Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Eight

Came but for friendship,

and took away love.

THOMAS MOORE



lisabeth gazed down at the flood of strangers pouring into Selkirk and imagined eight days of eating and drinking, bartering and trading, dancing and merrymaking. Lord Jack was right: they could hardly miss the fair with its colorful sights, pungent smells, and riotous sounds hovering over the town like a low bank of thunderclouds, charging the air with electricity.

Anne joined her at the window, her shoulder pressing against Elisabeth’s arm. “The town council threw open the ports at dawn and will not close them again ’til Monday next.”

“However will we sleep at night?” Elisabeth wondered.

“With the windows closed,” Marjory said firmly, “and wool in our ears.” Standing at the hearth, she neatly turned over a barley bannock, despite working with a hot girdle and a thin cake the size of a dinner plate.

“I’ll not mind the wool,” Anne agreed, “but ’tis too warm for closed windows.”

Elisabeth moved toward the washstand and away from the fire. She was already overheated, and the August day had barely begun. They’d not don their gowns until absolutely necessary—one of the advantages of living in a house with three women. Stays, chemises, stockings, and shoes were covering enough for the moment.

As she splashed cool water on her face, Elisabeth thought of Lord Jack doing the same in some sparkling Highland burn. He’d already been gone a full week, though it seemed even longer. Bell Hill felt empty without him. So did the kirk yesterday morning. Elisabeth tried not to speak of him, lest someone misunderstand. They were simply friends. Good friends. Very good friends.

The same could not be said of Cousin Anne and Michael Dalgliesh, who’d traded friendship for courtship nearly two months past. Michael came calling most evenings, bringing Peter along with a treat from the market to add to their supper. A new spice. Honey in a clay jar. A handful of carrots. Five juicy plums. Marjory seemed pleased to have a man at their table and a boy even more so. Peter had grown at least an inch since they’d arrived in Selkirk and would attend the parish school in the fall, just down the close from his father’s shop.

Elisabeth looked at Anne pulling out her lace making supplies, her small hands and nimble fingers well suited to the work. Since Michael had begun to court her, a smile was seldom far from Anne’s lips. Michael already grinned round the clock, but the heated look in his eyes whenever he took Anne’s hand was enough to make Elisabeth blush and turn her head.

Whatever was the man waiting for? Michael was already a successful tailor, and Anne would make him more so. His son adored her, and the lodgings over their shop could easily accommodate another. Elisabeth could think of no impediment to marriage, save one: Michael was afraid of losing a second wife and of Peter’s losing a second mother. Elisabeth could not fault the man for his caution. But she could pray.

Let him trust in you, Lord. Let him take a leap of faith.

She smiled, looking across the room at Anne, thinking of them together, certain they were meant for each other. In her heart of hearts, Elisabeth felt only joy and not an ounce of envy. Well, perhaps a tiny bit when it came to Peter. What a charming companion he would be at the fair! If she asked nicely, the wee lad might let her hold his hand again.

“Breakfast,” Marjory sang out, pouring three steaming cups of tea.

The women were soon seated at table, enjoying warm bannocks with Michael’s gift of honey, fresh from the comb.

“When shall we venture out?” Marjory wanted to know.

“The earlier the better,” Anne insisted. “As the day goes on and the whisky flows, ’tis a less sanguine place for a woman on her own.”

“But we’ll not be alone,” Elisabeth reminded her. “The Dalgliesh men will see that we’re safe.”

Anne winked at her over her teacup. “Too bad a certain admiral is away. There’s not a man in Selkirkshire, or any county round, who would challenge Lord Buchanan.”

Elisabeth couldn’t agree more and said absolutely nothing.

“Odd,” Marjory mused, “that the sheriff is off hunting in the Highlands during Saint Lawrence Fair. Should he not be here keeping the peace?”

“ ’Tis not necessary,” Anne replied as she folded her bannock with care, honey trickling over her fingers. Between dainty bites she explained the rules of the fair. “There are no restrictions on who can trade, and no one is to be arrested, except for some terrible crime, which never happens with so many witnesses.”

Elisabeth glanced toward the window, sensing the size of the crowd swelling. “Those are the only rules?”

Anne laughed. “It is rather carefree. One year the fair was canceled, when the plague struck in June, but that was more than a century ago. In my lifetime it’s been a grand place to meet folk from neighboring counties. Our fair is proclaimed from all the mercat crosses round. Hawick, Jedburgh, Kelso, Melrose, even as far away as Linlithgow.” She downed the last of her tea and stood. “I, for one, am getting dressed.”

Elisabeth and Marjory followed her lead, grateful for the light fabric of their gowns on so warm a day. The house was tidied and the table scrubbed before Michael came knocking at ten o’ the clock.

“Leuk!” Peter cried, holding up a wooden pinwheel that spun round while he circled the room as fast as his little legs would carry him.

