Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [116]
“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