Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,39

loaf of bread, untouched, and dusted off the flour. “Give him this with our thanks,” she told Gibson.

“Weel done, mem,” he said, bobbing his head.

Marjory’s mind was still fixed on Elisabeth. Naturally, her daughter-in-law was still mourning Donald; she was hardly alone in that. But something else seemed to occupy her thoughts of late.

“Our Bess will celebrate her birthday in less than a fortnight,” Marjory informed the others, her thoughts turning at a brisk pace. “She will be five-and-twenty. A quarter of a century, if you will.”

“So young,” Gibson murmured.

“Aye, but not to her,” Anne said. “I well remember that birthday, and ’twas not pleasant.”

“Suppose we make it a fine day for Bess,” Marjory suggested, hoping to cheer her daughter-in-law. “Unfortunately, I’ve no money of my own and nothing left to sell. If we mean to buy her a present, we’ll have to spend her own shillings, which is hardly fair.”

“Wait.” Anne dove behind the curtains of her bed, then reappeared with a small wooden box. “My jewelry, such as it is.” She lifted the lid, revealing her small collection. A single strand of pearls, badly stained. A ribbon choker. A bracelet meant for a child. A small ivory brooch. A pair of earrings made of amber. But what she lifted out was a dainty silver comb that needed only polishing to be as good as new.

“It belonged to my mother.” Anne held it in her palm, a wistful expression on her face. “My hair is so pale the comb disappears when I wear it. But in Bess’s dark hair …”

“It would be lovely,” Marjory agreed. “Still, Annie, a great sacrifice.”

Anne pointed to the half-dozen books on her shelf. “Those were my mother’s too and are far more dear to me.”

Gibson lifted the comb from Anne’s open palm. “I ken a silversmith wha can make it shine.” He slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket. “If ’twould not be too bold, I’d like to make the young Leddy Kerr a praisent. I’ve an auld freen in Selkirk, a carpenter wha has a few scraps o’ wood he might part with.”

Marjory knew at once what would delight Elisabeth most. “Could you fashion a tambour frame for her embroidery? The dragoons broke her mahogany tambour into pieces and tossed it into the fire.”

“Weel I remember,” Gibson said darkly. “But, aye, ’tis a guid plan.”

At a loss for what she might contribute, Marjory scanned the room, hoping for inspiration. Her gaze landed on the hearth and the remnants of their dinner. “I suppose I could cook something for her, though it is hardly a gift—”

“On the contrary,” Anne said, her eyes alight. “ ’Twill be the perfect gift, if you’ll not mind cooking for … say, three dozen friends and neighbors.”

“Three dozen? However could we afford the food?” Marjory asked.

Gibson smiled and produced four shillings. “ ’Tis the balance o’ my wages for this term. Ye paid me yerself, Leddy Kerr, on the eleventh o’ November.”

Marjory stared at the coins, barely recalling their last Martinmas in Edinburgh. “But that’s your silver. Newly snipped from the lining of your waistcoat, I’ll wager.”

“I’ve nae need o’ them.” He pressed the shillings into her hand. “Reverend Brown will see to my meat and drink.”

Marjory blinked back tears as Gibson folded her fingers round the silver, then wrapped his hands round hers. Though his fingers were callused, they were warm. So very warm.

He winked at her. “Noo ye can have a foy worthy o’ the lass wha brought ye hame.”

Twenty

A birthday:—and now a day that rose

With much of hope, with meaning rife—

A thoughtful day from dawn to close.

JEAN INGELOW

ou are certain of this, Peter?” Elisabeth eyed his scuffed brown shoes, which looked rather too tight, then pulled the door shut behind her. “ ’Tis a long walk to Bell Hill.”

“Not for me,” Peter said, towing her along Halliwell’s Close, his little hand tightly grasping her fingers. “Besides, my faither willna mind if we’re gane for a lang time.”

“I’ll not mind either,” she confessed, matching his short but determined stride. She’d been working in the house all day without a word from Marjory or Anne about her birthday. A gift was not expected—who could afford even the smallest token?—but she’d have welcomed their good wishes. Perhaps they’d forgotten. Or perhaps they were being kind, knowing how she dreaded turning five-and-twenty.

Now that the momentous day had arrived, Elisabeth was relieved to discover she felt no different. A stroll with Peter Dalgliesh was just the thing, with no need of a