“This way, Leddy Kerr.” He steered her firmly into the house and located a comfortable chair within seconds. The man truly was a marvel.
Once seated, she bade him to come closer, then confided, “I’m not certain how I feel about our neighbors learning of his lordship’s provision. Though I suppose they would discover the source soon enough, wouldn’t they?”
Neil’s expression was more somber than usual. “ ’Tis the provision itself that concerns me,” he admitted. “How am I to hold up my head as yer husband whan anither man has paid for the hoose we live in?”
Marjory begged the Lord for a swift answer. “If the rent is already paid, and we’ve yet to marry, it would count as one of my few possessions, all of which are entirely yours once we’re wed.” That seemed to satisfy him, and surely it was true. “Anyway, dear Neil, you’ve lived there before. ’Twill be like going home.” She curled her hand round his elbow, already growing accustomed to the shape and feel of him. “This time, though, you’ll be the master of Tweedsford and not its head servant.”
His expression lightened considerably as he cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “And how will that be different whan I’ll still be serving ye?”
She offered him a coy smile. “For one thing, you’ll be sleeping in the master bedroom.”
Her words had precisely the effect she’d intended: Neil Gibson was smiling broadly.
“Bess, we cannot plan two weddings at once.” Sitting at their dining room table, Marjory frowned at the twin lists of duties to be accomplished, giving serious thought to taking up fretting again. “With my small ceremony on the nineteenth and your large one on the twentieth …” She threw up her hands, dripping ink onto the paper in the process. “However will we manage?”
Elisabeth reached for her own list and dusted it with sand. “I shall give this to Mrs. Pringle. Nothing would please her more than overseeing my wedding. All I care about is standing before the bride stool with the man I love by my side.”
Marjory searched her heart and realized she felt quite the same. When did such a happy occasion become so complicated? She tore her paper in half.
“My guest list will be as follows,” Marjory declared. “Annie and Michael Dalgliesh, Lord Buchanan, and you, dear Bess. My gown will be the one I’m wearing, my flowers will be a single damask rose from Bell Hill’s garden, if his lordship will not object, and the wedding supper will be a pot of cock-a-leekie soup, simmering on the hearth while Mr. Gibson and I speak our vows at the manse. To be served with bread, I suppose. And cheese.”
Elisabeth laughed. “And cakes.”
“Naturally.” Marjory found herself warming to the idea. Small, quiet, simple. “This is, after all, my second wedding.”
“Mine too,” Elisabeth reminded her, taking her hand. “You are quite certain—”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” she said rather pointedly, “you were a wonderful wife to my son. Though I did not realize it at the time, ’tis very clear to me now. You did everything in your power to please him. And honored him when he did not honor you. I could not be …” Marjory’s throat tightened. “I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter. You deserve every happiness.”
Elisabeth looked up, her heart in her eyes. “I will never forget Donald.”
“Nor I. How could we?” Marjory swallowed. “No matter how abominably he behaved, Donald will always be my first son. And your first husband.” She dried her eyes with the hem of her apron, then sniffed. “Now, that is one thing I refuse to have at my wedding: tears.”
Marjory could not look at Anne.
Elisabeth was worse.
’Twas a miracle the manse was not flooded, so copious was their weeping. Happy tears, to be sure, but still tears. Even the weather had confounded Marjory’s wishes, with a steady rain that began at daybreak, then continued all through the Sabbath morning at kirk and well into the afternoon.
Neil, at least, was dry-eyed and looking more handsome than ever in his silvery blue coat, waistcoat, and trousers—a wedding gift from the Dalglieshes. Whatever his upbringing, Neil Gibson was a true gentleman. Now he looked the part.
As for Elisabeth, she’d insisted on stitching a new black gown for her—not of wool but of watered silk—with sufficient ruffles and bows to please her without raising too many eyebrows on Kirk Wynd. Since her daughter-in-law would soon become Lady Elisabeth, Marjory agreed such a gown might prove useful on special occasions at Bell Hill.
Tomorrow’s wedding, for example.
