Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,23
from me.” She bent forward as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Because I loved them more than I loved him.”
Reverend Brown inched his chair closer to hers. “Mrs. Kerr …,” he said gruffly. “Marjory …” He lightly rested his hand on her shoulder. “The Lord brought you home empty so he might fill you with himself.” He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I see no need for any discipline from the kirk.”
Marjory sank beneath the weight of his forgiveness, her damp cheek pressed against her hands.
His voice quavered as he spoke. “ ’Tis our task to help you, Mrs. Kerr. To show you God’s mercy. And so we shall.”
When he paused, Marjory slowly rose and dried her tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For the sake of those who will ask, I need you to speak the truth. Are you now loyal to the king?”
Marjory knew what the Lord required of her. Fear God. Honour the king. A difficult command after all she’d suffered. Yet Reverend Brown had called her support of the Stuart cause foolish. Had she not come to the same conclusion herself even while her sons lived?
Marjory met the minister’s gaze, lest he doubt her conviction. “Aye.”
He seemed satisfied, leaning back to fold his arms across his chest. “So, how will you make your way in society, Mrs. Kerr?”
She dabbed her cheeks with her handkerchief, then answered him honestly. “I will walk through any doors that are opened to me and pray I find friends there.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “We are expecting a new resident in Selkirkshire within a fortnight. Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. Tread lightly in his presence, for he is the king’s man, make no mistake. Your family’s treason will not sit well with the admiral.”
Marjory stiffened. “I’ll not seek the company of Tweedsford’s new owner.”
“What’s this?” Reverend Brown looked at her oddly. “Madam, you have been misinformed. Admiral Buchanan is to reside at Bell Hill.”
Her mouth fell open. “But I thought the king awarded him—”
“His Majesty had no part in this,” he declared. “The admiral bought the property outright from the Duke of Roxburgh. The Centurion’s officers sailed into Portsmouth very wealthy men, you’ll remember. Since Lord Buchanan’s father once resided in Selkirkshire, the admiral chose to settle here.”
“But Lady Murray of Philiphaugh suggested—”
“Bah!” he said. “A parish minister is privy to news not commonly known by his flock.”
Marjory stared at the wool carpet beneath her feet, struggling to recall precisely what her ladyship had said. A handsome estate in Selkirkshire. Nothing more. “The false assumption was mine,” she finally admitted, chastising herself for leaping to conclusions. “Then who is to have Tweedsford?”
“The duke has not apprised me. In the meantime I imagine Mr. Laidlaw will continue to oversee the property.”
Mr. Laidlaw. Marjory feared she might deposit her salmon on the minister’s fine carpet. Was Reverend Brown aware of the man’s vile nature? Perhaps she might test the waters. “I was disappointed not to see my old factor at kirk on the Sabbath,” she said, watching for his reaction.
But the reverend spoke without guile, his expression unchanged. “Roger Laidlaw honors the Sabbath at the kirk in Galashiels now. It seems your factor, like my manservant, grew weary of the bachelor life and is courting a widow from the next parish.”
“Ah.” Marjory was uncertain how to proceed. She’d been wrong about Tweedsford’s owner. What if her cousin had overstated Mr. Laidlaw’s proposition and the sordid tales about him were unfounded? She would not ruin a man’s reputation on hearsay.
But their crumbling pew in the kirk was another matter. “I understand Mr. Laidlaw has not been prompt in paying our rent for the Kerr aisle,” Marjory said, on surer footing this time.
“Aye, well …” Reverend Brown shifted forward in his chair. “We’ve not collected pew rents in several years. The kirk session is considering pulling the old kirk down.”
“Truly?” Marjory was taken aback by the news. “Our sanctuary has stood for two hundred years.”
“Some days I feel I’ve done the same.” The minister rose with considerable effort and started toward the door, candle in hand. “I’ve kept you long enough, Mrs. Kerr.”
Clearly her visit had exhausted him. Marjory trailed after the reverend into the entranceway. “I do hope you find a manservant soon.”
“Aye.” He tarried with her at the door, one hand resting on the latch.
“As it happens,” she said, “our former manservant, Neil Gibson, was to arrive in Selkirk ahead of us. Yet here it is Tuesday, and we’ve not heard from him.” Marjory hesitated but