Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [8]
Then Elisabeth stepped in. “We are rather desperate for lodging,” she explained, “and need only the simplest of meals. Might you accommodate us, Miss Kerr?”
Anne turned to Elisabeth with a lift of her brow. “And you are?”
“Donald’s widow,” she said, offering a tentative smile. “Elisabeth Kerr.”
Anne responded with a slight nod. “Did not Andrew marry as well?”
“He did,” Elisabeth said. “This very night his widow, Janet, is returning to her Highland home.”
Marjory grimaced at the reminder. During Janet’s brief marriage to Andrew, the spoiled, selfish woman had not endeared herself to most of the Kerr household. Before leaving Edinburgh, Marjory had purchased a seat for Janet on a northbound carriage. Janet’s halfhearted protest had ended the moment two shillings crossed her gloved palm.
Marjory looked at her younger daughter-in-law now with fond affection. You should have returned home as well, dear Bess. But no matter how many times Marjory had entreated her, Elisabeth had refused to leave her side, insisting on traveling with her to Selkirk. She hadn’t planned on Elisabeth’s company, but Marjory was glad for it all the same.
“Come with me.” Anne pushed open her door with a sigh. “I cannot let you sleep out of doors like beggars.”
Horrified at the thought, Marjory murmured her thanks, then followed their cousin through the entrance and up a dozen steps to a smaller interior door with even less paint. She’d never visited Anne’s house, though Lord John had once described it as cozy and quaint. Whatever awaited them, it was far superior to a cobbled passageway on a chilly April night.
Anne entered first and reached for a candle, then touched the wick to the glowing coals in the hearth and motioned Marjory forward.
The candlelight sent shadows dancing across the low-ceilinged room with its plaster walls and rough wooden floors. Anne’s furnishings were neat but alarmingly few: a box bed, plainly draped; a rustic washstand and basin; two upholstered chairs with threadbare arms; a low table covered with sewing items; an oval dining table that would barely seat four; and several mismatched wooden chairs huddled in a corner like gossips exchanging news.
Marjory found her voice at last. “You keep a tidy house, Cousin Anne.”
“Easily managed when one owns so little.” Anne lit a second tallow candle and placed it on the shelf mounted between her two front windows.
Her only windows, Marjory realized. At least the glazing was clean, and the curtains, surprisingly, were trimmed in lace. An extravagant touch for such mean lodgings. She stepped closer and looked down at the marketplace. “You have a fine view of the town.”
“And the town has a fine view of me,” Anne said curtly. “If you mean to hide your family’s disgrace, Marjory, you’ve knocked on the wrong door.”
She flinched at her harsh words. “Believe me, Cousin, had we anywhere else to go …”
Anne had already turned away to poke at the coals in her grate, jabbing them with savage efficiency.
Marjory stared at her cousin’s back. A dearth of letters over the years would hardly account for this cold reception. Was it the Kerrs’ ill-advised support of Prince Charlie? Or had something else upset Anne?
When Elisabeth crossed the threshold, carrying in the first of their trunks, Anne hurried off to help her, as if glad to escape Marjory’s presence. The two younger women disappeared down the stair, leaving Marjory to examine their surroundings and accept the inevitable.
One room. We shall all live in one room.
Disheartened at the prospect, Marjory walked along the front wall, counting her steps. Eighteen. Then she measured from the windows to the back wall. Eighteen. The supporting wall that ran halfway through the room provided a modicum of privacy between Anne’s bed and the rest of her lodging yet made the house feel even smaller.
With a muted groan, Marjory sank onto the nearest chair, wondering what Anne Kerr might serve for supper. Moldy cheese and a stale bannock, she imagined, then chastised herself for judging