Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,15
door each month by … well, by Lord John’s factor, by …”
“Mr. Laidlaw?”
“Aye.” Color bloomed in Anne’s pale cheeks. “When Lord John died, Mr. Laidlaw came to see me.” She averted her gaze, her discomfort all too apparent. “He said he would continue bringing silver to my door each month if I opened my … if I welcomed his … touch.”
A dreadful silence hung in the air.
Elisabeth reached for her hand. “Annie, I’m so sorry. Had Marjory known—”
“But she should have known.” Her cousin drew away from her, a spark of anger in her pale blue eyes. “Mr. Laidlaw made a habit of tormenting her maidservants. He put his hands where they did not belong and took liberties with any lass who gave in to his advances. Ask Tibbie Cranshaw if you don’t believe me.” Anne’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Mr. Laidlaw is a profligate of the worst kind. A virtuous woman like you cannot imagine such a creature.”
Elisabeth’s heart sank. Oh, but I can.
“I refused him twice before he left me alone,” Anne said proudly. “No silver is worth such degradation.”
“Nae, it is not.” Elisabeth looked down at the wooden floor, wishing the heaviness inside her might lift. Could no man be trusted?
She seldom dwelled on Donald’s many infidelities and never spoke of them to Marjory. What mother could bear to hear such things? Yet, months after his death, the pain of betrayal lingered and with it a nagging sense of guilt. Perhaps if she’d railed at him, punished him, denied him, her husband might have changed his wanton ways.
Instead, she’d loved him. And forgiven him.
I am more sorry than I can ever say. Aye, Donald was always sorry. What Donald was not was faithful. She could still recall every word on the lover’s note she’d found in his glove and the list of paramours he’d confessed in a letter. Forgive me, lass. For all of it.
She’d done so. But the heartache remained.
Elisabeth gazed at the door, longing for fresh air and an hour’s walk. “What do the kirk elders say if a member of their flock ventures out of doors on a Sabbath afternoon?”
Anne reached for her wool cape. “Nothing is said. Unless they see you.”
Nine
And as I turn me home,
My shadow walks before.
ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES
arjory woke to find sunlight still filtering through the curtains. She’d napped no more than an hour. The house was quiet, empty. She splashed cool water on her face and dried it with a linen towel, then claimed a sheet of stationery from Elisabeth’s trunk, telling herself it was but one piece of paper and purchased with her late son’s money besides.
Borrowing Anne’s quill pen and ink from the shelf, Marjory settled at the dining table and prayed for a steady hand. This would not be a pleasant letter to compose.
To Mr. Roger Laidlaw, Factor
Tweedsford, Selkirkshire
Sunday, 27 April 1746
Mr. Laidlaw:
How it irked her to write the man’s name! Where was she to begin? No point telling him what he already knew when there was so much else to say.
Marjory inked the quill again.
You have no doubt been told of Tweedsford’s new owner. Therefore, I shall not dwell on that unfortunate subject here.
She had yet to speak aloud this admiral’s name. Committing it to paper would be even more difficult. Another time she might manage it. For now, Mr. Laidlaw’s transgressions were her primary concern.
You have been grossly negligent in your duties, sir, for which you have been well compensated these many years.
Very well compensated. She gripped the quill so tightly the feather shook. Did the man think she would never return to Selkirk and see his carelessness?
This morn I entered the church of my childhood and found the Kerr aisle in an abhorrent state. The wooden pew is decrepit, the floor round it is covered with debris, and the walls are near to collapse.
Marjory lifted her pen, struck by a frightening thought. If Mr. Laidlaw was indifferent toward maintaining the house of the Lord, what of Tweedsford?
Images rose before her. Richly paneled walls. An elegant stair with wooden balustrades. Pink marble chimney pieces. Decorative wrought-iron gates. Terraced gardens to the north …
Enough, Marjory.
Whatever Tweedsford’s condition, it was no longer her home or her responsibility. Her family’s corner of the parish kirk, however, mattered very much.
I shall meet with Reverend Brown this week to discuss what must be done as well as to arrange payment for our annual rent, which I am told is in arrears.