Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [100]
Marjory found it hard to breathe, so familiar was the scent of the place. Not merely wood and plaster and silk and satin but also the muddy riverbed and the drooping roses in the garden and the rain itself—all crept through the house, creating a sweet, earthy fragrance she could not fully describe yet could never forget. Home.
With a soft moan she bowed her head, memories pressing down on her, flattening her.
Elisabeth lightly touched her shoulder. “I am here, Marjory. We all are.”
Footsteps approached. “Leddy Kerr.” Roger Laidlaw’s voice. “I didna expect ye.”
Marjory lifted her head. “I am sorry we’ve arrived … unannounced … we …”
When her voice faltered, Elisabeth stepped in to explain. “We learned just this morn that General Lord Mark Kerr is to be the new owner of Tweedsford.”
“Aye, mem.” Mr. Laidlaw bobbed his brown head, his close-set eyes blinking rapidly. “I’ve been told to leuk for him at noontide.”
Soon. A chill ran down Marjory’s spine.
“Then we shall make our visit brief,” Lord Buchanan told the factor. “You surely understand Mrs. Kerr’s desire to see her home once more.”
Roger Laidlaw studied her at length before he responded. “Some o’ the sma’ furniture was taken awa to Edinburgh and sold at auction … to … to pay the fines, ye ken. But, aye, ye can take a leuk.”
Apprehensive, Marjory ventured forth, stepping into the high-ceilinged drawing room with its tall windows and thick velvet drapes. Her heart grew heavier with each step. If they’d never left Selkirk for Edinburgh, this would still be her home. Her sons would be alive. She might have grandchildren by now, running through the halls of Tweedsford.
Marjory stood in the center of the room, barely seeing the marble chimneypiece, the painted ceiling, the decorative cornices. She saw only what was missing. Not her furnishings. Her family.
She closed her eyes and began to weep. Forgive me, forgive me.
Elisabeth’s hand clasped hers.
Gibson moved closer as well and produced a clean linen handkerchief.
“ ’Tis my fault.” Marjory dabbed her eyes, but the tears would not stop. “We should never have come.”
Anne moved round to stand before her, tears glistening in her eyes as well. “ ’Tis naught but a house now, dear Cousin. An empty shell. Do not punish yourself.”
Marjory quietly blew her nose, then whispered, “How can I not?”
After a long silence Mr. Laidlaw stepped forward. “Mem, I found some things ye may wish to have. I set them aside, thinking to bring them to ye. Would ye like them noo?”
“Aye.” She swallowed. “If you please.”
Gibson led her to a small table and chairs where the gentry of Selkirkshire once spent many happy hours playing whist. No sooner had she settled in place than Mr. Laidlaw reappeared with a wooden box.
When she looked inside, Marjory stifled a moan. Donald’s books. Andrew’s toys.
Gibson took away the box at once. “Suppose I put it in the carriage.”
Marjory could not look at the admiral. Whatever must he think of her? “Lord Buchanan, I am … so very sorry …”
He knelt beside her. “Mrs. Kerr, you were brave to come. But unless you truly wish to see the house, I think it best that we leave at once. It will not do to have Lord Mark find you here.”
“Nae,” she agreed. “The general may be a distant cousin of my late husband’s, but he is no friend of mine.”
“Nor of mine,” Elisabeth said firmly.
The moment Marjory stood, Mr. Laidlaw presented himself. “Mem, I wonder if I might have a wird with ye. In private, if ye’ll not mind.”
Anne started to protest, but Marjory saw something in the factor’s eyes that could not be ignored. “We must do so quickly,” she told him, following him into the vacant entrance hall, leaving the others behind.
The two paused before a gilt-edged looking glass. At first Roger Laidlaw said nothing, only looked at his shoes.
“What is it you wish to tell me?” Marjory asked, not bothering to hide her irritation.
“I’ll not keep ye lang,” he said, his voice low. “But I must ask yer forgiveness.”
Marjory stared at him. “My forgiveness?