Marjory glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Michael Dalgliesh and Lord Buchanan contributing fresh handkerchiefs to the cause. Perhaps by the time the ceremony began and she spoke her vows, not a sniffle would be heard from the seats behind her. Because truly, Marjory could not hold out much longer.
“How d’ye like the bride stool?” Neil asked her, patting the small wooden pew used only for weddings. “The auld one was a sorry thing.”
“You made this?” She touched the smoothly planed wood, the neatly matched joints. “I believe you are becoming quite a carpenter, Neil Gibson.”
When he smiled, eyes twinkling, Neil looked ten years younger. “Syne ye mentioned it, I wonder if we might spend some o’ yer pounds—”
“Our pounds.”
“Aye, oor pounds, on fine wood. Oak or mahogany or whatsomever ye like. I’ve a mind to make a few pieces o’ furniture. For the hoose, ye ken.”
Marjory saw through his request. If Neil could work with his hands, if he could make something that pleased her, he would feel he was doing his part.
“You clever man,” she told him. “I cannot wait to see what you’ll make first.”
“Och, I’ve already started it,” he said, “which ye’ll see whan we move there come Martinmas.”
Marjory blushed, quite certain she knew what he’d spent the last fortnight designing.
At last the reverend joined them, his black robe flapping round his legs. “Shall we begin?”
Neil stood, bringing Marjory up with him, keeping her close by his side.
She dared not turn to him. Already her eyes were growing moist.
Reverend Brown looked about the drawing room as if surprised to see so few in attendance. “Very well, then. First, is there any impediment to this marriage?”
“None,” the four witnesses said in unison, then grinned at one another like the children they were. Well, not children perhaps, but certainly young.
Reverend Brown spoke of marriage, of its purpose, of its sacredness, then asked for the rings to be produced.
Neil held out a delicate silver band, waiting for Marjory to offer up her hand.
She was embarrassed to find it trembling. Badly.
But Neil was unflappable. He took her hand, calming her at once, then slipped the ring over her finger, stopping at her knuckle, prepared to speak his vows.
The minister said, “Do you, Neil Gibson, take this woman, Marjory Nesbitt Kerr, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Neil looked down at her, smiling. And then he seemed to disappear from view as tears pooled in her eyes. Marjory had no choice but to tip her chin and let them cascade down her cheeks. When she looked up, she could see him again. And fell in love with him again.
Beloved. Aye, he was surely that.
Neil’s voice was steady, yet thick with emotion. “Even so, I take her afore God and in the presence o’ his people.” With that, he gently pushed the ring in place.
I am yours, Neil. Truly yours.
Reverend Brown turned to her and asked the same question he’d surely asked hundreds of brides. But on this day, she was the one to answer.
“And do you, Marjory Nesbitt Kerr, take this man, Neil Gibson, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She slipped a thick silver band, newly purchased, onto his ring finger and looked into his eyes, amazed to find she could speak. “Even so, I take him before God and in the presence of his people.”
You are mine, Neil. Truly mine.
Marjory did not remember what else the minister said, though he spoke at length and all of it was good and right. What she remembered was the warm hand that held hers and the tender kiss that followed at the door of the manse, when the rain stopped and the sun shone and Neil Gibson swept her into his embrace.
Eighty
To marry a second time
represents the triumph
of hope over experience.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
uid morn!” Sally cried. “And a bonny wedding day to ye!”
Elisabeth turned as the maidservant entered her new dressing room at Bell Hill with a breakfast tray laden with freshly cooked eggs, a rasher of bacon, toasted bread, and raspberry jam.
“Compliments of Mrs. Tudhope,” Sally explained, placing the tray on a nearby table. She poured a steaming cup of tea, added just the right amount of sugar and milk, then offered a cheerful curtsy.
“Such service,” Elisabeth praised her, savoring her first, bracing sip. “You know, Sally, I’ll be needing a lady’s maid.”
Her eyes brightened. “Is that so?”
Elisabeth was not fooled. Sally Craig was a clever lass who never missed an opportunity to improve her situation. “Might you be interested?”
