Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [32]
“I must away,” she told Michael, stepping toward the door. “Perhaps on my next visit I’ll have the pleasure of meeting your son.”
“He’d like that,” Michael agreed.
“Tomorrow eve, then.” Elisabeth bade him farewell and made haste for Halliwell’s Close, uncertain of the time. The kirk bell did not ring every hour during the week, only at noon and six o’ the clock. Her mother-in-law’s demanding nature had eased considerably, but Marjory was still particular about a few things. Supper at eight was one of them.
Elisabeth arrived without a moment to spare. The table was set, Anne was seated, and Marjory was ladling her fragrant soup into wooden bowls, carved from knobby burls. Since the grain was whorled rather than straight, the bowls were less likely to crack. Elisabeth helped her serve, then took her place at table next to Marjory, who spoke a brief grace over their meal.
Supper was meager fare—one bowl of soup for each of them and a triangle cut from the large, round bannock—but Elisabeth had silver in her pocket. They would have meat on the morrow and send out the month of April with a flourish. “What shall it be, ladies?” she asked, holding up her coin. “Fish, flesh, or fowl?”
“The cook chooses,” Anne told her.
“If the flesher might have a pullet and a pound of veal,” Marjory said, “I recall a fine dish Helen Edgar oft served. Though I’ll need your help, Elisabeth.”
“ ’Tis yours,” she said, honored to be asked. Growing up as a cottager, Elisabeth had learned a great deal about cooking from sheer necessity. But this was an entirely new venture for her mother-in-law.
Later, when they stood to clear the table, Marjory said to her, “Reverend Brown shared a Highland proverb with me today, one I’d not heard. ‘Change is refreshing.’ ”
The words warmed Elisabeth’s heart. “My father loved that one.”
“Did he?” Marjory paused, dishes in hand, to look at her. “Bess, what does it sound like in Gaelic?”
Her request stole Elisabeth’s breath. Never in their years together at Milne Square had her mother-in-law asked her to speak in her native Highland tongue. In truth, Marjory had always seemed offended when she overheard Gaelic spoken in the street.
Now she was willing, even eager, to hear it. Another miracle.
Elisabeth smiled at her and said, “Is ùrachadh atharrachadh. Change is refreshing, Marjory.” And you are living proof.
Fourteen
What is so sweet and dear
As a prosperous morn in May?
SIR WILLIAM WATSON
hen the first rays of the sun stirred Marjory from her sleep on Thursday, the bedframe groaned at the precise same moment she did. Chagrined, she sat up and rubbed her stiff neck, then her aching knees, then her sore back. Surely there was some remedy for growing older. A sprinkle of morning dew on May Day was said to bring health and happiness for the year ahead. If the dew might also make her more youthful, she would bathe in it from head to toe. Aye, and drink it as well.
On a whim Marjory tiptoed to the casement window and eased it open, enough to slip out her hand and touch the wet sill. She patted her forehead and cheeks with her fingertips, then swiftly closed the window, lest the cool air wake the others. Besides, however would she explain herself? A Christian widow dousing her skin in the Beltane dew like pagans of old. Reverend Brown would have something to say about that. With a rueful smile, Marjory dried her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, reminding herself that come August she’d turn nine-and-forty. Not even the rite of May could make her young again.
Fresh coals on the grate brought a small pot of water to boil. Just as Helen Edgar had done many mornings, Marjory added oatmeal in a thin stream with her left hand while stirring sunwise with her right, using a wooden stick Helen called a spurtle. After a bit Marjory swung the pot away from the heat to let the porridge simmer, then quietly dressed herself.
With May Day in mind, she took extra care with her toilette, styling her hair and using a splash of Anne’s rosewater. The others were soon awake and dressed,