Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [41]
By the time Elisabeth and Peter had given their custom to the flesher on the far side of the tolbooth, their shillings were reduced to pennies, and the basket was growing heavy on her arm.
“Noo may I have a toy?” Peter asked, his tone plaintive, his expression more so.
She felt her pocket. Michael’s money was all spent, but she had a few copper ha’pence of her own left. “See if you can find something for a penny or two.”
He slipped from her grasp and dashed straight for the chapmen’s stalls. By the time she caught up with him, Peter was on his knees, breathlessly examining a soft leather pouch containing a dozen marbles made of polished stones.
The black-haired chapman hovering over Peter was beaming. “ ’Tis a fine set,” he told the lad. “If ye have eight pence, ’tis yers.”
Peter slowly put them back.
“What d’ye think o’ these?” The chapman poured out a handful of inferior clay marbles from a rough linen sack. “Only four pence, lad.”
This time Peter looked up at her with a hope-filled expression.
Much as she hated doing so, Elisabeth shook her head. “Not today, I’m afraid. Is there something else you want?”
Peter stood. “Nae, mem,” he said in a small voice.
Aching for him, Elisabeth took his hand and started toward Kirk Wynd. “I am sorry, Peter. Maybe something could be arranged for your birthday.”
He brightened at that. “ ’Tis in February.”
“Such a long time to wait,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “My birthday is in less than a fortnight. Do you suppose we could exchange them?”
Peter was not fond of the idea. “My faither might forget to gie me a praisent.”
Elisabeth was quite certain that would never happen and told Peter so as they turned down School Close.
When they walked into the shop, Michael was waiting on a customer. She quietly moved toward the stair, thinking to carry up their purchases, but Peter was his father’s son and swiftly made his presence known.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Mitchelhill?” the lad exclaimed, then pointed to the man’s hands, stained the same color as his chestnut brown hair. “He’s a tanner.”
With a wry smile, the man splayed his fingers. “I canna deny it.”
Michael motioned Elisabeth closer. “Here’s one o’ the men ye’ve been sewing for, Mrs. Kerr.” He patted the stack of shirts on the counter. “And a bonny seamstress ye are.”
When she stepped into the candlelight, Mr. Mitchellhill did not hide his admiration. “Aye, verra bonny.” He winked, then tossed two guineas on the counter and quit the shop, tipping his hat to her on the way out.
A troubled look crossed Michael’s face. “He didna mean to offend ye.”
“Truly, he didn’t,” she assured Michael, placing the market basket on the counter.
He quickly added, “What I meant was, yer sewing is bonny.”
“I see.” Now she was amused.
“Och!” he stammered, his skin almost matching his bright red hair. “But ye’re bonny too, Mrs. Kerr. As loosome as they come.”
“No need to explain yourself,” she assured him, then lifted out her butter, flour, and barley from the basket. She turned her attention to Peter, smiling down at him. “What a fine morn we had.”
He grinned back. “Aye, we did.”
Elisabeth longed to touch his wee button of a nose or brush aside the loose curls from his small brow. “Shall I see you on the morrow, Peter, when I bring another shirt?”
The boy nodded with his entire body.
Michael laughed. “Weel, young Peter, ye’ve found a guid freen in Mrs. Kerr. Noo up the stair ye go, and take our oatmeal and such with ye.”
Peter did his father’s bidding without complaint, carrying the heavy basket up one stair step at a time. Plunk, step. Plunk, step.
Only when he disappeared from sight could Elisabeth finally tear her gaze away from the child and turn to his father. “He is the dearest of lads.” Her throat tightened round the words. “Thank you for sharing him with me.