Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,41
Elisabeth felt younger, less encumbered. She sensed her skin growing warmer from the effort and drank in the rain-washed air, feeling lightheaded, almost intoxicated.
Near the crest of the hill, Peter tugged on her skirt. “Turn round, Mrs. Kerr.”
When she did, all of Selkirkshire lay before her, a sweeping landscape of fertile pastures and fields nestled against the misty blue hills. “Imagine having such a view,” she breathed.
Peter grinned. “Ye’d have to live o’er there.” He climbed onto a large boulder by the road, then pointed at the grand house across the way, situated in a handsome park on top of the rise.
Elisabeth stood beside him, eying Bell Hill and the estate that bore its name. The Scotch pines were an impressive size. An old property, then, with the mansion well hidden behind the trees. She caught a few glimpses of gray whinstone walls, of windows dressed in red sandstone, of gardens and orchards stretched behind the house. For a moment she thought she saw a gentleman on horseback trotting round the corner of the mansion, though he might have been a groom exercising the admiral’s horses.
The faint sound of the kirk bell ringing in the distance sent Peter scrambling to the ground. “Time to go, Mrs. Kerr!” He grabbed her hand and abruptly took off down the hill.
She nearly tripped trying to keep up with him. “So soon? Surely it isn’t time for your evening meal.” Elisabeth thought Michael and Peter supped later, not at six o’ the clock.
“Come on!” Peter cried, already breathless from dragging her along. “Faither said I was to start doon the hill whan the kirk bell rang.”
On the fourteenth of May, when the gloaming stretched past nine o’ the clock, there was no need to hurry. Yet Peter seemed most determined. Elisabeth let him escort her to town posthaste, vowing to climb Bell Hill again as soon as ever she could.
When they finally reached School Close, she started to turn left, but Peter shook his head. “Nae, I’m to take ye hame.”
She smiled, realizing Michael must be teaching his son proper etiquette. “May I take your arm, then, as a lady should?” Tall as she was, this was no easy feat. Elisabeth bent forward, her hand circling the upper part of his arm, and tried to walk naturally. “Well done, Master Dalgliesh,” she said when they entered Halliwell’s Close.
The last thing Elisabeth expected when she pushed open the door was to find their stair lined with people. “What has happened?” she cried, fearing the worst.
Then she saw Marjory beaming at her from the top landing.
And their neighbors welcoming her.
And Mr. Tait lifting his cup of cheer. “ ’Tis the leddy with the birthday!”
Twenty-One
My birthday!—what a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears.
THOMAS MOORE
verwhelmed, Elisabeth picked her way up the steps, aiming for Marjory. “You … remembered.”
Marjory reached for her hands, then pulled her into a tight embrace. “After all you’ve done for us, dear Bess, how could we forget?” She released her with a tender squeeze, then guided her into the house while Peter darted round them, no doubt looking for his father.
The house was even more crowded than the stair. A cup of punch was pressed into her hands, then Elisabeth was led to the dining table, laden with savory pigeon pies, oat puddings, apple tarts, and plum cakes. “Marjory, how did you manage this?”
Her mother-in-law swept her hand above the serving plates with a flourish. “Annie helped, of course. Whenever you quit the house for an hour or two, we baked something at Mrs. Tait’s hearth and stored it in her larder.”
“So I see.” Elisabeth shook her head, both delighted and dismayed. “But the cost—”
“Wheesht!” Anne scolded her, touching her index finger to her lips. “You have Gibson to thank for that.”
Only then did Elisabeth see their old friend standing by the hearth. When she signaled him, Gibson bowed his way past the throng and joined her beside the table. “How may I serve ye, Leddy Kerr?” he asked, a gleam in his eye.
“It seems you’ve already served me.” Elisabeth kissed his cheek, making him blush. “Thank you, Gibson.”
His shrug was gallant. “A leddy celebrates her first quarter century but once.”
By the snippets of conversation she heard, her age was barely a topic of discussion. Instead, fresh rumors concerning the admiral were on the tips of their tongues. What day would he reach Selkirk? By carriage or astride? With an entourage or alone? Wearing an admiral’s uniform or a riding habit?