Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [113]
“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