no doubt he eventually would, for Lord Buchanan was a clever man—they would already be friends and such things might be forgiven.
He’d sung the psalms with conviction, she decided, and listened to Reverend Brown’s dry discourse on the Midianites with particular attentiveness. Earlier that morning Marjory had enjoyed pleasant exchanges with Sarah Chisholm and Martha Ballantyne in the kirkyard. It was in every respect a commendable Sabbath. As to the weather, the day was clear and bright and mild. Wasn’t that like June, to make so sunny an entrance?
With the reverend’s stirring benediction still ringing through the sanctuary, Marjory turned to Lord Buchanan, a thousand questions bubbling up inside her. “Will you be constructing a loft here in the kirk?” she asked him. “I’d imagined it hanging just above us.”
“I prefer to sit with the congregation,” he said. “In the Kerr pew, if I’ll not be imposing on you and your household.”
“Not at all!” she cried, then wished she’d curbed her enthusiasm a little. People were staring, and not all their expressions were friendly ones. Tibbie Cranshaw had an especially sour look on her face, which Marjory found irksome after all she’d done for the woman.
Composing herself, Marjory said to the admiral, “I am told, milord, that your father was Scottish rather than English.”
“Indeed, madam, from the Borderland. Though he too sailed with the Royal Navy and sold his land to the Duke of Roxburgh long before I was born.”
Marjory smiled, realization dawning. “You bought it back, didn’t you? Bell Hill was once your family’s estate.”
“So it was.” Though the admiral did not smile in return, his brown eyes gleamed ever so slightly.
When he turned to speak with Elisabeth, Marjory gave them a moment’s privacy by blocking the Kerr aisle so no one else could interfere. She’d already learned two important bits of information about Lord Buchanan and found them both heartening. He was willing to sit among commoners. And his ancestors hailed from Selkirkshire. However, he still answered to King George, a vital fact not to be forgotten.
“Leddy Kerr?”
She turned round to find Gibson moving in her direction even as the reverend’s stern words rose up to scold her. Be cautious in your dealings with Gibson. She would do nothing of the sort. Neil Gibson was her oldest friend in Selkirk. Nae, in all the world. Since she could not write letters to a man who could not read, Marjory made the most of their encounters.
“Good day to you, sir,” she said, offering her gloved hand.
She meant for him to clasp it briefly in greeting. Instead, Gibson enveloped her hand in his, the centers of his blue gray eyes darkening. “Guid day to ye, milady.”
Marjory glanced over her shoulder, hoping Reverend Brown had already moved to the door. “Have a care,” she whispered.
Gibson tugged her closer. “I care mair than ye ken.”
Flustered, Marjory withdrew her hand. “My, but we’re being rather serious this morn.”
He stepped back, his expression cooling. “The reverend is bidding me come.”
“You must do so,” she urged him, not wishing to anger the man on whom Gibson depended for his living. So many masters to be served! Reverend Brown and now Lord Buchanan. Marjory had grown accustomed to owning few possessions and to living under someone else’s roof, but she still missed being in charge of her own household. Best not to dwell on a life she would never see again, she reminded herself, then turned to see how Elisabeth was faring with his lordship.
“So the creature jumped onto my bed without warning,” the admiral was saying, “and licked my face. A rude awakening, to say the least.”
Marjory thought she might faint.
Elisabeth calmly replied, “Then you must lock your door at night.”
“Or send my cat home with you,” he grumbled.
A cat. Marjory felt her rapid heartbeat easing.
“I’m afraid Cousin Anne would not be keen on that idea,” Elisabeth told him. “My mother-in-law and I are imposition enough without adding a guest with fur.”
Anne joined their conversation, having been properly introduced before the admiral was seated. “Lord Buchanan, I would gladly accept anything you wish to send to Halliwell’s Close, provided it has no claws.”
“Then I cannot send Dickson either,” he said, eying his younger valet. “For he has been known to scratch at my door at all hours.”
“Only when bidden,” Dickson replied dryly, clearly accustomed to such remarks.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Michael Dalgliesh and his lad approaching the Kerr aisle with lowered chins and furtive glances. She motioned the tailor forward.