Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [101]
He was quiet for a long time. When he looked up, the pain in his eyes was undeniable. “In the past I had a reputation for chasing the lasses. Most were willing, but—”
“My cousin was right, then,” Marjory said sharply. “You are a reprobate.”
He hung his head. “Whatsomever she said, ’tis true.”
Marjory eyed the drawing room door, considering summoning the admiral. He would know what was to be done. Should the sheriff be called? Or might the kirk session mete out sufficient punishment?
But Mr. Laidlaw’s humble demeanor gave her pause. This was not a man bragging about his conquests. “You said ‘in the past,’ Mr. Laidlaw. Are you telling me you’ve changed?”
He looked up at once. “I have changed. Ye must believe me, Leddy …, eh, Mrs. Kerr.”
Marjory wanted to be angry with him, wanted to see justice done. But when a man asked for mercy, he deserved to be heard. “Go on.”
“I’m courting a widow in Galashiels noo. Jessie Briggs is her name. She made me see … what sort o’ man I was. And what I could be.”
Marjory frowned. “Does this Jessie know all that you’ve done?”
“Aye, ilka bit. I’ve gone round the countryside and tried to make amends—”
“Tibbie Cranshaw?” Marjory pressed him.
He shook his head. “She wouldna let me past her door. I canna say I blame the lass.”
Nor can I. “I should never have sent Tibbie away,” Marjory admitted, “nor judged her so harshly.”
“Then … mebbe ye can forgive me?” Roger Laidlaw shifted his weight. “ ’Twas a sickness, mem. Finally I am weel.” He pulled out a tattered handkerchief and blew his nose. “I canna believe it, but a guid woman luves me. Aye, and the guid Lord luves me, though I dinna deserve it.”
Marjory’s ire was gone, dissipating like smoke from a doused fire. “No one truly deserves his love and mercy. I certainly don’t.”
He sought her gaze in the quiet entrance hall. “Please, mem. I canna say I’m sorry enough.”
“Mr. Laidlaw, you don’t need—”
“But I do.” He pulled off his cap and bunched it in his hands. “Nae man wha behaved as I did should walk round thinking it doesna matter.”
Something about his confession prodded at a tender place she could not name. Roger Laidlaw spoke the truth: his lust for women was a sickness the Lord alone could heal. “If the Lord has forgiven you, Mr. Laidlaw, I must do the same.”
He was silent for a moment, then nodded. “I thank ye, mem.”
Marjory glanced at the drawing room. “Anne Kerr was wronged far more than I. Have you sought her pardon?”
“I meant to do so on the day I came to Halliwell’s Close, but …” His gaze followed hers across the hall. “Might ye help me?”
Forty-Three
Mercy to him that shows it,
is the rule.
WILLIAM COWPER
lisabeth turned toward the door as her mother-in-law ushered Roger Laidlaw into the drawing room, her tears gone and her demeanor surprisingly calm.
“Gentlemen, if you might give us a moment.” Marjory inclined her head toward the entrance hall. “Mr. Laidlaw has something to say to our cousin.”
“We cannot tarry much longer,” Lord Jack reminded her, then departed with Gibson, closing the door behind them.
The room fell silent, save the sound of the rain pelting the windows.
“Please, Bess,” Anne whispered, almost hiding behind her. “I don’t wish to speak with him.”
Elisabeth looked at the middle-aged man, his eyes downcast, his hat in his hands, and saw nothing to fear. But she was not Anne. “Marjory and I will not leave your side,” she promised, then slipped her arm round Anne’s waist and led her toward him, feeling the tension in her cousin’s body.
Marjory spoke first. “Mr. Laidlaw has confessed to me that he’s a changed man.”
A look of incredulity stole across Anne’s features. “And you believe him?”
“I do,” Marjory said. “When we are not so pressed for time, I shall tell you the whole of it. Until then, please hear him out, Cousin.” She nodded at the factor, who moved one step closer, his gaze fixed on Anne.
“Miss Kerr …” He rubbed a shaky hand across his mouth. “Whan Lord John died, I had nae richt to speak to ye as I did. To ask ye …, weel, to suggest that …”