Then marry me, Bess. The words were on the tip of his tongue. Say it, Jack. Go on.
Youth and beauty were easily found among the gentlewomen of the land but to also find godliness and charity? Wisdom and purity? Strength and humility? He would gladly wait for such a woman. Though the new year did seem a very long way off.
Jack walked round his desk, eying her mourning gown, thinking to test the waters. “When the seventeenth of January comes and you are free to wear any color you like, I am curious what you’ll choose.”
She rose, the soft contours of her face glowing in the afternoon light. “I’m rather partial to lavender.”
He stood as close as he dared. “Both the scent and the shade?” When she nodded, he tucked away the information for future reference. “A feminine color, signifying devotion. I shall look forward to seeing you wear it.”
A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Shall you indeed, milord?” At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she stepped back. “Then I hope you are a patient man.”
“Oh, very patient,” he assured her, mentally counting the time that remained.
Three months and twenty-four days, Bess. And then, if you’ll have me, if God wills it, you’ll be mine.
Sixty-Six
Sowe Carrets in your Gardens,
and humbly praise God for them,
as for a singular and great blessing.
RICHARD GARDINER
arjory blinked at Elisabeth. “We’re to pick carrots? On the Sabbath?”
Her daughter-in-law laughed, slipping on a pair of tattered gloves suitable only for gardening. “If Mrs. Thorburn will not mind.”
“And if Reverend Brown will not notice,” Marjory added rather sternly.
Once Elisabeth convinced her the Michaelmas Eve tradition was embraced by Highland ministers of old and would in no way dishonor the Lord, Marjory gave in. “But have not all the root vegetables been harvested by now?”
“There’s always a stray or two among the weeds, waiting to be yanked free.” Clasping Marjory by the hand, Elisabeth pulled her out of the upholstered chair.
“Now I feel like a carrot,” Marjory chided her. Since they had no proper spade for digging, she dropped a wooden fork into her apron pocket, then led the way down the stair, feeling rather ridiculous. Still, if it pleased Elisabeth, what harm was there?
The afternoon sky was pale gray with a thin layer of clouds stretched from east to west. Marjory did not sense rain in the air, though it felt cooler than when they’d hurried off to kirk that morning. She’d thrown a cape over her shoulders for their outing and was grateful for it now as they headed for Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.
“Not much here, I’m afraid.” Marjory treaded gently round the vegetable beds, looking for the telltale foliage: a frothy burst of tiny green leaves.
“Ah.” Elisabeth crouched down, then began tugging at a neglected carrot, grasping it with both hands. “ ’Tis a custom meant to assure a woman will have children,” she said, then smiled as an enormous carrot was unearthed. “See? Chubby as a wee bairn.”
Marjory eyed her lumpy harvest. “Is such a thing ill luck or good?”
“Very good,” Elisabeth assured her, “although children are a gift of the Lord and not of the garden.”
Now that she understood the purpose, Marjory ceased her digging. “Bess, I’m far too old to bear a child.”
“But the perfect age to help raise one someday,” her daughter-in-law insisted. “Come, see what your bit of foliage yields.”
Wanting to be agreeable, Marjory dug and yanked and dug some more until a forked root with not one but two sturdy carrots broke through the soil. They could represent Donald and Andrew, Marjory supposed. Or would she hold Elisabeth’s children when the time came?
She glanced at her daughter-in-law, bursting with health and vigor. Aye, if Elisabeth were to remarry, she might well bear a child or two, though she’d not conceived during the years she was married to Donald. Still, Marjory could not find fault with Elisabeth. Not after all the lass had done to care for her, provide for her. Nor could she blame the Almighty, who knew best in such things—nae, in all things.
Michaelmas carrots in hand, including one for Anne to present to Michael, Elisabeth planted pennies in the soil for Mrs. Thorburn’s children to discover, then walked Marjory home, chanting a rhyme that made them both laugh.
It is myself that has the carrot.
Whoever he be
that would win it from me.
“I daresay Lord Buchanan would gladly claim your carrot,” Marjory observed.
