Mine Is the Night Page 11

  Smoothing the brush along his sleeve, Marjory reminded him, “I sent a note ahead to Reverend Brown, who’ll be expecting you at noon. Apprise him of your loyalty to the Kerr family—”

  “Aye, mem. I ken what must be said.” Gibson’s voice was gentle but firm. “Whan Reverend Brown came to the pulpit in ’twenty-six, I’d already been a member o’ the kirk for forty years. I’ve nae fear o’ the man, Leddy Kerr.”

  His confidence pleased her. “I’m beginning to think you’re not afraid of anything.”

  “ ’Tis not true.” He looked at her askance. “I’ve a healthy fear o’ ye.”

  Marjory shook her head, certain he did not mean it. “You have my written character, should the reverend need it. Though I fear my name no longer carries much weight.”

  Anne, bent over her lace work, lifted her head. “Kerr will always command respect in the Borderland.”

  “She’s richt,” Gibson agreed. “Ye can a’ be proud o’ bearing that name.”

  Sewing in hand, Elisabeth eyed him. “How handsome you look, Gibson.”

  He scuffed his foot against the floor, a school lad again. “Weel, as my mither aye said, ‘At least ye’re clean.’ ”

  Elisabeth nodded absently, then returned to her work. After sewing all Friday afternoon and eve, she’d picked up her needle again at dawn, barely stopping for tea and a bannock. Marjory appreciated her diligence, though she hated to see her daughter-in-law working so hard.

  “I’m aff,” Gibson announced, his posture as straight as a man of thirty years, his head held high.

  Marjory opened the door for him—a fitting irony, she thought—and sent him on his way with spoken good wishes and a silent prayer. With favour wilt thou compass him. If the minister employed him, the Kerr women might still enjoy his company on occasion. But if Gibson ended up in service at one of the country estates, they would meet only on the Sabbath, if then. Marjory was surprised to find the notion did not sit well with her. Not at all, in fact.

  As his footsteps faded down the stair, she turned to her dinner preparations: fresh brown trout, cooked in butter with sweet herbs. “We’re back to broth on the morrow,” she warned the other women, “for we cannot make a habit of dining so richly.”

  “Aye, Mother,” Anne chided her.

  Elisabeth did not say a word.

  Watching her daughter-in-law’s needle move in and out of the fabric in a steady rhythm, Marjory vowed never to take Elisabeth’s hard-earned shillings for granted. Work easily found could just as easily be lost. Anything might happen. Had they not learned that lesson well in Edinburgh?

  She quickly chopped an onion and some herbs, then smeared the pan with butter, leaving the fish off the fire until Gibson returned. Flour from the market meant a rare treat—wheaten bread—which was already rising beside the hearth, made according to Elisabeth’s instructions.

  Marjory scrubbed her hands at the washbowl, then went looking for Gibson’s livery, rolled and stored in his leather traveling bag. He would need his servant garb again soon; she was sure of it.

  “Annie,” she asked, holding up his badly wrinkled black coat. “Might I use your iron?”

  Her cousin’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll not mind if I invite the neighbors? For I believe they’d each pay a ha’penny to see Lady Kerr press a servant’s coat.”

  “We could certainly use the money,” Marjory said dryly.

  “Let me attend to this, Cousin.” Anne placed several linen cloths across the dining table, then claimed the flatiron from the trivet by the coal fire. “He must have cleaned his garments before he left,” she said, flicking a few drops of water on the broadcloth, then pressing firmly. “Not a spot on them.”

  “That’s Gibson for you,” Marjory said fondly. “Always presentable.” She shook out his waistcoat, both embarrassed and intrigued to be handling his personal attire, which bore his unique scent; like pepper, she decided, warm and pungent. She’d purchased this livery more than a twelvemonth ago, the usual arrangement with a maid or manservant. Wages were paid at Martinmas and Whitsun, and a new gown or suit of clothing was provided each year.

  Anne held up the ironed coat with a satisfied look, then draped it round the wooden chair while the fabric cooled and took the waistcoat from Marjory’s hands. “What have we here?” She pinched a round lump between the wool broadcloth and the muslin lining, then smiled. “Shillings, I’ll warrant. Sewn in place for safekeeping. Clever man, spreading them out so they wouldn’t jingle.” Anne ironed round the coins, then pressed his shirt and breeches as well while Marjory did her small part, sprinkling water ahead of the hot iron.

