Elisabeth and Marjory followed her lead, grateful for the light fabric of their gowns on so warm a day. The house was tidied and the table scrubbed before Michael came knocking at ten o’ the clock.
“Leuk!” Peter cried, holding up a wooden pinwheel that spun round while he circled the room as fast as his little legs would carry him.
“Easy noo.” Michael scooped up the boy and tucked him under his arm. “ ’Tis meant for a hill, lad. Not for a hoose.”
Undaunted, Peter held out his new toy so the Kerr women could inspect it. “ ’Tis from the chapman on the corner,” he said with pride.
Elisabeth dutifully looked it over, admiring the wooden stick, the tiny pin, and the curls of stout paper that made it whirl. “If you carry this in one hand, Peter, I wonder if I might hold the other?”
His little features quickly knitted into a frown. “But what about Annie? Wha’ll hold her hand?”
Michael parked him on his feet. “I think I can manage it, lad.” He took Anne’s hand in his to prove it.
“I suppose I’ll hold no one’s hand,” Marjory said with a dramatic sniff.
Elisabeth knew better. On the first day of the fair, Gibson would have the morning free. If he did not appear on their threshold before they left, Marjory would beat a path to the manse and coax him out. Elisabeth was not at all surprised a few minutes later when they walked to the end of Halliwell’s Close and found Gibson heading in their direction.
“ ’Tis every couple for themselves,” Anne declared, as they were swept into the throng.
Elisabeth bent down to be certain Peter heard her clearly. “Promise you will not let go of my hand?”
“I’ll be guid!” he said, nodding emphatically, then pulled her toward the chapmen’s stalls for another look at the toys.
Elisabeth had expected Saint Lawrence Fair to be a larger version of their market day. But it was far more than that. Booths stretched down every street, including Back Row, with bright flags advertising the wares sold at each stall. Woolen and linen cloth in stacks taller than even Lord Jack beckoned for Elisabeth’s silver shillings. But she’d not part with them easily with three mouths to feed and rent to help pay. Saint Andrew’s Day, her last in the admiral’s employ, had seemed a long way off in May. Not so now.
The meal sellers came next, with ground oats, barley, and wheat. She’d planned to do some shopping but hadn’t thought to bring a basket. When she turned toward the house and considered carrying back each purchase, Elisabeth realized how foolish that would be. She could not see the mouth of the close, let alone reach it without weaving through the masses. On the morrow she would shop. Today she and Peter would play.
“What do you want to see next?” she asked him when he finally tired of the chapmen’s stalls with their many temptations.
“Swords!” he exclaimed at once, pulling her along Cross Gait, holding up his pinwheel like a standard bearer marching into battle.
Elisabeth followed him, hanging on to his hand as tightly as she could without crushing his little fingers. At the weaponry stall his eyes grew round at the basket-hilted swords, the studded targes, and the slender dirks. She was glad his hands were occupied, lest he touch one of the sharp blades and cut himself. “Might we look at the saddlery next?” she asked, deciding leather was a safer choice than steel.
His interest in saddles and harnesses quickly waned until she reminded him that such things were used on horses. “And they have those for sale here too.”
“Och! Can we leuk?”
Down Water Row they went, the street almost unrecognizable with so many merchants selling their goods. At Shaw’s Close the wooden stalls gave way to horses, cattle, and sheep with all the neighing, lowing, and bleating a boy could hope for. “Watch where you step,” Elisabeth warned him, clutching her skirts in one hand.
Peter touched each animal that would let him near, marveling at the velvety sleekness of the horses, the large eyes blinking at him as he studied the cows, the thick, off-white wool of the sheep.
“They’re Cheviots,” Elisabeth told him, recognizing their broad, white faces. “A fine breed for weaving.”
The barrel-chested seller lifted his eyebrows appreciatively. “You know something of sheep breeding, madam?”
“My father was a weaver,” Elisabeth explained, “and very particular about his wool.”
“The fleece of a Cheviot is superior for plaids,” he agreed, “though the Dartmoor and Leicester breeds have much to recommend them.”
