Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,5

Elisabeth’s arm. “We are saved,” she whispered.

Their cousin soon appeared, lifting the hem of her blue drugget gown above the wet cobblestones as she hurried toward them, her thin wool cape swinging from her shoulders. Her fair hair and complexion took Elisabeth aback, so closely did her coloring match Donald’s. Small in stature, with a trim waist to match, Anne Kerr had a light step, her scuffed leather shoes soundless in the narrow close.

When she reached them, the three women quickly exchanged curtsies.

Marjory spoke first. “Cousin Anne, I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you.”

Anne nodded, though no spark of recognition shone in her light blue eyes. “Did you say your late husband was a cousin of mine?”

“Aye.” Marjory took Anne’s bare hands in hers. “Lord John Kerr. I feel certain you remember him.”

“The late owner of Tweedsford?” Anne’s skin grew noticeably paler. “I could hardly forget the gentleman, God rest his soul.” She paused, studying Marjory more intently. “But if Lord John was your husband, that means you must be …” Her eyes widened. “Nae, you cannot be … Lady Marjory?”

Four

Poverty is a bitter weed to most women,

and there are few indeed

who can accept it with dignity.

ELIZA LYNN LINTON

arjory bristled at the shocked expression on Anne’s face. Is it my age? My tattered gown? Or did you think I died too?

“Do not call me ‘Lady,’ ” Marjory finally told her, disowning the title she’d once loved.

Anne’s mouth fell open. “Then you—”

“Call me ‘Marjory,’ ” she insisted. “The king has dealt harshly with me and revoked our family’s title, lands, and fortune.” She’d not meant to spill out the truth all at once, but there it was.

“King George has done this?” Anne frowned. “There must be some explanation—”

“Treason,” Marjory said bluntly. “My sons, Donald and Andrew, fought for the Jacobite cause and died at Falkirk.” There. She jutted out her chin, if only to keep it from trembling.

Anne slowly pulled her hands from Marjory’s grasp. “Ill news indeed, Cousin.”

She sensed the aloofness in Anne’s tone, the deliberateness of her withdrawal. Nae, this would not do. “Did not our manservant, Gibson, bring a letter to your door?”

“He did not,” Anne said evenly. “I’ve had no correspondence from you—”

“In a very long time,” Marjory quickly agreed. “Gibson traveled ahead on foot so we’d not arrive here unexpected.”

“And yet you have.” Anne took a step backward, putting more distance between them. “What is it you want from me?”

Marjory eyed the woman, a dozen years her junior. Anne Kerr had never married, had never been wealthy or titled, yet she held the upper hand. With a roof over her head and food in her larder, Anne had what they needed but could not afford.

Must I plead with her, Lord? Must I beg? Pride wrapped itself round Marjory’s throat, choking back her words.

Then Elisabeth stepped in. “We are rather desperate for lodging,” she explained, “and need only the simplest of meals. Might you accommodate us, Miss Kerr?”

Anne turned to Elisabeth with a lift of her brow. “And you are?”

“Donald’s widow,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “Elisabeth Kerr.”

Anne responded with a slight nod. “Did not Andrew marry as well?”

“He did,” Elisabeth said. “This very night his widow, Janet, is returning to her Highland home.”

Marjory grimaced at the reminder. During Janet’s brief marriage to Andrew, the spoiled, selfish woman had not endeared herself to most of the Kerr household. Before leaving Edinburgh, Marjory had purchased a seat for Janet on a northbound carriage. Janet’s halfhearted protest had ended the moment two shillings crossed her gloved palm.

Marjory looked at her younger daughter-in-law now with fond affection. You should have returned home as well, dear Bess. But no matter how many times Marjory had entreated her, Elisabeth had refused to leave her side, insisting on traveling with her to Selkirk. She hadn’t planned on Elisabeth’s company, but Marjory was glad for it all the same.

“Come with me.” Anne pushed open her door with a sigh. “I cannot let you sleep out of doors like beggars.”

Horrified at the thought, Marjory murmured her thanks, then followed their cousin through the entrance and up a dozen steps to a smaller interior door with even less paint. She’d never visited Anne’s house, though Lord John had once described it as cozy and quaint. Whatever awaited them, it was far superior to a cobbled passageway on a chilly April night.

Anne entered first and reached for a candle, then touched the wick to the glowing coals in the hearth and