“Unless Rosalind Murray offers him one first.” Elisabeth placed their harvest on the dining room table, her smile fading. “The Murrays are on his lordship’s guest list for tomorrow night’s Michaelmas feast. I can only imagine the gown Rosalind will wear. And the jewels. And the fine perfume.”
Marjory heard the resignation in her daughter-in-law’s voice and hastened to assure her, “Lord Buchanan is not a gentleman whose head is turned by pretty clothes.”
Elisabeth lifted her cape from her shoulders. “But Rosalind is quite clever and has traveled the Continent.”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” Marjory chided her, “I’ve never met a lass more clever than you. Now suppose we get on with Michaelmas Eve and leave Michaelmas Night in God’s hands, aye?”
“Very well.” Elisabeth tied on an apron. “To our bannock, then.”
She moistened ground oatmeal with ewe’s milk, then added berries, seeds, and wild honey, and formed it into a circle. “For eternity,” she explained before beginning work on two smaller bannocks. “These are to honor the loved ones we’ve lost since Michaelmas last. Come, Marjory, and help me prepare the dough as we say their names.”
Marjory pressed her hands into the mealy mixture. “Donald,” she whispered, kneading the dough as she remembered the babe, the lad, the young man, the gentleman whom she’d loved almost more than her own husband. Her throat tightened further as she named aloud her second son. “Andrew,” she said, thinking of her little soldier marching about the nursery, then round Tweedsford’s gardens, then up and down the streets of Edinburgh, and finally across the battlefield at Falkirk. Elisabeth spoke their names with her, kneaded the dough beside her, and helped her give them each a unique shape.
“I am not sure I can eat them,” Marjory confessed.
“Not to worry,” Elisabeth said, brushing the flour from her hands. “They’re meant to be given to the poor who have no bread of their own.”
While the bannocks browned on the hearth, Marjory prepared a rich mutton broth for supper, eying their fat carrots. When she asked Elisabeth if the vegetables might be added to her soup pot, the answer was swift and sure.
“Nae!” Elisabeth pretended to be shocked. “ ’Tis a Michaelmas gift for your beloved.”
A carrot? Marjory hid her smile. Won’t Gibson be delighted?
Under Elisabeth’s watchful eye, Marjory coated their Michaelmas bannock with a caudle of flour and cream, eggs and sugar. “Three times,” Elisabeth said, “for Father, Son, and Spirit.”
After the bannock was placed back on the fire to finish baking, Elisabeth washed her hands, then slipped on her cape. “I am off to Mr. Riddell’s stables to be certain Belda is safe.”
“Safe?” Marjory echoed. “Why would you worry about a mare?”
“ ’Tis Michaelmas Eve,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Anything might happen, especially where horses are concerned.”
She was gone before Marjory could offer any objection. Not that she would have. The stables were a two-minute walk up Kirk Wynd. If Elisabeth would sleep better knowing Lord Buchanan’s mare was secure, Marjory was happy for her to go.
But the house was suddenly very quiet, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts.
Marjory walked from one corner to the other, as she had on the night they’d arrived, when she’d measured Anne’s small house and fretted over their living arrangements. We shall all live in one room. Ay
e, so they had.
Come Martinmas, when accounts were settled, the rent for this house would become Marjory’s responsibility. Until then she would make a home for Elisabeth, guarding her from the Rob MacPhersons of the world.
Wasn’t that what Donald would have wanted?
Marjory sank onto the upholstered chair, no longer sure what her late son expected of her. He’d played the part of the doting heir, all the while sullying their family’s name in the closes and wynds of Edinburgh. He’d also broken his wife’s heart, reaching for other women who couldn’t hold a candle to her. Yet when he’d departed Edinburgh, Lord Donald had made one wish quite clear: May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?
Marjory stared at the dying coals in the hearth. What can I do for her, Lord? How may I see her well cared for?
The answer rose in her heart like the sun. Let her marry Lord Buchanan now.
“Aye,” she breathed into the quiet room.