As he waxed on about the merits of one breed compared to another, Elisabeth nodded politely, all the while looking for a graceful means of escape. Only then did she realize Peter’s hand was no longer in hers. She quickly spun round. “Peter?”
Though a few heads turned, none of them belonged to a little red-haired boy.
“Peter?” She cried louder this time, trying to lift her voice above the din. “Peter Dalgliesh!”
But his cheerful little voice did not respond.
Her heart beginning to pound, Elisabeth started toward the East Port, thinking he might have been drawn to the ringing anvils and glowing forges farther down Water Row. She ignored all the adults and looked only at the children. But there were so many of them! “Red hair, red hair,” she reminded herself under her breath, trying not to panic, trying not to imagine the worst.
She kept calling his name, pushing her way through the crowd. When she reached the fiery hot forges, Elisabeth was certain she’d guessed wrongly. He must have gone back toward the marketplace. Toward the fleshers with their lethal knives. Toward the shoemakers with their sharp awls. Toward the swords and the dirks that he’d desperately wanted to touch.
“Peter!” She was screaming now, not caring what people thought of her. Caring only about a little boy who’d slipped from her grasp. “Peter!”
Forty-Nine
Never think that God’s delays
are God’s denials.
GEORGES-LOUIS LECLERC, COMTE DE BUFFON
lease, Lord. Please help me find him.
Elisabeth retraced her steps, struggling to catch her breath. “Peter Dalgliesh!” she cried, knowing the lad would never hear her, no matter how loudly she called his name. The marketplace was too noisy, too congested. In the sea of faces, she saw only strangers.
“Peter, where are you?” she moaned, bending down, fixing her gaze a few feet above the ground, desperately looking for a redheaded boy in a muslin shirt and brown waistcoat. All she could think about was how frightened he must be. Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry.
She felt physically ill, her stomach in knots. Had he returned to the sheep market? Run down Shaw’s Close, curious what he might find in the narrow passageway? Or had a stranger beckoned him to follow?
When she heard a child crying, Elisabeth elbowed her way through the milling crowd, more concerned with haste than politeness. “Peter? Peter, is that you?” A moment later she reached the sobbing lad. He was the same age and size, but, alas, he was not Peter.
His mother, holding him firmly by the hand, jutted out her chin. “Have ye lost yer bairn?”
“He’s run off,” Elisabeth confessed. “Perhaps you’ve seen him? Bright red hair and blue eyes.”
“Och! Ye’ll find plenty o’ lads here what fits that.”
“Aye,” Elisabeth said, fighting tears.
“Noo, lass, dinna greet.” Compassion softened the woman’s features. “He’ll not have gane far. And he’ll be leuking for ye as weel. A bairn aye finds its mither.”
But I am not his mother. Jenny would never have let go.
Heartsick, Elisabeth pressed on, searching up and down Water Row. Whenever she saw a familiar face from the neighborhood, she hurried to the person’s side and asked the same frantic question. “Have you seen little Peter Dalgliesh?”
The answer was always the same: “Nae, Mrs. Kerr.”
Distraught, she stood near a display of fleeces and skins and bowed her head, pleading for divine intervention. Help me, Lord. P
lease. No wonder the Almighty had never entrusted her with a child of her own. How could she have been so careless? How could she have let him slip away?
Then from high above her, a small, excited voice crowed, “I found her!”
Elisabeth’s head lifted as quickly as her spirits. “Peter?”
Here he came, riding on his father’s shoulders, his legs draped round the tailor’s neck, his wee hands clutching Michael’s larger ones.
She hurried up to them, awash with relief. “Wherever have you been, lad?”
“Whaur have ye been is mair like it,” Michael admonished her, giving his son a playful bounce. “Peter spied Annie and me in the crowd, ran o’er to see us, then turned back and couldna find ye. Och, he felt terrible. Made me carry him about ’til we spotted ye. And so we have.”
“Oh, so I was the one who was lost.” Elisabeth reached up and patted the lad’s chubby leg. “I’m sorry I gave you a scare, Peter.”
“Next time I’ll not let ye go,” the boy promised.
Anne tapped the brim of Elisabeth’s straw bonnet. “Tall as you are, Bess, we could add a peacock feather to your hat and never lose sight of you.”
