Mine Is the Night Page 10

  “Yer manservant arrived from Edinburgh.”

  “Oh, you’ve heard, then?”

  It was the tailor’s turn to laugh. “ ’Tis a’ folk can blether about.”

  Elisabeth was not surprised. After dining on their broth and bread yesterday afternoon, the Kerr women had gone for a walk, allowing Gibson the privacy needed for his first hot bath in many days. They’d stopped at the reverend’s to share the good news and inquired about another impending arrival, that of Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. The reverend had nothing further to report. For Marjory’s sake, Elisabeth was relieved the admiral would not be living at Tweedsford, but she was still wary of having an officer of the Royal Navy two miles from their door.

  Wondering what Michael might know of the matter, Elisabeth baited him. “I should think the gossips would find Lord Buchanan a much worthier subject of discussion than our Gibson.”

  The tailor wagged his finger at her. “Ye’ll not tempt me to sin, Mrs. Kerr. Or have ye forgotten? ‘Thou shalt not go up and doon as a talebearer among thy people.’ ”

  “Nae, I’ve not forgotten.” Elisabeth was sorry she’d broached the subject. Even if Michael Dalgliesh was teasing, he was not wrong.

  She grew quiet, letting him finish a buttonhole without distraction. He had nimble fingers for a man, handling his needle and thread with effortless efficiency. According to Anne, Michael had learned his trade from his late father, just as Angus MacPherson had taught his son, Rob, though the two young tailors had little else in common. Michael was outgoing; Rob was taciturn. Michael had a playful nature; Rob was a brooding sort.

  Rob had also loved her rather desperately, though she’d not returned his affections. In the end she’d banished him from her door when he shattered Marjory’s good opinion of Donald with the ugly truth of her son’s infidelities. Elisabeth had not heard from Rob since he’d headed north to take up arms for Prince Charlie. A thousand Highlanders had died in the final battle at Culloden near Inverness. Was Rob MacPherson among them? She feared she would never know.

  Needing some fresh air to clear her mind, Elisabeth stepped back. “Perhaps I’d best leave you to your work this morn.”

  “Wait.” Michael jumped to his feet, casting aside his sewing. “Let me find yer shilling afore ye go.”

  Elisabeth watched him pat his pockets, lift the lids of several wooden boxes, then start tossing fabric about—all in an attempt to locate his leather drawstring purse. She pressed her lips together, lest a laugh slip out. No one could banish a moment of sadness like Michael Dalgliesh. Though the tailor had many skills, keeping track of things was not one of them.

  Standing by his cutting table, she smoothed her hand across a length of gray wool, newly chalked, then eyed his scissors, longing to feel the blades glide through the fibers, a part of sewing she sorely missed. Perhaps cutting his fabric was once Jenny’s task. And keeping his books. And straightening his shop.

  When Elisabeth looked up, Michael was studying her. Rather intently, it seemed. “Chalk isna shears,” he said.

  She’d heard Angus utter the same proverb many times. “Just because something is begun doesn’t mean it will be finished, aye?”

  “Weel said.” Michael held up the newly found shilling, then pressed the coin into her hand. “I’ve given some thocht to yer suggestion o’ finding a partner.”

  “For the shop?”

  “Aye. And for—”

  “Faither.” A child’s voice sang out from the floor above them. The sound of little footsteps followed, bounding down the turnpike stair. A moment later a curly-haired lad appeared on the landing, wearing clothes he’d all but outgrown, though he was still small for his age. “Wha be the leddy?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye and a dimple in his cheek.

  Elisabeth was instantly smitten.

  “She is Mrs. Kerr from Halliwell’s Close,” Michael said, waving the boy forward. “And this is my son, Peter.”

  Elisabeth looked at them both, astounded. “ ’Tis not your son,” she protested, “but yourself in miniature.” The blue eyes, the bright red hair, the freckled skin, the charming disposition—Peter Dalgliesh was more twin than offspring, though decidedly smaller and with at least two missing teeth. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, young Peter.”

  His little brow wrinkled. “Nae, mem. My name isna ‘Young.’ ’Tis just ‘Peter.’ ”

  Michael ruffled his son’s hair. “The leddy kens yer name, lad.”

  Peter’s grin returned. “ ’Tis mercat day,” he said with glee. “Ye’ll take me, Faither? Like ye said ye would?”

  “Weel …” Michael looked round the cluttered room. “Mebbe in a wee while …”

  “I ken.” Peter groaned loudly. “Ye must wark and canna get awa.”

  Elisabeth’s heart went out to the lad. How many times had Peter heard those words? And how hard for his busy father, being forced to say them.

