Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,4
one would bother to make such an announcement. The town gossips would spread the news soon enough.
Mr. Dewar jerked his thumb at a foreboding structure at the far end of the fleshmarket. “The tolbooth, ye ken. Dinna be surprised if ye hear prisoners howling from the thieves’ hole.” He unloaded their bags, hefting one small trunk onto each shoulder. “After ye, Mrs. Kerr.”
Marjory led them toward a row of buildings made of rough whinstone, some with ground-floor shops facing the marketplace. “On Monday the scent of baking bread will come wafting through that doorway,” she said, pointing to the corner, “and in the house above it, you’ll find a weaver bending over his loom.”
Like my father once did. Elisabeth looked up at the weaver’s shuttered window. Nights beyond counting she’d fallen asleep to the steady rhythm of her father’s treadle raising and lowering the threads of the warp.
Marjory brought them to an arched passageway fitted between two of the buildings. “And here’s Halliwell’s Close, where Cousin Anne resides.”
Arm in arm the Kerr women ventured within the shadowy close, lit by a single lantern that hung from the stone wall several doors down. The air was dank and smelled of rotting fish. A rat darted past them, its long, thin tail quickly disappearing from sight.
Elisabeth imagined her mother’s voice whispering in her ear. A puir man is glad of a little. However modest their lodgings, Elisabeth was determined to be grateful. She’d been poor as a child and not minded. She’d been wealthy as a wife yet lived frugally. As a widow she had few needs, and they were shrinking by the hour. Food and shelter would suffice.
Marjory stopped at an unmarked wooden door and made use of the round iron knocker. The hollow sound echoed down the long close.
While they waited, Mr. Dewar deposited their trunks beside them. “I’ll fetch the ither,” he said, then lumbered off.
After a lengthy silence Elisabeth reached for the knocker. “I don’t wish to appear impatient, but …” When Marjory nodded, Elisabeth banged the ring against the wood, imagining a warm hearth, a plate of soup, and a snug bed.
But no one came.
Mr. Dewar returned with the last trunk and placed it at their feet. “D’ye need me to stay with ye, leddies?”
“Our cousin is certain to answer our knock any moment,” Elisabeth assured him.
“Then I’m aff to the Forest Inn for my supper. I bid ye both a guid nicht.” He doffed his hat and was gone.
Halliwell’s Close was suddenly quiet and, with nightfall upon them, oppressively dark. The lantern illumined their faces but little else.
As they tarried by the door, listening for any sound of movement or voices within, Elisabeth watched Marjory grow increasingly distraught, showing all of her eight-and-forty years. The tender skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and her mourning gown hung loosely about her shoulders. Most distressing of all were the deep lines etched across Marjory’s forehead. Was she worried about Gibson’s whereabouts? Or was something else weighing on her mind?
Finally Elisabeth asked, “Are you certain this is Anne’s door?”
Marjory looked down, her voice almost too low to be heard. “I am no longer certain of anything.”
A knot of apprehension tightened inside her. “Marjory, whatever do you mean?”
“Our cousin once resided here, but”—her mother-in-law lifted her head—“I cannot say she still does. Though I have not heard otherwise,” she hastened to add. “Not since Lord John and I moved to Edinburgh.”
“But … that was ten years ago!” Elisabeth could not hide her dismay. “You’ve not corresponded with Anne all this time?”
“Nae, I fear I have not. My factor at Tweedsford …” Marjory sighed heavily. “That is, Mr. Laidlaw kept me apprised of the news from Selkirk over the years. He never mentioned any change in Cousin Anne’s situation.”
Elisabeth was speechless. Did her mother-in-law expect a cordial greeting from a relative so long forsaken? From the look of their surroundings, Anne was a woman of lesser means who’d have benefited from the Kerrs’ attention. Only a merciful soul could overlook such ill treatment.
Marjory gnawed on her lower lip. “Perhaps she’s not at home …”
A woman’s voice floated down the passageway from the far end. “Who is not at home?”
Marjory spun about, nearly stumbling over the baggage at her feet. “If you please, madam,” she called into the darkness. “We are seeking Miss Anne Kerr, my late husband’s cousin. Might you know her?”
Elisabeth held her breath. Please, Lord.
“I am Miss Kerr,” the woman announced, quickening her steps.