Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,45
Anne confided to her.
Marjory nodded, narrowing her eyes to improve her vision. “Who is that dark-haired man in the back? The one already bound for the door?”
“ ’Tis the admiral,” Elisabeth said softly. “At least I think so. On my birthday I caught a glimpse of him on horseback.”
Marjory did not doubt the man’s identity. Heads were turning, and latecomers seated near the entrance were hurrying out of doors. The Kerrs followed them, moving down the aisle with purpose rather than standing about as they had on Sundays past.
Whispered questions quickly escalated into shouts.
“Did ye see the man?”
“Are ye sure ’twas him?”
“Och! Whatsomever did he leuk like?”
By the time Marjory and the others reached the kirkyard, there was no sign of the stranger who’d slipped from their midst. Folk tarried round the gravestones, waiting for more news now that idle rumors had become fact.
“The admiral rode aff on a bonny gray horse,” James Mitchelhill was telling them, pointing east.
“How d’ye ken ’twas him?” Robert Watson demanded to know.
The tanner grinned. “I called oot to him, ‘Guid day to ye, Lord Buchanan,’ and he lifted his hand.”
On the heels of Mr. Mitchelhill’s report, another chorus of voices filled the air.
“Then it was his lordship!”
“Mounted on a gray horse, ye say?”
“I wonder how monie ithers he has in his stables.”
Marjory exchanged glances with Elisabeth and Anne, wishing she might read their thoughts. Anne had no reason to fear their new neighbor, but her Jacobite daughter-in-law certainly did. Marjory took them both by the arm, meaning to steer them down the pend toward home, when Elspeth Cranston asked the question foremost in Marjory’s mind.
“When will we have the pleasure of meeting his lordship?”
Reverend Brown spoke up from the threshold. “I can answer that.”
At once the gathering of parishioners turned toward the doorway, seeking a trustworthy voice amid the uncertain clamor.
“I spoke with the admiral earlier this week,” the minister informed them. “Lord Buchanan will be meeting many of you soon enough.” He paused, either for effect or to be sure they were listening. “The admiral plans to engage the balance of his household staff a week from the morrow on Whitsun Monday. Nearly two dozen experienced hands will be required.”
There was no controlling the crowd now. Cries of glee rang out across the grassy hillside, and maidservants hugged one another.
Marjory well remembered Whitsun Monday at Tweedsford. Servants, gardeners, shepherds, and field workers were hired to labor through the summer and harvest seasons, with their wages to be paid at Martinmas. For those in need of employment, a wealthy newcomer with a large property was cause for celebration.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Tibbie Cranshaw starting toward her. She turned to greet her old maidservant, hoping to make amends. All she had to offer the woman was a heartfelt apology, but she would do so gladly if Tibbie would receive it.
When she drew near, Marjory met her with a smile. “A blessed Sabbath to you.”
“Weel, aren’t ye the gracie one?” Tibbie said, her words laced with sarcasm.
Chagrined, Marjory stepped away from the others so the two might speak privately. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Tibbie—”
“Nae!” The woman’s green eyes flared. “Ye owe me a great deal mair than that. Ye owe me a guid position.” Tibbie nodded toward Bell Hill in the distance. “I’ve a mind to seek wark there on Monday next. Gie me a written character, and I’ll not tell his lordship what sort o’ person ye are.”
Marjory looked at her, appalled. Was Tibbie making an idle threat? Or would she present herself to the admiral and fill his ear with tales of a heartless former employer who later turned her back on the king? Such accusations would destroy any hope of the Kerrs enjoying the admiral’s company and might well bring the dragoons to their door.
“I will do as you ask,” Marjory agreed, knowing she had little choice. “You were a fine kitchen maid, Tibbie. ’Twill not grieve me to say so in writing.”
Tibbie stepped closer, her words low but sharp edged. “And ye’ll make nae mention of the babe?”
“Certainly not,” Marjory promised. “Mr. Laidlaw was far more to blame than you in that unfortunate situation.”
Tibbie shrank back, her eyes narrowing. “Wha told ye that?”
Marjory had no intention of drawing Anne into their conversation. “What matters, Tibbie, is that you find a position in a household where you’ll neither be tempted nor mistreated. Isn’t that so?”