The Gift

by Mary Edward

‘My brother has taken leave of his senses.’

Betty’s husband, Archibald Peterson, raised his eyes from the letter he was reading aloud. ‘I haven’t finished yet, my dear.’ His wire-rimmed spectacles slipped down over the hook of his nose. ‘There’s more.’

His wife threw down her sewing. ‘I don’t care to hear any more.’ She pulled a lace handkerchief from the neck of her gown and dabbed her forehead. ‘William’s mind has cracked. A black girl, indeed!’

Archibald read the rest of the letter in silence while Betty paced the floor, fanning herself with the little piece of lace.

She paused at the window.

Below a man was whipping his horse, which snickered and stamped on the cobbles. It was a cold, cold day in January but Trongate, the busiest thoroughfare in Glasgow, throbbed with activity. Merchants haggled on the broad pavement, their breath clouding in the freezing air; an incompetent juggler performed with little chance of reward from his jeering audience, and a few ladies of doubtful character shivered on the corner. There was even a recruiting sergeant, lurking against the wall of the church, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting lad who came too close. A couple of dragoons fell out of the inn and staggered towards the women.

Betty scrutinised the faces below. Dirty urchins aplenty, but not one black African.

Janet Colhoun came into the parlour. ‘What is all the fuss, Betty? Sarah and I could hear you in the kitchen.’

Archibald raised a hand to stem the outburst he could see trembling on his wife’s lips. He gave the much-folded paper to Janet. ‘It is a letter from your brother. From Africa - his ship was in Sierra Leone. It has been some time reaching us - it is dated October 1775.’

Janet took the page, ‘From William? Is he coming home?’ She read, her mouth moving silently, hesitating over words trapped in the folds of the parchment. Her eyes widened as she absorbed the contents of the letter. When she finished, she looked from her sister to her brother-in-law, then peered at the writing again, as if the lines might have melted away.