Mine Is the Night (18 page)

“I’ve never seen the kirk so full,” Anne confided to her.

Marjory nodded, narrowing her eyes to improve her vision. “Who is that dark-haired man in the back? The one already bound for the door?”

“ ’Tis the admiral,” Elisabeth said softly. “At least I think so. On my birthday I caught a glimpse of him on horseback.”

Marjory did not doubt the man’s identity. Heads were turning, and latecomers seated near the entrance were hurrying out of doors. The Kerrs followed them, moving down the aisle with purpose rather than standing about as they had on Sundays past.

Whispered questions quickly escalated into shouts.

“Did ye see the man?”

“Are ye sure ’twas him?”

“Och! Whatsomever did he leuk like?”

By the time Marjory and the others reached the kirkyard, there was no sign of the stranger who’d slipped from their midst. Folk tarried round the gravestones, waiting for more news now that idle rumors had become fact.

“The admiral rode aff on a bonny gray horse,” James Mitchelhill was telling them, pointing east.

“How d’ye ken ’twas him?” Robert Watson demanded to know.

The tanner grinned. “I called
oot
to him, ‘Guid day to ye, Lord Buchanan,’ and he lifted his hand.”

On the heels of Mr. Mitchelhill’s report, another chorus of voices filled the air.

“Then it
was
his lordship!”

“Mounted on a gray horse, ye say?”

“I wonder how monie ithers he has in his stables.”

Marjory exchanged glances with Elisabeth and Anne, wishing she might read their thoughts. Anne had no reason to fear their new neighbor, but her Jacobite daughter-in-law certainly did. Marjory took them both by the arm, meaning to steer them down the pend toward home, when Elspeth Cranston asked the question foremost in Marjory’s mind.

“When will we have the pleasure of meeting his lordship?”

Reverend Brown spoke up from the threshold. “I can answer that.”

At once the gathering of parishioners turned toward the doorway, seeking a trustworthy voice amid the uncertain clamor.

“I spoke with the admiral earlier this week,” the minister informed them. “Lord Buchanan will be meeting many of you soon enough.” He paused, either for effect or to be sure they were listening. “The admiral plans to engage the balance of his household staff a week from the morrow on Whitsun Monday. Nearly two dozen experienced hands will be required.”

There was no controlling the crowd now. Cries of glee rang out across the grassy hillside, and maidservants hugged one another.

Marjory well remembered Whitsun Monday at Tweedsford. Servants, gardeners, shepherds, and field workers were hired to labor through the summer and harvest seasons, with their wages to be paid at Martinmas. For those in need of employment, a wealthy newcomer with a large property was cause for celebration.

Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Tibbie Cranshaw starting toward her. She turned to greet her old maidservant, hoping to make amends.
All she had to offer the woman was a heartfelt apology, but she would do so gladly if Tibbie would receive it.

When she drew near, Marjory met her with a smile. “A blessed Sabbath to you.”

“Weel, aren’t ye the
gracie
one?” Tibbie said, her words laced with sarcasm.

Chagrined, Marjory stepped away from the others so the two might speak privately. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Tibbie—”

“Nae!” The woman’s green eyes flared. “Ye owe me a great deal mair than that. Ye owe me a guid position.” Tibbie nodded toward Bell Hill in the distance. “I’ve a mind to seek wark there on Monday next. Gie me a written character, and I’ll not tell his lordship what sort o’ person ye are.”

Marjory looked at her, appalled. Was Tibbie making an idle threat? Or would she present herself to the admiral and fill his ear with tales of a heartless former employer who later turned her back on the king? Such accusations would destroy any hope of the Kerrs enjoying the admiral’s company and might well bring the dragoons to their door.

“I will do as you ask,” Marjory agreed, knowing she had little choice. “You were a fine kitchen maid, Tibbie. ’Twill not grieve me to say so in writing.”

Tibbie stepped closer, her words low but sharp edged. “And ye’ll make nae mention of the babe?”

“Certainly not,” Marjory promised. “Mr. Laidlaw was far more to blame than you in that unfortunate situation.”

