Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,30
on tiptoe, her heart prepared to soar. “And?”
The reverend shook his head. “No word of Gibson.”
Her spirits sank as quickly as they’d risen. “What am I to do?”
His silence offered little comfort. “None of the coachmen have seen him,” he finally said, “and they’ve traveled the Edinburgh road many times since your arrival. Nor did the proprietor of the Middleton Inn have any inkling of your manservant’s whereabouts. I am sorry, Mrs. Kerr, but …”
Nae! She closed her eyes, wishing she might shut out the truth. “He cannot be dead,” she whispered. “He cannot be.”
Fifteen
Our real blessings often appear to us
in the shape of pains, losses and disappointments;
but let us have patience, and we soon
shall see them in their proper figures.
JOSEPH ADDISON
arjory trudged across the marketplace, hardly able to lift her feet. My dear Gibson, dead. Because of me.
“We cannot be certain,” Reverend Brown had cautioned her before hurrying off to meet with the schoolmaster. “The weather has been milder than usual. As I recall, he’s a capable man, your Gibson.”
Aye, he was. And loyal. And kind.
Tears stung her eyes. Could Neil Gibson truly be gone from this world?
“I’ll reach Selkirk lang afore ye do,” Gibson had said before bidding her farewell at Milne Square. She’d believed him, convincing herself that no obstacle strewed in Gibson’s path could deter him. Though she’d not had a shilling to spare when they’d left Edinburgh, the fact was, if she’d managed to pay for his seat in a carriage, Gibson would be alive now, safe by her side. How could she live with that awful truth?
Forgive me, forgive me. She’d begged that of Lord John when he lay in his grave and then of both her sons when she learned of their deaths. Perhaps she bore some terrible curse, condemning any man she held dear.
Marjory avoided the May Day revelers with their youthful exuberance and aimed her steps toward the East Port. Any plan to greet her neighbors was quickly forsaken. Such banter required a light heart, a kind word, a ready smile. She could produce none of those. Not this day.
Keeping to one side of Water Row, Marjory fixed her gaze on the broad thoroughfare where strangers on horseback trotted into town and the occasional carriage rattled past. She scanned the men’s faces, desperate to see a silver fringe of hair, a wrinkled brow. For the journey south Gibson had traded his neatly pressed livery for a plain brown coat and breeches, so she kept an eye out for such clothing among the passersby.
But her search was in vain. Was the whole world no older than forty? And dressed in every color but brown?
Stop it, Marjory. Stop looking for him.
She jutted out her chin to keep it from trembling, brushed away the last of her tears, then spun on her heel. If she could not save Gibson, then she would mourn him in private.
It seemed the whole of Selkirk stood between her and Halliwell’s Close. Folk congregated round one another’s doors—talking, arguing, laughing—while children skipped about with their hoops and sticks, dogs barking at their heels. Silver flasks were passed from hand to hand, and young girls threw caution to the winds, flirting with lads they would never speak to were it not May Day.
Marjory did not notice a carriage drawing near until a man’s voice called down to her in warning, “Have a care, mem!”
As the horses lurched to a stop, she looked over her shoulder and immediately recognized the coachman, with his thick eyebrows and deeply lined face. “Thank you for delivering my letter to Tweedsford,” she said, stepping close enough to be heard. “I trust you were paid?”
“Oo aye,” he answered in a gruff voice. “Yer man gave me mair than I asked for.”
Though Mr. Laidlaw was no longer in her employ, she did not correct the coachman on that point. “I don’t imagine you have any news of Neil Gibson, the manservant I described to you on the Sabbath?”
He wagged his head. “Nae, mem. I’ve yet to hear his name bandied about.”
Marjory sighed. Just as she’d feared: more ill news.
But the coachman wasn’t finished. “Noo that ye ask, I did pass a man on foot. Balding, did ye say? With a bit o’ gray?”
“Aye!” Hope rose inside her. Might it be Gibson?
“I canna say for sure ’twas him,” the man cautioned, scratching at his beard. “He was dressed in plain clothing, yet walked like gentry. D’ye ken?” The coachman threw back his shoulders, showing her what he meant.