Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,35
their way about, calling out greetings, and striking bargains. Elisabeth and Peter maneuvered past the souters—the pride of the town—with their handsome men’s shoes done in polished leather and fine calfskin. Elisabeth dared not linger over their ladies’ shoes, fashioned of worsted damask and brocaded silk in rich shades of blue, green, and brown. Someday she would own a new pair of satin slippers but not when she had one shilling to her name.
Elisabeth held on to Peter as they walked, unwilling to let him dart through the crowd, chasing after the other children. She cherished the feel of his little hand in hers, though she would never say as much and embarrass him. Was this what motherhood might feel like? This enormous sense of responsibility mingled with pride and fear and joy? A chance to see the world afresh through a child’s eyes? She looked down at Peter’s bright curls, then swallowed hard. How different her life would be if she’d given Donald Kerr a son or daughter.
“Here’s the oatmeal!” Peter nudged her toward the tables piled with sacks of milled grain, well in view of the tron, where goods were weighed. “This is Mr. Watson, the miller,” the lad said, then turned to her and blushed. “I dinna ken her name, Mr. Watson, but she’s bonny.”
Elisabeth smiled at them both, not offended that Peter had already forgotten. “I am Mrs. Kerr.”
The stout miller bobbed his head. “I ken wha ye are. Miss Anne’s cousin.”
With others crowding round the tables, there was no time for small talk. Elisabeth attended to her shopping, buying small sacks of flour, oats, and barley. Cheese and butter were next, wrapped in cool, wet muslin.
Most of the sellers were polite, some were even kind, but Elisabeth also heard disparaging words muttered in passing and saw several countenances darken at her approach. Peter, too innocent to notice, proudly pulled her along the thoroughfare.
All through the marketplace one name rose above the din: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. “Sailing the high seas,” a cloth merchant marveled. “Can ye imagine such a life?” A pie seller said with a note of yearning, “Onie man wha’s seen the world carries it in his pocket.”
Women seemed more interested in the look of the man. A dairymaid said coyly, “I hear he’s braw,” then winked at Elisabeth. “And I hear he’s rich,” the lass beside her purred.
Elisabeth squeezed Peter’s hand and thought of his kind father. Michael Dalgliesh would never be rich. But as long as men needed shirts, breeches, and waistcoats, a tailor would also never be poor.
As to Lord Buchanan, Elisabeth suspected that the reports were too good to be true, that something unseen and unseemly lurked beneath the surface. Not all men were like Donald Kerr, she reminded herself. Not all men had secrets. But a never-married gentleman surely was hiding something, and a British admiral was to be avoided at all costs.
By the time Elisabeth and Peter had given their custom to the flesher on the far side of the tolbooth, their shillings were reduced to pennies, and the basket was growing heavy on her arm.
“Noo may I have a toy?” Peter asked, his tone plaintive, his expression more so.
She felt her pocket. Michael’s money was all spent, but she had a few copper ha’pence of her own left. “See if you can find something for a penny or two.”
He slipped from her grasp and dashed straight for the chapmen’s stalls. By the time she caught up with him, Peter was on his knees, breathlessly examining a soft leather pouch containing a dozen marbles made of polished stones.
The black-haired chapman hovering over Peter was beaming. “ ’Tis a fine set,” he told the lad. “If ye have eight pence, ’tis yers.”
Peter slowly put them back.
“What d’ye think o’ these?” The chapman poured out a handful of inferior clay marbles from a rough linen sack. “Only four pence, lad.”
This time Peter looked up at her with a hope-filled expression.
Much as she hated doing so, Elisabeth shook her head. “Not today, I’m afraid. Is there something else you want?”
Peter stood. “Nae, mem,” he said in a small voice.
Aching for him, Elisabeth took his hand and started toward Kirk Wynd. “I am sorry, Peter. Maybe something could be arranged for your birthday.”
He brightened at that. “ ’Tis in February.”
“Such a long time to wait,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “My birthday is in less than a fortnight. Do you suppose we could exchange them?”