Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,21

is from him. She savored the ancient words, more fragrant than the herbs she’d rubbed between her fingers. A sense of peace began settling round her heart. Elisabeth was right: Gibson would join them in God’s good timing. Marjory looked up, her gaze drawn to the window, picturing Neil Gibson striding across the marketplace, his blue gray eyes fixed on Halliwell’s Close.

She and Elisabeth both jumped when the door swung open.

“Home again.” Anne clasped a bunch of green parsley like a bride with her bouquet. “Still fresh with dew.” She held out the leafy herb, her countenance bright as the sun.

“Very fresh.” Marjory took the parsley from Anne’s hands, studying her closely. Whatever had happened to their sober-minded cousin?

Elisabeth must have seen it too, for she asked, “Who crossed your path, Annie?”

Their cousin flapped her hand, batting away the question. “Oh, many folk are out this noontide.”

Marjory and Elisabeth exchanged glances. Anne Kerr had a forthright manner that did not always endear her to others. Whom had she seen on her way to Mrs. Thorburn’s garden?

Anne wasted no time washing and chopping the parsley, then sprinkling it onto a flat griddle and holding it over the coals. “ ’Twill taste better crisp.” When she peered into the fish kettle, her smile faded. “Has the salmon been cooking all the while I’ve been gone?”

“Aye,” Marjory confessed, backing away from the hearth. Had she spoiled their dinner and wasted Elisabeth’s hard-earned shilling?

“Ten minutes to the pound,” Anne told her with a note of impatience, then used two wooden spoons to lift the fish from the kettle. “We’ll soon know if ’tis ruined.”

Marjory carefully unwrapped the salmon, releasing a pungent aroma through the house. “What say you, Anne?”

She poked at the fish. “ ’Twill do.”

Relieved, Marjory sprinkled the salmon with parsley and served it with butter and potatoes. After the briefest of blessings, all three tucked into their food as if they’d not eaten in a week and quickly finished their dinner.

“Delicious,” Elisabeth pronounced, dabbing at her mouth.

“You’re certain it was not overdone?” Marjory asked.

Anne nodded at their empty woodenware. “Apparently not, for we ate every bite.” She stood, casting her gaze across the dish-strewn table. “My students will arrive shortly …”

“Go, both of you,” Marjory said with a wave of her hand. “I can take care of this.”

Elisabeth offered her thanks and resumed her sewing while Marjory started clearing away the dishes, ignoring the stiffness in her back as she worked. She’d served one tolerable meal at least. The table and hearth were soon set to rights and the house made presentable for Anne’s students, who arrived promptly each afternoon at two o’ the clock and departed at six.

Yesterday, Marjory had read a book while Elisabeth sewed, both of them seated at the dining table so the girls could claim the upholstered chairs by the windows for their needlework. Today, she imagined, would be no different.

A sharp knock brought all three women to their feet. They pulled off their aprons and smoothed their hair so they might greet the young ladies properly. Anne was bent on polishing her students’ manners as well as their skills.

But when she opened the door, Anne froze in place.

“Beg pardon, sir. We were not … expecting you.”

Twelve

Change, indeed, is painful;

yet ever needful.

THOMAS CARLYLE

thunderous voice rumbled through the house. “I would see the elder Mrs. Kerr. Alone.”

Marjory closed her eyes. Reverend Brown. The man who held their future in his hands. As the minister of the parish, he was answerable not only to God but also to King George.

She forced herself to look at him, to move forward, to greet him, then nodded at the others, setting them free. Do not worry. The Lord is with me. Elisabeth and Anne curtsied and retreated into the room, leaving Marjory and the minister standing by the door.

He gazed about the small house. “Where …, eh, might we converse?”

Marjory was at a loss for an answer. “Our cousin’s students are to arrive at any moment. I’m afraid we’ll have no privacy here. Perhaps another day—”

“Nae.” His permanent frown deepened. “We shall speak at the manse. ’Tis but a short walk up Kirk Wynd.”

When she turned to bid the others farewell, their eyes were wide with concern. “I’ll not be long,” she assured them, praying it might be so.

Her legs a bit unsteady, Marjory followed Reverend Brown down the stair and into the bustling, sunlit marketplace, the blithe atmosphere a strange counterpoint to her fears. The rich aroma of meat pies wafted