  Anne was hanging his finished shirt over a chair when Gibson bounded through the doorway, his face brighter than any candle. “Leddies, ye have afore ye Reverend Brown’s new manservant.”

  “Oh!” Marjory clapped her hands together. “You’ll be close to us, then.”

  “Aye,” he agreed, smiling at her, “verra close.”

  Anne seemed less elated. “The reverend is not known for his generosity,” she grumbled. “You might have worked for Lord Jack Buchanan. Once he is in residence, the admiral could surely use a man of your skills, and the wages he’ll offer might be more to your liking.”

  Gibson shook his head. “Reverend Brown suits me verra weel.” He started to say something else, then stopped, and glanced toward the hearth. “ ’Tis some fine trout ye have in yer pan, Leddy Kerr.”

  Within the half hour the four of them were gathered round the table, dining on herb-seasoned fish and freshly baked bread. Marjory was secretly amazed at the easy camaraderie among them, despite their marked differences. A Highland weaver’s daughter, a stayed lass with no prospects, a veteran manservant, and a widow of gentle birth. In no other household would such people sit at the same table and share the same food as if they were truly equal.

  But were they not? She’d read the Scripture the whole of her life: There is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. Only now, seeing that truth lived out, did she understand. If such equality made her slightly uncomfortable, so be it. At the moment she was glad to have food on her plate and friends by her side.

  “When will your service for Reverend Brown begin?” Elisabeth asked him.

  “This verra day. Aye, this verra hour.” Gibson stood and reached for his clothes on the chair. “I see that a kind soul has pressed my livery.”

  “Annie did,” Marjory was quick to say, “for I’ve no talent with an iron.”

  “Ye’re a woman o’ monie talents, Leddy Kerr.” He gazed down at her. “Ye made me walcome and fed me guid meals. Ye brushed my clothes and wrote a fine character. What leddy would have done ha’ so much for her ain lord, let alone a manservant?”

  Taken aback by his praise, Marjory murmured, “ ’Twas nothing, Gibson.”

  His expression said otherwise. “Leddies, if ye’ll not mind, ’tis time I dressed for wark.” Seeking privacy, he took his livery round the partition, while the women remained at table, speaking of the weather and the Sabbath to come.

  Elisabeth sewed as they chatted, soon finishing another shirt. She held it up, examining it with a practiced eye. “ ’Twill do,” she finally decided, carefully folding the cambric. “Since the rain has eased, I’ll take this straight to Mr. Dalgliesh.”

  “How is Michael these days?” Anne asked. Her tone was nonchalant yet her eyes attentive.

  Elisabeth did not look at her, merely answered, “The same as ever, I imagine.”

  Marjory eyed them both, trying to sort out what was being said. And not said.

  Her daughter-in-law was already donning her cape. “I’ll not be long,” Elisabeth promised and was gone.

  Gibson appeared a moment later, looking dapper in his livery, borrowed clothes in hand. “I’ll return these to Mr. Tait on my way.”

  Anne reached for their second loaf of bread, untouched, and dusted off the flour. “Give him this with our thanks,” she told Gibson
.

  “Weel done, mem,” he said, bobbing his head.

  Marjory’s mind was still fixed on Elisabeth. Naturally, her daughter-in-law was still mourning Donald; she was hardly alone in that. But something else seemed to occupy her thoughts of late.

  “Our Bess will celebrate her birthday in less than a fortnight,” Marjory informed the others, her thoughts turning at a brisk pace. “She will be five-and-twenty. A quarter of a century, if you will.”

  “So young,” Gibson murmured.

  “Aye, but not to her,” Anne said. “I well remember that birthday, and ’twas not pleasant.”

  “Suppose we make it a fine day for Bess,” Marjory suggested, hoping to cheer her daughter-in-law. “Unfortunately, I’ve no money of my own and nothing left to sell. If we mean to buy her a present, we’ll have to spend her own shillings, which is hardly fair.”

