Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Very fortuitous,” Lord Mark agreed as Dickson placed the box of coins before him. “Upon my word, Admiral, consider the bargain struck. I shall have a lease drawn up at once.”

  “No need.” Jack started toward him, legal documents in hand. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing one for you so as not to delay the possession of your gold.”

  “Very thoughtful,” the governor murmured, his guineas gleaming in the candlelight.

  Jack chose the side of the table opposite Dickson, forcing Lord Mark to shift his gaze from one to the other. “If you might kindly review these papers and affix your signature, the gold will be yours, and Tweedsford will no longer remain your concern.”

  Lord Mark called for more candles, as well as pen and ink. Two lieutenants scurried about, bringing all that he needed. Jack willed his hands not to shake as he laid two papers, one on top of the other, before the governor. The gold had done its work. Now humility must do its part.

  Drawing a candle closer, Lord Mark looked over the lengthy document on top, reading bits aloud as he did, confirming the terms of their agreement.

  “Everything in order?” Jack asked, holding out the quill pen and holding his breath as well.

  Lord Mark caressed the gold with his gaze once more, then dutifully signed the lease. He could not put the pen down fast enough before he pulled the box closer. “Now then, Admiral Buchanan, have you other business of interest to the king? For you have my full attention, I assure you.”

  “There is another matter.” Jack paused long enough to pray. You know my heart, Lord. Yet, thy will be done. “I am weary of the bachelor life and wish to marry.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Mark smoothed his fingers across the coins, not bothering to look up. “And what good lady have you chosen for your bride?”

  Jack lifted the first document to reveal a second one. A marriage agreement.

  “She is a widow without issue from a Highland family with no title and little property.”

  Lord Mark snorted. “Well, Admiral, the lady certainly hasn’t much to recommend her.” The others round the table seemed amused as well.

  Jack smiled too, though his heart was pounding. “Nevertheless, we are well matched. The king can hardly object to a beautiful woman among the peers.”

  “Hear, hear,” one of the officers said, banging the table. His compatriots soon joined in.

  Jack steeled himself, knowing what must come next. “There is one impediment to our future happiness, which only the king can remove”

  Lord Mark cocked his brow. “Oh?”

  “If you might act on his behalf, General, I would be most grateful.” Jack flicked his gaze at the box of gold, a reminder of his generous provision.

  The gesture did not go unnoticed. “How may I assist you, Admiral?”

  “Last autumn His Majesty extended a general pardon to all who might renounce their support of the Jacobite cause.” Jack paused, wanting to be certain the general recalled the king’s offer of clemency.

  The others ceased their murmuring. Lord Mark said evenly, “Go on.”

  Jack could delay his bold confession no longer. “My betrothed, Elisabeth Kerr, and your new tenant, my future mother-in-law, are in need of His Majesty’s mercy.”

  Lord Mark’s features drew into a fierce scowl. “You mean to say these women are Jacobites?”

  “They are no longer so,” Jack quickly amended, “for I have seen for myself their complete devotion to the Crown. In my presence Elisabeth Kerr burned her Jacobite rosettes in demonstration of her fealty to the king.”

  Lord Mark eyed his gold at length. “I remember Marjory Kerr now. Her sons foolishly threw away their inheritance to follow the Young Pretender.” His stern tone softened. “She wrote asking for my assistance.”

  Jack knew but asked him nonetheless, “Did you help them, milord?”

  “Nae, I did not.”

  A beat of silence, then two.

  Jack slowly knelt before the general, praying for a strength beyond his own. “Then I am asking for a royal pardon on behalf of Marjory and Elisabeth Kerr. Indeed, I am pleading for their very lives.”

  Jack bowed his head. Please, Lord. There was nothing else to be said, nothing else to be done.

  Finally an answer came. “Very well.”

  Jack looked up to find the general dipping his quill in the ink. A miracle, and nothing short of it. Thy mercy endureth for ever. Jack stood, though it was all he could do not to leap to his feet and shout with joy.

  Lord Mark signed his name with a flourish, then sanded the document with a careless flick of his wrist. “You’re as good as married, Admiral. Though I doubt you’ll thank me for it in a year.”

