Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [19]
Borrowing Anne’s quill pen and ink from the shelf, Marjory settled at the dining table and prayed for a steady hand. This would not be a pleasant letter to compose.
To Mr. Roger Laidlaw, Factor
Tweedsford, Selkirkshire
Sunday, 27 April 1746
Mr. Laidlaw:
How it irked her to write the man’s name! Where was she to begin? No point telling him what he already knew when there was so much else to say.
Marjory inked the quill again.
You have no doubt been told of Tweedsford’s new owner. Therefore, I shall not dwell on that unfortunate subject here.
She had yet to speak aloud this admiral’s name. Committing it to paper would be even more difficult. Another time she might manage it. For now, Mr. Laidlaw’s transgressions were her primary concern.
You have been grossly negligent in your duties, sir, for which you have been well compensated these many years.
Very well compensated. She gripped the quill so tightly the feather shook. Did the man think she would never return to Selkirk and see his carelessness?
This morn I entered the church of my childhood and found the Kerr aisle in an abhorrent state. The wooden pew is decrepit, the floor round it is covered with debris, and the walls are near to collapse.
Marjory lifted her pen, struck by a frightening thought. If Mr. Laidlaw was indifferent toward maintaining the house of the Lord, what of Tweedsford?
Images rose before her. Richly paneled walls. An elegant stair with wooden balustrades. Pink marble chimney pieces. Decorative wrought-iron gates. Terraced gardens to the north …
Enough, Marjory.
Whatever Tweedsford’s condition, it was no longer her home or her responsibility. Her family’s corner of the parish kirk, however, mattered very much.
I shall meet with Reverend Brown this week to discuss what must be done as well as to arrange payment for our annual rent, which I am told is in arrears.
Marjory paused, wondering if she was being too harsh. In truth, the whole of the kirk was ruinous. She would soften her tone, if only to be certain Mr. Laidlaw brought her what she wanted.
Ever since Lady Murray of Philiphaugh had hinted at a new owner for Tweedsford, Marjory had thought of the trivial but dear things she’d left behind. According to General Lord Mark Kerr’s letter on behalf of the king, the contents of her home were to be seized for payment of fines. If she did not speak up now, these cherished objects would be lost to her forever.
She chose her words with care.
Do locate the following personal effects and deliver them to Anne Kerr’s house in Halliwell’s Close as soon as ever you can. I assure you, they would mean nothing to your new owner or to His Majesty. You will be breaking no royal decree in doing me this small favor.
Whether or not that was true, Marjory couldn’t say. But it certainly sounded true.
She made a brief list, describing each item. Lord John’s magnifying glass unintentionally left behind. A small bundle of letters from her late brother, Henry Nesbitt, who at seven-and-twenty was killed while hunting in Ettrick Forest. A wooden toy soldier Gibson had carved for Andrew’s fourth birthday. The Famous History of Thomas Thumb, a chapbook Donald prized when he was a wee lad. And a miniature of Tweedsford she drew as a new bride, done with plumbago on vellum.
Though she wrote as compactly as she could, there was no room for a proper signature. Perhaps that was just as well. Without a title her name carried little weight. She tipped a burning candle over the folded letter, then pressed her thumb into the cooling wax, a poor man’s seal.
Marjory was still wiping the ink from Anne’s quill when the clatter of hoofbeats drew her to the window. A coach-and-four was emptying its passengers into the marketplace. “North!” the coachman bellowed, prompting two new travelers, a valise in each hand, to quicken their steps toward the carriage. Clearly he was bound for Edinburgh