Tibbie shrank back, her eyes narrowing. “Wha told ye that?”

Marjory had no intention of drawing Anne into their conversation. “What matters, Tibbie, is that you find a position in a household where you’ll neither be tempted nor mistreated. Isn’t that so?”

Tibbie’s features softened a bit. “Aye.”

“Then I’ll have a letter for you on the Sabbath next,” Marjory assured her, after which Tibbie abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd, her soiled gown dragging across the grass.

Marjory was still watching her departure when Anne moved closer, a frown on her face. “Whatever did she want?”

Marjory hesitated, wondering what her cousin might say to their agreement. “She requested a written character,” was all Marjory told her. It was an honest answer without raising Anne’s hackles.

“Tibbie wants to work at Bell Hill,” her cousin guessed.

Marjory admitted to that much.

“She’ll not get through the door without a clean gown and God’s mercy,” Anne said, then moved toward the pend, waving to Elisabeth to join them. “At least we’ll not be among the throng walking up Bell Hill on Monday next. For I have my lace making. And you, Bess, have Michael Dalgliesh.”

“Only as long as he requires my needle,” Elisabeth hastened to say.

Anne’s frown returned. “I’ve seen the man’s shop. He will need you all the days of his life.”

lisabeth did not darken Michael’s door that week. Not only did it seem prudent with Anne moping about the house; Elisabeth also was determined to see an end to the pile of fabric draped over the back of her chair.

While she sewed well into each evening, her neighbors spent the long sunlit hours climbing Bell Hill. They admired Lord Buchanan’s gardens and orchards from a polite distance and hoped to spy the exalted owner tramping about the grounds. In Edinburgh, a city accustomed to visits from princes and kings, the admiral would’ve arrived unheralded; in rural Selkirk he was viewed as royalty.

Elisabeth shared her neighbors’ curiosity but not their ardent enthusiasm. She’d seen how wealth and a title could twist a man’s soul, convincing him he was above any moral or social constraints. Lord Donald Kerr had looked the part of a gentleman, yet his behavior was often disgraceful. Who was to say Lord Jack Buchanan would not be the same?

Only a man’s character mattered. The rest was window dressing.

Though she had to concede, Bell Hill did have very handsome windows.

When Saturday dawned, Elisabeth awakened before the others and tiptoed about as she dressed for the day. Cambric shirt in hand, she moved her chair closer to the window and began stitching the final sleeve, wondering what, if anything, Michael Dalgliesh might have in mind for her next. Would he permit her to sew a gentleman’s coat and waistcoat and thereby prove her
tailoring skills? She could at least manage buttonholes and hems or prepare the muslin linings, freeing him to do weightier tasks.

Despite the gray, rainy weather that morning, Elisabeth’s heart grew lighter as she imagined the possibilities. Someday she hoped to own a dressmaking concern, but until then, working for Michael well suited her—as long as it suited him.

An hour later Anne rose, brushing aside her bed curtains. “Hard at work already?”

“Aye.” Elisabeth kept her voice low for Marjory’s sake. “I’ll be off to Mr. Dalgliesh’s by nine o’ the clock.” She averted her gaze as Anne bathed at the washbowl and slipped on the blue drugget gown she’d worn the night the Kerrs arrived. Though the fabric was an inexpensive wool, roughly woven, the color matched Anne’s blue eyes perfectly. “ ’Tis my favorite of your gowns,” Elisabeth told her.

Anne shrugged as she crossed the room. “Heaven knows I wear it often enough.”

Her cool tone suggested Anne was more irritable than usual. “I will gladly stitch you another gown,” Elisabeth assured her. “When I earn enough silver to purchase fabric at market—”

“Nae,” Anne said, cutting her short. “Your shillings are better spent on food or your own needs, not on a gown for a stayed lass.”

Anne seldom spoke of herself so dismissively. Treading with care, Elisabeth asked, “Why should an unmarried woman not be well dressed?”

