Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [152]
“There’s always a stray or two among the weeds, waiting to be yanked free.” Clasping Marjory by the hand, Elisabeth pulled her out of the upholstered chair.
“Now I feel like a carrot,” Marjory chided her. Since they had no proper spade for digging, she dropped a wooden fork into her apron pocket, then led the way down the stair, feeling rather ridiculous. Still, if it pleased Elisabeth, what harm was there?
The afternoon sky was pale gray with a thin layer of clouds stretched from east to west. Marjory did not sense rain in the air, though it felt cooler than when they’d hurried off to kirk that morning. She’d thrown a cape over her shoulders for their outing and was grateful for it now as they headed for Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.
“Not much here, I’m afraid.” Marjory treaded gently round the vegetable beds, looking for the telltale foliage: a frothy burst of tiny green leaves.
“Ah.” Elisabeth crouched down, then began tugging at a neglected carrot, grasping it with both hands. “ ’Tis a custom meant to assure a woman will have children,” she said, then smiled as an enormous carrot was unearthed. “See? Chubby as a wee bairn.”
Marjory eyed her lumpy harvest. “Is such a thing ill luck or good?”
“Very good,” Elisabeth assured her, “although children are a gift of the Lord and not of the garden.”
Now that she understood the purpose, Marjory ceased her digging. “Bess, I’m far too old to bear a child.”
“But the perfect age to help raise one someday,” her daughter-in-law insisted. “Come, see what your bit of foliage yields.”
Wanting to be agreeable, Marjory dug and yanked and dug some more until a forked root with not one but two sturdy carrots broke through the soil. They could represent Donald and Andrew, Marjory supposed. Or would she hold Elisabeth’s children when the time came?
She glanced at her daughter-in-law, bursting with health and vigor. Aye, if Elisabeth were to remarry, she might well bear a child or two, though she’d not conceived during the years she was married to Donald. Still, Marjory could not find fault with Elisabeth. Not after all the lass had done to care for her, provide for her. Nor could she blame the Almighty, who knew best in such things—nae, in all things.
Michaelmas carrots in hand, including one for Anne to present to Michael, Elisabeth planted pennies in the soil for Mrs. Thorburn’s children to discover, then walked Marjory home, chanting a rhyme that made them both laugh.
It is myself that has the carrot.
Whoever he be
that would win it from me.
“I daresay Lord Buchanan would gladly claim your carrot,” Marjory observed.
“Unless Rosalind Murray offers him one first.” Elisabeth placed their harvest on the dining room table, her smile fading. “The Murrays are on his lordship’s guest list for tomorrow night’s Michaelmas feast. I can only imagine the gown Rosalind will wear. And the jewels. And the fine perfume.”
Marjory heard the resignation in her daughter-in-law’s voice and hastened to assure her, “Lord Buchanan is not a gentleman whose head is turned by pretty clothes.”
Elisabeth lifted her cape from her shoulders. “But Rosalind is quite clever and has traveled the Continent.”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” Marjory chided her, “I’ve never met a lass more clever than you. Now suppose we get on with Michaelmas Eve and leave Michaelmas Night in God’s hands, aye?”
“Very well.” Elisabeth tied on an apron. “To our bannock, then.”
She moistened ground oatmeal with ewe’s milk, then added berries, seeds, and wild honey, and formed it into a circle. “For eternity,” she explained before beginning work on two smaller bannocks. “These are to honor the loved ones we’ve lost since Michaelmas last. Come, Marjory, and help me prepare the dough as we say their names.”
Marjory pressed her hands into the mealy mixture. “Donald,” she whispered, kneading the dough as she remembered the babe, the lad, the young man, the gentleman whom she’d loved almost more than her own husband. Her throat tightened further as she named aloud her second son. “Andrew,” she said, thinking