Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,3
men in ragged clothes trudged by, walking sticks in hand, dogs at their heels. They glanced in the carriage windows long enough to satisfy their curiosity but didn’t acknowledge the Kerrs, only plodded forward.
“Gibson climbed the steep streets of Edinburgh many times a day,” Elisabeth reminded her. “We’ll find him drinking tea at Cousin Anne’s table. I’m certain of it.”
But Marjory was not at all certain.
Doubts and fears she’d held at bay the whole of their journey suddenly overwhelmed her. What if Anne had turned Gibson away at the door, unwilling to shelter her tainted relatives? What if she’d married after all these years and moved to a different house in town? Or what if—heaven forbid—Anne no longer resided in Selkirkshire?
Nae, nae, nae. Fretting accomplished nothing, Marjory reminded herself. Had she not learned that by now? Determined to put on a brave front, she focused her attention on the changing scenery. “Once through the East Port, we’ll not travel far before we reach the marketplace and Halliwell’s Close.”
Her daughter-in-law inched forward, gripping her seat. “I do hope Anne will be happy to see us.”
“Aye.” Marjory swallowed. Let Gibson be there. Let Anne be home. Let all be well. She sent forth her prayers like winged messengers as she peered ahead through the mist and gloom.
A moment later the coach gingerly maneuvered through the town gate and onto Water Row. Both sides of the main thoroughfare were crowded with houses and shops, just as Marjory remembered. She could still make out the Borderland names painted over each lintel. Tait. Shaw. Elliot. Murray. Scott. Anderson.
Clasping the edge of the open window, she pulled herself closer, each familiar landmark tugging at her heart. Mr. Fletcher, the cabinetmaker, lived in a whitewashed cottage hard by the road. Mr. Fairbairn, the merchant, sold his goods beneath a canvas awning not a stone’s throw from their carriage wheels.
Unbidden, a distant memory swept over her. Two fair-haired, blue-eyed lads skipping up Water Row, singing out the various trades in a kind of rhyme: Cooper, souter, tanner, sawyer, dyer, spinner, potter, saddler. Donald, with his long legs and slender frame, leading the way. Andrew, smaller and frailer, trying his best to keep up.
Had it not always been thus, even to the very end?
My beloved Donald. My precious Andrew.
“Oh, Bess.” Marjory sank against the window. “I never …” Her voice broke. “I never imagined I’d return home without my family.”
Three
Fear not for the future,
weep not for the past.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
lisabeth drew her mother-in-law into a gentle embrace. “I know ’tis hard,” she whispered, holding Marjory close. “I know.” Other words of consolation leaped to mind and were discarded. A fine husband lost and then two sons? Only the Almighty could heal so deep a wound.
But you’ve traveled all this way with her, Bess. Are you not her family too?
Elisabeth dismissed her petty complaint before it took root. ’Tis my duty. And my calling. And my joy. She’d spoken those words to Marjory on Thursday morning and meant them with all her heart. Now she had to prove it.
When the carriage bounced in and out of a deep rut, jarring them apart, Elisabeth released her with a firm squeeze. “Our hardest days are behind us, dear Marjory. We’re home. And Gibson is waiting for us.”
Her mother-in-law nodded, though her troubled expression remained.
The carriage slowed. “Selkirk!” Mr. Dewar called out and eased the horses to a stop.
Her heart pounding beneath her stays, Elisabeth quickly gathered their few belongings—her silk reticule, a small book of poetry, Marjory’s linen handkerchiefs—and followed her mother-in-law through the carriage door.
“Not monie folk about the toun this Sabbath eve,” Mr. Dewar observed, helping them step down.
Marjory tightened her cape round her neck. “Have you the time, sir?”
He made a great show of pulling a silver watch from his pocket, the engraved case reflecting the light from his coach lantern. “Just past eight o’ the clock, mem. I meant to reach Selkirk afore this, but”—he shrugged his rounded shoulders—“I didna count on three days o’ bad weather or a broken carriage wheel.”
“Or a party of dragoons,” Marjory said dryly.
Elisabeth walked in a slow circle, assessing her new home. The marketplace was indeed deserted. Vendor stalls were locked and windows shuttered for the night. The ancient mercat cross was a smaller version of the proud pillar that stood in the midst of Edinburgh’s High Street, marking the spot where meat and meal were sold and important events proclaimed.
Two widows are newly arrived from the capital. Elisabeth was certain no