Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [40]
“We’re aff,” Peter announced, tugging her toward the open door.
Eighteen
Children sweeten labors.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
his way, mem.” Peter Dalgliesh pulled her toward the marketplace like a horse-drawn cart, making certain her wheels did not veer left or right. “The chapmen! The chapmen!” the boy cried, stopping at the foot of Kirk Wynd, where the peddlers had their stalls. Standing like tall, vertical tents, the portable stalls were made of wood and canvas, with pegs, hooks, and narrow shelves displaying the varied wares.
Elisabeth consulted Michael’s list while his son carefully examined the wooden figures, leather balls, chapbooks, spinning tops, stone marbles, and other treasures. His father’s tally included nothing of the kind; lamb shanks, dried fish, oatmeal, and cheese were scribbled on the paper but not one child’s plaything.
Reluctantly she bent down and touched Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll buy what we must first,” she told him, “and then see how many pennies are left for a toy.” When he didn’t argue with her, Elisabeth decided he’d heard this before, a comforting thought. “Come, let’s find the meal sellers.”
Selkirk, she’d learned, held its market every Friday. Local folk and strangers alike filled the marketplace, elbowing their way about, calling out greetings, and striking bargains. Elisabeth and Peter maneuvered past the souters—the pride of the town—with their handsome men’s shoes done in polished leather and fine calfskin. Elisabeth dared not linger over their ladies’ shoes, fashioned of worsted damask and brocaded silk in rich shades of blue, green, and brown. Someday she would own a new pair of satin slippers but not when she had one shilling to her name.
Elisabeth held on to Peter as they walked, unwilling to let him dart through the crowd, chasing after the other children. She cherished the feel of his little hand in hers, though she would never say as much and embarrass him. Was this what motherhood might feel like? This enormous sense of responsibility mingled with pride and fear and joy? A chance to see the world afresh through a child’s eyes? She looked down at Peter’s bright curls, then swallowed hard. How different her life would be if she’d given Donald Kerr a son or daughter.
“Here’s the oatmeal!” Peter nudged her toward the tables piled with sacks of milled grain, well in view of the tron, where goods were weighed. “This is Mr. Watson, the miller,” the lad said, then turned to her and blushed. “I dinna ken her name, Mr. Watson, but she’s bonny.”
Elisabeth smiled at them both, not offended that Peter had already forgotten. “I am Mrs. Kerr.”
The stout miller bobbed his head. “I ken wha ye are. Miss Anne’s cousin.”
With others crowding round the tables, there was no time for small talk. Elisabeth attended to her shopping, buying small sacks of flour, oats, and barley. Cheese and butter were next, wrapped in cool, wet muslin.
Most of the sellers were polite, some were even kind, but Elisabeth also heard disparaging words muttered in passing and saw several countenances darken at her approach. Peter, too innocent to notice, proudly pulled her along the thoroughfare.
All through the marketplace one name rose above the din: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. “Sailing the high seas,” a cloth merchant marveled. “Can ye imagine such a life?” A pie seller said with a note of yearning, “Onie man wha’s seen the world carries it in his pocket.”
Women seemed more interested in the look of the man. A dairymaid said coyly, “I hear he’s braw,” then winked at Elisabeth. “And I hear he’s rich,” the lass beside her purred.
Elisabeth squeezed Peter’s hand and thought of his kind father. Michael Dalgliesh would never be rich. But as long as men needed shirts, breeches, and waistcoats, a tailor would also never be poor.
As to Lord Buchanan, Elisabeth suspected that the reports were too good