Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,32

letters were? One for our cousin, requesting lodging. And a written character so you might find a position.”

“He didna open them,” Gibson said evenly. “Instead, a dragoon marched me to the tolbooth on the High Street—”

“Nae!” Elisabeth gasped.

Gibson shrugged in defeat. “They kept me for nigh to a week. Clapped in an iron collar without meat or ale or a fire to keep me warm at nicht.”

Elisabeth felt sick. Poor Gibson, locked in that wretched place! Dark, dirty, and dank, filled with murderers and thieves. When she and Marjory had departed Edinburgh, they’d imagined Gibson well ahead of them, but in fact they’d left him behind.

“I am … so sorry,” she said, ashamed of how inadequate her words sounded. “We were the ones who supported Prince Charlie, not you.”

“But I was the one leaving toun on foot and me not garbed as a servant. The soldiers were certain I was a traitor, carrying messages for the Jacobites.”

Marjory laid her hand on his. “This was all my fault. If you’d traveled with us—”

“Nae, mem.” Gibson shook his head rather vehemently. “Ye’re not to blame.”

Anne’s frustration was thinly veiled. “If they’d simply read those letters, you might’ve been on your way at once.”

“Aye, but it took days for the letters to make their way up to Edinburgh Castle, whaur the governor himself read them.”

Elisabeth frowned. “General Lord Mark Kerr?” A merciless gentleman, despite being a distant relation on her father-in-law’s side. It was Lord Mark who’d penned the terrible missive on behalf of King George, pronouncing their family attainted and their estate forfeited. “But if Lord Mark read the two letters.”

Her voice faded as the truth sank in. He knows where we are.

Now Elisabeth understood the fear she’d seen in her mother-in-law’s eyes, recalling the day a British soldier pounded on their door with the butt of his pistol. What if dragoons appeared at Anne’s house by week’s end? What if they forced the Kerr women to return to Edinburgh—or, worse, travel to London—to face charges of treason? With the Jacobite Rising all but over, who could say what the government might do?

Calm yourself, Bess. No one had come looking for them, not yet. She’d ruin Gibson’s homecoming if she aired such trepidations. “What happened next?”

He exhaled. “Whan they finally set me free, I walked south as fast as ever I could, keeping to the hills and awa from the road, lest the dragoons change their minds and come after me.”

“My faithful Gibson,” Marjory said, patting his arm.

He turned to her, his expression full of apology. “I ken ye needed me here lang afore this, Leddy Kerr. Nae doubt I’ve disappointed ye.”

“You could never disappoint me, Gibson.” Marjory rose with surprising grace, then reached for her apron. “How does mutton broth sound to you?”

He smiled, showing off a fine set of teeth. “Like a dish sent from heiven.”

“I’ll make our Beltane bannock,” Anne declared, returning her chair to the dining table. “I’ve flour, milk, and oatmeal for the baking, with eggs and cream to wash over it.”

Seeing Gibson’s delight at the prospect helped Elisabeth push aside the last of her fears. “You’ve left me little to do but set the table.”

“And finish another shirt for Michael,” Anne said pointedly. Their supply of coins was getting low.

Gibson, meanwhile, was admiring his surroundings. “Ye’ve a fine wee hoose, Miss Kerr.”

“With room for another guest,” Anne said firmly. “We shall all sleep better with a man under our roof.”

Elisabeth shot her a grateful look. “You’ll find our Gibson a welcome addition to the household.”

“He is not to be treated like a manservant,” Marjory cautioned them. “Such days are behind us.”

Gibson made a sound of disapproval, low in his throat. “Ye canna serve me, mem.”

“Oh?” Marjory, busily cutting up turnips, stopped to gaze over her shoulder. “Submit yourselves one to another,” she reminded him. “Or would you argue with the Scriptures?”

“Nae, mem.” His voice softened. “Nor with ye.”

Elisabeth was touched by their warm exchange. Even without her title or fortune, Marjory was, by society’s measure, far above Gibson, who’d been in service the whole of his life and could not read or write. Any public discourse between them would be deeply frowned upon. But within these four walls, their easy banter was further proof of the changes wrought in Marjory’s heart by a loving hand.

An hour later, when the foursome joined round the table for their noontide meal, Marjory invited Gibson to speak the blessing. He balked at first, but Marjory would not take no for