Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,161
when you meet one.”
“Indeed she is,” Marjory said, having hurried to Elisabeth’s side.
“Mrs. Kerr, since you’re here, I’ve brought good news for you from Edinburgh.” He winked at Elisabeth. “Perhaps you’d like to tell her?”
“With pleasure.” Elisabeth leaned forward and whispered in Marjory’s ear.
Seventy-Nine
And half of the world a bridegroom is
And half of the world a bride.
SIR WILLIAM WATSON
weedsford?” Marjory could hardly say the word. “But how did … What of … Nae, it cannot be!”
Yet here was her daughter-in-law promising it was true. And the most generous man she’d ever known insisting the lease was signed and could not be revoked.
Marjory clung to Neil’s arm for support and peered through the door into the entrance hall, hoping she might spy a chair, a bench, a footstool—anything to prevent her from fainting on the spot. “Mr. Gibson—”
“This way, Leddy Kerr.” He steered her firmly into the house and located a comfortable chair within seconds. The man truly was a marvel.
Once seated, she bade him to come closer, then confided, “I’m not certain how I feel about our neighbors learning of his lordship’s provision. Though I suppose they would discover the source soon enough, wouldn’t they?”
Neil’s expression was more somber than usual. “ ’Tis the provision itself that concerns me,” he admitted. “How am I to hold up my head as yer husband whan anither man has paid for the hoose we live in?”
Marjory begged the Lord for a swift answer. “If the rent is already paid, and we’ve yet to marry, it would count as one of my few possessions, all of which are entirely yours once we’re wed.” That seemed to satisfy him, and surely it was true. “Anyway, dear Neil, you’ve lived there before. ’Twill be like going home.” She curled her hand round his elbow, already growing accustomed to the shape and feel of him. “This time, though, you’ll be the master of Tweedsford and not its head servant.”
His expression lightened considerably as he cocked an eyebrow in her direction. “And how will that be different whan I’ll still be serving ye?”
She offered him a coy smile. “For one thing, you’ll be sleeping in the master bedroom.”
Her words had precisely the effect she’d intended: Neil Gibson was smiling broadly.
“Bess, we cannot plan two weddings at once.” Sitting at their dining room table, Marjory frowned at the twin lists of duties to be accomplished, giving serious thought to taking up fretting again. “With my small ceremony on the nineteenth and your large one on the twentieth …” She threw up her hands, dripping ink onto the paper in the process. “However will we manage?”
Elisabeth reached for her own list and dusted it with sand. “I shall give this to Mrs. Pringle. Nothing would please her more than overseeing my wedding. All I care about is standing before the bride stool with the man I love by my side.”
Marjory searched her heart and realized she felt quite the same. When did such a happy occasion become so complicated? She tore her paper in half.
“My guest list will be as follows,” Marjory declared. “Annie and Michael Dalgliesh, Lord Buchanan, and you, dear Bess. My gown will be the one I’m wearing, my flowers will be a single damask rose from Bell Hill’s garden, if his lordship will not object, and the wedding supper will be a pot of cock-a-leekie soup, simmering on the hearth while Mr. Gibson and I speak our vows at the manse. To be served with bread, I suppose. And cheese.”
Elisabeth laughed. “And cakes.”
“Naturally.” Marjory found herself warming to the idea. Small, quiet, simple. “This is, after all, my second wedding.”
“Mine too,” Elisabeth reminded her, taking her hand. “You are quite certain—”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” she said rather pointedly, “you were a wonderful wife to my son. Though I did not realize it at the time, ’tis very clear to me now. You did everything in your power to please him. And honored him when he did not honor you. I could not be …” Marjory’s throat tightened. “I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter. You deserve every happiness.”
Elisabeth looked up, her heart in her eyes. “I will never forget Donald.”
“Nor I. How could we?” Marjory swallowed. “No matter how abominably he behaved, Donald will always be my first son. And your first husband.” She dried her eyes with the hem of her apron, then sniffed. “Now, that is one thing I refuse to have at my wedding: tears.”