Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,6
motioned Marjory forward.
The candlelight sent shadows dancing across the low-ceilinged room with its plaster walls and rough wooden floors. Anne’s furnishings were neat but alarmingly few: a box bed, plainly draped; a rustic washstand and basin; two upholstered chairs with threadbare arms; a low table covered with sewing items; an oval dining table that would barely seat four; and several mismatched wooden chairs huddled in a corner like gossips exchanging news.
Marjory found her voice at last. “You keep a tidy house, Cousin Anne.”
“Easily managed when one owns so little.” Anne lit a second tallow candle and placed it on the shelf mounted between her two front windows.
Her only windows, Marjory realized. At least the glazing was clean, and the curtains, surprisingly, were trimmed in lace. An extravagant touch for such mean lodgings. She stepped closer and looked down at the marketplace. “You have a fine view of the town.”
“And the town has a fine view of me,” Anne said curtly. “If you mean to hide your family’s disgrace, Marjory, you’ve knocked on the wrong door.”
She flinched at her harsh words. “Believe me, Cousin, had we anywhere else to go …”
Anne had already turned away to poke at the coals in her grate, jabbing them with savage efficiency.
Marjory stared at her cousin’s back. A dearth of letters over the years would hardly account for this cold reception. Was it the Kerrs’ ill-advised support of Prince Charlie? Or had something else upset Anne?
When Elisabeth crossed the threshold, carrying in the first of their trunks, Anne hurried off to help her, as if glad to escape Marjory’s presence. The two younger women disappeared down the stair, leaving Marjory to examine their surroundings and accept the inevitable.
One room. We shall all live in one room.
Disheartened at the prospect, Marjory walked along the front wall, counting her steps. Eighteen. Then she measured from the windows to the back wall. Eighteen. The supporting wall that ran halfway through the room provided a modicum of privacy between Anne’s bed and the rest of her lodging yet made the house feel even smaller.
With a muted groan, Marjory sank onto the nearest chair, wondering what Anne Kerr might serve for supper. Moldy cheese and a stale bannock, she imagined, then chastised herself for judging their cousin so harshly. Anne had no notice of their arrival, no time to replenish her stores, and limited resources besides.
Hearing voices on the stair, Marjory rose with a guilty start, then watched Anne and Elisabeth struggle through the door, bearing a heavy trunk between them. “You might put it here,” Marjory suggested, uncertain how else to assist them.
They dutifully placed the trunk near the foot of Anne’s bed and left to fetch the last one, not saying a word.
Like servants, Marjory thought glumly.
Her heart skipped a beat. Gibson. How had she forgotten him so quickly?
Appalled, Marjory hastened to the window as if by some miracle she might spot his balding head fringed in silver. Had the rain delayed him? An injury? Illness? Perhaps he’d encountered highwaymen on a lonely road. Or worse, dragoons. Forty miles stretched between Milne Square and Halliwell’s Close. Anything might have happened.
By the time the others returned, Marjory was pacing the floor. “However shall we find Gibson?”
“I am worried as well,” Elisabeth admitted, heading for the washstand by Anne’s bed.
Only then did Marjory notice their faces were red with exertion and their hands soiled.
“We’ll consider your manservant shortly.” Anne brushed past her. “First, I must attend to our supper. Cousin Marjory, if you might set the table.” She gestured toward a low shelf, which held an assortment of trenchers, knot bowls, and carved cups.
Marjory stared at the woodenware, carved in the crudest design. The spoons and forks were gray from years of use, and some of the plates were badly cracked along the grain. This was her future, then. No pewter plates, no crystal goblets, no beeswax tapers gleaming from a polished mahogany sideboard.
Anne called across the room, “Something wrong, Cousin?”
“Nae,” Marjory said quickly. She dared not refuse to help, however menial the task. Was she not an interloper of the worst kind? A penniless relation begging for bread with a widowed daughter-in-law in tow and a manservant gone astray among the hills.
Marjory reached for a cluster of wooden utensils, her hands shaking. How am I to manage, Lord? How are we to live like this?
Five
The night is dark,
and I am far from home;
lead Thou me on!
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN
lisabeth had forgotten the odd sensation of a wooden spoon in her