Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,138
or good?”
“Very good,” Elisabeth assured her, “although children are a gift of the Lord and not of the garden.”
Now that she understood the purpose, Marjory ceased her digging. “Bess, I’m far too old to bear a child.”
“But the perfect age to help raise one someday,” her daughter-in-law insisted. “Come, see what your bit of foliage yields.”
Wanting to be agreeable, Marjory dug and yanked and dug some more until a forked root with not one but two sturdy carrots broke through the soil. They could represent Donald and Andrew, Marjory supposed. Or would she hold Elisabeth’s children when the time came?
She glanced at her daughter-in-law, bursting with health and vigor. Aye, if Elisabeth were to remarry, she might well bear a child or two, though she’d not conceived during the years she was married to Donald. Still, Marjory could not find fault with Elisabeth. Not after all the lass had done to care for her, provide for her. Nor could she blame the Almighty, who knew best in such things—nae, in all things.
Michaelmas carrots in hand, including one for Anne to present to Michael, Elisabeth planted pennies in the soil for Mrs. Thorburn’s children to discover, then walked Marjory home, chanting a rhyme that made them both laugh.
It is myself that has the carrot.
Whoever he be
that would win it from me.
“I daresay Lord Buchanan would gladly claim your carrot,” Marjory observed.
“Unless Rosalind Murray offers him one first.” Elisabeth placed their harvest on the dining room table, her smile fading. “The Murrays are on his lordship’s guest list for tomorrow night’s Michaelmas feast. I can only imagine the gown Rosalind will wear. And the jewels. And the fine perfume.”
Marjory heard the resignation in her daughter-in-law’s voice and hastened to assure her, “Lord Buchanan is not a gentleman whose head is turned by pretty clothes.”
Elisabeth lifted her cape from her shoulders. “But Rosalind is quite clever and has traveled the Continent.”
“Elisabeth Kerr,” Marjory chided her, “I’ve never met a lass more clever than you. Now suppose we get on with Michaelmas Eve and leave Michaelmas Night in God’s hands, aye?”
“Very well.” Elisabeth tied on an apron. “To our bannock, then.”
She moistened ground oatmeal with ewe’s milk, then added berries, seeds, and wild honey, and formed it into a circle. “For eternity,” she explained before beginning work on two smaller bannocks. “These are to honor the loved ones we’ve lost since Michaelmas last. Come, Marjory, and help me prepare the dough as we say their names.”
Marjory pressed her hands into the mealy mixture. “Donald,” she whispered, kneading the dough as she remembered the babe, the lad, the young man, the gentleman whom she’d loved almost more than her own husband. Her throat tightened further as she named aloud her second son. “Andrew,” she said, thinking of her little soldier marching about the nursery, then round Tweedsford’s gardens, then up and down the streets of Edinburgh, and finally across the battlefield at Falkirk. Elisabeth spoke their names with her, kneaded the dough beside her, and helped her give them each a unique shape.
“I am not sure I can eat them,” Marjory confessed.
“Not to worry,” Elisabeth said, brushing the flour from her hands. “They’re meant to be given to the poor who have no bread of their own.”
While the bannocks browned on the hearth, Marjory prepared a rich mutton broth for supper, eying their fat carrots. When she asked Elisabeth if the vegetables might be added to her soup pot, the answer was swift and sure.
“Nae!” Elisabeth pretended to be shocked. “ ’Tis a Michaelmas gift for your beloved.”
A carrot? Marjory hid her smile. Won’t Gibson be delighted?
Under Elisabeth’s watchful eye, Marjory coated their Michaelmas bannock with a caudle of flour and cream, eggs and sugar. “Three times,” Elisabeth said, “for Father, Son, and Spirit.”
After the bannock was placed back on the fire to finish baking, Elisabeth washed her hands, then slipped on her cape. “I am off to Mr. Riddell’s stables to be certain Belda is safe.”
“Safe?” Marjory echoed. “Why would you worry about a mare?”
“ ’Tis Michaelmas Eve,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Anything might happen, especially where horses are concerned.”
She was gone before Marjory could offer any objection. Not that she would have. The stables were a two-minute walk up Kirk Wynd. If Elisabeth would sleep better knowing Lord Buchanan’s mare was secure, Marjory was happy for her to go.
But the house was suddenly very quiet, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts.
Marjory walked from one corner to the other, as she had