When she heard footsteps on the cobblestones below, she swept aside Anne’s lace-trimmed curtains. Bess! Marjory tucked Gibson’s letter in her hanging pocket for safekeeping, then flung open the door and stood at the top of the stair, anxious to greet her daughter-in-law. Whatever had happened last night at Bell Hill, breakfast would wait.
Elisabeth opened the door from the close, then looked up. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Marjory waved her up impatiently. “I’ve not slept all night, worrying about you.” She pulled her inside, then closed the door, noting her daughter-in-law’s damp wool cape, her wrinkled satin gown, her muddy leather shoes, and the mourning gown draped over her arm. “So,” Marjory began, all but crowing, “who are you, then? The next Lady Buchanan?”
A look of surprise lit Elisabeth’s features. “I’d hardly considered it, but, aye, if we marry, I would bear the title ‘Lady’ again.”
“If you marry?” Marjory’s breath caught. “Please do not tell me things ended badly.”
“Nothing has ended. Not yet.” Elisabeth laid aside her satin reticule, then pulled off her gloves. “If there’s hot water in the kettle, I could do with some tea.”
Marjory had never prepared tea with such haste. A minute later they were seated at the oval table, a plate of oatcakes and cheese before them, teacups in hand. Marjory held hers to keep warm, not bothering to take a sip. “Tell me everything,” she begged.
Elisabeth patiently described her night in Lord Buchanan’s study, though on occasion Marjory sensed her daughter-in-law skipping over a few details. When she came to the pardon his lordship intended to seek from the king, Marjory gripped her hands. “Can this be true, Bess?”
“No more fear of the dragoons,” Elisabeth assured her. “Nor of Cumberland or the tolbooth or the gallows.”
Marjory could barely take it all in. “ ’Twas the Lord’s plan all along,” she breathed.
“Aye.” Elisabeth touched her hand. “Of course, you will be pardoned as well, which should relieve Gibson immensely.”
“Oh!” Marjory fished out his letter, ashamed at having forgotten. “I have something you must see, Bess.” She placed it in her daughter-in-law’s hands and watched her closely as she read.
“Gibson wrote this?” Elisabeth stared at the paper. “Marjory, ’tis wonderful!”
She smiled, proud as any wife. “His hand is quite accomplished.”
“Nae, I mean ’tis wonderful to know money is all that prevents you and Gibson from marrying.”
Marjory was taken aback. “How can that be good news?”
“Because of this.” Elisabeth reached for her discarded reticule and tugged open the drawstring. “Lord Buchanan filled this just before we left Bell Hill.”
Marjory watched a stream of bank notes spill onto their battered dining table. “The admiral gave these to you?”
“Nae, he gave them to you. His lordship clearly stipulated, ‘For your mother-in-law.’ Is it very much?”
Marjory began to count, her hands shaking. “One hundred pounds. Two hundred. Oh, Bess, this one is five hundred …” Speechless, she laid down each bank note, one after another, never losing track of the number, however unfathomable.
When she finished, Marjory looked up. “ ’Tis fifteen hundred pounds.”
Elisabeth gasped. “I had no idea—”
“But God did. Aye, he most certainly did.”
Marjory could not stem the tears that flowed from her eyes or the joy that poured from her heart. You have dealt kindly with me after all, Lord. You have, you have! I came home empty, and you filled me to overflowing.
Dazed at his boundless provision, Marjory straightened the Royal Bank notes into neat stacks, trying to make sense of it all. But there was nothing sensible about so vast a sum. And this sum in particular. “Bess, did I ever tell you how much I gave to the Jacobite cause?”
“I know ’twas a great deal.”
Marjory lightly touched each stack, her fingertips still wet with tears. “Fifteen hundred pounds.”
“Fifteen hundred …” Elisabeth stared at the table full of money. “Is it possible Lord Buchanan knew that?”
Marjory turned to her. “Let me ask you this. Did he count the notes, as I did just now?”
“Nae,” Elisabeth admitted. “ ’Twas dark in his study.”
