Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,158
the general, nor the admiral who could save her, she glanced at the heavens. I have trusted in thy mercy. Then she remembered the rest of the verse and was comforted by it. My heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
The Kerrs woke that morning to unseasonably mild weather. Elisabeth had suggested they take their dinner out of doors and bring the Dalglieshes with them. Gibson, too, if the reverend might allow it.
The rolling meadow at the foot of Bell Hill seemed a worthy spot for a picnic.
“So you can watch for a certain admiral?” Marjory had guessed.
Elisabeth could not pretend otherwise. Jack had said, “Look for our return on Saturday afternoon.” So she was looking. And waiting. And praying. Of the three, waiting was the hardest.
With a sigh she stretched out on the blanket and lifted her face to the sun, drawing strength from the warmth of its rays. They’d not have many days like this left in the year. Even the occasional breeze had no bite to it. At least the road should be dry through the Moorfoot Hills. Though anything might delay them. An injured horse. An injured man …
Elisabeth sensed someone’s shadow blocking the sun and opened her eyes to find Peter leaning over her, arms akimbo, chubby fists at his waist. “Must ye take naps, like I once did?”
She sat up and pulled him onto her lap, hugging him close. “Aye, sometimes.”
Elisabeth rested her chin on his curly head and watched the two couples who’d each claimed a corner of the blanket. Anne and Michael, playful and teasing, still rather shy round each other, at least in public. Marjory and Gibson, tender and gentle, with an undercurrent of passion that charged every glance.
In three weeks the older couple would wed. Elisabeth wished them only joy, yet she longed to join them at the altar with Jack by her side.
When Peter wriggled free to chase a leaf that blew temptingly near, Anne turned to watch him, her eyes filled with maternal affection. Elisabeth looked away, ashamed at the stab of envy that pierced her heart. Aye, she wanted that as well. Am I being selfish, Lord? Am I being foolish? Dare I hope?
Michael was soon up and chasing after the lad. A good father to his son, as Jack would surely be someday.
Then Anne turned to her with a question Elisabeth had not even considered.
“Will Lord Buchanan come directly to Bell Hill, do you suppose? Or will he stop in Halliwell’s Close?”
Chagrined, Elisabeth looked toward the mansion hidden in the trees. “I cannot say. If ’tis good news, surely he would come find me at once. But if ’tis ill news …”
Nae. She would not dwell on the possibility.
Another hour or so passed. None of them had a pocket watch, dependent on the moving sun to mark the time. Elisabeth eyed Belda, nibbling on the grass. Might she ride out to meet Jack?
“I can wait here no longer,” she confessed. “Mr. Dalgliesh, will you kindly help me with the mare? I’ve decided to meet Lord Buchanan on the road approaching Selkirk.”
Her brow knitted with concern, Marjory called out to her, “Are you certain ’tis wise to go alone?”
“On Belda? In broad daylight?” Elisabeth heard the note of impatience in her voice and quickly curbed it. “Truly, I’ll not go far. No more than a mile or two out the Edinburgh road. I would hate for him to look for us in town and be disappointed.”
“Very well, though I do not approve,” Marjory said, sounding like the mother she was.
Elisabeth did not tarry, lest anyone else object. With a lift of her hand in farewell, she guided Belda across the meadow’s many hillocks, grateful when they reached the road without mishap. As they trotted toward town, she noted a few clouds starting to move in from the west. But they were neither thick nor dark, and the air was calm. An hour or more of sunlight remained and then the gloaming. Plenty of time.
Jack was drawing near. She knew it absolutely, as if his scent traveled through the air, though she did not find him at Halliwell’s Close.
Riding through town, Elisabeth noted many a curious glance. Her neighbors had often seen her on Belda but not in a gown adorned with buttons and ruffles. If she did marry—Nae! Not if, Lord, but when—the gossips of Selkirk would blether about it for months. A small price to pay for the blessing of being a good man’s wife.