  The ten men round the table chuckled in agreement.

  Jack smiled but for a very different reason. You are safe, Bess. And you are mine.

  With steady hands and a calm voice, he held up both documents and announced, “You are witnesses this day that I have leased the land that once belonged to the heirs of Lord John Kerr and his widow, Lady Marjory Kerr, who will reside at Tweedsford for the next forty years or until she stands at heaven’s gate.”

  The officers nodded in approval.

  “Moreover, I have hereby obtained permission to marry Elisabeth Ferguson Kerr, widow of Lord Donald Kerr.” My beloved Bess. He swallowed, hard. “Upon our marriage Lady Buchanan will reside with me at Bell Hill in Selkirk, the parish of her late husband, without fear of the king’s reprisal for her former allegiance to the Jacobite cause.” Jack whisked the last traces of sand from the documents, then bowed. “So you have witnessed, and so it is done.”

  Men on both sides of the table applauded, their duty dispatched, while General Lord Mark Kerr attended to his gold.

  Jack took his leave and quickly, lest the general change his mind. Only when the two men reached the portcullis gate did Dickson slap him on the back. “Well done, milord.”

  “Well …” Jack exhaled. “Done, at any rate.”

  Seventy-Five

  Thinkest thou that I could live, and let thee go,

  Who art my life itself?—no—no.

  THOMAS MOORE

  ousin, you must tell him.”

  Marjory saw the determined spark in Anne’s eye and knew any argument would be offered in vain.

  Even Elisabeth, whose every thought now centered on Lord Buchanan in Edinburgh, told her, “Gibson deserves to know, dearest.”

  Marjory had little time left to make a decision. Neil was coming for dinner at one o’ the clock, with all three Kerr women waiting to greet him. Two of them were convinced he would accept Lord Buchanan’s provision as a gift from the Lord, allowing the couple to marry without delay. Marjory was less certain.

  What if, presented with this clear opportunity, Neil suddenly balked? Some men, after all, were more in love with the idea of marriage than the fact of it.

  Or what if, when she suggested they wed, her boldness offended him or wounded his manly pride? She couldn’t bear to think of hurting him.

  Distraught, Marjory poked the mutton simmering over the hearth, then jabbed the potatoes baking in the grate, hoping if she turned her back toward her family, they might let the subject rest.

  They did nothing of the sort.

  Anne sidled up to her first, flashing the silver band round her ring finger. “You could have one of these,” she said smugly. “Once the reverend has read the banns three Sabbaths in a row, Gibson would be yours.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Marjory fretted. Which upset her even more, because she hated fretting. Even the Buik said, “Fret not thyself.” Yet, here she was again, fretting.

  Then Elisabeth appealed to her heart, which was patently unfair. “Gibson loves you, Marjory,” her daughter-in-law said, circling a hand round her elbow, tugging her away from the hearth. “Think how grieved he would be if he heard the news of this blessing from someone else.”

  Marjory spun round. “Bess, you wouldn’t—”

  “Never,” s
he assured her. “I only meant that Lord Buchanan might say something in passing, certain Gibson already knew. And what will happen when you start spending this money? Gibson is a canny man, Marjory. He will guess its source and be heartbroken you didn’t tell him.”

  Marjory sighed. “But it amounts to a proposal of marriage.”

  “Precisely!” Anne cried happily. “Elisabeth insisted I propose to Michael, and look how well that turned out.”

  Elisabeth squeezed Marjory’s arm. “And weren’t you the one who suggested I present myself to Lord Buchanan? Although we cannot be sure of the outcome, I’m most hopeful.”

  Marjory could not dispute their claims. Perhaps it was her turn.

  “All right,” she said with a groan. “But I cannot do this with an audience—”

  “Certainly not.” Anne took Elisabeth by the sleeve, pulling her toward the stair. “We’ll take Peter for a nice, long walk. ’Tis a dry day, and his father will be glad for an hour’s peace.”

  “Dinner will keep,” Elisabeth assured her, opening the door, “but Gibson will not.”