“Then this gift is from the Lord.” Marjory was more certain than ever. “Though it passed through the admiral’s hands, it came from above.”
Marjory quietly put the bank notes in the only safe place she could think of: rolled inside a stocking at the bottom of her trunk. She need not worry about paying for her lodgings now. Or shopping at market. Or offering her tithe.
“I wonder …” Elisabeth quickly crossed the room to join her. “I wonder if Gibson might agree on the source of this blessing. Because if he did …, oh, Marjory, if he did see this as a gift from God …”
“We could marry,” Marjory realized, her mouth falling open.
Elisabeth laughed. “Aye, you could. At once.”
Marjory threw her arms round her clever daughter-in-law for a brief hug. “Oh, but, Bess, Gibson must come to that conclusion himself. I would never want him to suffer a moment’s doubt.”
“Can you live on such a sum?”
Marjory clapped her hands like a child at an entertainment. “At our age? Neil Gibson and I could live out the rest of our days in this fine little house, dine on meat and broth daily, and still have money left to share with grandchildren.” She glanced at Elisabeth. “Though I suppose they will not truly be my grandchildren—”
“Any babe I might ever bear shall be nestled in your arms,” Elisabeth assured her. “Though I have no promise of that, do I? Not unless the king is merciful.”
“Blessings come from the Lord, not men,” Marjory insisted. “Do not fret, my dear. His lordship will not rest until this matter is settled. Is he not heading north this very day?”
“He is.” She sighed. “And you are right.”
Thinking to find some worthwhile diversion for her, Marjory eyed Elisabeth’s black gown, heaped on the chair. “You have an important matter to attend to as well, Bess. Since you’re no longer in mourning, your attire must reflect that. What say you to adding a bit of trim round the neckline? I know a fine lace maker in town.”
“An excellent plan,” Elisabeth agreed, “though I thought I was the dressmaker.”
“Not for long,” Marjory reminded her.
“True. Lord Buchanan informed me that my services are no longer needed at Bell Hill.”
“You see? You’ll be Lady Buchanan well before Hallowmas Eve.” Marjory shook out the black gown and laid it across the hurlie bed. “Did his lordship say whom he’ll be meeting with in Edinburgh?”
Their tea grown cold, Elisabeth began to clear the table. “He didn’t mention a name. Only that he was the king’s representative in the capital.”
“Nae!” Marjory dropped onto the hurlie bed, crushing Elisabeth’s mourning gown. “Bess, that can only be one person. ’Tis the Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle, General Lord Mark Kerr.”
Seventy-Three
The resolve to conquer is half the battle
in love as well as war.
GEORGE STILLMAN HILLARD
ith Dickson by his side, Jack trotted across the Ettrick bridge, fighting the urge to look back. However much he longed to bid Elisabeth farewell, he and Dickson could not tarry in Selkirk. Not if they were to arrive in the capital at noontide on Thursday, giving him sufficient time to shave, dress like an admiral, and sail into battle.
He’d sent a hired messenger ahead to make sure the governor was in residence yet with strict orders not to inform the man of their imminent arrival. Jack intended to use the element of surprise to his advantage. Having once offered a cool welcome to General Lord Mark Kerr at Bell Hill, Jack could only imagine the icy reception he would find at Edinburgh Castle if Lord Mark knew he was coming.
Still, for Elisabeth Ke
rr, he would do whatever was required.
He’d not told her Lord Mark would be the one acting on the king’s behalf, knowing it would only add to her fears. He could still hear the plaintive note in her voice, still see her downcast expression. Might the king withhold his mercy?
Not if God is with us, Bess.
Before leaving Bell Hill, Jack had taken Mrs. Pringle and Roberts into his confidence, explaining the reason for his journey north. “I care little whether or not Lord Mark finds her worthy, but I would know your thoughts,” he’d said. “Will you honor her as Lady Buchanan? Or will she remain a dressmaker in your eyes?”
Their response was swift and heartening. “Your lordship has chosen well,” Roberts said emphatically, while Mrs. Pringle beamed. “You already know of my regard for her, milord.” Jack was certain the rest of the household would follow their good example.