“A fine idea,” she agreed, though the way Anne and Michael had locked gazes, keeping an eye on her was clearly the last thing on their minds. “Suppose Peter and I resume our walk,” Elisabeth offered, “and let the two of you enjoy the fair.”
“Nae,” Anne said abruptly, stepping away from Michael’s side. “I would take a turn round the marketplace with you, Bess, if you’ll not mind.” She claimed Elisabeth’s arm, then told Michael, “Kindly meet us at the mercat cross in a quarter hour.”
“Verra weel, Annie.” If his feelings were hurt, Michael didn’t show it as he strolled off with Peter riding high above the crowd.
The women, meanwhile, started toward the souters’ market stalls, filled with rows of shoes in various sizes, left and right shaped just the same. Elisabeth said playfully, “Is it leather or brocade you’re wanting, Cousin?”
“You know very well what I want,” Anne said, drawing closer, lest the two be jostled apart and their conversation interrupted. “A future with the man I love.”
Elisabeth saw at once how serious she was and lost the teasing note in her voice. “Has Michael broached the subject?”
Anne shrugged. “He’s confessed his affection for me. But the word marriage has yet to fall from his lips.”
Elisabeth studied the faint lines along her cousin’s brow, the hint of sadness in her eyes. “Are you afraid it never will?”
Anne looked up. “Aye. He seems content to simply court me, but we’re both too old for that.” As Peter and his father faded from view, Anne scuffed her toe across the cobblestones, her expression troubled. “This I know: Peter needs a mother. And if I hope to bear a child of my own, I cannot wait much longer. Before year’s end I’ll be seven-and-thirty.”
Elisabeth said without hesitation, “Then you must propose to Michael.”
“Bess!” A flush of color filled her cheeks. “I could never do such a thing.”
“Aye, you could.” She stepped closer so no one might overhear them. “He loves you, Annie. A wee nudge and the man will fall like Peter’s tower of wooden blocks.”
Her cousin began to wring her hands. “ ’Tis very bold.”
“Indeed.” Elisabeth tipped her head. “Do you honestly think he’ll refuse you?”
“Nae.” Anne ceased her fidgeting at once. “I think he might be …”
“Relieved,” Elisabeth said for her, and they both laughed. “Michael is waiting for you at the mercat cross. A perfect place to announce your intentions. If not to the whole town, at least to your beloved.”
Her face filled with resolve, Anne pulled her along. “Come with me so I do not lose my nerve.”
Two women on a mission, they ducked round pie sellers, fishwives, street hawkers, and tinkers, their gazes fixed on the upraised pillar at the center of the marketplace, where Michael stood waiting for them, scanning the crowd. As her cousin’s footsteps quickened, so did Elisabeth’s heart. Say yes, Michael. Say yes!
The moment Michael lowered Peter to the ground, the boy ran into Anne’s open arms. “I saw ye from a lang way aff!” he boasted.
“I’ve had my eye on you as well,” Anne murmured, lifting him into her embrace, his little legs wrapped round her waist, his arms circling her neck.
Elisabeth smiled down at them, tears stinging her eyes. Dear, dear Peter.
“So.” Michael folded his arms across his chest. “If ye dinna mind me asking, what have the two o’ ye been about?”
Anne shifted Peter onto her hip, then looked up, her eyes clear, her countenance an open book. “Sir, have you plans for the last day of August?”
“The what?” Michael’s exaggerated frown made them all laugh. “D’ye think I carry a calendar on my person, lass?”
“ ’Tis three weeks hence,” she told him. “Enough time to have the banns read each Sabbath and plan a wee wedding at the kirk.”
His ruddy skin darkened. “And wha micht be getting married?”
She slowly lowered Peter to the ground. “A couple that deserves a bit of happiness.”
His voice was low. “What are ye saying, Annie?”
“I am saying I love you, Michael Dalgliesh.” She lifted her face to his, her hands still resting on Peter’s shoulders. “And I want to be your wife.”
