Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [7]
“But … that was ten years ago!” Elisabeth could not hide her dismay. “You’ve not corresponded with Anne all this time?”
“Nae, I fear I have not. My factor at Tweedsford …” Marjory sighed heavily. “That is, Mr. Laidlaw kept me apprised of the news from Selkirk over the years. He never mentioned any change in Cousin Anne’s situation.”
Elisabeth was speechless. Did her mother-in-law expect a cordial greeting from a relative so long forsaken? From the look of their surroundings, Anne was a woman of lesser means who’d have benefited from the Kerrs’ attention. Only a merciful soul could overlook such ill treatment.
Marjory gnawed on her lower lip. “Perhaps she’s not at home …”
A woman’s voice floated down the passageway from the far end. “Who is not at home?”
Marjory spun about, nearly stumbling over the baggage at her feet. “If you please, madam,” she called into the darkness. “We are seeking Miss Anne Kerr, my late husband’s cousin. Might you know her?”
Elisabeth held her breath. Please, Lord.
“I am Miss Kerr,” the woman announced, quickening her steps.
With a soft cry Marjory clutched Elisabeth’s arm. “We are saved,” she whispered.
Their cousin soon appeared, lifting the hem of her blue drugget gown above the wet cobblestones as she hurried toward them, her thin wool cape swinging from her shoulders. Her fair hair and complexion took Elisabeth aback, so closely did her coloring match Donald’s. Small in stature, with a trim waist to match, Anne Kerr had a light step, her scuffed leather shoes soundless in the narrow close.
When she reached them, the three women quickly exchanged curtsies.
Marjory spoke first. “Cousin Anne, I cannot tell you how glad we are to have found you.”
Anne nodded, though no spark of recognition shone in her light blue eyes. “Did you say your late husband was a cousin of mine?”
“Aye.” Marjory took Anne’s bare hands in hers. “Lord John Kerr. I feel certain you remember him.”
“The late owner of Tweedsford?” Anne’s skin grew noticeably paler. “I could hardly forget the gentleman, God rest his soul.” She paused, studying Marjory more intently. “But if Lord John was your husband, that means you must be …” Her eyes widened. “Nae, you cannot be … Lady Marjory?”
Four
Poverty is a bitter weed to most women,
and there are few indeed
who can accept it with dignity.
ELIZA LYNN LINTON
arjory bristled at the shocked expression on Anne’s face. Is it my age? My tattered gown? Or did you think I died too?
“Do not call me ‘Lady,’ ” Marjory finally told her, disowning the title she’d once loved.
Anne’s mouth fell open. “Then you—”
“Call me ‘Marjory,’ ” she insisted. “The king has dealt harshly with me and revoked our family’s title, lands, and fortune.” She’d not meant to spill out the truth all at once, but there it was.
“King George has done this?” Anne frowned. “There must be some explanation—”
“Treason,” Marjory said bluntly. “My sons, Donald and Andrew, fought for the Jacobite cause and died at Falkirk.” There. She jutted out her chin, if only to keep it from trembling.
Anne slowly pulled her hands from Marjory’s grasp. “Ill news indeed, Cousin.”
She sensed the aloofness in Anne’s tone, the deliberateness of her withdrawal. Nae, this would not do. “Did not our manservant, Gibson, bring a letter to your door?”
“He did not,” Anne said evenly. “I’ve had no correspondence from you—”
“In a very long time,” Marjory quickly agreed. “Gibson traveled ahead on foot so we’d not arrive here unexpected.”
“And yet you have.” Anne took a step backward, putting more distance between them. “What is it you want from me?”
Marjory eyed the woman, a dozen years her junior. Anne Kerr had never married, had never been wealthy or titled, yet she held the upper hand. With a roof over her head and food in her larder, Anne had what they needed but could not afford.
Must I plead with her, Lord? Must I beg? Pride wrapped