Only Lord Mark needed convincing.
“Mind your mount, sir,” Dickson called out when a large brown hare darted across Janvier’s path. “Mrs. Tudhope would happily throw that one in a pot.”
Jack calmed his horse with ease, grateful for any benign subject to occupy his thoughts. “I recall a decent plate of hare soup when we last supped at the Middleton Inn. We shall see what they have to offer us come Wednesday eve, aye?”
“Venison and pheasant,” Middleton’s cook said proudly, ladling a second helping of game soup onto Jack’s plate.
He could barely hear the woman above the din, or taste her soup with the pungent aroma of tallow candles filling his nostrils. One stage out from Edinburgh, the Middleton Inn welcomed travelers from all levels of society to sup and drink in the low-ceilinged room with its broad, soot-stained beams and sanded floor.
“I found your messenger,” Dickson announced, steering a gangly young man into the chair across from Jack. “Waiting for us, as requested, though he was hanging round that large bowl by the hearth. The one with the hot whisky punch.”
Jack frowned at the lad. “You’ll not be paid unless you’ve done your duty.”
“Oh, I have, milord.” His eyes were a bit glassy, but his words were sober enough. “Went to the castle this morn and learned from one o’ the dragoons that the governor is at hame ’til Friday.”
“Good,” Jack told him. “What else did you hear?”
“Meikle ado about Lords Balmerino and Kilmarnock. They were Jacobites, ye ken, beheaded in the Tower o’ London for treason.”
Jack grimaced, having read a detailed report in The Gentleman’s Magazine. “That will do,” he told the lad, then drew a handful of coins from his purse.
While the messenger stumbled off toward the punch bowl, Dickson resumed his seat, a troubled expression on his face. “Is your lady still loyal to the Jacobites, milord, or is she all for the king now? ’Tis the one question the general is sure to ask.”
“Aye.” Jack picked up his soup spoon, though he’d lost his appetite. “When he does, I’ll be ready with an answer.”
With a blustery wind roaring down the High Street, Jack walked uphill toward Edinburgh Castle, the paving stones slick beneath his boots. On the day of the Common Riding, his heavy admiral’s uniform had been an encumbrance. But with October upon them, the dark blue wool coat, as well as the scarlet waistcoat beneath it, provided much-needed warmth.
Dickson had spent two hours grooming him. “Like a thoroughbred, milord,” he’d said.
Jack had offered no protest, knowing he would need every advantage his military standing might offer. His mission was twofold that noontide. The first would require gold; the second, humility. Though Lord Mark had a reputation as a duelist, Jack had no intention of touching his sword.
They passed beneath the portcullis of the castle with little resistance, the dragoons easily spotting his rank and deferring to him accordingly. Climbing the cobbled road round to the left, past the cart sheds, they were directed toward the governor’s house, clearly the newest building in the castle compound.
“Fine prospect,” Dickson commented, nodding at the splendid view of the capital and the North Sea beyond it.
“Aye,” Jack agreed, giving it a cursory glance. On the way down, when he held two signed agreements in hand, he might admire the scenery. But not now.
Judging by the number of dormers and chimneys poking through the slate roof three stories above, the governor’s residence housed a full complement of officers, deputies, constables, and the like. Jack approached the center entrance, shoulders squared, head high, all the while reminding himself he’d need more than his own strength to see him through. “The LORD strong and mighty,” he said under his breath, “the LORD mighty in battle.”
“Praying, milord?” Dickson asked.
“Always,” Jack replied, then lifted the brass knocker. A moment later they were ushered into the entrance hall where they found enough weaponry mounted on the walls to give any visitor pause.
The lieutenant who greeted them was polite but wary. “Is General Kerr expecting you, sir?”
“He is not,” Jack informed him, “though he’ll know my name. Tell him Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan wishes to meet with him. At once.”
Seventy-Four
Gold loves to make its way
through guards, and breaks
through barriers of stone.
