Mine Is the Night (16 page)

Gibson lifted the comb from Anne’s open palm. “I ken a silversmith wha can make it shine.” He slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket. “If ’twould not be too bold, I’d like to make the young Leddy Kerr a praisent. I’ve an auld freen in Selkirk, a carpenter wha has a few scraps o’ wood he might part with.”

Marjory knew at once what would delight Elisabeth most. “Could you fashion a tambour frame for her embroidery? The dragoons broke her mahogany tambour into pieces and tossed it into the fire.”

“Weel I remember,” Gibson said darkly. “But, aye, ’tis a guid plan.”

At a loss for what she might contribute, Marjory scanned the room, hoping for inspiration. Her gaze landed on the hearth and the remnants of their
dinner. “I suppose I could cook something for her, though it is hardly a gift—”

“On the contrary,” Anne said, her eyes alight. “ ’Twill be the perfect gift, if you’ll not mind cooking for … say, three dozen friends and neighbors.”

“Three dozen? However could we afford the food?” Marjory asked.

Gibson smiled and produced four shillings. “ ’Tis the balance o’ my wages for this term. Ye paid me yerself, Leddy Kerr, on the eleventh o’ November.”

Marjory stared at the coins, barely recalling their last Martinmas in Edinburgh. “But that’s your silver. Newly snipped from the lining of your waistcoat, I’ll wager.”

“I’ve nae need o’ them.” He pressed the shillings into her hand. “Reverend Brown will see to my meat and drink.”

Marjory blinked back tears as Gibson folded her fingers round the silver, then wrapped his hands round hers. Though his fingers were callused, they were warm. So very warm.

He winked at her. “Noo ye can have a
foy
worthy o’ the lass wha brought ye hame.”

ou are certain of this, Peter?” Elisabeth eyed his scuffed brown shoes, which looked rather too tight, then pulled the door shut behind her. “ ’Tis a long walk to Bell Hill.”

“Not for me,” Peter said, towing her along Halliwell’s Close, his little hand tightly grasping her fingers. “Besides, my faither willna mind if we’re
gane
for a lang time.”

“I’ll not mind either,” she confessed, matching his short but determined stride. She’d been working in the house all day without a word from Marjory or Anne about her birthday. A gift was not expected—who could afford even the smallest token?—but she’d have welcomed their good wishes. Perhaps they’d forgotten. Or perhaps they were being kind, knowing how she dreaded turning five-and-twenty.

Now that the momentous day had arrived, Elisabeth was relieved to discover she felt no different. A stroll with Peter Dalgliesh was just the thing, with no need of a walking stick to keep her balance or spectacles to find her way. At least not this year.

When they emerged into the marketplace, her mood lifted even higher. After days of endless rain and mist, fine weather had returned to the Borderland. The mid-May sky was a brilliant gentian blue, and the late afternoon sun shone like heated gold, warming their shoulders. “What a splendid day!” she exclaimed, squeezing Peter’s hand.

“Aye, mem,” he said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Michael had sent Peter round to the house with a scribbled note, now folded in her pocket.
Must finish gentleman’s coat. Peter underfoot. Are you free?
She could hardly refuse the tailor’s request, especially when delivered by a freckle-faced boy with a winsome smile.

In the last fortnight she’d sewn a dozen shirts for his father’s shop and earned a dozen shillings, all spent on meat and meal. Stocking the household larder had eased some of her lingering fears. No dragoons had come pounding at their door, nor had the Sheriff of Selkirk had occasion to call. With Gibson serving at the nearby manse, Marjory busy cooking at the hearth, and Anne teaching her lace making students, their lives had settled into a comfortable pattern.

Only her encounters with Michael Dalgliesh left her shaking her head.

Whenever she delivered another finished shirt, Michael found some reason to detain her. Might she cut his newly chalked fabric? Did she have time to read Peter a story? Could she find buttons to match a blue waistcoat? Elisabeth did not mind, of course, but she did wonder. Was it her heart Michael was after? Or did he simply need a willing pair of hands?

Enough, Bess
. No use fretting with a handsome lad by her side and a peaceful hour ahead.

She and Peter passed the kirk and were nearing the first rise on the hilly road leading southeast from town when he pointed a stubby finger to the right. “That’s whaur Selkirk Castle stood,” Peter told her, “by the Haining Loch.”

Though Elisabeth craned her head, she could spot no trace of it. “It must be so old it’s in ruins.”

“Ye’re verra auld,” Peter reminded her, “and ye’re not in ruins.”

“But I
am
five-and-twenty,” she told him, still getting used to the sound of it.

They paused at the top of the
knowe
and took in the verdant hills surrounding Selkirk like the soft folds of a green velvet gown. “Beautiful,” Elisabeth said on a sigh as a gentle breeze, fragrant with spring, stirred the air.

Peter tugged on her hand. “Wait ’til ye see Bell Hill.”

When the road began its steep descent, Elisabeth impulsively challenged Peter to a race, flying downhill past rows of cottages, her long legs quickly outpacing his. She eased up by intent, letting him rush past her at the bottom. “You’re too fast for me,” she called out, stopping to catch her breath.

He turned round to wait. “Ye slowed doon,” he said, as forthright and honest as his father. “Should a leddy run like that?”

“Probably not,” she admitted, then took his hand once more as they approached the Foul Bridge Port. After walking through the town gate, they crossed the watery ditch, swollen from the rain, and left Selkirk proper behind. All the while Peter’s question prodded at her. Was she a lady? Or a seamstress? On this momentous day she might be anything. Elisabeth smiled down at her charge. “We could pretend I am your governess.”

