Mine Is the Night (38 page)

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!”

lease, Lord. Please help me find him
.

Elisabeth retraced her steps, struggling to catch her breath. “Peter Dalgliesh!” she cried, knowing the lad would never hear her, no matter how loudly she called his name. The marketplace was too noisy, too congested. In the sea of faces, she saw only strangers.

“Peter, where are you?” she moaned, bending down, fixing her gaze a few feet above the ground, desperately looking for a red-headed boy in a muslin shirt and brown waistcoat. All she could think about was how frightened he must be.
Oh, Peter. I’m so sorry
.

She felt physically ill, her stomach in knots. Had he returned to the sheep market? Run down Shaw’s Close, curious what he might find in the narrow passageway? Or had a stranger beckoned him to follow?

When she heard a child crying, Elisabeth elbowed her way through the milling crowd, more concerned with haste than politeness. “Peter? Peter, is that you?” A moment later she reached the sobbing lad. He was the same age and size, but, alas, he was not Peter.

His mother, holding him firmly by the hand, jutted out her chin. “Have ye lost yer
bairn
?”

“He’s run off,” Elisabeth confessed. “Perhaps you’ve seen him? Bright red hair and blue eyes.”

“Och! Ye’ll find plenty o’ lads here what fits that.”

“Aye,” Elisabeth said, fighting tears.

“Noo, lass, dinna
greet.
” Compassion softened the woman’s features. “He’ll not have gane far. And he’ll be leuking for ye as weel. A bairn aye finds its mither.”

But I am not his mother. Jenny would never have let go
.

Heartsick, Elisabeth pressed on, searching up and down Water Row. Whenever she saw a familiar face from the neighborhood, she hurried to the person’s side and asked the same frantic question. “Have you seen little Peter Dalgliesh?”

The answer was always the same: “Nae, Mrs. Kerr.”

Distraught, she stood near a display of fleeces and skins and bowed her head, pleading for divine intervention.
Help me, Lord. Please
. No wonder the Almighty had never entrusted her with a child of her own. How could she have been so careless? How could she have let him slip away?

Then from high above her, a small, excited voice crowed, “I found her!”

Elisabeth’s head lifted as quickly as her spirits. “Peter?”

Here he came, riding on his father’s shoulders, his legs draped round the tailor’s neck, his wee hands clutching Michael’s larger ones.

She hurried up to them, awash with relief. “Wherever have you been, lad?”

“Whaur have
ye
been is mair like it,” Michael admonished her, giving his son a playful bounce. “Peter spied Annie and me in the crowd, ran o’er to see us, then turned back and couldna find ye. Och, he felt terrible. Made me carry him about ’til we spotted ye. And so we have.”

“Oh, so
I
was the one who was lost.” Elisabeth reached up and patted the lad’s chubby leg. “I’m sorry I gave you a scare, Peter.”

“Next time I’ll not let ye go,” the boy promised.

Anne tapped the brim of Elisabeth’s straw bonnet. “Tall as you are, Bess, we could add a peacock feather to your hat and never lose sight of you.”

“A fine idea,” she agreed, though the way Anne and Michael had locked gazes, keeping an eye on her was clearly the last thing on their minds. “Suppose Peter and I resume our walk,” Elisabeth offered, “and let the two of you enjoy the fair.”

“Nae,” Anne said abruptly, stepping away from Michael’s side. “I would take a turn round the marketplace with you, Bess, if you’ll not mind.” She claimed Elisabeth’s arm, then told Michael, “Kindly meet us at the mercat cross in a quarter hour.”

“Verra weel, Annie.” If his feelings were hurt, Michael didn’t show it as he strolled off with Peter riding high above the crowd.

The women, meanwhile, started toward the souters’ market stalls, filled with rows of shoes in various sizes, left and right shaped just the same. Elisabeth said playfully, “Is it leather or brocade you’re wanting, Cousin?”

“You know very well what I want,” Anne said, drawing closer, lest the two be jostled apart and their conversation interrupted. “A future with the man I love.”

Elisabeth saw at once how serious she was and lost the teasing note in her voice. “Has Michael broached the subject?”

Anne shrugged. “He’s confessed his affection for me. But the word
marriage
has yet to fall from his lips.”

Elisabeth studied the faint lines along her cousin’s brow, the hint of sadness in her eyes. “Are you afraid it never will?”

