Edinburgh on foot. Older fellow, silver hair, with fine posture.”
The coachman dragged a hand across his rough beard. “I’ve not seen such a man on the road. Gibson, ye say?”
“Aye. He has served our family for thirty years.” She pointed to Anne’s window. “Our name is Kerr. Should you hear of him …”
“If I do, I’ll get wird to ye
whan
I’m next in Selkirk,” he said, then called out to his horses, which responded at once, their iron horseshoes striking the cobblestones.
“Godspeed!” she cried, then hastened withindoors, lest one of the kirk elders spy her in the street.
A moment later Marjory stood before the hearth, catching her breath, pleased to have done something of value that afternoon. Odd, though, to be alone in the house. Wherever had Anne and Elisabeth gone? She was too restless to read, too unsettled to pray—the two pastimes deemed suitable for the Sabbath.
Looking round, she realized Elisabeth had unpacked her few belongings. She could do the same, couldn’t she? It wasn’t truly work, like washing dishes or laundering clothes. As long as Anne wouldn’t think her presumptuous, making herself at home, it seemed a worthy task.
Marjory opened her trunk and placed two pairs of white gloves, her embroidered silk reticule, and a simple black hat on the shelf between the windows. She left her spare whalebone stays, cotton stockings, and embroidered nightgown in her trunk for modesty’s sake, then closed the lid, chagrined at how hollow it sounded. She was wearing the only gown she owned, having sold her many satin, silk, brocade, and velvet costumes in Edinburgh, desperate for guineas.
Elisabeth had set the example, selling all her gowns first. Except for the lavender one. The lass might never have an occasion to wear it in Selkirk, but Marjory was glad her daughter-in-law had chosen to keep Donald’s gift. Despite his shameful behavior, Elisabeth had loved him while he lived and honored his memory. No daughter-in-law could be more faithful.
Marjory was tucking a pair of damask shoes beneath her bed when she heard voices on the stair. Elisabeth and Anne came strolling through the door, their cheeks bright with color.
“Tea,” Anne said without preamble, reaching for clean cups from the shelf by the hearth.
Elisabeth smoothed back the wisps of hair curling round her damp brow. “Forgive us for leaving you, Marjory. We’ve been walking in the forest near the kirk. I trust you slept well.”
“And wrote a letter too,” Marjory said, rather proud of herself. “Already on its way to Tweedsford with a short list of personal items I’ve asked Mr. Laidlaw to bring to me.”
A beat of silence followed.
“Mr. Laidlaw?” Elisabeth repeated as if she’d misunderstood.
Anne put down the cups with a dull bang. “You’ve asked that man to come here? To my house?”
“I’m afraid I did.” Marjory stared at them, confused. “Mr. Laidlaw is the only person who can help me retrieve what is rightfully mine before this admiral arrives to claim my property.”
The younger women exchanged glances.
“Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.
“Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”
“Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”
Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”
“I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.
Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”
“Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”
A half hour
The coachman dragged a hand across his rough beard. “I’ve not seen such a man on the road. Gibson, ye say?”
“Aye. He has served our family for thirty years.” She pointed to Anne’s window. “Our name is Kerr. Should you hear of him …”
“If I do, I’ll get wird to ye
whan
I’m next in Selkirk,” he said, then called out to his horses, which responded at once, their iron horseshoes striking the cobblestones.
“Godspeed!” she cried, then hastened withindoors, lest one of the kirk elders spy her in the street.
A moment later Marjory stood before the hearth, catching her breath, pleased to have done something of value that afternoon. Odd, though, to be alone in the house. Wherever had Anne and Elisabeth gone? She was too restless to read, too unsettled to pray—the two pastimes deemed suitable for the Sabbath.
Looking round, she realized Elisabeth had unpacked her few belongings. She could do the same, couldn’t she? It wasn’t truly work, like washing dishes or laundering clothes. As long as Anne wouldn’t think her presumptuous, making herself at home, it seemed a worthy task.
Marjory opened her trunk and placed two pairs of white gloves, her embroidered silk reticule, and a simple black hat on the shelf between the windows. She left her spare whalebone stays, cotton stockings, and embroidered nightgown in her trunk for modesty’s sake, then closed the lid, chagrined at how hollow it sounded. She was wearing the only gown she owned, having sold her many satin, silk, brocade, and velvet costumes in Edinburgh, desperate for guineas.
Elisabeth had set the example, selling all her gowns first. Except for the lavender one. The lass might never have an occasion to wear it in Selkirk, but Marjory was glad her daughter-in-law had chosen to keep Donald’s gift. Despite his shameful behavior, Elisabeth had loved him while he lived and honored his memory. No daughter-in-law could be more faithful.
Marjory was tucking a pair of damask shoes beneath her bed when she heard voices on the stair. Elisabeth and Anne came strolling through the door, their cheeks bright with color.
“Tea,” Anne said without preamble, reaching for clean cups from the shelf by the hearth.
Elisabeth smoothed back the wisps of hair curling round her damp brow. “Forgive us for leaving you, Marjory. We’ve been walking in the forest near the kirk. I trust you slept well.”
“And wrote a letter too,” Marjory said, rather proud of herself. “Already on its way to Tweedsford with a short list of personal items I’ve asked Mr. Laidlaw to bring to me.”
A beat of silence followed.
“Mr. Laidlaw?” Elisabeth repeated as if she’d misunderstood.
Anne put down the cups with a dull bang. “You’ve asked that man to come here? To my house?”
“I’m afraid I did.” Marjory stared at them, confused. “Mr. Laidlaw is the only person who can help me retrieve what is rightfully mine before this admiral arrives to claim my property.”
The younger women exchanged glances.
“Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.
“Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”
“Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”
Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”
“I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.
Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”
“Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”
A half hour
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