Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,157

how she would respond. But he knew Elisabeth. Say you will, Fiona. For your daughter’s sake. Jack added a few pieces of gold, then sealed the letter well.

Dickson looked at him askance, then said in a low voice, “Are you certain about that, milord?”

“Aye.” Jack had no qualms entrusting Archie with his gold. Unlike the young messenger tarrying round the punch bowl, Archie Gordon was not prone to drink and had shown himself to be an honest and honorable man.

Archie dropped the sealed letter in his coat pocket with a nod of assurance. The delivery was as good as done. “Sorry to bring ye bad news, Lord Buchanan. Ye leuked quite happy whan I first saw ye.”

“Indeed I am, for I’m to marry this month.” Just saying the words made his heart leap.

“Weel, then,” Archie said, “ye’re in the richt city. Walk up to the Luckenbooths in the High Street and find a silver brooch for yer bride. ’Tis an auld Scottish custom.”

Jack was not keen on delaying their journey any longer. But if it meant taking home a gift for Elisabeth, something that might have a special meaning to her, he’d make time for it. “Come, Dickson. It seems we’re going brooch hunting.”

The two men climbed the West Bow, a steep, winding street that carried them up to the main thoroughfare where the Luckenbooths, a series of market stalls kept locked at night, sat in front of the High Kirk of Saint Giles. Weaving his way through the jostling crowd, Jack headed for a shop with a promising sign painted above the lintel: Patrick Cowie, Merchant, Jewelry and Silver Bought and Sold. Surely this Mr. Cowie would have a silver brooch or two to choose from.

Jack and Dickson ducked inside the small, dimly lit shop and were greeted by Mr. Cowie himself. “Guid day to ye, gentlemen,” he said, waving them toward a glass case brimming with jewelry. “Whatsomever might ye be leuking for?”

Jack began, “I am to marry this month—”

“Then I’ve just the thing.” The merchant quickly produced a small silver pin with two hearts intertwined. “Ilka bride in Edinburgh langs for such a praisent.”

When Jack saw several more brooches like it, the item lost its appeal. Elisabeth deserved a unique gift, meant for her alone. “Perhaps something else,” he said, studying the other jewelry on display. “Might I see that one?” He pointed to a large, oval-shaped cameo bearing a woman’s likeness.

“Verra guid, sir.” Mr. Cowie lifted out the wooden box and placed it in his hands. “Carved in Paris for a leddy in toun.”

Jack touched the peach-and-ivory shell, the delicate silhouette done in relief. “I know ’twill sound odd, but this woman is the very image of my bride.”

Dickson looked round his shoulder. “You are right, milord.”

Jack was already reaching for his leather coin purse, certain he’d chosen well.

Once the merchant had money in hand, he admitted, “Bit of a sad story with that one. But it’s aff to a guid hame and will nae doubt come to a blithe end.”

Dickson stayed Jack’s hand. “Do you mean to say this pin is unlucky?”

“Weel …” The flustered merchant waved his hands about. “I wouldna say that …”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Jack assured him, “so it matters not.” He tucked the wooden box in his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the street. “Come, Dickson. However fine this cameo, I’d rather gaze at the woman herself than study a likeness carved in shell.”

“We’ve two days’ ride ahead of us,” his valet reminded him, hurrying to keep up.

Jack was already striding toward West Bow, his mind fixed on the stables in the Grassmarket below, where Janvier waited to carry him home.

To Bell Hill. To his bride.

Seventy-Seven

Every delay that postpones

our joys is long.

OVID

ut whan will we see his lordship?” Peter cried, a decided pout on his freckled face. “Oor picnic will be ower afore lang.”

Elisabeth eyed the heaps of cold duck and beef, the mounds of hard cheese, the willow basket brimming with crisp apples and succulent pears—all fresh from yesterday’s market, now spread across a plaid blanket. “We have plenty,” she promised the lad. “Enough to feed Lord Buchanan and Dickson.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” Michael said, reaching for an apple. “I’ve watched Dickson eat.”

Elisabeth was glad for such sanguine company on a day when her future hung in the balance. General Lord Mark Kerr was not a man of mercy. Had Jack found some way to convince him? Knowing very well it was not the king, nor