Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,20

smiled. “We’ll see what can be done, Mr. Dalgliesh.”

Eleven

Whoever fears God,

fears to sit at ease.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

arjory balanced the fresh salmon in her hands, impressed by its heft and size, hoping she might do it justice. “ ’Tis a fine catch.”

“The fishwife said her husband pulled it from the River Tweed this morn.” Elisabeth nodded toward the table. “If you’re certain you want to do this, Marjory, I’ve put out all the herbs you’ll need.”

Anne stepped closer, drying her hands on her apron. “Maybe I should see to our dinner—”

“Nae need,” Marjory told her firmly. “I watched Mrs. Edgar prepare court-bouillon many a time.” Well, at least once. Perhaps even twice.

Her cousin had every right to question her cooking abilities. Did not Marjory doubt them herself? Still, a Scotswoman ought to be able to poach a salmon. “Attend to your own duties,” she told them. Then she added in her sternest, Reverend Brown voice, “If any would not work, neither should he eat.”

Elisabeth looked up from her sewing and winked. “Then I’ll not quit my needle for an instant.”

Her daughter-in-law was quickly turning a lapful of cambric into a well-made garment. She’d finished one gentleman’s shirt last eve, then collected her first shilling this morning. On the way home Elisabeth had exchanged her silver coin for the salmon, a pound of fresh butter, and a tidy collection of herbs and still had pennies jingling in her pocket. My prudent Bess.

For her part Marjory was determined to prepare their meals, having no other talent to offer the household. If Elisabeth might provide some instructions, and Anne a measure of patience, Marjory thought she could manage it.

Cleaning the fish turned out to be a messy, smelly business. When the unpleasant job was finally done to her satisfaction, Marjory scored the sides with Anne’s sharpest knife and doused the fish with finely beaten mace, cloves, nutmeg, black pepper, and salt. The spices tickled her nose, threatening to make her sneeze, as she stuffed the notches with butter rolled in flour and tucked a few bay leaves inside the belly of the fish.

“Behold, our seasoned cook,” Elisabeth teased her, though Marjory heard approval as well.

“At least it looks right,” Marjory said, wrapping the fish in linen and binding it with twine. She laid it in a shallow kettle, then added water and vinegar, and swung the kettle over the brightly burning coals.

Anne claimed her knife and wiped it clean. “You cannot have salmon without fresh parsley,” she insisted. “Mrs. Thorburn, who lives by the manse, has a goodly supply in her kitchen garden.”

Marjory frowned. “She’ll not mind if you help yourself?”

Anne pulled a ha’penny from her apron pocket. “Whenever an onion, radish, or lettuce is called for, I pluck what I need and plant a coin in its stead for her children to find. A fair trade, Mrs. Thorburn says. Half the neighborhood does the same.”

When Anne hurried off without cape or hat, Marjory reminded herself that the first of May was only two days hence, with a warm Borderland summer just beyond it.

And still no Gibson.

She drew her chair closer to the fire to mind their dinner and stared at the glowing coals, considering the possibilities. However unfriendly Lady Murray’s welcome, her husband was Sheriff of Selkirk. Might he send a party of men to look for Gibson? Sir John might think Marjory daft to be so fretful. But she dared not approach Reverend Brown. He’d summon her soon enough. Too soon.

After a lengthy silence Elisabeth asked, “Is it Gibson?”

Marjory turned, acknowledging her with a faint smile. “You know me well, Bess.”

“And I know Gibson. Whatever has delayed him, he will join us.”

Marjory nodded absently. “In quiet moments I hear him whisper, ‘Ye’ll aye be Leddy Kerr to me.’ His last words before we parted at Milne Square.” Longing to ease her melancholy, she turned back to the work at hand, stirring the boiling potatoes and poking at the salmon. Her former housekeeper, Helen Edgar, had a canny way of knowing when fish was perfectly cooked. Lift it from the water too soon and the texture was like jelly. Too late and the fish was tough. Helen’s salmon was always flaky and smooth, like butter in the mouth.

At least Helen was safely at her mother’s cottage in Lasswade and not wandering the Moorfoot Hills, injured, lost, taken ill, or worse. Poor Gibson.

Marjory bowed her head, the heat from the coals warming her brow. My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation