Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [164]
“You did,” she’d agreed, pulling out the letter, suddenly curious.
“Not ’til I’m gane,” he’d cautioned her, kissing her cheek. Well, both cheeks. Her brow too. Each one felt like a promise of things to come. And the words Neil had spoken! “I will aye want ye by my side,” after the first gentle kiss. “I will aye need ye in my life,” after the second. Then, “I will aye luve ye, Leddy Kerr.”
Naturally, she’d returned the favor. With her own kisses. And her own words.
The memory of their parting made her sigh even now, hours later. Lingering at the door like two young lovers. Whispering endearments old as time yet fresh as spring water in their mouths. Holding hands in the quiet sanctuary of her wee house.
Marjory read his letter once more, though she already knew every word by heart.
To Lady Marjory Kerr
Halliwell’s Close, Selkirkshire
Monday, 29 September 1746
My Beloved Marjory:
She swallowed, hard. Beloved. Lord John had never addressed her so ardently. Dear, aye, but never Beloved.
I hope you will be pleased to find this letter written in my hand.
Pleased? Marjory had burst into tears.
Of all the ways Neil might have blessed her, honored her, this was the finest: he’d spent the summer learning to read and to write, keeping it a secret until now, until he was ready. My sweet Neil. She pictured him sitting at Reverend Brown’s parlor table, laboring over each letter, each word.
I wished to be more worthy of you, milady. And so I asked the minister to teach me, which he kindly did.
Clearly Reverend Brown was more supportive of their courtship than he’d once put forth. Else why would he have helped Neil Gibson become a literate man, lifting him to a higher station, opening the world of books to him?
Oh, Neil, ’tis only the beginning.
Marjory vowed to be nicer—nae, much nicer—to the minister henceforth.
I pray each day for the Almighty to provide a larger income so I might ask for your hand in marriage. Until that day comes, my heart is yours to keep.
And mine is yours. Marjory touched his signature, neatly drawn.
Helen Edgar, their housekeeper at Milne Square, would be so proud of her old friend. Even Janet, her nigh-forgotten daughter-in-law, might have applauded Gibson’s efforts. And Elisabeth would be ecstatic.
Marjory looked toward the window. Hurry home, lass. The sky was already growing lighter, a warm pink nudging the midnight blue toward the western horizon.
When she heard footsteps on the cobblestones below, she swept aside Anne’s lace-trimmed curtains. Bess! Marjory tucked Gibson’s letter in her hanging pocket for safekeeping, then flung open the door and stood at the top of the stair, anxious to greet her daughter-in-law. Whatever had happened last night at Bell Hill, breakfast would wait.
Elisabeth opened the door from the close, then looked up. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”
Marjory waved her up impatiently. “I’ve not slept all night, worrying about you.” She pulled her inside, then closed the door, noting her daughter-in-law’s damp wool cape, her wrinkled satin gown, her muddy leather shoes, and the mourning gown draped over her arm. “So,” Marjory began, all but crowing, “who are you, then? The next Lady Buchanan?”
A look of surprise lit Elisabeth’s features. “I’d hardly considered it, but, aye, if we marry, I would bear the title ‘Lady’ again.”
“If you marry?” Marjory’s breath caught. “Please do not tell me things ended badly.”
“Nothing has ended. Not yet.” Elisabeth laid aside her satin reticule, then pulled off her gloves. “If there’s hot water in the kettle, I could do with some tea.”
Marjory had never prepared tea with such haste. A minute later they were seated at the oval table, a plate of oatcakes and cheese before them, teacups in hand. Marjory held hers to keep warm, not bothering to take a sip. “Tell me everything,” she begged.
Elisabeth patiently described her night in Lord Buchanan’s study, though on occasion Marjory sensed her daughter-in-law skipping over a few details. When she came to the pardon his lordship intended to seek from