“Och!” She spun in a circle. “If ye’ll have me and Mrs. Pringle will allow it, I’m yers.”
“You must start at once,” Elisabeth cautioned her. “This very day.”
“Weel, mem, yer lavender gown is already aired and pressed. And ye’ll find yer dressing room weel stocked with lavender soap. Provided by his lordship,” she added, blushing prettily.
Elisabeth smiled. “I see I’ve chosen the right young woman.”
“Aye, mem,” Sally assured her, grinning back at her. “Noo, eat a’ yer food afore it gets cauld, and then we’ll see to yer toilette.” She took her leave, no doubt off to inform Mrs. Pringle of her new position.
Elisabeth obediently nibbled on a piece of toast and jam, thinking how strange it would be to have a maidservant waiting on her again. Bathing her, dressing her, styling her hair. She vowed to be a good mistress to Sally. Teaching her useful skills, encouraging her in matters of faith. She had further plans for the entire household if Jack would allow it. Reading and writing, to begin with. Needlework for the women. Carpentry for the men.
She’d once longed for Donald to lead the Kerr household in a time of family worship each evening after supper, a common practice in devout homes. Might Jack be willing? And include the servants as well?
So much to discuss! And a lifetime to do so, she reminded herself, overjoyed at the thought. Thirty, forty, even fifty more years if God was kind, which he surely was.
She was finishing the last bite of her breakfast when she heard a man’s footsteps in the hall, then a light tap at the door. “Mrs. Kerr?”
Elisabeth crossed the room, clasping shut her dressing gown. Speaking through the crack in the door, she told him softly, “I am not dressed, milord, and so cannot invite you within.”
“Oh. Might you be prepared to meet me in … say, an hour? In the garden?” Lowering his voice, he added, “I should very much like to see you, Bess.”
“And I, you.” Very much. “If you might ask Sally to attend me.”
Her new lady’s maid soon reappeared bearing hot water, clean linens, and a wide-eyed expression. “His lordship bade me come at once.”
Elisabeth smiled. “Then let’s not keep him waiting, shall we?”
For her first effort, Sally did exceptionally well with Elisabeth’s hair. “ ’Twill need to be done again for the wedding, o’ course. At four o’ the clock, aye?”
Elisabeth nodded, a sudden chill sweeping over her. Not from fear, certainly, or from nervousness. But from sheer delight.
Jack was standing in the garden when Elisabeth hurried through the drawing room doors into a bright October morning. The air was crisp and dry and the cloudless sky a brilliant blue.
“Dickson is dressing you rather smartly of late,” she told Jack, admiring the dark brown coat that perfectly matched his eyes.
He shrugged. “My valet insists I look the part of a wealthy gentleman.”
“I approve,” she told him, “though ’twill be some time before I can sew enough gowns to look the part of Lady Buchanan.”
“My dear, you are already a lady.” Jack took her hands, tugging her closer. “As to your wardrobe, I hope you’ll not be unhappy with me, but I employed two dressmakers in town to create a few simple gowns for you. Nothing like the quality of your own designs, of course. Feel free to pass them on to Mrs. Dalgliesh, if you like.”
Elisabeth laughed. “Jack, my cousin is a half foot shorter than I am and a good deal smaller. Any gown of mine would need to be remade completely for her.”
“Surely the dressmakers can manage that,” he teased her.
“I suppose,” she agreed. “When might those ‘few simple gowns’ of mine be ready?”
He smiled. “You’ll find six of them hanging in your new dressing room when you return.”
“Six?”
“The women had only a fortnight,” he apologized.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” she hastened to say. “I’m amazed. Having worn the same gown from September last ’til June, the thought of six new gowns at once is … well, ’tis remarkable.” Then she eyed him more closely. “However did they manage without taking my measurements?”
“I confess, I had an accomplice. Your mother-in-law employed your measuring tape one night while you were sleeping.”
Very canny of you, Marjory. Elisabeth would have to think of some way to repay the woman for being so secretive. Put salt in her sugar bowl, perhaps, or stitch her pockets shut. Or she could thank her profusely when next she saw her. Aye, that seemed best.
