Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [9]
Hearing voices on the stair, Marjory rose with a guilty start, then watched Anne and Elisabeth struggle through the door, bearing a heavy trunk between them. “You might put it here,” Marjory suggested, uncertain how else to assist them.
They dutifully placed the trunk near the foot of Anne’s bed and left to fetch the last one, not saying a word.
Like servants, Marjory thought glumly.
Her heart skipped a beat. Gibson. How had she forgotten him so quickly?
Appalled, Marjory hastened to the window as if by some miracle she might spot his balding head fringed in silver. Had the rain delayed him? An injury? Illness? Perhaps he’d encountered highwaymen on a lonely road. Or worse, dragoons. Forty miles stretched between Milne Square and Halliwell’s Close. Anything might have happened.
By the time the others returned, Marjory was pacing the floor. “However shall we find Gibson?”
“I am worried as well,” Elisabeth admitted, heading for the washstand by Anne’s bed.
Only then did Marjory notice their faces were red with exertion and their hands soiled.
“We’ll consider your manservant shortly.” Anne brushed past her. “First, I must attend to our supper. Cousin Marjory, if you might set the table.” She gestured toward a low shelf, which held an assortment of trenchers, knot bowls, and carved cups.
Marjory stared at the woodenware, carved in the crudest design. The spoons and forks were gray from years of use, and some of the plates were badly cracked along the grain. This was her future, then. No pewter plates, no crystal goblets, no beeswax tapers gleaming from a polished mahogany sideboard.
Anne called across the room, “Something wrong, Cousin?”
“Nae,” Marjory said quickly. She dared not refuse to help, however menial the task. Was she not an interloper of the worst kind? A penniless relation begging for bread with a widowed daughter-in-law in tow and a manservant gone astray among the hills.
Marjory reached for a cluster of wooden utensils, her hands shaking. How am I to manage, Lord? How are we to live like this?
Five
The night is dark,
and I am far from home;
lead Thou me on!
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN
lisabeth had forgotten the odd sensation of a wooden spoon in her mouth. Once the heat and moisture from a steaming bowl of broth made the wood swell, it felt like a second tongue. She hastily put the spoon down, fearing she might retch.
“Is the broth not seasoned to your liking?” Anne asked. “Too much wild thyme, perhaps.”
“ ’Tis very flavorful,” Elisabeth said, though she edged the bowl of watery broth away from her. “I confess I am more tired than hungry.” Not precisely true. She was tired and hungry, but she could not bear to offend their cousin.
Anne turned to Marjory, a single candle on the table illuminating the younger woman’s sharp features. “This manservant of yours. He’s resourceful?”
“Aye, and brave,” Marjory answered, “though not in perfect health. Last winter he suffered from a fever and then a lingering cough.”
Elisabeth vividly recalled Marjory assessing Gibson’s fever—placing her hand on his brow, on his cheek, on his chest—her demeanor uncommonly tender, her hazel eyes filled with warm regard for the man who’d so faithfully served their family.
“Cousin,” Anne said firmly, “you must prepare yourself for the worst. An older servant, still recovering from an illness, traveling on foot in this chilly, rainy weather? Why, the man may never reach Selkirk.”
Marjory looked stricken. “Do not say such a thing! I’ve known Neil Gibson the whole of my married life and all through my widowhood as well.”
Elisabeth reached for her hand. “I’ve no doubt Gibson will arrive in a day or two or send word with a passing carriage.”
Marjory squeezed her fingers in response, saying nothing more.
When Anne stood and began gathering their woodenware, Elisabeth leaped up to help her, needing a distraction, wanting to be useful. The two knelt by the fire and washed the dishes with hot water and