Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,12
behind her now. However grim Reverend Brown’s countenance, however dour his sermons, this was where she would spend each Sabbath, finding a secret joy in the holy words themselves.
As soon as the closing psalm was sung and the benediction given, Marjory urged them toward the door. “I’ve not the strength to face our many neighbors,” she admitted.
Elisabeth stayed close by her side. “You are stronger than you know, Marjory. I will gladly speak on your behalf, but ’tis you they wish to see.”
“Your daughter-in-law is right,” Anne said as they started down the center aisle together. “Let them take a gander at you and be done with it.”
The threesome did not travel far. Parishioners of every age and station pressed round them, tugging their sleeves, blocking their path. They were a sober people, dressed in blues, grays, and browns, with little adornment. Some were merely curious, wanting to see what a Jacobite rebel looked like. A few expressed their sympathy or wished them well. Others apparently felt obligated to scold Marjory for her foolish support of the prince.
One elderly fellow wagged his finger at her. “Yer lads were aye heidie, demanding their ain way. Ye let them do as they pleased and paid dearly for it.”
Marjory took their verbal lashing as if it were her due, nodding as they spoke rather than engaging them in further discussion. The naysayers began to wander off, leaving in their wake a cluster of parishioners bent on demonstrating their Christian charity.
Elisabeth answered what questions she could. “Aye, we are lodging in town with our cousin at the moment.” “Nae, my sister-in-law, Janet, will not be moving to Selkirk.” “Aye, I was born in the Highlands, then educated in Edinburgh.” “Nae, I do not have children.” The last was the hardest to answer. Three years of marriage to Donald had produced nothing but a few tarnished memories and a wounded heart, slow to heal.
At least none in the sanctuary had whispered of Donald’s unfaithfulness.
One woman with a sleepy child on her hip turned to Marjory and said with a mother’s sympathy, “I’m sorry for yer loss, mem. Verra sorry.”
A red-headed maidservant stormed her way to the front. “And why would ye be kind to a woman who was niver kind to ithers?” Her green eyes were hard like gemstones, and her rough, red hands were fisted at her waist.
“Good day to you, Tibbie,” Marjory said, her voice steady.
“Nae, ’tis an ill day with ye back in Selkirk.” Her gaze narrowed. “Whosoever humbled ye, I’m blithe to see it.”
Elisabeth watched Marjory pluck at her skirts, a nervous habit.
“Tibbie Cranshaw worked for me at Tweedsford,” Marjory said by way of introduction. “She was one of my best kitchen maids.”
Tibbie snorted. “If I was so guid at my wark, why did ye send me awa?”
“You know the reason,” Marjory said.
Tibbie glared at her. “I ken ye’re an ill-kindit woman. That’s what I ken.” She turned on her heel and departed the same way she’d come.
Elisabeth inclined her head so Marjory alone would hear her. “I am sorry—”
“Nae,” Marjory countered, “she had every right to speak so to me. I sent Tibbie away because she was with child. When she lost her babe a few days later, I refused to take her back.” Marjory groaned softly. “I was more than cruel.”
“But you’re a new woman,” Elisabeth said with conviction. “The Almighty has softened you, changed you. Tibbie will see that.”
Marjory shook her head. “Too late, I fear. I might have helped Tibbie then. I cannot help her now.”
In the wake of Tibbie Cranshaw’s outburst, the crowd round them began to disperse.
“Folk are heading home to their Sabbath dinner,” Anne said. “We should do the same. I’ve a slice of mutton for each of us.”
“We are truly grateful,” Elisabeth hastened to say, “but you cannot continue feeding us, Annie. In the morn I shall offer my needle to a tailor or dressmaker in town and so add to your household coffers.”
“A gentlewoman like you?” Anne chided her. “Earning money with her hands?”
“I was once a weaver’s daughter.” Elisabeth watched her cousin’s brows lift in obvious amazement. “You’ll find I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Nor am I,” was Anne’s quick response.
When their eyes met, an understanding sparked between them. Not a budding friendship. Not yet. But a small measure of trust. A beginning.
Eight
The secret wound still lives
within the breast.
VIRGIL
lisabeth and the others were nearing the arched entranceway of the kirk when a woman in a striking blue gown swept into view,