Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,17
and placed two pairs of white gloves, her embroidered silk reticule, and a simple black hat on the shelf between the windows. She left her spare whalebone stays, cotton stockings, and embroidered nightgown in her trunk for modesty’s sake, then closed the lid, chagrined at how hollow it sounded. She was wearing the only gown she owned, having sold her many satin, silk, brocade, and velvet costumes in Edinburgh, desperate for guineas.
Elisabeth had set the example, selling all her gowns first. Except for the lavender one. The lass might never have an occasion to wear it in Selkirk, but Marjory was glad her daughter-in-law had chosen to keep Donald’s gift. Despite his shameful behavior, Elisabeth had loved him while he lived and honored his memory. No daughter-in-law could be more faithful.
Marjory was tucking a pair of damask shoes beneath her bed when she heard voices on the stair. Elisabeth and Anne came strolling through the door, their cheeks bright with color.
“Tea,” Anne said without preamble, reaching for clean cups from the shelf by the hearth.
Elisabeth smoothed back the wisps of hair curling round her damp brow. “Forgive us for leaving you, Marjory. We’ve been walking in the forest near the kirk. I trust you slept well.”
“And wrote a letter too,” Marjory said, rather proud of herself. “Already on its way to Tweedsford with a short list of personal items I’ve asked Mr. Laidlaw to bring to me.”
A beat of silence followed.
“Mr. Laidlaw?” Elisabeth repeated as if she’d misunderstood.
Anne put down the cups with a dull bang. “You’ve asked that man to come here? To my house?”
“I’m afraid I did.” Marjory stared at them, confused. “Mr. Laidlaw is the only person who can help me retrieve what is rightfully mine before this admiral arrives to claim my property.”
The younger women exchanged glances.
“Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.
“Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”
“Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”
Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”
“I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.
Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”
“Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”
A half hour later Marjory was still seated at table, hands wrapped round an empty cup, her heart heavy.
How could she have been so blind to Mr. Laidlaw’s devious ways? She’d blamed pregnant Tibbie when it was Sir John’s factor who should have been dismissed. Anne, meanwhile, was forced to choose immorality or poverty, all because her wealthy cousin Marjory paid little attention to the needs of others, thinking only of herself.
She sought Anne’s gaze across the table. “I should have known—”
“And I should have been long married by now,” Anne said abruptly. “So then, what shall we do with this reprobate headed our way?”
Marjory pursed her lips. “If Gibson were here, he would stand up to Roger Laidlaw in our stead.”
“Alas, Gibson is not here,” Elisabeth gently reminded her. “We must prepare to address the man ourselves.”
“Indeed we must,” Anne echoed.
They looked at one another across the table, determination reflected on each face.
“Agreed,” Marjory said at last. “When Mr. Laidlaw knocks on our door, he will find three women who are not afraid to face him.”
Ten
The beginning, as the proverb says,
is half the whole.
ARISTOTLE
lisabeth brushed a damp cloth over her mourning gown, wishing she had lemon juice to clean the fabric or fragrant attar of roses to freshen the scent. Tailors were particular about such things.
At least she’d bathed from head to toe with hot water and her last bit of heather soap and cleaned her teeth with a twig of hazel she’d brought home from their forest walk. Her hair was styled, her ivory comb in place, and her prayers whispered across the open pages of the Buik earlier that morning.
Elisabeth took a quick peek in Anne’s looking glass, then turned toward the door, glad to see a patch of blue sky through the curtains.
“Michael Dalgliesh is the finest tailor in Selkirk,” Anne informed her, sweeping the flagstone hearth with