Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,78
into society for all the Kerr women. A chance to begin anew.
Her heart light, she surveyed the crowded marketplace. Folk had begun gathering just after the midsummer dawn, bedecked in their brightest and best, reserved for weddings and fairs. Colored ribbons streamed from their hats, and the large cockades worn on their coats declared their allegiance to one of the trades. Anne stood on one side of her and Elisabeth on the other, both happy to be free of their needles and pins for the occasion. Only innkeepers and ale sellers were hard at work this day. The rest of Selkirk left their cares behind, prepared to observe the Common Riding.
Though the air was cool, the June sun would warm them soon enough. So would the press of bodies. Marjory reached for the nosegay of roses tucked in her bodice and breathed in their fresh scent—gifts from Lord Buchanan’s garden, provided for each of the Kerr women. Such a generous man. And to think she’d once dreaded his move to Selkirk! By noontide he would be dining at their table. She’d left everything simmering, baking, and stewing and so needed to return home shortly. For a few minutes at least, she could enjoy the day.
“Look, ’tis Molly Easton.” Elisabeth nodded toward a lass dressed in a sunny yellow gown. “She once told me June was her favorite month because of the Riding.”
“Mine too,” Marjory confessed. “A shame she didn’t find work at Bell Hill.”
“Whitmuir Hall needed a parlormaid, so she’s well placed.” Elisabeth shifted her attention, looking up Kirk Wynd. “When shall we see the riders?”
“Soon,” Anne promised.
Marjory heard the drummers growing restless and the fiddlers tuning their strings. Not much longer now. What began centuries ago with the town burgesses riding the marches—seeing that property boundaries were observed and common lands were not encroached upon—had become an annual summer rite, complete with flags and banners, parades and song.
“There’s the reverend,” Anne said, nodding toward the corner where Kirk Wynd and Cross Gait met.
Marjory followed her gaze, knowing why Anne had pointed out the minister: Gibson was standing beside him. Although not so tall as his employer, Gibson nonetheless had better posture and a far more pleasing countenance. While the reverend’s attention was drawn elsewhere, Gibson lifted his hand in greeting.
I care mair than ye ken. Marjory shivered, recalling his words, not entirely certain of his meaning. He was no longer her manservant, but he was still in service.
And what are you, Marjory Kerr? She well knew the answer: an ill-trained, unpaid cook. That a brave and honest man the likes of Neil Gibson might harbor some affection for her was a blessing and nothing short of it.
“ ’Tis the admiral!” Elisabeth cried, standing on tiptoe.
Dozens of heads turned in the same direction, including Marjory’s. Gibson’s too, she noticed.
Coming down Kirk Wynd on a handsome gray thoroughbred, Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan cut a dashing figure. His elegant powdered wig suited his rank, and his tricorne fit like a crown. The dark blue coat flared round his knees, eclipsed only by the rich scarlet waistcoat beneath it. Anne was no doubt enraptured by the froth of lace round his neck and sleeves, but it was the braided trim that stole Marjory’s breath. Every pocket, every buttonhole, and every hem was edged in thick gold braid.
Someone shouted over the crowd, making the admiral’s horse grow skittish, forcing his lordship to calm the animal. When he rode by without so much as a glance in their direction. Marjory was more than a little miffed. Might the admiral not at least have looked toward Halliwell’s Close?
“Here come the hammer men to start the parade,” Anne said.
Marjory’s irritation quickly gave way as she watched the burgesses and landowners convene on horseback while the freemen, journeymen, and apprentices of the trade guilds mustered in a designated order, swords held high, flags proudly displayed. Since each guild had its own song, the music was deafening, with drums, pipes, trumpets, flutes, and a host of fiddlers.
The men who worked with hammers—masons, blacksmiths, coopers, and wrights—marched off first. Then came the pride of Selkirk—the souters—a loud and boisterous company of shoemakers. When the weavers marched by, plaids draped over their shoulders and kilted round their waists, Elisabeth sighed. “How my father would have loved this.”
Among the tailors, Michael and Peter Dalgliesh were easy to spot with their crimson heads and bright smiles. Anne gave everyone round them a start, loudly calling out to Peter, who waved back with bright-eyed