eager to find him. Eager to tell him. All is well. God is with us.
A moment later Marjory found herself in Kirk Wynd, still reeling from the minister’s unexpected benediction. He seemed willing to admit the Almighty might have brought them together. Can it be true, Lord? Is this your hand at work? Do you mean for this good man to be mine?
When she looked up and saw Neil Gibson walking toward her, all her questions were answered. Aye, aye, aye. Marjory reached out, beckoning him forward.
He offered a gentleman’s bow, then clasped her hands. “Have ye come leuking for me, Leddy Kerr?”
“I’ve much to tell you,” she began, “but we cannot meet at Anne’s house, with Peter due for his morning visit.”
“And we canna speak at the manse,” Gibson said. “Nor may we stand in the mercat place with the whole toun watching.”
“To kirk then.” Marjory was already starting uphill. “On a Friday ’tis sure to be empty.”
They slipped through the narrow pend and across the grassy kirkyard, then pulled open the door, cringing when the rust-covered hinges cried out in protest. Leaving behind the forenoon sun, they stepped inside the shadowy interior, cool and still.
“A bit gloomy,” Gibson murmured, “but at least we have it to ourselves.” He walked Marjory down the aisle, her hand tucked round his arm, then brushed clean the Kerr pew and seated her like landed gentry come to church.
Marjory waited until he sat down, her heart beating so hard against her stays she was not certain she could breathe, let alone speak. When she turned to him, their knees almost touched. When he took her ungloved hands in his, she thought she might faint.
“Gibson, I—”
“Neil,” he said softly, never taking his eyes off hers. “ ’Tis time ye called me by my given name.”
Neil, my dear Neil. Could she say it aloud without blushing? “Neil,” she finally managed. “And you must call me Marjory.”
He smiled at that. “I’ve called ye Marjory in my heart syne I first clapped eyes on ye in May. Whan ye pressed yer wee head against my neck and told me, ‘Ye’re hame.’ I canna tell ye what that meant to me.”
Overcome with emotion, she bowed her head and whispered, “And to me.”
He gently lifted her chin. “Dinna hide from me, lass.”
“Lass? I’m hardly a girl—”
“Wheesht!” he said with a low chuckle. “Ye’re a lass from whaur I’m sitting.” He lightly kissed the back of her hand, then said, “Noo, what was it ye were so keen to tell me?”
She described her meeting with Reverend Brown, leaving out any mention of Lord Buchanan for the moment, and watched Neil’s expressions change with each revelation.
“So, ’tis only a sma’ measure o’ happiness ye’re wanting?” Neil teased her. “Nae mair than a farthing’s worth?”
“You know me very well,” she reminded him. “Am I a woman who settles for so little?”
“I’ve niver seen ye do so,” he agreed, looking more serious. “ ’Tis why I must ask if ye’re sure … if ye’re verra sure …”
“That you’ll make me happy?” When he nodded, she looked into his eyes lest she lose her courage. “Neil Gibson, I cannot imagine a future without you at the center of it.”
“Och, Marjory.” He hung his head, clasping her hands tightly in his as if he might never let go. “Ye ken I have naught to offer ye. Not a hame, nor a horse, nor a purse full o’ guineas. And I dare not ask for yer hand ’til I do.”
“My dear Gibson …” She caught herself. “Neil … I have no such expectations.”
He lifted his head. “But I do.” His eyes shone like candles in the murky sanctuary. “D’ye remember me saying in Edinburgh, ‘Ye’ll aye be Leddy Kerr to me’?”
“I remember it well.” So very well.
“A leddy like ye deserves a’ the best the world has to offer. I’ll not see ye go without because o’ me.”
When he started to release her, Marjory drew him closer instead. “Listen to me, Neil Gibson. Possessions mean nothing to me now. Surely you, of all people, know that.”
“Aye, but—”
“The Buik tells us only faith, hope, and charity truly matter.” She lifted his hands, his strong, callused hands, praying as she did. “My faith has been renewed,” she assured him, gently kissing one hand. “My hope has been restored,” she promised, kissing the other. “And my regard for you is certain.”
When he smiled, she caught a glimpse of the darling boy of ten he’d surely been. And of the strapping lad of twenty, who must have stolen every maidservant’s heart. And of the handsome man of forty, who’d served her at Tweedsford. But none could match the mature man who sat beside her now, with love in his eyes and laughter in the curve of his mouth.
“I canna see my way through just noo,” he confessed to her, “but if the Almichty means for us to be thegither, then thegither we shall be.” He kissed each hand, as she’d kissed his, then slowly stood, drawing her to her feet. “ �
��Tis time I walked ye hame.”
She started up the aisle with him, in no hurry to leave their quiet sanctuary. “I can only imagine what Reverend Brown will say when you return.”
After a moment Neil said, “He’s a guid man, wha cares about his flock. As it happens, the reverend and I have a surprise for ye, though ’twill have to wait ’til Michaelmas.”
“Ah.” She smiled. “We’ve much to look forward to this autumn. Anne and Michael’s marriage, of course, and Lord Buchanan’s return from the Highlands. I do hope he’ll not be delayed. ’Twould be a shame for him to miss Annie’s wedding.”
Fifty-Two
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.
ROBERT BURNS
ack stared at the small Highland cottage with its thatched roof, crooked chimney, and unglazed windows. The battered wooden shutters, meant to keep out the elements, sagged on their hinges. A few hens pecked their way across the garden, and a pot of dead violets sat by the door. “You are certain this was Elisabeth Kerr’s home?”
Rose MacKindlay looked up at him with eyes as green as the grass on the hillocks. “She was a Ferguson then, but, aye, this was whaur Bess lived and whaur her mither lives noo.” An elderly woman, Mrs. MacKindlay shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing as she did. “Her man is oot just noo, but I ken for a fact Fiona is at hame. She’ll be glad to have a letter from Bess.”
Jack had come to Braemar parish solely to shoot grouse, or so he’d told himself. But from the hour he’d reached the Mar estate, his thoughts had circled round nearby Castleton, the hamlet where Bess had spent her first eighteen years. Consisting of a ruinous castle and a knot of stone cottages nestled amid a remote mountain fastness, Castleton of Braemar was as far from Edinburgh’s high society as Persia was from Paris. Why had Bess left, and how? And who was this woman who’d raised her?
He was curious, no denying it. The letter in his pocket would open a door he very much wished to walk through.
Mine Is the Night Page 28
