Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [178]
“My guest list will be as follows,” Marjory declared. “Annie and Michael Dalgliesh, Lord Buchanan, and you, dear Bess. My gown will be the one I’m wearing, my flowers will be a single damask rose from Bell Hill’s garden, if his lordship will not object, and the wedding supper will be a pot of cock-a-leekie soup, simmering on the hearth while Mr. Gibson and I speak our vows at the manse. To be served with bread, I suppose. And cheese.”
Elisabeth laughed. “And cakes.”
“Naturally.” Marjory found herself warming to the idea. Small, quiet, simple. “This is, after all, my second wedding.”
“Mine too,” Elisabeth reminded her, taking her hand. “You are quite certain—”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” she said rather pointedly, “you were a wonderful wife to my son. Though I did not realize it at the time, ’tis very clear to me now. You did everything in your power to please him. And honored him when he did not honor you. I could not be …” Marjory’s throat tightened. “I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter. You deserve every happiness.”
Elisabeth looked up, her heart in her eyes. “I will never forget Donald.”
“Nor I. How could we?” Marjory swallowed. “No matter how abominably he behaved, Donald will always be my first son. And your first husband.” She dried her eyes with the hem of her apron, then sniffed. “Now, that is one thing I refuse to have at my wedding: tears.”
Marjory could not look at Anne.
Elisabeth was worse.
’Twas a miracle the manse was not flooded, so copious was their weeping. Happy tears, to be sure, but still tears. Even the weather had confounded Marjory’s wishes, with a steady rain that began at daybreak, then continued all through the Sabbath morning at kirk and well into the afternoon.
Neil, at least, was dry-eyed and looking more handsome than ever in his silvery blue coat, waistcoat, and trousers—a wedding gift from the Dalglieshes. Whatever his upbringing, Neil Gibson was a true gentleman. Now he looked the part.
As for Elisabeth, she’d insisted on stitching a new black gown for her—not of wool but of watered silk—with sufficient ruffles and bows to please her without raising too many eyebrows on Kirk Wynd. Since her daughter-in-law would soon become Lady Elisabeth, Marjory agreed such a gown might prove useful on special occasions at Bell Hill.
Tomorrow’s wedding, for example.
Marjory glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see Michael Dalgliesh and Lord Buchanan contributing fresh handkerchiefs to the cause. Perhaps by the time the ceremony began and she spoke her vows, not a sniffle would be heard from the seats behind her. Because truly, Marjory could not hold out much longer.
“How d’ye like the bride stool?” Neil asked her, patting the small wooden pew used only for weddings. “The auld one was a sorry thing.”
“You made this?” She touched the smoothly planed wood, the neatly matched joints. “I believe you are becoming quite a carpenter, Neil Gibson.”
When he smiled, eyes twinkling, Neil looked ten years younger. “Syne ye mentioned it, I wonder if we might spend some o’ yer pounds—”
“Our pounds.”
“Aye, oor pounds, on fine wood. Oak or mahogany or whatsomever ye like. I’ve a mind to make a few pieces o’ furniture. For the hoose, ye ken.”
Marjory saw through his request. If Neil could work with his hands, if he could make something that pleased her, he would feel he was doing his part.
“You clever man,” she told him. “I cannot wait to see what you’ll make first.”
“Och, I’ve already started it,” he said, “which ye’ll see whan we move there come Martinmas.”
Marjory blushed, quite certain she knew what he’d spent the last fortnight designing.
At last the reverend joined them, his black robe flapping round his legs. “Shall we begin?”
Neil stood, bringing Marjory up with him, keeping her close by his side.
She dared not turn to him. Already her eyes were growing moist.
Reverend Brown looked about the drawing room as if surprised to see so few in attendance. “Very well, then. First, is there any impediment to this marriage?”
“None,” the four witnesses said in unison, then