Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,139
on the night they’d arrived, when she’d measured Anne’s small house and fretted over their living arrangements. We shall all live in one room. Aye, so they had.
Come Martinmas, when accounts were settled, the rent for this house would become Marjory’s responsibility. Until then she would make a home for Elisabeth, guarding her from the Rob MacPhersons of the world.
Wasn’t that what Donald would have wanted?
Marjory sank onto the upholstered chair, no longer sure what her late son expected of her. He’d played the part of the doting heir, all the while sullying their family’s name in the closes and wynds of Edinburgh. He’d also broken his wife’s heart, reaching for other women who couldn’t hold a candle to her. Yet when he’d departed Edinburgh, Lord Donald had made one wish quite clear: May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?
Marjory stared at the dying coals in the hearth. What can I do for her, Lord? How may I see her well cared for?
The answer rose in her heart like the sun. Let her marry Lord Buchanan now.
“Aye,” she breathed into the quiet room.
What possible advantage could there be to waiting until January? Out of sheer necessity young widows often remarried mere months after losing their husbands. Such haste was frowned upon only in the very highest levels of society. And hadn’t Saint Paul himself said of widows, “Let them marry”?
“Then let them marry,” Marjory said aloud. There were no impediments she could think of. Lord Buchanan was rich and surely desirous of a family. Elisabeth was beautiful and in need of a husband.
The only thing required was a proposal. Gentleman that he was, Lord Buchanan would never cut short Elisabeth’s time of mourning. But she could.
And stop Rosalind Murray in her tracks.
Marjory couldn’t bear to sit, so eager was she to spill out her plans. She darted to the window, then the hearth, then the door. Might she seek out her daughter-in-law returning from the stables? Nae, such details could never be discussed on the street. No one must know until the deed was done, lest Lord Buchanan refuse Elisabeth.
Marjory blanched at the very idea. Nae, nae, he loves her. She was certain of it.
Moments later when Elisabeth crossed the threshold, Marjory practically dragged her to a chair beside the dining table and plunked her down without ceremony.
“Now then, Bess,” she said, sitting across from her, “it is time you found a home of your own.”
Elisabeth looked round. “But this is our home.”
“More than a home,” Marjory said firmly. “A husband.”
Her eyes widened. “Whatever do you mean? I cannot think of marriage when I am in mourning—”
“Listen to me, Bess.” Marjory clasped her daughter-in-law’s hands in hers. “You have more than honored my son’s memory these many months.”
“Aye, but, Marjory—”
“We must look to your future now. God has surely brought Lord Buchanan into your life for a reason.”
“Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth tried to stand, but Marjory held her in place. “Dearest, he has not asked for my hand—”
“Only because he wishes to honor the rules of society.”
Elisabeth shook her head. “I believe he means to honor you.”
“Well, then.” Marjory released her and sat back, triumphant. “If I am the only impediment, you have my permission to marry as soon as ever the banns may be read in the kirk three Sabbaths in a row.”
Elisabeth shook her head, disbelief written across her features. “How can I tell Lord Buchanan such a thing without seeming presumptuous? The man has never even mentioned marriage.”
Marjory couldn’t keep from smiling. “That is why you must be the one to broach the subject.”
Sixty-Seven
’Tis expectation makes a blessing dear.
SIR JOHN SUCKLING
lisabeth stared at her mother-in-law, trying to grasp what she was suggesting. “You want me to propose to Lord Buchanan?”
“At the very least, present yourself to him,” Marjory said, her hazel eyes aglow. “Let him know of your willingness to end your time of mourning. He will not move forward until you do.”
Move forward. Elisabeth looked down at her plain black dress. Was she ready to drape herself in blues and greens, reds and purples, telling the world she no longer mourned the man she’d once loved with all her heart?
Oh, my Donald, if only I might ask you.
But her husband was gone. Her heart alone held the answer.
Elisabeth met Marjory’s gaze and prayed for the right words to say. “You must know how I cherish the memory of your son,” she told her, wanting to dispel any doubt in her mother-in-law’s mind.