“Silks and satins are meant for catching husbands,” Anne retorted. “I’ve long abandoned any such expectations.” She turned her back on Elisabeth and began filling the coal grate, abruptly ending their conversation.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Elisabeth searched her heart for some encouragement to offer. “Six-and-thirty is not so very old—”

“Oh?” Anne looked over her shoulder, her hands black with coal dust. “This spoken by a bonny lass in her twenties who has half the men in town besotted with her.”

Now Elisabeth understood.

“Annie.” She quickly put aside the shirt she was stitching and knelt by her cousin. “You are dear to many folk in Selkirk, to Marjory, and to me most of all.” She slipped her arm round Anne’s narrow shoulders, praying her next words would not make things worse. “Though I do believe there is someone else who holds you in high regard.”

Anne was still frowning. “Who might that be?”

Elisabeth stood and brought her cousin to her feet, keeping a close watch on her expression. “On the night of my birthday, I saw a wee spark travel between you and Mr. Dalgliesh.”

“Michael?” She brushed the coal dust from her hands, clearly flustered. “We’ve … known each other a long time.”

Elisabeth saw through her dissembling and gently tried to help Anne put her feelings into words, which did not always come easily to her. “What of you and Michael now? Still just friends?”

When Anne turned her head away, Elisabeth feared she’d pushed too hard or spoken amiss. She waited for a moment, then said, “Forgive me—”

“Nae.” Anne looked at her, eyes glistening with tears. “There is nothing to forgive. You simply stated what you saw. But you do not know the rest.”

Elisabeth touched her arm in silent acknowledgment. “Tea, first. Then you may tell me whatever you like. Or nothing at all.” Minutes later, steaming cups in hand, the two women sat, their chairs pulled close together.

Anne studied her tea for a moment, her flaxen hair loosely gathered at the nape. When she spoke, her voice was low and strained. “From the time I was a wee lass, I was hopelessly in love with Michael Dalgliesh.”

Elisabeth could only imagine what a braw lad Michael must have been in his youth. “Did he not return your affections?”

Anne looked up, her face etched with sorrow. “Nae, he did not.”

“Oh, Annie.” Elisabeth swallowed hard, seeing the cost of that painful admission. “However did you bear it when he married Jenny?”

“I wanted to die,” Anne confessed. “You know how young girls are, thinking their lives are over when the man they love is claimed by another.”

“I do know,” Elisabeth assured her softly. “Yet you and Michael remained friends.”

“After a fashion,” Anne said with a shrug. “Jenny was a kind soul and dear to me as well. I couldn’t blame Michael for adoring her. We all did. When Peter was born, their happiness was contagious. Everyone loved to be in their company. But when Jenny suffered from a terrible malady no doctor could cure.” She bowed her head.

Elisabeth waited, giving her cousin time.

When Anne spoke again, her voice was thin. “As one of his oldest friends, I wanted to comfort Michael in his grief. But I was an unmarried woman and could not rightly do so. As it was, the gossips refused to leave me alone …” She gripped the wooden cup in her hands. “They said I wanted Michael for myself. That I was … glad that Jenny …”

“What?” Elisabeth felt sick. “Annie, you could
never
think such a thing.”

“Nae, I could not. Least of all about Jenny.” She hung her head. “Michael still loves her, you know. And I still love him.”

When Elisabeth lightly rested a hand on Anne’s shoulder, her cousin shrank away from her, saying in a bitter voice, “Now it seems he cares for you.”

“Annie—”

“Nae.” She turned her head. “ ’Tis true, and you know it.”

“It is
not
true,” Elisabeth said, tamping down her frustration. “Though I am curious why you sent me to Michael’s shop, loving him as you do. There are other tailors in Selkirk who might have put me to work.”

Anne didn’t answer at first. When she did, her voice was low. “Michael was desperate for help. And since you were in mourning …”

“He could not court me.”

Anne finally met her gaze. “Aye.”

When Elisabeth saw the anguish in her cousin’s eyes, she vowed at once to help her. She did not know Michael’s heart and so dared not give Anne false hope. But what she’d seen pass between them at her birthday celebration was not imaginary.