“Milord?” A footman came forward bearing a thick letter.
Jack accepted it, then broke the seal at once, though his expression showed some misgivings. “ ’Tis from Archie Gordon, the man I sent to Castleton.” When he unfolded the letter, another one fell into his hands. He palmed it for a moment, quickly reading through the first letter, then sighed. “This one is for you.” He held the second out to her. “From your mother.”
Seeing his face, Elisabeth unfolded the letter with misgivings of her own. Had something else happened to her mother, some further tragedy? Please let her be in good health, Lord. Then she read the few Gaelic lines and understood.
My beloved Bess,
I received a letter from Lord Buchanan and was pleased to learn of your wedding plans. He is a man of honor and will be a good husband to you.
Elisabeth nodded as if her mother were standing there in the garden. I believe he will be, Mother. Just as your first husband, my father, was to you.
Lord Buchanan offered to bring me to Selkirk so I might make my home with you. And a very fine home it is, I am sure.
Oh my dear Jack. Elisabeth gripped the letter, overcome by his kindness. Alas, she knew her mother well. Fiona would never leave the Highlands.
My place is here, Bess, among the friends and neighbors I have known all my life. You can be sure they will take care of me to the end of my days.
A great sadness welled up inside her. I wish I could see you, Mother. I wish I could tell you about the Almighty and all he has done for me. Would she never have the chance?
I shall look forward to your letters now that I am certain to receive them. I promise to write as oft as I can.
Elisabeth’s sorrow began to ease. She would write her mother every week. Nae, twice a week. All was not lost.
I will anticipate with great joy the news of your first child.
Your loving mother
My first child. Seeing it written in her mother’s familiar hand stirred hope anew in Elisabeth’s heart. Though she’d not borne a child for Donald, might the Lord still bless her womb? Please, Father. For Jack’s sake. Aye, and for her own. A braw wee lad. A bonny daughter.
Elisabeth slowly folded the letter, the
n looked up. “You are so generous, Jack. Offering my mother a place in your home.”
“Our home,” he reminded her.
“Just to be able to write her and know she is willing to write back.” She sighed, then drank in the fresh breeze, scented with dried leaves and ripe apples. “ ’Tis a beginning.”
“This day is all about beginnings.” He drew her to his side as they walked along the garden bed, Charbon leading the way, twitching his gray tail. “Our guests will not arrive until noontide,” Jack reminded her. “What say we enjoy this fine weather and discuss our plans for the future. Have you any improvements in mind for the household?”
Her smile returned. “I do.”
Eighty-One
In all the wedding cake,
hope is the sweetest of plums.
DOUGLAS JERROLD
ate afternoon sunshine poured through the freshly scrubbed windows of Bell Hill as Jack strode through the halls, stopping only to confer with the musicians, making very certain all was in readiness. Reverend Brown was waiting by the fireplace, and the two newest brides in the parish, Anne Dalgliesh and Marjory Gibson, were seated in the front row with their husbands. Now if he just had his own bride, the ceremony might begin.
He’d not spied Elisabeth since Sally had spirited her away. “Ye’ll see her in the drawing room at four o’ the clock but not afore,” she had told him. Rather firmly, for a maidservant.
Dickson came round the corner and immediately frowned. “Whatever have you done to your neckcloth, milord?”
“Nothing,” Jack insisted. At least not on purpose. He stood still while Dickson righted the thing but kept one eye on the broad, open stair where Elisabeth would descend.
“We’ve had no correspondence from Lord Mark in Edinburgh?” Jack inquired, expecting Dickson to shake his head, which he did. “And nothing from London?” Jack was not prone to worry, but until Elisabeth spoke her vows, His Majesty could still intervene. Should King George protest a marriage, any Church of Scotland minister, including Reverend Brown, would be required to honor his sovereign’s wishes, signed agreement or no.
Is there any impediment to this marriage? Jack could not wait to get past those dreaded words.
Mine Is the Night Page 42
