Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [42]
Michael shrugged, his heightened color having eased. “Feel free to borrow Peter whanever it suits ye. ’Tis guid for him to be., weel, to spend time …”
“With a woman,” she finished for him. When Michael nodded, she thought to spare him any further embarrassment and so eased toward the door. “Speaking of women, my mother-in-law will be wondering what’s kept me so long.”
Michael’s exaggerated frown was worthy of the stage. “Must ye leave so soon?”
“I am behind on my sewing,” she reminded him, “and you have work to do.”
“Aye, aye,” he said, sending her on her way.
When she stepped into School Close, Elisabeth decided to plant her ha’pence in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. She hastened across Kirk Wynd and entered the narrow passageway between the manse and Mrs. Thorburn’s house. When she reached the kitchen garden in the rear, Elisabeth chose a small head of cabbage, some ripe lettuce, and a few stems of sage, then laid her coins on the ground. Carefully balancing everything, she gathered up her market fare and started for home, her arms full but her pockets empty.
The joy of her outing with Peter had begun to fade into a sobering reality. She could not hope to provide sufficient food for their household on a few shillings a week. Nor could she add to her earnings by laboring with Michael in his shop, much as he needed her help. A widower and a young widow alone for hours at a time? The gossips would never cease their blethering.
Earlier that morning Michael Dalgliesh had hinted at finding a partner. Elisabeth glanced at the heavens. Does he mean a tailor, Lord? Or does he mean a wife?
She tripped over a large stone propped against the outer wall of the house, losing her footing for a moment. Righting herself, she wriggled her toe to be sure it wasn’t broken, then shook her head. Mind your step, Bess. However trustworthy the tailor might seem, and however dear his son, she could not—nae, would not—risk her heart again. Especially if she might break Anne’s heart in the bargain.
Nineteen
Poverty is the test of civility
and the touchstone of friendship.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
e’ve rain on the way.” Marjory glanced at the windows, noting the thick clouds looming over the empty marketplace on a cool Saturday morning. “The sooner you’re out the door, Gibson, the better.”
“Aye, mem.”
He stood patiently while she brushed the lint from his clothes, borrowed from their neighbor, Mr. Tait. Though the sleeves were too short and the breeches too snug, Gibson certainly looked more presentable than when he’d arrived on Thursday.
Two nights’ sleep had brightened his eyes, and meat and ale had softened the sharp contours of his face. A fresh shave with a razor provided by their landlord and neighbor, Walter Halliwell, had also done wonders. “Should ye be wanting a periwig, ye ken whaur to find me,” the wigmaker had said affably. Gibson had never worn a wig in his life, but Marjory had thanked Mr. Halliwell nonetheless.
At his own insistence Gibson had slept each night rolled up in a plaid, his body pressed against the bottom seam of the door. “To keep ye safe,” he’d said. Gibson was still worried about the British dragoons, especially after Marjory had described their unfortunate encounter on the road to Selkirk. “Bess and I put them in their place,” she’d assured him, trying not to sound too prideful.
Smoothing the brush along his sleeve, Marjory reminded him, “I sent a note ahead to Reverend Brown, who’ll be expecting you at noon. Apprise him of your loyalty to the Kerr family—”
“Aye, mem. I ken what must be said.” Gibson’s voice was gentle but firm. “Whan Reverend Brown came to the pulpit in ’twenty-six, I’d already been a member o’ the kirk for forty years. I’ve nae fear o’ the man, Leddy Kerr.”
His confidence pleased her. “I’m beginning to think you’re not afraid of anything.”
“ ’Tis not true.” He looked at her askance. “I’ve a healthy fear o’ ye.”
Marjory shook her head, certain he did not mean it. “You have my written character, should the reverend need it. Though I fear my name no longer carries much weight.”
Anne, bent