Elisabeth knew she should turn her attention to the mercat cross, the blue summer sky, the bustling crowd—anything to give the couple a moment’s privacy. But she could not tear her gaze away from the tender scene before her as a broad grin stretched across Michael’s bright, freckled face.
“Then I’d best marry ye,” he said, “for ye ken I luve ye, Annie Kerr.” He bent down and kissed her right there in the marketplace while Peter stood between them, looking up, his eyes filled with wonder.
“Will Annie be my mither?” the lad asked, tugging on his father’s sleeve.
“Aye, she will,” Michael said firmly, kissing her once more. “And there’ll be no calling her Annie from noo on.”
Anne smoothed Peter’s hair, her hand visibly shaking. “Are you certain of this?”
Michael nodded emphatically. “ ’Tis what Jenny would want. And what I want.”
Anne glanced at Elisabeth, then said, “You’re not offended? That I did the asking?”
“Nae, lass.” Michael flung his arm round her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Honored is what I am.” He eyed Elisabeth. “I’ll jalouse yer cousin is the one wha gave ye the courage.”
“Perhaps,” Anne agreed, “but I had to say the words.”
“So ye did, lass.” He brushed a kiss across the top of her head and winked at Elisabeth. “So ye did.”
Fifty
Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart
Could have recovered greenness?
GEORGE HERBERT
arjory tarried outside Anne’s door in Halliwell’s Close, grateful for the cool respite from the day’s heat and even more pleased to have Gibson’s warm hand in hers, discreetly hidden from view. After a few hours she’d had quite enough of the fair, though she never tired of having Gibson by her side.
“You will join us for supper?” she asked him.
“Nae,” Gibson said blithely, “for I’ve anither widow keen for my company this eve.”
She arched her brows, going along with his ploy. “And who might that be?”
“Mrs. Scott.” Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “Mind, the leddy is a bit lang in the tooth.”
Marjory laughed, knowing full well that Isobel Scott was five-and-eighty. “She is a good friend,” she reminded him, “and old enough to be your mother.”
He squeezed her hand. “Then I’ll settle for a leddy young enough to be my—”
“Hush.” She stemmed his words with a touch of her gloved finger. “Less than a dozen years separate us. Hardly worth mentioning.”
; Gibson smiled down at her. “If ye say so, Leddy Kerr.”
Call me Marjory. She looked away, flustered. Whatever was she thinking? Neil Gibson had never, in all their years together, addressed her by her Christian name.
“Cousin?” Anne suddenly appeared at the mouth of the close, clasping Michael Dalgliesh’s hand. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere!” The couple hurried toward them, Elisabeth following with Peter in tow.
“And here we are.” Marjory quickly released Gibson’s hand with a parting squeeze.
Her face radiant, Anne pushed open the door. “Come inside, for we’ve much to tell you.” Minutes later the six of them were seated round the small house, the noise of the fair muted by doors and windows firmly latched.
Anne spilled out her news like fresh milk from a pail. “Michael and I are to be married on the last of August.”
Marjory could not mask her surprise. “So soon?”
Anne laughed, slipping her hand through the crook in Michael’s arm. “We’ve known each other since we were Peter’s age. I see no need to wait now that we’re.” She looked up at him, her eyes shining with confidence. “Now that we’re certain.”
Marjory eyed the betrothed couple, sorting through her mixed emotions. She was happy for them, of course. Anne would make a fine tradesman’s wife. But she’d sorely miss their fair-haired cousin, especially with Elisabeth off to Bell Hill from dawn until dusk each day. And however would she and Elisabeth handle the rent, let alone furnish the house, once Anne claimed all her possessions?
Her conscience pricked her, sharp as a pin. You’re being selfish, Marjory. And not wholly honest.
Marjory looked at Gibson, seated on a battered wooden chair, and admitted the truth, if only to herself. I am jealous, dear Cousin Anne. For you are free to marry whom you choose.
“What is it, Marjory?” Anne knelt beside her, concern knitting her brow. “Are you displeased?”
Marjory clasped her cousin’s small hands, vowing to think only of Anne’s happiness. “I could not be more delighted,” she assured her, hoping her words rang true. “Tell me what you have in mind for the wedding.”
Mine Is the Night Page 27
