Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,28
would bathe in it from head to toe. Aye, and drink it as well.
On a whim Marjory tiptoed to the casement window and eased it open, enough to slip out her hand and touch the wet sill. She patted her forehead and cheeks with her fingertips, then swiftly closed the window, lest the cool air wake the others. Besides, however would she explain herself? A Christian widow dousing her skin in the Beltane dew like pagans of old. Reverend Brown would have something to say about that. With a rueful smile, Marjory dried her face on the sleeve of her nightgown, reminding herself that come August she’d turn nine-and-forty. Not even the rite of May could make her young again.
Fresh coals on the grate brought a small pot of water to boil. Just as Helen Edgar had done many mornings, Marjory added oatmeal in a thin stream with her left hand while stirring sunwise with her right, using a wooden stick Helen called a spurtle. After a bit Marjory swung the pot away from the heat to let the porridge simmer, then quietly dressed herself.
With May Day in mind, she took extra care with her toilette, styling her hair and using a splash of Anne’s rosewater. The others were soon awake and dressed, each seeing to her own tasks. When they finished breakfast Marjory retrieved the sack of items Mr. Laidlaw had brought from Tweedsford and brought it to table. “Small things,” she confessed, “but precious to me, if you’d like to see them.”
After setting aside the letters from her late brother, Marjory drew out the little chapbook. Three inches tall and two dozen pages long, the book was as diminutive as its mischievous hero, Tom. She remembered how alarmed Donald had become when the thumb-sized lad fell into a bowl and was accidentally cooked in a pudding. “I bought it for a penny from a chapman who came through Selkirkshire the summer Donald turned three.” Marjory held it out for Elisabeth to peruse.
“Tom Thumb, is it?” Her daughter-in-law’s smile was bittersweet. “ ’Twas the favorite story of my brother, Simon.”
“And your husband’s favorite as well.” Watching Elisabeth’s eyes grow moist as she turned the pages, Marjory thought of young Simon Ferguson dying in service to Prince Charlie at Gladsmuir and the mournful weeks that followed. “Why don’t you keep it, Bess?”
She clasped it in her hands. “Truly?”
“Aye,” Marjory said, “though I cannot part with this.” She showed them Andrew’s wooden toy soldier, the paint worn off from years of little hands marching the toy round the nursery. “A wee birthday present for Andrew, carved by Gibson.”
Saying their names in tandem brought a lump to Marjory’s throat. The darling son who’d always longed to be a soldier now lay in a Falkirk grave. And Gibson had been traveling on foot for ten days, with one shilling in his pocket and a rough leather bag strapped to his back. Though Marjory did not always voice her concerns, she thought of Gibson almost constantly, fearing for his life one moment, counting on his strength the next. Mr. Haldane was expected back from Middleton Inn today. She would visit the manse as early as she dared and beg the reverend for news.
Marjory slipped the toy soldier in her pocket, reminding herself Gibson was not alone. The LORD will preserve him, and keep him alive.
Still holding Donald’s chapbook, Elisabeth prompted her, “What else did Mr. Laidlaw bring you?”
Marjory lifted out her miniature of Tweedsford, embarrassed to let them see it. “I was a new bride with an indulgent husband,” she said with a shrug. “He ordered sticks of plumbago and sheets of fine vellum from a stationer in Edinburgh, and I pretended to be an artist.”
Anne examined the framed drawing, no larger than a man’s palm. “ ’Tis the very likeness of your old home, with four bays across the front.”
Marjory was not convinced. “Someday when I feel especially brave, we’ll all walk to the estate, and you’ll realize what a poor imitation this is.”
“I would love to see Tweedsford,” Elisabeth admitted.
Marjory was already sorry she’d mentioned the idea. Who knew when she’d be strong enough to face all those memories? It might be months. It might be never.
Thrusting her hand into the cloth sack, she found the last item. “This belonged to Lord John.” Marjory held out his splendid magnifying glass, the ivory handle intricately carved, the circular glass edged in silver. She could still picture him with a delicate wildflower in one