  “What willna I keep, lass?” Neil Gibson stood on the landing, wool bonnet in hand.

  “Oh!” Elisabeth blushed to her roots. “Well … I believe Marjory has … good news that will not keep. We’ll be back shortly.” Both women quickly skirted round him, then hastened down the stair, leaving an awkward silence in their wake.

  Marjory dried her hands on her apron. Give me the words, Lord. Give me the courage.

  Neil entered the house, an expectant look on his face. “Will they not be staying for dinner, then?”

  “ ’Tis just us,” Marjory said, stretching out her hands to welcome him.

  Neil, it seemed, would not be satisfied with handholding.

  He crossed the gap between them in three strides and took her in his arms. “Marjory, my luve.” His voice was rough, his kiss tender. “I canna wait ’til I have mair money. Say ye’ll marry me, lass. We’ll make a go of it somehow …”

  “Oh, but, Neil, I …”

  He kissed her again, then pressed his brow to hers. “I ken ye should be the one asking, Leddy Kerr, because o’ yer station. But I must do the asking, because I luved ye first.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” she managed to say round the lump in her throat. “I loved you before I could put words to it.” She stepped back so she might look into his eyes. “If you are the one asking, Neil Gibson, then I am the one answering. Aye, a thousand times, aye!”

  Then she kissed him, giving him her whole heart, her whole self. He responded in kind, throwing prudence to the winds.

  When at last she tucked her head beneath his chin, Marjory said with a smile, “Have I told you how much I love you, Neil Gibson?”

  “Ye have. But I’ll not mind hearing it again.”

  So she told him several times. And kissed him several times more. And then she remembered the news that would change everything and drew him to her table.

  “I’ve nae appetite for dinner, Marjory, if that’s what ye’re thinking.”

  She laughed. “I mean to serve you something other than mutton.”

  After putting an empty wooden plate before him, she hurried to find the stocking in her trunk, then returned with a bank note in her hand and hope in her heart. “The Almighty has sent a generous gift our way.” She served up the note, worth far more than her meat dish, however well seasoned.

  He stared at it, eyes and mouth agape. “Five hundred pounds? How did … Whaur did …”

  Then she told him the truth. About her foolish gift to Prince Charlie, to a lost cause. And about Lord Buchanan’s generosity. “I believe with all my heart this is from the Lord’s hand.”

  Neil shook his head in disbelief. “Ye say there are … mair?”

  She brought out her stocking and poured the rest onto his plate, thinking if he saw it all, he would understand.

  “ ’Tis a miracle,” he finally said. “And those only come from God.”

  Marjory sighed. “What a wise man I am marrying.”

  He curled his arm round her waist and pulled her onto his lap. “And I get a rich woman in the bargain.”

  “Not rich, but we’ll not starve.” She looked about the house. “When Bess and Lord Buchanan marry, which surely they will, we can live here, if you like.”

  “We can indeed, but I still must wark at something,” he cautioned her. “I canna be a kept man.” He kissed her, lightly this time. “The reverend will read oor banns on Sunday. And marry us three weeks hence, aye?”

  Three weeks. She nodded, overwhelmed by the thought.

  “On the Sabbath,” Neil said firmly, “in the manse. If the Almichty means for us to marry, then let us honor him from the start.”

  “Aye,” she said without hesitation, then stood, remembering dinner. “Might I offer you meat before you return to your labors?”

  “Ye may.” He let her go, though he did not take his eyes off her.

  She felt him watching her closely as she went about her tasks. Slicing the juicy meat. Cutting open the hot potatoes. When a moment later she joined him at table with their plates in hand, she asked, “Are you imagining what it will be like, day after day, seeing me cook?”

  His mischievous smile told her otherwise. “I was imagining ye all richt. But not at the hearth.”

  “Neil Gibson!” she exclaimed, pretending to be shocked, though she was secretly delighted. They were not young, but they were not dead.

  “I must think of a praisent for ye,” he said, then bit into his mutton with a satisfied groan.

  She brushed the hair from his brow. “You love me, dear Neil, with all my faults and weaknesses. That gift will last me a lifetime.”

