the crowd.
The throng grew louder when they reached the Lawnmarket, an expanse as wide as the High Street. Tall lands towered six stories above them, with wooden booths in the first-floor arcades, shuttered for the Sabbath. Seeing an array of muskets poking their steel noses above the crowd, Donald guided Susan toward the head of the West Bow. A precipitous street, shaped like the letter Z, the West Bow was lined with quaint, gabled houses and connected the high, broad Lawnmarket to the broader Grassmarket below.
The youthful Volunteers stood about in haphazard fashion, weapons in hand, while mothers, wives, sisters, and friends hung on their coatsleeves, begging the lads to reconsider. “Willie, ye canna go!” one older woman pleaded, while a young lass wept copious tears. “Brither , if the Hielanders take ye, ye’re a deid man.”
With similar laments filling the air like chimney smoke, Donald leaned down to ask Susan, “Are you here to convince Jamie not to march?”
“On the contrary.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am here to wish him Godspeed. No son of mine will dishonor his father’s name with a show of cowardice.”
Again Donald felt the sting of her words.
“Look!” she cried, surging forward, dragging him with her. “’Tis my Jamie.”
Donald spotted her son, just as she’d described him. Handsome as his mother was beautiful, Jamie McGill stood apart from the other recruits, with their sagging shoulders and frightened expressions. Jamie’s posture was straight, his jaw line firm, his weapon properly held. He was a fine-looking son, whom any father would gladly call his heir.
Father . Donald pulled Susan back, grinding his heels into the muck. “Tarry a moment, madam.”
She spun round, irritation sharpening her features. “What is it, Lord Kerr? Are you afraid Captain Drummond will strap a musket to your shoulder and force you to defend your country?”
Now Donald had his answer. She’d meant to wound him. Since he was the one who’d ended their weekly trysts, this was her subtle revenge, however unplanned.
“I have no fear of George Drummond,” he assured her evenly. “But I’d prefer to avoid an awkward encounter with your son. If by chance he—”
“Jamie was ten.” Susan released her grip on his arm. “I am the only one in my household who remembers your visits.”
By the look on her face, she intended to forget them. Forever.
“’Tis best if you leave me here,” she said, edging away from him. “I’d prefer not to introduce you to my son.”
“Then I bid you farewell.” Donald offered her a deep bow and turned on his heel lest she notice his heated countenance. No woman had ever trampled his pride so thoroughly. Nor so deservedly.
Eight
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!
MARY TIGHE
E lisabeth could not ignore the mounting clamor from the street below. Fear lodged itself in her throat like a pinch of stale cake. No matter how firmly she swallowed, ’twould not move. Instinctively she clasped her wedding ring, slowly spinning it round her finger. Come home, Donald. ’Tis not safe in the street .
The Kerrs sat in a crescent near the glowing fire. A cold Sabbath dinner, prepared the past evening, awaited them on the dining table. Thin slices of mutton, hard cheese, smoked haddocks, a finely ground wheaten bread, and lemon tarts were all covered with linen until one o’ the clock.
When Janet drew her chair closer to Marjory’s, Elisabeth was reminded again of their uncanny resemblance, as if the two were mother and daughter, related by blood rather than by marriage. Except for a few touches of gray in Marjory’s auburn hair, the women mirrored each other in appearance, style, and manner. Wide-set hazel eyes. Pronounced noses and chins, both drawn to a point. Small mouths, gathered in a bow. And all the social graces of their class. No wonder Marjory favored her older daughter-in-law. In Janet, the dowager saw a
The throng grew louder when they reached the Lawnmarket, an expanse as wide as the High Street. Tall lands towered six stories above them, with wooden booths in the first-floor arcades, shuttered for the Sabbath. Seeing an array of muskets poking their steel noses above the crowd, Donald guided Susan toward the head of the West Bow. A precipitous street, shaped like the letter Z, the West Bow was lined with quaint, gabled houses and connected the high, broad Lawnmarket to the broader Grassmarket below.
The youthful Volunteers stood about in haphazard fashion, weapons in hand, while mothers, wives, sisters, and friends hung on their coatsleeves, begging the lads to reconsider. “Willie, ye canna go!” one older woman pleaded, while a young lass wept copious tears. “Brither , if the Hielanders take ye, ye’re a deid man.”
With similar laments filling the air like chimney smoke, Donald leaned down to ask Susan, “Are you here to convince Jamie not to march?”
“On the contrary.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am here to wish him Godspeed. No son of mine will dishonor his father’s name with a show of cowardice.”
Again Donald felt the sting of her words.
“Look!” she cried, surging forward, dragging him with her. “’Tis my Jamie.”
Donald spotted her son, just as she’d described him. Handsome as his mother was beautiful, Jamie McGill stood apart from the other recruits, with their sagging shoulders and frightened expressions. Jamie’s posture was straight, his jaw line firm, his weapon properly held. He was a fine-looking son, whom any father would gladly call his heir.
Father . Donald pulled Susan back, grinding his heels into the muck. “Tarry a moment, madam.”
She spun round, irritation sharpening her features. “What is it, Lord Kerr? Are you afraid Captain Drummond will strap a musket to your shoulder and force you to defend your country?”
Now Donald had his answer. She’d meant to wound him. Since he was the one who’d ended their weekly trysts, this was her subtle revenge, however unplanned.
“I have no fear of George Drummond,” he assured her evenly. “But I’d prefer to avoid an awkward encounter with your son. If by chance he—”
“Jamie was ten.” Susan released her grip on his arm. “I am the only one in my household who remembers your visits.”
By the look on her face, she intended to forget them. Forever.
“’Tis best if you leave me here,” she said, edging away from him. “I’d prefer not to introduce you to my son.”
“Then I bid you farewell.” Donald offered her a deep bow and turned on his heel lest she notice his heated countenance. No woman had ever trampled his pride so thoroughly. Nor so deservedly.
Eight
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!
MARY TIGHE
E lisabeth could not ignore the mounting clamor from the street below. Fear lodged itself in her throat like a pinch of stale cake. No matter how firmly she swallowed, ’twould not move. Instinctively she clasped her wedding ring, slowly spinning it round her finger. Come home, Donald. ’Tis not safe in the street .
The Kerrs sat in a crescent near the glowing fire. A cold Sabbath dinner, prepared the past evening, awaited them on the dining table. Thin slices of mutton, hard cheese, smoked haddocks, a finely ground wheaten bread, and lemon tarts were all covered with linen until one o’ the clock.
When Janet drew her chair closer to Marjory’s, Elisabeth was reminded again of their uncanny resemblance, as if the two were mother and daughter, related by blood rather than by marriage. Except for a few touches of gray in Marjory’s auburn hair, the women mirrored each other in appearance, style, and manner. Wide-set hazel eyes. Pronounced noses and chins, both drawn to a point. Small mouths, gathered in a bow. And all the social graces of their class. No wonder Marjory favored her older daughter-in-law. In Janet, the dowager saw a
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