  “Wait.” Anne dove behind the curtains of her bed, then reappeared with a small wooden box. “My jewelry, such as it is.” She lifted the lid, revealing her small collection. A single strand of pearls, badly stained. A ribbon choker. A bracelet meant for a child. A small ivory brooch. A pair of earrings made of amber. But what she lifted out was a dainty silver comb that needed only polishing to be as good as new.

  “It belonged to my mother.” Anne held it in her palm, a wistful expression on her face. “My hair is so pale the comb disappears when I wear it. But in Bess’s dark hair …”

  “It would be lovely,” Marjory agreed. “Still, Annie, a great sacrifice.”

  Anne pointed to the half-dozen books on her shelf. “Those were my mother’s too and are far more dear to me.”

  Gibson lifted the comb from Anne’s open palm. “I ken a silversmith wha can make it shine.” He slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket. “If ’twould not be too bold, I’d like to make the young Leddy Kerr a praisent. I’ve an auld freen in Selkirk, a carpenter wha has a few scraps o’ wood he might part with.”

  Marjory knew at once what would delight Elisabeth most. “Could you fashion a tambour frame for her embroidery? The dragoons broke her mahogany tambour into pieces and tossed it into the fire.”

  “Weel I remember,” Gibson said darkly. “But, aye, ’tis a guid plan.”

  At a loss for what she might contribute, Marjory scanned the room, hoping for inspiration. Her gaze landed on the hearth and the remnants of their dinner. “I suppose I could cook something for her, though it is hardly a gift—”

  “On the contrary,” Anne said, her eyes alight. “ ’Twill be the perfect gift, if you’ll not mind cooking for … say, three dozen friends and neighbors.”

  “Three dozen? However could we afford the food?” Marjory asked.

  Gibson smiled and produced four shillings. “ ’Tis the balance o’ my wages for this term. Ye paid me yerself, Leddy Kerr, on the eleventh o’ November.”

  Marjory stared at the coins, barely recalling their last Martinmas in Edinburgh. “But that’s your silver. Newly snipped from the lining of your waistcoat, I’ll wager.”

  “I’ve nae need o’ them.” He pressed the shillings into her hand. “Reverend Brown will see to my meat and drink.”

  Marjory blinked back tears as Gibson folded her fingers round the silver, then wrapped his hands round hers. Though his fingers were callused, they were warm. So very warm.

  He winked at her. “Noo ye can have a foy worthy o’ the lass wha brought ye hame.”

  Twenty

  A birthday:—and now a day that rose

  With much of hope, with meaning rife—

  A thoughtful day from dawn to close.

  JEAN INGELOW

  ou are certain of this, Peter?” Elisabeth eyed his scuffed brown shoes, which looked rather too tight, then pulled the door shut behind her. “ ’Tis a long walk to Bell Hill.”

  “Not for me,” Peter said, towing her along Halliwell’s Close, his little hand tightly grasping her fingers. “Besides, my faither willna mind if we’re gane for a lang time.”

  “I’ll not mind either,” she confessed, matching his short but determined stride. She’d been working in the house all day without a word from Marjory or Anne about her birthday. A gift was not expected—who could afford even the smallest token?—but she’d have welcomed their good wishes. Perhaps they’d forgotten. Or perhaps they were being kind, knowing how she dreaded turning five-and-twenty.

  Now that the momentous day had arrived, Elisabeth was relieved to discover she felt no different. A stroll with Peter Dalgliesh was just the thing, with no need of a walking stick to keep her balance or spectacles to find her way. At least not this year.

  When they emerged into the marketplace, her mood lifted even higher. After days of endless rain and mist, fine weather had returned to the Borderland. The mid-May sky was a brilliant gentian blue, and the late afternoon sun shone like heated gold, warming their shoulders. “What a splendid day!” she exclaimed, squeezing Peter’s hand.

  “Aye, mem,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  Michael had sent Peter round to the house with a scribbled note, now folded in her pocket. Must finish gentleman’s coat. Peter underfoot. Are you free? She could hardly refuse the tailor’s request, especially when delivered by a freckle-faced boy with a winsome smile.

  In the last fortnight she’d sewn a dozen shirts for his father’s shop and earned a dozen shillings, all spent on meat and meal. Stocking the household larder had eased some of her lingering fears. No dragoons had come pounding at their door, nor had the Sheriff of Selkirk had occasion to call. With Gibson serving at the nearby manse, Marjory busy cooking at the hearth, and Anne teaching her lace making students, their lives had settled into a comfortable pattern.

