Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,42
their wild speculations amusing. “Our neighbors have come not to toast my birthday but to deal in gossip,” she said, shaking her head before drawing her loved ones closer. “As for you three, I know better. You have done this to bless me, and indeed you have.”
Gibson raised his eyebrows. “ ’Tis not ower yet.”
“Aye,” Anne agreed, her pale face glowing, “there are presents to be opened.”
“We shall save those for later,” Marjory insisted, “when our neighbors have gone home to their suppers. Come, Bess, and welcome your guests.”
Elisabeth wove through the crowd of well-wishers, greeting each one. Though she could not recite all their names by heart, she knew their faces and was beginning to put husband with wife, mother with child, sweetheart with sweetheart.
At last she spied Michael Dalgliesh standing by the window, holding court. Several young women were circled round him, laughing as he told one of his colorful tales. “Glad tidings to ye, Mrs. Kerr,” he said when he caught sight of her, then lifted his cup. His expression was positively smug.
By the time Elisabeth reached him, she had Michael all to herself, the others having momentarily deserted him for the punch bowl.
“I suppose your task was to keep me away from the house,” she began, trying unsuccessfully to sound miffed. “What of that gentleman’s coat you needed to finish?”
He laughed. “ ’Tis done. Tell me, did ye have a bonny afternoon with my lad?”
“I certainly did.” Elisabeth looked across the room at Peter, who’d apparently visited the plates of sweets more than once and was now covered in sugary crumbs.
“Faither!” Peter cried, dragging Anne in their direction. “Here’s a sweetie for ye.”
Michael looked up just as a blushing Anne thrust a small tart into his hands. “Verra kind o’ ye, Miss Kerr,” he said, then popped the apple tart into his mouth without ceremony.
Anne seemed intent on studying her shoes. “It was Peter’s idea,” she murmured.
“I’ve nae doubt.” Michael tugged on his son’s ear. “Can ye find me anither, lad?”
The moment Peter took off, Michael apologized to Anne in a low voice. “Dinna fash yerself, lass. We’ve been freens a’ oor lives, have we not? If ye bring me a sweetie, none will think ill o’ ye.”
When Anne slowly raised her head, Elisabeth saw something travel between them as quick as a flash of lightning in the summer sky. We attended school together. It seemed a great deal more had been left unsaid.
Elisabeth stepped back, feeling like an intruder.
When Peter dashed past her, tart in hand, she sought an empty chair, needing a moment to recover. The heat of the room, she told herself. The press of bodies. The noisy chatter.
Gibson appeared a moment later, bearing a steaming cup of tea. “Drink up, Leddy Kerr, for ye have a dwiny leuk about ye.”
Elisabeth murmured her thanks, then quickly lifted the wooden cup to her lips, consoling herself with the knowledge that she’d not lost her heart. To Peter, perhaps, but not to Michael.
She managed to compose her features by the time Gibson brought Marjory and Anne to her side. “Oor birthday leddy has had enough merriment,” Gibson told them. “ ’Tis time for folk to find their way hame.”
All three women sat round the table and watched Gibson herd their neighbors out the door with efficiency and decorum. “Here’s a wee pie to take with ye,” he said to one man, nudging him forward, and, “Mind the stair as ye go,” he cautioned another.
An hour later candles were lit to dispel the evening gloom, and the house was quiet again, with only the Kerr women and Gibson remaining. Michael had been the last to leave, tarrying at the door, sending folk off with a jovial word or a hearty slap on the shoulder, while Peter drooped about his father’s knees, ready for his supper and a warm bed. Finally Michael carried him off, bidding the Kerrs a good night.
Elisabeth did not follow them with her gaze nor let her thoughts dwell on wee Peter. The lad needed a mother, aye, yet it seemed the Lord had another woman in mind. If ’twas Anne, was that not the best of outcomes?
“Time for yer praisents,” Gibson said, grinning as he rubbed his hands together.
Determined to enjoy the balance of her birthday celebration, Elisabeth sat in the upholstered chair where she slept each night, accustomed to its contours and the feel of the fabric against her cheek. Whenever Marjory or Anne suggested they find some other solution—a mattress