Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,24
only for an instant. “You’ll remember Gibson, I’m sure, from our years at Tweedsford. Might you help us find him, Reverend?”
He did not respond at first, his jaw working as if she’d given him an especially tough cut of meat. Finally he said, “One of the elders, Joseph Haldane, is bound for Middleton in the morn. Suppose I have him inquire at the inn—”
“Would you?” Marjory sank against the wall in relief. Nearly every traveler on the Edinburgh road stopped at the Middleton Inn. “Surely the proprietor will have news for us.”
The minister made no such promise. “We shall see when Mr. Haldane returns on Thursday.”
Two days. Aye, she could bear two more days.
Reverend Brown regarded her, his wrinkled lips tightly drawn like a calfskin purse. “Change is refreshing,” he said, pulling the door open. “ ’Tis an old Gaelic proverb your daughter-in-law will know. You may need that reminder in the months to come, Mrs. Kerr. I am certain I will.”
She gazed at the aging minister who’d given his best years to their parish. From the pulpit he was intimidating, even frightening. But in person, bathed in the flickering candlelight, his wisdom and mercy shone through.
“God be with you,” she said in parting, then stepped into the crowded street, hearing the door close firmly behind her. Each detail of their conversation replayed in her mind as she hastened downhill, ducking round the horses and carts, the fishwives and pie sellers, the tradesmen and laborers who darted in front of her.
She had to get to Anne’s house. Had to tell Elisabeth. We’re here to stay. We’re home.
When she turned into Halliwell’s Close, Marjory paused to let her eyes adjust to the dim light, then squinted, uncertain what she was seeing. Was someone at their door? A man of middling size and middling age, no more than a shadow. But as she moved forward, the shadow took shape, and a voice she’d not heard in many seasons spoke her name.
“Leddy Kerr?”
She tried to swallow but could not. “Mr. Laidlaw.”
The factor of Tweedsford stood there empty handed, looking precisely as she’d remembered him. Brown, straight hair tied back with a bit of leather, small eyes set rather too close, and a mouth drawn by a firm hand wielding a sharp pen.
But Anne’s description was the one she could not forget. A lecherous man without scruples. She’d pledged to face Mr. Laidlaw without fear. That hour had come.
He cleared his throat. “I received yer letter—”
“Then where are the items I asked you to bring?” Her words were sharper than she intended, but she could not take them back.
He inclined his head toward the door. “I left them up the stair with the leddies.”
“You entered my cousin’s house?” Marjory could only imagine Anne’s reaction.
“I didna stay but a minute,” he quickly explained. “A stranger answered my knock. Tall, with dark hair. She wouldna let me in.”
Elisabeth. Well done, lass.
Roger Laidlaw remained by the door, blocking her way. “Leddy Kerr—”
“I am Mrs. Kerr now, as you well know.”
He shifted his stance. “Beg pardon, mem.”
Only then did she notice a sad look in his eyes. Still, if the rumors about him were true, he had much to account for. “What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Laidlaw?”
Before he could respond, a trio of maidservants came hurrying up the close and squeezed past, bobbing their white caps in apology. When his gaze followed them down the close, Marjory’s control snapped.
“So,” she hissed, “I see you’ve not changed your ways.” If indeed he’d misused Tibbie Cranshaw, his actions would not go unpunished. Were there not laws against such behavior? “I’ve a mind to report you to Tweedsford’s new owner,” she fumed. “Or ask the Sheriff of Selkirk to charge you in court.”
Mr. Laidlaw quickly backed away from her, averting his gaze. “Mebbe we might speak anither time, mem. Whan ye’re not … whan ’tis …” He turned and fled toward the marketplace, quickly disappearing from sight.
Thirteen
From the manner in which a woman draws her thread
at every stitch of her needlework,
any other woman can surmise her thoughts.
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
lisabeth glanced at the door. Muffled voices had floated up the stair for the last few minutes, too faint to be discerned. Her mother-in-law was probably speaking with Reverend Brown, if he’d escorted her home, or with Mr. Tait, the shoemaker who shared their entrance off Halliwell’s Close.
When she shifted her gaze toward Anne and her students, Elisabeth was touched by the lovely tableau. Sunlight gilded their faces as the