What possible advantage could there be to waiting until January? Out of sheer necessity young widows often remarried mere months after losing their husbands. Such haste was frowned upon only in the very highest levels of society. And hadn’t Saint Paul himself said of widows, “Let them marry”?
“Then let them marry,” Marjory said aloud. There were no impediments she could think of. Lord Buchanan was rich and surely desirous of a family. Elisabeth was beautiful and in need of a husband.
The only thing required was a proposal. Gentleman that he was, Lord Buchanan would never cut short Elisabeth’s time of mourning. But she could.
And stop Rosalind Murray in her tracks.
Marjory couldn’t bear to sit, so eager was she to spill out her plans. She darted to the window, then the hearth, then the door. Might she seek out her daughter-in-law returning from the stables? Nae, such details could never be discussed on the street. No one must know until the deed was done, lest Lord Buchanan refuse Elisabeth.
Marjory blanched at the very idea. Nae, nae, he loves her. She was certain of it.
Moments later when Elisabeth crossed the threshold, Marjory practically dragged her to a chair beside the dining table and plunked her down without ceremony.
“Now then, Bess,” she said, sitting across from her, “it is time you found a home of your own.”
Elisabeth looked round. “But this is our home.”
“More than a home,” Marjory said firmly. “A husband.”
Her eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean? I cannot think of marriage when I am in mourning—”
“Listen to me, Bess.” Marjory clasped her daughter-in-law’s hands in hers. “You have more than honored my son’s memory these many months.”
“Aye, but, Marjory—”
“We must look to your future now. God has surely brought Lord Buchanan into your life for a reason.”
“Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth tried to stand, but Marjory held her in place. “Dearest, he has not asked for my hand—”
“Only because he wishes to honor the rules of society.”
Elisabeth shook her head. “I believe he means to honor you.”
“Well, then.” Marjory released her and sat back, triumphant. “If I am the only impediment, you have my permission to marry as soon as ever the banns may be read in the kirk three Sabbaths in a row.”
Elisabeth shook her head, disbelief written across her features. “How can I tell Lord Buchanan such a thing without seeming presumptuous? The man has never even mentioned marriage.”
Marjory couldn’t keep from smiling. “That is why you must be the one to broach the subject.”
Sixty-Seven
’Tis expectation makes a blessing dear.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING
lisabeth stared at her mother-in-law, trying to grasp what she was suggesting. “You want me to propose to Lord Buchanan?”
“At the very least, present yourself to him,” Marjory said, her hazel eyes aglow. “Let him know of your willingness to end your time of mourning. He will not move forward until you do.”
Move forward. Elisabeth looked down at her plain black dress. Was she ready to drape herself in blues and greens, reds and purples, telling the world she no longer mourned the man she’d once loved with all her heart?
Oh, my Donald, if only I might ask you.
But her husband was gone. Her heart alone held the answer.
Elisabeth met Marjory’s gaze and prayed for the right words to say. “You must know how I cherish the memory of your son,” she told her, wanting to dispel any doubt in her mother-in-law’s mind.
Marjory touched her cheek. “I do, Bess.”
“And yet you are willing to let me go?”
“How can I not? You’ve been so very faithful. To Donald and to me.” Marjory’s lower lip began to tremble. “I cannot imagine the last year without you by my side.”
“Nor can I.” Elisabeth leaned forward and gathered her mother-in-law in her arms. “Whatever happens, I will see you well cared for, dear Marjory.”
“I know, I know …” The rest of her words were muffled against Elisabeth’s shoulder.
After a quiet, tender moment, they eased apart. “There’s something I’ve not told you,” Marjory confessed. “It is about Lord Buchanan.”
Elisabeth’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”
“According to Reverend Brown, his lordship is a distant relative on Lord John’s side of the family.”
Elisabeth let the words sink in. “Lord Buchanan is our kinsman?”
“Not by blood,” Marjory assured her, “but certainly by marriage, however long ago. Because of that slender tie, Reverend Brown thought we might prevail upon his lordship to provide a small income for us. But I’d hoped for more than mere silver.” She stood and moved to the hearth. “I asked the reverend to keep this discovery to himself. Even Lord Buchanan may not yet be aware of it.”
