Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [97]
Anne looked up from her book. “You’ve no need to fret, Cousin. She is safe with Lord Buchanan.”
“I know,” Marjory said absently, moving toward the open window. She leaned out, feeling the night wind against her face. The marketplace appeared deserted. Other than the usual sounds of barking dogs and lowing cattle, all was silent.
Or was it?
She closed her eyes, straining to hear. Aye, she was certain now: hoofbeats from the east. “They’ll be here shortly,” she said, then exhaled in relief. Wanting to look her best for Lord Buchanan, she smoothed her hair, brushed the lint from her gown, and washed her hands in lavender soap, a present from Anne.
Marjory had hoped her Tuesday birthday might slip by unnoticed, but Anne had insisted on a small gathering of friends. Elisabeth had stitched a new linen petticoat for her, Michael and Peter had found a tin ladle at market, and Gibson had carved a fine set of four wooden spoons. No one else in the neighborhood had been informed, at her request. Though Marjory was grateful for every one of her nine-and-forty years, she saw no need to proclaim her age from the mercat cross.
Hearing the noisy clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones, she hastened back to the window, expecting to find Lord Buchanan and Elisabeth approaching. Instead, several horses were coming down Kirk Wynd. She squinted into the darkness. Only when the first rider came within a stone’s throw of their house could she see his red coat.
“Annie!” She yanked the casement window closed. “Dragoons!”
Her cousin blew out the candle, then leaped to her side. “In Selkirk? At this hour?” Anne pressed her forehead against the glass, counting under her breath. “Eight men, I’d say. They seem to be looking for something.”
Marjory could hardly breathe. They’re looking for us. For Elisabeth, for me. Had she not always feared a day of reckoning would come?
“Listen.” Anne eased open the window without making a sound, then clasped Marjory’s hand in silent support.
The men below were grumbling among themselves, loudly enough for the women to hear.
“I say we should’ve stayed. Waited ’til the admiral returned.”
“Who knows when that would have been?”
“His lordship’s housekeeper was little help.”
“Best find an inn, lads, and see if supper may be had.”
Her heart still beating wildly, Marjory watched the dragoons walk their horses along the row of buildings facing the marketplace. She could almost smell their sweat, their anger, their impatience. As they reached the Cross Well, she heard their muffled comments and guessed what they were saying. The Forest Inn stood downhill, beyond the West Port.
When the men disappeared round the corner, Marjory collapsed onto an upholstered chair. “Annie,” she moaned, “they will come for us in the morn.”
“But your names were not spoken,” her cousin protested gently. “More likely they had business with Lord Buchanan. You can be certain he will not point them in your direction.” She lit the candle at the hearth, casting shadows round the room.
Shivering, Marjory pulled Elisabeth’s plaid round her shoulders, fearing King George would not be satisfied until every Jacobite was dead. Minutes later, when she again heard horses in the street, Marjory did not move. “You look, Annie, for I haven’t the strength to stand.”
Her cousin glanced out the window, then touched her shoulder. “ ’Tis Bess and his lordship.”
Marjory sank back against the chair. At last.
The two were soon at the door. “Oh, Marjory!” Elisabeth hurried across the room, then knelt beside the chair, her hair reduced to a nest of wispy curls, her eyes filled with fear. “The dragoons—”
“I know,” Marjory interrupted. “We saw them in the marketplace. They paused long enough for us to overhear some of their conversation.”
Lord Buchanan moved into the room and bowed. “Did the men say why they’ve come to Selkirk?”
“Nae,” Anne replied, “but they did mention having stopped at Bell