“Easy noo.” Michael scooped up the boy and tucked him under his arm. “ ’Tis meant for a hill, lad. Not for a hoose.”

Undaunted, Peter held out his new toy so the Kerr women could inspect it. “ ’Tis from the chapman on the corner,” he said with pride.

Elisabeth dutifully looked it over, admiring the wooden stick, the tiny pin, and the curls of stout paper that made it whirl. “If you carry this in one hand, Peter, I wonder if I might hold the other?”

His little features quickly knitted into a frown. “But what about Annie? Wha’ll hold her hand?”

Michael parked him on his feet. “I think I can manage it, lad.” He took Anne’s hand in his to prove it.

“I suppose I’ll hold no one’s hand,” Marjory said with a dramatic sniff.

Elisabeth knew better. On the first day of the fair, Gibson would have the morning free. If he did not appear on their threshold before they left, Marjory would beat a path to the manse and coax him out. Elisabeth was not at all surprised a few minutes later when they walked to the end of Halliwell’s Close and found Gibson heading in their direction.

“ ’Tis every couple for themselves,” Anne declared, as they were swept into the throng.

Elisabeth bent down to be certain Peter heard her clearly. “Promise you will not let go of my hand?”

“I’ll be guid!” he said, nodding emphatically, then pulled her toward the chapmen’s stalls for another look at the toys.

Elisabeth had expected Saint Lawrence Fair to be a larger version of their market day. But it was far more than that. Booths stretched down every street, including Back Row, with bright flags advertising the wares sold at each stall. Woolen and linen cloth in stacks taller than even Lord Jack beckoned for Elisabeth’s silver shillings. But she’d not part with them easily with three mouths to feed and rent to help pay. Saint Andrew’s Day, her last in the admiral’s employ, had seemed a long way off in May. Not so now.

The meal sellers came next, with ground oats, barley, and wheat. She’d planned to do some shopping but hadn’t thought to bring a basket. When she turned toward the house and considered carrying back each purchase, Elisabeth realized how foolish that would be. She could not see the mouth of the close, let alone reach it without weaving through the masses. On the morrow she would shop. Today she and Peter would play.

“What do you want to see next?” she asked him when he finally tired of the chapmen’s stalls with their many temptations.

“Swords!” he exclaimed at once, pulling her along Cross Gait, holding up his pinwheel like a standard bearer marching into battle.

Elisabeth followed him, hanging on to his hand as tightly as she could without crushing his little fingers. At the weaponry stall his eyes grew round at the basket-hilted swords, the studded targes, and the slender dirks. She was glad his hands were occupied, lest he touch one of the sharp blades and cut himself. “Might we look at the saddlery next?” she asked, deciding leather was a safer choice than steel.

His interest in saddles and harnesses quickly waned until she reminded him that such things were used on horses. “And they have those for sale here too.”

“Och! Can we leuk?”

Down Water Row they went, the street almost unrecognizable with so many merchants selling their goods. At Shaw’s Close the wooden stalls gave way to horses, cattle, and sheep with all the neighing, lowing, and bleating a boy could hope for. “Watch where you step,” Elisabeth warned him, clutching her skirts in one hand.

Peter touched each animal that would let him near, marveling at the velvety sleekness of the horses, the large eyes blinking at him as he studied the cows, the thick, off-white wool of the sheep.

“They’re Cheviots,” Elisabeth told him, recognizing their broad, white faces. “A fine breed for weaving.”

The barrel-chested seller lifted his eyebrows appreciatively. “You know something of sheep breeding, madam?”

“My father was a weaver,” Elisabeth explained, “and very particular about his wool.”

“The fleece of a Cheviot is superior for plaids,” he agreed, “though the Dartmoor and Leicester breeds have much to recommend them.”

As he waxed on about the merits of one breed compared to another, Elisabeth nodded politely, all the while looking for a graceful means of escape. Only then did she realize Peter’s hand was no longer in hers. She quickly spun round. “Peter?”

Though a few heads turned, none of them belonged to a little red-haired boy.

“Peter?” She cried louder this time, trying to lift her voice above the din. “Peter Dalgliesh!”

But his cheerful little voice did not respond.

Her heart beginning to pound, Elisabeth started toward the East Port, thinking he might have been drawn to the ringing anvils and glowing forges farther down Water Row. She ignored all the adults and looked only at the children. But there were so many of them! “Red hair, red hair,” she reminded herself under her breath, trying not to panic, trying not to imagine the worst.

She kept calling his name, pushing her way through the crowd. When she reached the fiery hot forges, Elisabeth was certain she’d guessed wrongly. He must have gone back toward the marketplace. Toward the fleshers with their lethal knives. Toward the shoemakers with their sharp awls. Toward the swords and the dirks that he’d desperately wanted to touch.

“Peter!” She was screaming now, not caring what people thought of her. Caring only about a little boy who’d slipped from her grasp. “Peter!”