down the turnpike stair. A moment later a curly-haired lad appeared on the landing, wearing clothes he’d all but outgrown, though he was still small for his age. “Wha be the leddy?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye and a dimple in his cheek.
Elisabeth was instantly smitten.
“She is Mrs. Kerr from Halliwell’s Close,” Michael said, waving the boy forward. “And this is my son, Peter.”
Elisabeth looked at them both, astounded. “ ’Tis not your son,” she protested, “but yourself in miniature.” The blue eyes, the bright red hair, the freckled skin, the charming disposition—Peter Dalgliesh was more twin than offspring, though decidedly smaller and with at least two missing teeth. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, young Peter.”
His little brow wrinkled. “Nae, mem. My name isna ‘Young.’ ’Tis just ‘Peter.’ ”
Michael ruffled his son’s hair. “The leddy kens yer name, lad.”
Peter’s grin returned. “ ’Tis mercat day,” he said with glee. “Ye’ll take me, Faither? Like ye said ye would?”
“Weel …” Michael looked round the cluttered room. “Mebbe in a wee while …”
“I ken.” Peter groaned loudly. “Ye must wark and canna get awa.”
Elisabeth’s heart went out to the lad. How many times had Peter heard those words? And how hard for his busy father, being forced to say them.
Seeing the sad expressions on both their faces, she made a proposal. “I am bound for the marketplace this morn and would welcome your company, Peter. That is, if your father can spare you. For I am sure you are a great help in his shop.”
“Aye,” Peter trumpeted, his chest swelling. “I count the buttons.”
“Ye’re sure ye’ll not mind, Mrs. Kerr?” Michael fished something out of his waistcoat pocket. “ ’Tis a great kindness.” Eyes shining with gratitude, he produced a wrinkled scrap of paper and two shillings.
“What have we here?” Elisabeth eyed the paper, then tucked it in her hanging pocket with his silver coins. “A market list? I am impressed.”
He shrugged. “If I dinna write it a’ doon, I get hame with half o’ what I went for. Jenny could carry it a’ in her head, but I’ve nae gift for it.”
“You have other gifts,” Elisabeth told him.
The color in his ruddy cheeks deepened. “Ither than holding a needle, I canna think of onie just noo.”
“Come now … Mr. Dalgliesh.” She’d almost called him by his Christian name. Little wonder when she felt so comfortable in his presence. Michael was sincere and genuine and unassuming. She could only imagine how much Jenny Dalgliesh had loved this man. And could only guess what Anne’s feelings were for him now.
If propriety allowed, Elisabeth would touch his hand and assure Michael that he was not only a good tailor but also a good father, that it was difficult to do both at once, that he was managing far better than most widowers, that a tidy shop was not the measure of a life well lived. But she could not say or do any of those things. She could only escort his son to market and hope the simple gesture would ease any sense of guilt or regret.
“We’ll find everything on your father’s list, won’t we, Peter?” Elisabeth claimed the large market basket by the door, then wiggled her fingers in the lad’s direction, a tacit invitation. He responded at once, fitting his small hand inside hers, artlessly stealing her heart.
“We’re aff,” Peter announced, tugging her toward the open door.
Eighteen
Children sweeten labors.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
his way, mem.” Peter Dalgliesh pulled her toward the marketplace like a horse-drawn cart, making certain her wheels did not veer left or right. “The chapmen! The chapmen!” the boy cried, stopping at the foot of Kirk Wynd, where the peddlers had their stalls. Standing like tall, vertical tents, the portable stalls were made of wood and canvas, with pegs, hooks, and narrow shelves displaying the varied wares.
Elisabeth consulted Michael’s list while his son carefully examined the wooden figures, leather balls, chapbooks, spinning tops, stone marbles, and other treasures. His father’s tally included nothing of the kind; lamb shanks, dried fish, oatmeal, and cheese were scribbled on the paper but not one child’s plaything.
Reluctantly she bent down and touched Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll buy what we must first,” she told him, “and then see how many pennies are left for a toy.” When he didn’t argue with her, Elisabeth decided he’d heard this before, a comforting thought. “Come, let’s find the meal sellers.”
Selkirk, she’d learned, held its market every Friday. Local folk and strangers alike filled the marketplace, elbowing