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 and so would pass Tweedsford enroute. Might he deliver her letter this very day? Aye, it was the Sabbath, but if he might be willing.
Marjory flew down the stair, her heart racing by the time she reached the coachman, who’d already climbed onto his seat. “Sir!” she called out, holding up her letter as she identified herself. “Would you kindly carry this to Tweedsford?”
He frowned at her, his thick eyebrows drawn tightly together. “I’m certain to be paid?”
“Depend upon it. Mr. Laidlaw or any of the servants at Tweedsford will meet you with coins in hand.” She pictured the small drawer in the lobby table where pennies were kept for that purpose. “It is a matter of great urgency,” she told him, lifting her letter a bit higher.
“Verra weel,” he grumbled, stuffing her correspondence inside his greatcoat. He nodded toward Halliwell’s Close. “I ken whaur ye live, mem. If I dinna get my money—”
“Oh but you will,” Marjory promised him, stepping back.
He’d lifted the reins, preparing to depart, when she suddenly thought of Gibson.
“Wait!” Marjory stepped forward and grabbed the carriage wheel to keep her balance. “Have you seen or heard of a manservant by the name of Neil Gibson? From an innkeeper perhaps? Or another coachman? Mr. Gibson is traveling alone from
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 and so would pass Tweedsford enroute. Might he deliver her letter this very day? Aye, it was the Sabbath, but if he might be willing.
Marjory flew down the stair, her heart racing by the time she reached the coachman, who’d already climbed onto his seat. “Sir!” she called out, holding up her letter as she identified herself. “Would you kindly carry this to Tweedsford?”
He frowned at her, his thick eyebrows drawn tightly together. “I’m certain to be paid?”
“Depend upon it. Mr. Laidlaw or any of the servants at Tweedsford will meet you with coins in hand.” She pictured the small drawer in the lobby table where pennies were kept for that purpose. “It is a matter of great urgency,” she told him, lifting her letter a bit higher.
“Verra weel,” he grumbled, stuffing her correspondence inside his greatcoat. He nodded toward Halliwell’s Close. “I ken whaur ye live, mem. If I dinna get my money—”
“Oh but you will,” Marjory promised him, stepping back.
He’d lifted the reins, preparing to depart, when she suddenly thought of Gibson.
“Wait!” Marjory stepped forward and grabbed the carriage wheel to keep her balance. “Have you seen or heard of a manservant by the name of Neil Gibson? From an innkeeper perhaps? Or another coachman? Mr. Gibson is traveling alone from
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