Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [108]
Was it wrong, their mutual affection? In God’s eyes, in God’s Word, was it wrong?
She knew the answer and was comforted by it. But society had its own rules, and they did not stretch this far. Only the very wealthy could afford to do as they pleased.
Marjory lifted her head, gazing past the leaky roof and rotting beams. Give me wisdom, Lord. And courage. Aye, especially that.
Hearing a slight commotion, she glanced down the pew and saw Michael and Peter Dalgliesh taking their seats next to Anne. Late as usual, though who could fault a man with a child to dress and no wife or valet to help him? Anne’s face glowed like a candle, even as Peter grinned broadly, showing off his latest missing tooth.
Marjory well recalled young Donald on a similar occasion keeping his lips tightly closed, hoping no one would notice the gaps in his teeth, while Andrew ran up and down the kirk aisles, begging everyone to look.
Gibson glanced at Peter, then bent his head toward hers. “Are ye thinking o’ yer lads?”
“I am,” she confessed. Gibson had been there. He remembered too.
As the precentor sang the first line of the gathering psalm, Gibson squeezed her hand once more, then eased away. Marjory was both saddened and relieved. She could not risk Reverend Brown looking down from on high and noticing their hands joined. Not when he’d expressed such opposition to their growing friendship.
Marjory had rehearsed his words many times. One might think Neil Gibson had designs on you. She eyed the black-gowned minister, now waiting to ascend his pulpit. And what if I have designs on him, Reverend? Even the thought made her skin warm.
The sermon that dreich and dreary Sabbath morning was taken from Zechariah. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and with conviction, Reverend Brown seemed quite adamant that his congregation take heed of his words. “Execute true judgment,” he recited from memory. “Show mercy and compassions every man to his brother.” His fierce gaze raked across his audience, landing on one parishioner, then another. Folk squirmed in their seats and looked round the sanctuary, but the minister still did not relent.
When he said, “Oppress not the widow, nor the fatherless, the stranger, nor the poor,” Marjory was quite certain his eyes were directed at the Kerr pew, where two widows sat, both fatherless and poor. When the sermon finally ended, Marjory stood, anxious to move about, to escape the conflicting thoughts batting about inside her like moths trapped in a clay jar.
Gibson is a servant, yet a fine one. And I am a lady, yet a poor one.
Lord Buchanan announced to those in the Kerr pew, “Mrs. Pringle has sent me with a rather large dinner basket. Since the weather will not suit for a picnic, shall we find a spot with a fine prospect where we might dine together in the dry confines of my carriage? Unless, of course, you have other plans.”
Anne chuckled. “Milord, we have cold mutton and stale bread at home. Whatever is in your basket will be most welcome.”
Disappointed that Gibson could not join them, Marjory bade him farewell. “I hope I shall see you soon,” she murmured, then watched Gibson make his way through the crowd, not far behind the admiral, who was off to summon his carriage.
As Marjory and Elisabeth started down the aisle, Anne walked ahead of them, one hand tucked round the crook of Michael Dalgliesh’s elbow, the other firmly clasping Peter’s hand. With each step the threesome drew closer together, matching their strides, smiling into one another’s faces.
“Did you know about this?” Marjory gestured toward the small family in the making.
“Annie has always cared for him,” Elisabeth admitted. “Michael is finally free to return her affections. And Peter adores her, as you can see.”
Marjory heard something in her voice. Not regret, not sadness,