Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,7
mouth. Once the heat and moisture from a steaming bowl of broth made the wood swell, it felt like a second tongue. She hastily put the spoon down, fearing she might retch.
“Is the broth not seasoned to your liking?” Anne asked. “Too much wild thyme, perhaps.”
“ ’Tis very flavorful,” Elisabeth said, though she edged the bowl of watery broth away from her. “I confess I am more tired than hungry.” Not precisely true. She was tired and hungry, but she could not bear to offend their cousin.
Anne turned to Marjory, a single candle on the table illuminating the younger woman’s sharp features. “This manservant of yours. He’s resourceful?”
“Aye, and brave,” Marjory answered, “though not in perfect health. Last winter he suffered from a fever and then a lingering cough.”
Elisabeth vividly recalled Marjory assessing Gibson’s fever—placing her hand on his brow, on his cheek, on his chest—her demeanor uncommonly tender, her hazel eyes filled with warm regard for the man who’d so faithfully served their family.
“Cousin,” Anne said firmly, “you must prepare yourself for the worst. An older servant, still recovering from an illness, traveling on foot in this chilly, rainy weather? Why, the man may never reach Selkirk.”
Marjory looked stricken. “Do not say such a thing! I’ve known Neil Gibson the whole of my married life and all through my widowhood as well.”
Elisabeth reached for her hand. “I’ve no doubt Gibson will arrive in a day or two or send word with a passing carriage.”
Marjory squeezed her fingers in response, saying nothing more.
When Anne stood and began gathering their woodenware, Elisabeth leaped up to help her, needing a distraction, wanting to be useful. The two knelt by the fire and washed the dishes with hot water and ragged scraps of linen, then spread out the wooden pieces to dry on the flagstone hearth.
“I’ve not far to go for water,” Anne said. “The Cross Well is in the marketplace, just beyond the mouth of Halliwell’s Close.”
Elisabeth was already on her feet. “I’ll draw some for the morn.”
“Oh, but, Cousin Elisabeth—”
“Bess,” she said, looking down at her. “Please call me ‘Bess.’ ”
“And I prefer ‘Annie,’ ” she said after a bit. “Still, I cannot have my guests—”
“We are hardly guests,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Distant relatives at best. We had no business arriving at your door unannounced, though I do not fault poor Gibson.”
“Nor I.” Anne glanced at Marjory, by now half asleep in one of the upholstered chairs. When Anne spoke again, her voice was low and taut. “I confess ’tis hard to shelter Lady Kerr beneath my roof. She … that is, Lord John …” Anne’s words faded into silence.
Elisabeth did not press the matter. Perhaps when they knew each other better. Perhaps when Anne trusted her.
“I shan’t be a moment,” Elisabeth said, then hurried down the stair and into the murky close, blinking until her eyes adjusted. A few more steps and she reached the marketplace, where the square wellhead stood, black as the night itself. She filled the slender-necked stoup in haste, shivering from the clammy mist that swirled round her skirts. Above her the moon and stars were lost behind the clouds, and the three streets that converged to form the triangular marketplace were all bathed in darkness.
Elisabeth looked up at the curtained windows of Anne’s house, a growing awareness pressing down on her. I should not have come. Anne could not possibly feed them from her paltry stores day after day. And her small house was not meant for three. If Marjory knew what awaited them here in Selkirk, little wonder she’d urged both her daughters-in-law to return to the Highlands.
Janet had honored Marjory’s request.
Alas, I did not.
With a heavy heart Elisabeth slipped back up the stair and found Anne waiting beside the enclosed box bed, with its wooden walls and woolen curtains.
“I’ve a hurlie bed stored underneath,” Anne told her, “but ’twill take two of us to trundle it about.”
After several minutes of tugging and pulling, Elisabeth and Anne managed to free the small hurlie bed from its confines, releasing a plume of dust. They wheeled it into the corner opposite Anne’s box bed and swept the mattress clean with a straw broom.
In most homes hurlie beds were meant for children. Or servants. Marjory stared in obvious dismay at the thin mattress stuffed with chaff and the rickety wooden wheels. “Are we expected to share this?”
Anne jerked her chin, a spark of anger in her eyes. “ ’Tis the only bed I have to offer you,