Anne looked up. “Aye. He seems content to simply court me, but we’re both too old for that.” As Peter and his father faded from view, Anne scuffed her toe across the cobblestones, her expression troubled. “This I know: Peter needs a mother. And if I hope to bear a child of my own, I cannot wait much longer. Before year’s end I’ll be seven-and-thirty.”

Elisabeth said without hesitation, “Then you must propose to Michael.”

“Bess!” A flush of color filled her cheeks. “I could never do such a thing.”

“Aye, you could.” She stepped closer so no one might overhear them. “He loves you, Annie. A wee nudge and the man will fall like Peter’s tower of wooden blocks.”

Her cousin began to wring her hands. “ ’Tis very bold.”

“Indeed.” Elisabeth tipped her head. “Do you honestly think he’ll refuse you?”

“Nae.” Anne ceased her fidgeting at once. “I think he might be …”

“Relieved,” Elisabeth said for her, and they both laughed. “Michael is waiting for you at the mercat cross. A perfect place to announce your intentions. If not to the whole town, at least to your beloved.”

Her face filled with resolve, Anne pulled her along. “Come with me so I do not lose my nerve.”

Two women on a mission, they ducked round pie sellers, fishwives, street hawkers, and tinkers, their gazes fixed on the upraised pillar at the center of the marketplace, where Michael stood waiting for them, scanning the crowd. As her cousin’s footsteps quickened, so did Elisabeth’s heart.
Say yes, Michael. Say yes!

The moment Michael lowered Peter to the ground, the boy ran into Anne’s open arms. “I saw ye from a lang way aff!” he boasted.

“I’ve had my eye on you as well,” Anne murmured, lifting him into her embrace, his little legs wrapped round her waist, his arms circling her neck.

Elisabeth smiled down at them, tears stinging her eyes.
Dear, dear Peter
.

“So.” Michael folded his arms across his chest. “If ye dinna mind me asking, what have the two o’ ye been about?”

Anne shifted Peter onto her hip, then looked up, her eyes clear, her countenance an open book. “Sir, have you plans for the last day of August?”

“The
what
?” Michael’s exaggerated frown made them all laugh. “D’ye think I carry a calendar on my person, lass?”

“ ’Tis three weeks hence,” she told him. “Enough time to have the banns read each Sabbath and plan a wee wedding at the kirk.”

His ruddy skin darkened. “And wha
micht
be getting married?”

She slowly lowered Peter to the ground. “A couple that deserves a bit of happiness.”

His voice was low. “What are ye saying, Annie?”

“I am saying I love you, Michael Dalgliesh.” She lifted her face to his, her hands still resting on Peter’s shoulders. “And I want to be your wife.”

Elisabeth knew she should turn her attention to the mercat cross, the blue
summer sky, the bustling crowd—anything to give the couple a moment’s privacy. But she could not tear her gaze away from the tender scene before her as a broad grin stretched across Michael’s bright, freckled face.

“Then I’d best marry ye,” he said, “for ye ken I luve ye, Annie Kerr.” He bent down and kissed her right there in the marketplace while Peter stood between them, looking up, his eyes filled with wonder.

“Will Annie be my mither?” the lad asked, tugging on his father’s sleeve.

“Aye, she will,” Michael said firmly, kissing her once more. “And there’ll be no calling her Annie from noo on.”

Anne smoothed Peter’s hair, her hand visibly shaking. “Are you certain of this?”

Michael nodded emphatically. “ ’Tis what Jenny would want. And what I want.”

Anne glanced at Elisabeth, then said, “You’re not offended? That I did the asking?”

“Nae, lass.” Michael flung his arm round her shoulder and pulled her to his side. “Honored is what I am.” He eyed Elisabeth. “I’ll jalouse yer cousin is the one wha gave ye the courage.”

“Perhaps,” Anne agreed, “but
I
had to say the words.”

“So ye did, lass.” He brushed a kiss across the top of her head and winked at Elisabeth. “So ye did.”

arjory tarried outside Anne’s door in Halliwell’s Close, grateful for the cool respite from the day’s heat and even more pleased to have Gibson’s warm hand in hers, discreetly hidden from view. After a few hours she’d had quite enough of the fair, though she never tired of having Gibson by her side.

“You will join us for supper?” she asked him.

“Nae,” Gibson said blithely, “for I’ve anither widow keen for my company this eve.”

She arched her brows, going along with his ploy. “And who might that be?”

“Mrs. Scott.” Only the twinkle in his eye gave him away. “Mind, the leddy
is
a bit lang in the tooth.”