HORACE
eated among the high-backed chairs lining the entrance wall of the governor’s house, Jack crossed his legs and brushed a fleck of dirt from his boots as if he had all the time in the world. Letting his impatience show would not serve him well. General Lord Mark Kerr might leave his visitors cooling their heels for a half hour, but he could not ignore them forever.
Finally the governor strode into the hall, a thick stack of papers tucked under his arm.
Jack was on his feet at once. “General, a moment of your time.”
“I always have time for a peer,” the older man said, though he did not smile, and his tone was cool. “In my office, shall we?”
“I should think a larger room with a table might better serve,” Jack told him. “I am here on business of some importance to His Majesty. Others may be required to serve as witnesses.”
The governor’s slender mustache twitched. “This way, then.”
They traveled through a warren of rooms until they reached one of sufficient size to feature a table with a dozen chairs, empty and waiting. Jack nodded, pleased with the arrangement. “If you might summon ten honorable men of high rank to observe these proceedings?”
“I could summon ten times that number,” the governor said evenly. A threat, however subtle. He turned to the lieutenant hovering behind him and rattled off a list of officers.
Within minutes various gentlemen began striding into the room, each one taking his own measure of Jack. He expected it and did the same. Once all were seated, Lord Mark claimed his place at the head of the table, dropping his papers with studied indifference, while Jack took the opposing end. Dickson sat behind and to his right, a heavy box at his feet, the necessary documents in hand.
As Lord Mark made obligatory introductions round the table, Jack observed how the others responded to the general. Begrudging deference at best but not genuine admiration. That would make things easier.
“Tell me, Admiral Buchanan,” Lord Mark began, “what business might be of such interest to His Majesty that you’ve summoned us from our duties?”
Jack stood, not only as a show of respect to the others, but also to gain a visible advantage. He was the tallest man in the room and of equal rank with the general. Above all, he had the Almighty on his side and so spoke with authority.
“I have come here to discuss a certain property,” he declared. “The king’s property. Though at the moment, General, it is in your possession.” He arched a single brow. “You are referring to …”
“Tweedsford in Selkirkshire.”
Lord Mark waved his hand dismissively. “What of it?”
“I believe you referred to it as ‘a poor prize.’
”
The others began to murmur, as Jack knew they would. When the king rewarded one of his subjects with a house and lands, the recipient was expected to be, at the very least, grateful.
“In my presence,” Jack continued, “you expressed your intention to leave Tweedsford unoccupied for an indefinite time, stating, ‘Another ten years would hardly matter.’ Is that correct, General?”
“Aye.” Lord Mark glared at him, his color mottled. “I might have said that.”
“Then I have a proposal, sir, which will provide a handsome income for you and a home for a widowed gentlewoman. Should you agree, the king will consider his award duly appreciated, and you’ll no longer be encumbered with a property that does not suit you.”
Jack glanced at the others, gauging their response. As for Lord Mark, he appeared relieved, even interested.
To force his hand, Jack took a different tack. “Or I could inform the king of your dissatisfaction and offer His Majesty the income instead. You know as well as I do how eager King George is to fill his coffers.”
“Nae, nae,” Lord Mark swiftly protested. “I would be pleased to entertain your offer. What terms would you suggest for the lease of this property?”
“Forty years would suit.” Jack paused as the murmuring rose in volume. It was an extraordinary length of time, requiring a vast sum to match it. “General, I am prepared to pay the full amount in advance.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “In gold.”
The room nigh to exploded. Paper bank notes could not compare to the indisputable merit of guineas.
Jack nodded at Dickson, who began walking the length of the room, bearing a wooden box they’d claimed from the Royal Bank not an hour ago.
Lord Mark watched the gold moving toward him, his eyes glowing, his greed showing. “Perhaps I am acquainted with this widow. Surely she must be a woman of means.”
“You once knew her as Lady Kerr, a distant cousin of yours.” Jack paused, anticipating a response, but Lord Mark’s attention was riveted elsewhere, just as Jack had hoped it might be. He continued smoothly, “You and I are related as well, General. It seems a Kerr and a Buchanan were wed in the Borderland a century and a half ago.”
Mine Is the Night Page 39
