Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [33]
After setting aside the letters from her late brother, Marjory drew out the little chapbook. Three inches tall and two dozen pages long, the book was as diminutive as its mischievous hero, Tom. She remembered how alarmed Donald had become when the thumb-sized lad fell into a bowl and was accidentally cooked in a pudding. “I bought it for a penny from a chapman who came through Selkirkshire the summer Donald turned three.” Marjory held it out for Elisabeth to peruse.
“Tom Thumb, is it?” Her daughter-in-law’s smile was bittersweet. “ ’Twas the favorite story of my brother, Simon.”
“And your husband’s favorite as well.” Watching Elisabeth’s eyes grow moist as she turned the pages, Marjory thought of young Simon Ferguson dying in service to Prince Charlie at Gladsmuir and the mournful weeks that followed. “Why don’t you keep it, Bess?”
She clasped it in her hands. “Truly?”
“Aye,” Marjory said, “though I cannot part with this.” She showed them Andrew’s wooden toy soldier, the paint worn off from years of little hands marching the toy round the nursery. “A wee birthday present for Andrew, carved by Gibson.”
Saying their names in tandem brought a lump to Marjory’s throat. The darling son who’d always longed to be a soldier now lay in a Falkirk grave. And Gibson had been traveling on foot for ten days, with one shilling in his pocket and a rough leather bag strapped to his back. Though Marjory did not always voice her concerns, she thought of Gibson almost constantly, fearing for his life one moment, counting on his strength the next. Mr. Haldane was expected back from Middleton Inn today. She would visit the manse as early as she dared and beg the reverend for news.
Marjory slipped the toy soldier in her pocket, reminding herself Gibson was not alone. The LORD will preserve him, and keep him alive.
Still holding Donald’s chapbook, Elisabeth prompted her, “What else did Mr. Laidlaw bring you?”
Marjory lifted out her miniature of Tweedsford, embarrassed to let them see it. “I was a new bride with an indulgent husband,” she said with a shrug. “He ordered sticks of plumbago and sheets of fine vellum from a stationer in Edinburgh, and I pretended to be an artist.”
Anne examined the framed drawing, no larger than a man’s palm. “ ’Tis the very likeness of your old home, with four bays across the front.”
Marjory was not convinced. “Someday when I feel especially brave, we’ll all walk to the estate, and you’ll realize what a poor imitation this is.”
“I would love to see Tweedsford,” Elisabeth admitted.
Marjory was already sorry she’d mentioned the idea. Who knew when she’d be strong enough to face all those memories? It might be months. It might be never.
Thrusting her hand into the cloth sack, she found the last item. “This belonged to Lord John.” Marjory held out his splendid magnifying glass, the ivory handle intricately carved, the circular glass edged in silver. She could still picture him with a delicate wildflower in one hand, his glass in the other, marveling at the tiny petals and leaves. Her husband had loved their country property and all the treasures it contained. Alas, she’d insisted Lord John move their family to fashionable Edinburgh, turning her back on everyone and everything they knew.
Some regrets even time could not erase.
Anne patently admired the magnifying glass, then reached for a sample of her lace. “Look, Cousin.” She held her work beneath the round lens. “Now you can see it properly. I confess the stitches are so tiny my head begins to ache after a few hours.”
Marjory studied Anne’s delicate needlepoint lace with its thousands of buttonhole stitches and knew at once what must be done. “Would my husband’s magnifying glass be of some use to you?”
With a slight gasp Anne lifted it from her hands. “You cannot imagine how much.”
“Then it is yours,” Marjory said