Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,13
her ebony hair beautifully styled and her manner regal.
Marjory greeted her at once. “Lady Murray! What a pleasure to see you after all these years.”
The gentlewoman slowly turned and regarded Marjory with a look of disdain. “I cannot say I feel the same. After so bold a confession this morn you will be fortunate if anyone of quality receives you.”
Seeing the pain reflected in Marjory’s eyes, Elisabeth hastened to defend her mother-in-law. “But, madam—”
Lady Murray waved her hand dismissively. “Even so, I suppose I could ask Sir John if he might allow you to call on us at Philiphaugh.”
Marjory straightened her shoulders. “Do not trouble yourself, Lady Murray,” she said evenly. “I have other friends in Selkirk, not to mention the excellent society of my daughter-in-law Elisabeth Kerr and cousin Anne Kerr.”
Elisabeth curtsied briefly, hiding her smile. Well done, Marjory.
Deftly put in her place, Lady Murray gave a ladylike shrug. “You know, Mrs. Kerr, you’re not the only person of note moving to Selkirk this spring. Have you heard of Lord Jack Buchanan?”
Marjory’s brow creased. “I cannot say that I have—”
“Perhaps not, since he is hardly one of your Jacobite rebels,” Lady Murray said with a sniff. “Lord Buchanan served under Admiral Anson of the HMS Centurion when he circumnavigated the globe. They fought the Spaniards and captured a fortune in gold. Surely you followed the Centurion’s triumphant return in ’forty-four?”
“The broadsheets wrote of little else that summer,” Elisabeth agreed.
“And no wonder! Thirty-two wagons loaded with treasure chests, delivered to the Tower of London.” Her ladyship fluttered her silk fan as if overcome by the thought of such riches. “Lord Buchanan is expected in a fortnight or two. Wealthy as Croesus, they say. An admiral now—and unmarried.” She glanced over her shoulder, nodding at a pair of young ladies standing by the door. “Our Clara is too young for him, of course, but Admiral Buchanan would make a fine match for our lovely Rosalind. She’ll reach her majority next spring.”
Elisabeth took note of the older daughter’s glossy black hair and ivory skin, her elegant attire and graceful movements. If this admiral was seeking a wife, Rosalind Murray of Philiphaugh appeared a worthy choice. “But what would bring a British naval officer this far inland?”
“Property.” Lady Murray closed her fan with a snap. “I imagine His Majesty rewarded the admiral’s efforts with a handsome estate in Selkirkshire.”
Elisabeth watched the color drain from her mother-in-law’s face. Not Tweedsford, Lord. Not so soon.
“I’ve tarried here long enough.” Lady Murray gathered her skirts in hand. “Sir John remained at home this morn. Not feeling well, he said. I’d best see to him.” She whirled round and was gone with a whisper of silk.
Elisabeth quietly took her mother-in-law’s arm, alarmed at her vacant expression.
“A handsome estate in Selkirkshire.” Marjory’s voice was thin, devoid of emotion. “King George has awarded this admiral my home. He has given him Tweedsford.”
“We cannot be sure,” Elisabeth said, realizing it was cold comfort. “Wouldn’t Lady Murray have named the property if that were so?”
“You do not know Eleanora Murray.” Marjory looked up, resignation in her eyes. “Her ladyship delights in meting out information when and how it suits her, caring little how it may wound others.”
Elisabeth glanced at Anne and saw her nodding absently. Lady Murray, it seemed, was no longer a true friend to Marjory, if indeed she ever was.
“You’ve endured quite enough this Sabbath morn,” Elisabeth told her mother-in-law, moving forward. “A light meal and a long nap are in order. If visitors come knocking, I shall see they venture no farther than the foot of the stair.”
A soft breeze beckoned the women across the stone threshold and onto the grassy knoll of the kirkyard. The mist was gone, and a wash of pale yellow bathed the landscape. Elisabeth paused to take in her new surroundings. Gently shaped hills undulated round the countryside, covered in the first grass of the season, a bright spring green, and the forest edging the kirkyard was thick with oak and elm, birch and pine, hazel and willow. ’Twas nothing like the vast, treeless moors and glens of the Highlands. Would she ever feel at home here?
“We can use the pend this time,” Anne said, then led them through the narrow passageway to Kirk Wynd. A minute’s walk downhill and they were in Halliwell’s Close again.
Early afternoon light poured into the small house, warming the air. Anne served their dinner without a word, placing hot tea and cold mutton at each of their