Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [89]
When Jack frowned, perplexed, Sir John was quick to say, “Tradition, milord. You’ll hear that many times this day.”
They cantered on to Linglie Glen, where the men paused to check their horses’ girths and enjoy a wee drink of water or a sip of whisky or both—the first stop of many, Jack soon discovered. The ancient northern route covered fourteen miles with only a series of natural markers to indicate the perimeter of the North Common. Crests of hills, lines of hedges, clumps of woods, meandering streams, even solitary trees served the purpose along with the occasional march stone planted amid the wild, open country. With so many riders, Jack had only to fall in step while he took in the splendid scenery his father had once described.
They were climbing now, a long pull toward a summit where three immense cairns stood guard over the Borderland. “The Three Brethren,” Sir John told him. “ ’Tis tradition to add a stone to each pile.”
From this vantage point Jack could see for miles in every direction. The Eildon Hills, a cluster of three peaks, overlooked the Tweed Valley, with the Moorfoots to the north and the Lammermuirs to the northeast. When his father, who’d never lost his Scottish burr, had spoken the names aloud, they’d rolled off his tongue like music.
“There’s Philiphaugh.” Sir John pointed southward. “On the other side of Harehead Hill.”
Jack nodded, having been to the Murray estate on several occasions. During his first visit Lady Murray had insisted, “You must hear Rosalind play the pianoforte.” Then on his second the young lady was urged to converse in French, German, and Italian, all of which she managed easily. By the third visit Sir John was dropping hints of a sizable dowry. “But only for a gentleman truly worthy of her.”
Jack had not lived forty years without learning something of the world. They wanted his title, they wanted his money, and they wanted their daughter in his marriage bed.
His needs were more modest: a wife and children. Still, Rosalind Murray would make a bonny bride, and her mother had borne six children, which boded well.
Sir John turned to him now, smiling broadly, the light in his eyes more avarice than affection. “Rosalind hoped you would dine with us after the Riding.”
Jack said nothing, recalling another invitation. Might you join us for dinner? He’d made no promises to Elisabeth Kerr, and they’d not spoken of it all week. No one would fault him for preferring a fine meal at a wealthy man’s table.
When thou makest a feast, call the poor. Not merely his conscience, but the Lord’s own words prodded him.
Jack finally said, “I may have … other plans, Sir John.”
The sheriff frowned. “Lady Murray will be sorely vexed if I do not bring you home with me.”
“I’ll know by the time we reach the marketplace,” Jack told him, stalling for time as he started back downhill, following the others. With the sun well overhead, Jack wished for a lighter coat. And no hat. And no periwig. But the other men had also dressed for the occasion, so at least he had company.
At Dunsdale, not far north of town, the Common Riding party was met by young men on horseback eager to race their steeds, with a goodly number of spectators prepared to do their part. Jack let his horse graze in the rich pasture while he watched men half his age race for nothing more than a kiss from a blushing lass. Why had he not married when he was a young lieutenant, when life was less complicated and a lady’s hand easily won?
An hour later, when they’d had their fill of racing, both walkers and riders headed for the mercat cross for the Casting of Colors. “ ’Tis the highlight of the event,” Sir John assured him as the townsfolk greeted the riding party at the East Port.
Stable lads at the edge of the crowd took the horses so the riders could move to the very center of things, where a broad wooden platform had been erected. A hush fell over the gathering as, one by one, craft