  Only her encounters with Michael Dalgliesh left her shaking her head.

  Whenever she delivered another finished shirt, Michael found some reason to detain her. Might she cut his newly chalked fabric? Did she have time to read Peter a story? Could she find buttons to match a blue waistcoat? Elisabeth did not mind, of course, but she did wonder. Was it her heart Michael was after? Or did he simply need a willing pair of hands?

  Enough, Bess. No use fretting with a handsome lad by her side and a peaceful hour ahead.

  She and Peter passed the kirk and were nearing the first rise on the hilly road leading southeast from town when he pointed a stubby finger to the right. “That’s whaur Selkirk Castle stood,” Peter told her, “by the Haining Loch.”

  Though Elisabeth craned her head, she could spot no trace of it. “It must be so old it’s in ruins.”

  “Ye’re verra auld,” Peter reminded her, “and ye’re not in ruins.”

  “But I am five-and-twenty,” she told him, still getting used to the sound of it.

  They paused at the top of the knowe and took in the verdant hills surrounding Selkirk like the soft folds of a green velvet gown. “Beautiful,” Elisabeth said on a sigh as a gentle breeze, fragrant with spring, stirred the air.

  Peter tugged on her hand. “Wait ’til ye see Bell Hill.”

  When the road began its steep descent, Elisabeth impulsively challenged Peter to a race, flying downhill past rows of cottages, her long legs quickly outpacing his. She eased up by intent, letting him rush past her at the bottom. “You’re too fast for me,” she called out, stopping to catch her breath.

  He turned round to wait. “Ye slowed doon,” he said, as forthright and honest as his father. “Should a leddy run like that?”

  “Probably not,” she admitted, then took his hand once more as they approached the Foul Bridge Port. After walking through the town gate, they crossed the watery ditch, swollen from the rain, and left Selkirk proper behind. All the while Peter’s question prodded at her. Was she a lady? Or a seamstress? On this momentous day she might be anything. Elisabeth smiled down at her charge. “We could pretend I am your governess.”

  He looked up, hope in his eyes. “Or my mither.”

  The word brought her to a stop. Mother. Was this Peter’s idea? Or was it …
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  Nae. Michael Dalgliesh was her employer, nothing more.

  “You must miss your mother very much,” she finally said, touching Peter’s cheek, wishing instead she might bend down and gather the boy in her arms.

  “Aye.” He gnawed on his lip. “I dinna remember her like my faither does.”

  “Then his memories must serve for both of you, aye?”

  Peter merely nodded.

  The road grew wider as they climbed, then broadened on either side into meadows blanketed in wildflowers. Elisabeth tarried along the edge of the road, kneeling now and again to show Peter the deep blue speedwell petals, the feathery-leaved yarrow, the sunny yellow primrose.

  But the lad was interested in one thing. “Bell Hill!” he cried, pointing ahead. Amid the rolling landscape rose an impressive mound, dotted with sheep. A carriage road turned south toward Hawick, but they took the narrow track that continued straight, climbing past the South Common, where the townsfolk grew their oats, barley, and hay.

  With each step upward, Elisabeth felt younger, less encumbered. She sensed her skin growing warmer from the effort and drank in the rain-washed air, feeling lightheaded, almost intoxicated.

  Near the crest of the hill, Peter tugged on her skirt. “Turn round, Mrs. Kerr.”

  When she did, all of Selkirkshire lay before her, a sweeping landscape of fertile pastures and fields nestled against the misty blue hills. “Imagine having such a view,” she breathed.

  Peter grinned. “Ye’d have to live o’er there.” He climbed onto a large boulder by the road, then pointed at the grand house across the way, situated in a handsome park on top of the rise.

  Elisabeth stood beside him, eying Bell Hill and the estate that bore its name. The Scotch pines were an impressive size. An old property, then, with the mansion well hidden behind the trees. She caught a few glimpses of gray whinstone walls, of windows dressed in red sandstone, of gardens and orchards stretched behind the house. For a moment she thought she saw a gentleman on horseback trotting round the corner of the mansion, though he might have been a groom exercising the admiral’s horses.