  “I mean it to, lass. A lang life, full o’ a’ that is guid.”

  She watched him now, as he’d watched her, and forgot everything she ever knew about fretting.

  Seventy-Six

  Gifts come from above

  in their own peculiar forms.

  JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

  ill you be finishing that, milord?” Dickson eyed the large cut of beef that sat untouched on his master’s plate.

  Jack pushed the remains of his dinner across the table. “I thought you left such poor manners aboard ship.”

  “Oh, I did, mostly.” Dickson cut into the meat with relish. “But I brought my appetite with me. And ’tis a shame to waste good meat.”

  Jack gazed out the inn’s small-paned windows into the Grassmarket, eager to quit the capital and start for home. But when they’d returned to the inn to change into riding clothes and claim their belongings, Dickson had reminded him he’d eaten little for breakfast that morning, and they’d be some hours riding to Middleton. “We’d best dine now,” Dickson had said. So here they sat on hard wooden chairs while the clock ticked round.

  When Dickson had consumed everything on both their plates and began gazing longingly at a stranger’s meal, Jack pushed back from the table. “Time we were off.”

  “Lord Buchanan!” a voice called from the entrance. “Can it be ye?”

  Jack turned to find Archie Gordon, the bearded Scotsman charged with looking after Fiona Cromar’s welfare, lumbering toward the table. Jack had chosen the man not only for his honesty but also for his size. Even the fiercest Highlanders might think again before they’d take on Archie Gordon.

  The man lowered his bulk onto a tottery chair and planted his elbows on the table. “Are ye lodging here?” he asked.

  “We were,” Jack told him, “but are now bound for Bell Hill.”

  “Weel, that’s whaur I was headed.” Archie wagged his head, his thick red hair tied back with a bit of leather. “A coincidence, aye?”

  “I prefer to think of it as divine providence,” Jack told him. “You must have news of some import, Archie, to bring it to my door rather than post a letter.”

  The man’s jovial expression faded. “Aye, milord.”

  Jack’s stomach knotted. “Good news or i
ll?”

  “I’ll let ye be the judge o’ that.” Archie rubbed his hand over his beard, then waved over the innkeeper and ordered a pint of ale and a kidney pie before finally relaying the news. “Ben Cromar is deid.”

  Jack stared at him. “Dead?”

  “Aye,” Archie said, frowning. “Got into a brawl with a neighbor after they both had too much whisky. Cromar fell and hit his head on a rock sticking up from the ground. Folk were there as witnesses. ’Twas an accident and naught else.”

  Jack sank back in his chair. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

  “Is that a fact?” Archie looked at him in amazement. “I thocht ye micht be pleased, cruel as the man was.”

  “Relieved,” Jack admitted, “but not pleased, not at another man’s death.”

  “Aye, weel.” Archie took his first sip of ale and sighed. “To be sure, Fiona Cromar is alone noo, with none to provide for her.”

  Jack stood. “That I can remedy.” He sought out the innkeeper, then returned to the table shortly thereafter with quill, ink, paper, and wax. “In a moment I’ll have a letter ready for Mrs. Cromar. When you return to Bell Hill with her answer, I’ll reward you for your labors. Will that suit?”

  “Aye, milord. If ye’ll not mind, I’ll have my dinner while ye write.”

  Jack nodded, his pen already moving across the paper. He did not know Elisabeth’s mother well enough to guess how she would respond. But he knew Elisabeth. Say you will, Fiona. For your daughter’s sake. Jack added a few pieces of gold, then sealed the letter well.

  Dickson looked at him askance, then said in a low voice, “Are you certain about that, milord?”

  “Aye.” Jack had no qualms entrusting Archie with his gold. Unlike the young messenger tarrying round the punch bowl, Archie Gordon was not prone to drink and had shown himself to be an honest and honorable man.

  Archie dropped the sealed letter in his coat pocket with a nod of assurance. The delivery was as good as done. “Sorry to bring ye bad news, Lord Buchanan. Ye leuked quite happy whan I first saw ye.”

  “Indeed I am, for I’m to marry this month.” Just saying the words made his heart leap.