Elisabeth watched her measure the tea leaves, then pour hot water into a crockery pot. “You’ve had your eye on him from the first, haven’t you?”
Marjory smiled. “Not for myself, of course. My heart has been engaged elsewhere for some time. But for you, aye.” She rejoined her at the oval table, bearing a wooden tray with cups and spoons, honey and milk, and the steaming pot with its fragrant brew. “I’ve given this some thought, Bess, and have decided the very best time to approach his lordship is tomorrow night after the Michaelmas feast at Bell Hill.”
Overcome, Elisabeth sank back against her chair. “So soon?”
“Remember the words of Shakespeare,” Marjory cautioned her. “Delays have dangerous ends.” She stirred honey into her tea, frowning. “What if Rob MacPherson leaped from the ship before it sailed and is even now bound for Selkirk? Or what if Lord Buchanan decides Rosalind Murray would make a fine wife, especially since she is free to marry him at once?”
Elisabeth didn’t like the sound of either one of them, the second especially. “What have you in mind, Marjory?”
Her mother-in-law’s response was swift and decisive. “When the festivities are drawing to a close, slip down the stair to your workroom and bathe from head to toe, using my lavender soap. Brush your hair until it shines and place Annie’s silver comb where it will show to best advantage. Then dress in the lavender gown my son bought for you—”
Elisabeth gasped. “Marjory, I couldn’t!”
“Aye, you could,” she insisted. “Lord Buchanan has never seen you wearing anything but black. ’Tis time he viewed you as a beautiful and marriageable young lady. Not as a poor widow who sews dresses for his servants.”
Elisabeth glanced toward her leather trunk, picturing the folded gown inside. “ ’Twill need to be aired and ironed …”
“Easily managed,” Marjory promised. “Gibson and I will wrap your gown in a sheet, lay it out in a cart, and deliver it to your workroom tomorrow, such that none will be the wiser.”
In spite of her qualms, Elisabeth smiled. “You really have thought of everything.”
“The hour matters most o
f all,” Marjory told her. “Long after supper, when his lordship is well sated and his guests have departed for home, you must speak with him in private.”
Elisabeth’s eyes widened. “You cannot mean in his bedchamber?”
Marjory paused, as if considering it, then agreed, “Nae, ’twould not be proper. But you must approach him in a secluded spot where you are not likely to be interrupted.”
Elisabeth knew the very place. “His study,” she said. “Sally once told me Lord Buchanan often ends his evenings seated by the fire.”
Marjory sipped her tea in silence. “Aye,” she finally said. “Once you’re certain he’s alone, quietly enter the room and present yourself to him. A deep curtsy and your lovely gown will speak volumes. Once he understands you are no longer in mourning, he will surely propose marriage in short order.”
Can it be as simple as that? Elisabeth pressed a hand to her fluttery stomach, imagining what she might say, what he might do, how things would end.
Do I want this? ’Twas the greater question. Better a peaceful widow than a heartbroken wife. Yet Lord Jack was surely different than Donald or Rob. He’d never gazed at other women in her presence, let alone seduced them. Nor had he raised his voice against her, let alone his hand.
If he welcomed her proposal, they might soon be married. But if he misunderstood her, if he refused her, if he preferred Rosalind Murray, with her title and her wealth.
Elisabeth’s courage began to falter. “Oh, Marjory, are you certain?”
“I am,” she answered without hesitation. “With Rosalind in the wings, we cannot wait until January.”
Elisabeth nodded, finally convinced as well. “I shall follow your instructions to the letter.”
“And may God bless you for it.” Marjory glanced at the window, hearing voices on the street below. “Until then, not a word to anyone, Bess.”
Sixty-Eight
Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air,
Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE
ack stood at the edge of his rose garden, smiling up at the twilit sky, waiting.
Behind him in the dining room, Mrs. Pringle was giving orders. He could hear her firm, steady voice floating through the open windows, putting everyone and everything in its place. By the time his first guests appeared in the entrance hall, Bell Hill would be ready to welcome them.
Mine Is the Night Page 36