He looked up, hope in his eyes. “Or my mither.”

The word brought her to a stop.
Mother
. Was this Peter’s idea? Or was it …

Nae
. Michael Dalgliesh was her employer, nothing more.

“You must miss your mother very much,” she finally said, touching Peter’s cheek, wishing instead she might bend down and gather the boy in her arms.

“Aye.” He gnawed on his lip. “I dinna remember her like my faither does.”

“Then his memories must serve for both of you, aye?”

Peter merely nodded.

The road grew wider as they climbed, then broadened on either side into meadows blanketed in wildflowers. Elisabeth tarried along the edge of the road, kneeling now and again to show Peter the deep blue speedwell petals, the feathery-leaved yarrow, the sunny yellow primrose.

But the lad was interested in one thing. “Bell Hill!” he cried, pointing ahead. Amid the rolling landscape rose an impressive mound, dotted with sheep. A carriage road turned south toward Hawick, but they took the narrow track that continued straight, climbing past the South Common, where the townsfolk grew their oats, barley, and hay.

With each step upward, Elisabeth felt younger, less encumbered. She sensed her skin growing warmer from the effort and drank in the rain-washed air, feeling lightheaded, almost intoxicated.

Near the crest of the hill, Peter tugged on her skirt. “Turn round, Mrs. Kerr.”

When she did, all of Selkirkshire lay before her, a sweeping landscape of fertile pastures and fields nestled against the misty blue hills. “Imagine having such a view,” she breathed.

Peter grinned. “Ye’d have to live o’er there.” He climbed onto a large boulder by the road, then pointed at the grand house across the way, situated in a handsome park on top of the rise.

Elisabeth stood beside him, eying Bell Hill and the estate that bore its name. The Scotch pines were an impressive size. An old property, then, with the mansion well hidden behind the trees. She caught a few glimpses of gray whinstone walls, of windows dressed in red sandstone, of gardens and orchards stretched behind the house. For a moment she thought she saw a gentleman on horseback trotting round the corner of the mansion, though he might have been a groom exercising the admiral’s horses.

The faint sound of the kirk bell ringing in the distance sent Peter scrambling to the ground. “Time to go, Mrs. Kerr!” He grabbed her hand and abruptly took off down the hill.

She nearly tripped trying to keep up with him. “So soon? Surely it isn’t time for your evening meal.” Elisabeth thought Michael and Peter supped later, not at six o’ the clock.

“Come on!” Peter cried, already breathless from dragging her along. “Faither said I was to start doon the hill whan the kirk bell rang.”

On the fourteenth of May, when the gloaming stretched past nine o’ the clock, there was no need to hurry. Yet Peter seemed most determined. Elisabeth let him escort her to town posthaste, vowing to climb Bell Hill again as soon as ever she could.

When they finally reached School Close, she started to turn left, but Peter shook his head. “Nae, I’m to take ye hame.”

She smiled, realizing Michael must be teaching his son proper etiquette. “May I take your arm, then, as a lady should?” Tall as she was, this was no easy feat. Elisabeth bent forward, her hand circling the upper part of his arm, and tried to walk naturally. “Well done, Master Dalgliesh,” she said when they entered Halliwell’s Close.

The last thing Elisabeth expected when she pushed open the door was to find their stair lined with people. “What has happened?” she cried, fearing the worst.

Then she saw Marjory beaming at her from the top landing.

And their neighbors welcoming her.

And Mr. Tait lifting his cup of cheer. “ ’Tis the leddy with the birthday!”

verwhelmed, Elisabeth picked her way up the steps, aiming for Marjory. “You … remembered.”

Marjory reached for her hands, then pulled her into a tight embrace. “After all you’ve done for us, dear Bess, how could we forget?” She released her with a tender squeeze, then guided her into the house while Peter darted round them, no doubt looking for his father.

The house was even more crowded than the stair. A cup of punch was pressed into her hands, then Elisabeth was led to the dining table, laden with savory pigeon pies, oat puddings, apple tarts, and plum cakes. “Marjory, how did you manage this?”

Her mother-in-law swept her hand above the serving plates with a flourish. “Annie helped, of course. Whenever you quit the house for an hour or two, we baked something at Mrs. Tait’s hearth and stored it in her larder.”

“So I see.” Elisabeth shook her head, both delighted and dismayed. “But the cost—”

“Wheesht!”
Anne scolded her, touching her index finger to her lips. “You have Gibson to thank for that.”

Only then did Elisabeth see their old friend standing by the hearth. When she signaled him, Gibson bowed his way past the throng and joined her beside the table. “How may I serve ye, Leddy Kerr?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.

“It seems you’ve already served me.” Elisabeth kissed his cheek, making him blush. “Thank you, Gibson.”

His shrug was gallant. “A leddy celebrates her first quarter century but once.”

By the snippets of conversation she heard, her age was barely a topic of discussion. Instead, fresh rumors concerning the admiral were on the tips of their tongues. What day would he reach Selkirk? By carriage or astride? With an entourage or alone? Wearing an admiral’s uniform or a riding habit?

Elisabeth found their wild speculations amusing. “Our neighbors have come not to toast my birthday but to deal in gossip,” she said, shaking her head before drawing her loved ones closer. “As for you three, I know better. You have done this to bless me, and indeed you have.”