To Hunt A Husband (Lowland Romance Book 6) by Helen Susan Swift

Author:Helen Susan Swift [Swift, Helen Susan]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Liaison - A Next Chapter Imprint
Published: 2020-05-14T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

We stood by a bend in the River South Esk, hard by Trotter's Bridge, with a small cliff before us and a gravelly beach under our feet. The last leaves of autumn drifted down from the overhanging trees, to join their brown companions on the surface of the water.

“Is this the first time you have done this, Robyn?” Amy asked.

“It is,” I said. “I honestly don't believe in such superstitions.”

“Neither do I,” Amy said. “It was my grandmother's idea. She has some queer beliefs.”

“Old people often do,” I looked around at the surrounding trees. Some rustled in the decay of autumn. Others stretched stark branches to the uncaring sky. All seemed to be watching me.

“Grandmother told me that in her day, girls came to this bend in the river to see their future husbands.”

I shivered. “It's rather a strange place to come,” I said. “It's lonely.”

“That's the idea,” Amy said. “Nobody will disturb us. Grandmother said that when the new moon appears, we have to ask its help, and we'll see the reflection of our future husband in the water.”

For some reason, I shivered at the thought. The memory of these voices at Balantrodoch Church was suddenly very vivid. “That sounds like witchcraft to me.”

“It probably was witchcraft, knowing my grandmother,” Amy said. “She was the most witch-like person you could possibly conceive.”

Looking through the naked branches, I saw the faintest glint of light through a shroud of cloud. “The moon will appear soon. We'd best get ourselves ready.”

“Grandmother said we have to stand on that rock in the middle of the river.” Amy shone her lantern towards a flat slab of stone about three yards into the dark water.

“You go first,” I said. “I've been wet enough for one autumn.”

“All right.” Sitting on a fallen tree to pull off her boots and stockings, Amy lifted her skirt to her knees and stepped into the water. “It's freezing,”' she said.

“Go on,” I encouraged, struggling with my laces. By the time I had my boots and stockings off, Amy stood on the slab with the river surging on either side of her.

“Come along, Robyn, or the moon will rise before you get here.”

Closing the shutter of the lantern so we could see the moonlight better, and using my stick as an aid, I joined Amy. We stared upwards, waiting for the moon to appear through the ragged clouds. We must have shivered there a good 10 minutes before the moon deigned to shine on us.

“What now?” I already regretted coming out with Amy. It was dark, cold and miserable.

“Now we say a rhyme,” Amy told me, “and our future husband will appear in that pool.” She pointed to a deep pool that had formed downstream of our slab. “My grandmother calls that the Lover's Pool.”

“Can we say any rhyme we choose?” I asked.

“No, silly, just this one,” Amy chided me, chanting the first verse.

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