  Seeing the sad expressions on both their faces, she made a proposal. “I am bound for the marketplace this morn and would welcome your company, Peter. That is, if your father can spare you. For I am sure you are a great help in his shop.”

  “Aye,” Peter trumpeted, his chest swelling. “I count the buttons.”

  “Ye’re sure ye’ll not mind, Mrs. Kerr?” Michael fished something out of his waistcoat pocket. “ ’Tis a great kindness.” Eyes shining with gratitude, he produced a wrinkled scrap of paper and two shillings.

  “What have we here?” Elisabeth eyed the paper, then tucked it in her hanging pocket with his silver coins. “A market list? I am impressed.”

  He shrugged. “If I dinna write it a’ doon, I get hame with half o’ what I went for. Jenny could carry it a’ in her head, but I’ve nae gift for it.”

  “You have other gifts,” Elisabeth told him.

  The color in his ruddy cheeks deepened. “Ither than holding a needle, I canna think of onie just noo.”

  “Come now … Mr. Dalgliesh.” She’d almost called him by his Christian name. Little wonder when she felt so comfortable in his presence. Michael was sincere and genuine and unassuming. She could only imagine how much Jenny Dalgliesh had loved this man. And could only guess what Anne’s feelings were for him now.

  If propriety allowed, Elisabeth would touch his hand and assure Michael that he was not only a good tailor but also a good father, that it was difficult to do both at once, that he was managing far better than most widowers, that a tidy shop was not the measure of a life well lived. But she could not say or do any of those things. She could only escort his son to market and hope the simple gesture would ease any sense of guilt or regret.

  “We’ll find everything on your father’s list, won’t we, Peter?” Elisabeth claimed the large market basket by the door, then wiggled her fingers in the lad’s direction, a tacit invitation. He responded at once, fitting his small hand inside hers, artlessly stealing her heart.

  “We’re aff,” Peter announced, tugging her toward the open door.

  Eighteen

  Children sweeten labors.

  SIR FRANCIS BACON

  his way, mem.” Peter Dalgliesh pulled her toward the marketplace like a horse-drawn cart, making certain her wheels did not veer left or right. “The chapmen! The chapmen!” the boy cried, stopping at the foot of Kirk Wynd, where the peddlers had their stalls. Standing like tall, vertical tents, the portable stalls were made of wood and canvas, with pegs, hooks, and narrow shelves displaying the varied wares.

  Elisabeth consulted Michael’s list while his son carefully examined the wooden figures, leather balls, chapbooks, spinning tops, stone marbles, and other treasures. His father’s tally included nothing of the kind; lamb shanks, dried fish, oatmeal, and cheese were scribbled on the paper but not one child’s plaything.

  Reluctantly she bent down and touched Peter’s shoulder. “We’ll buy what we must first,” she told him, “and then see how many pennies are left for a toy.” When he didn’t argue with her, Elisabeth decided he’d heard this before, a comf
orting thought. “Come, let’s find the meal sellers.”

  Selkirk, she’d learned, held its market every Friday. Local folk and strangers alike filled the marketplace, elbowing their way about, calling out greetings, and striking bargains. Elisabeth and Peter maneuvered past the souters—the pride of the town—with their handsome men’s shoes done in polished leather and fine calfskin. Elisabeth dared not linger over their ladies’ shoes, fashioned of worsted damask and brocaded silk in rich shades of blue, green, and brown. Someday she would own a new pair of satin slippers but not when she had one shilling to her name.

  Elisabeth held on to Peter as they walked, unwilling to let him dart through the crowd, chasing after the other children. She cherished the feel of his little hand in hers, though she would never say as much and embarrass him. Was this what motherhood might feel like? This enormous sense of responsibility mingled with pride and fear and joy? A chance to see the world afresh through a child’s eyes? She looked down at Peter’s bright curls, then swallowed hard. How different her life would be if she’d given Donald Kerr a son or daughter.

  “Here’s the oatmeal!” Peter nudged her toward the tables piled with sacks of milled grain, well in view of the tron, where goods were weighed. “This is Mr. Watson, the miller,” the lad said, then turned to her and blushed. “I dinna ken her name, Mr. Watson, but she’s bonny.”

  Elisabeth smiled at them both, not offended that Peter had already forgotten. “I am Mrs. Kerr.”

  The stout miller bobbed his head. “I ken wha ye are. Miss Anne’s cousin.”

  With others crowding round the tables, there was no time for small talk. Elisabeth attended to her shopping, buying small sacks of flour, oats, and barley. Cheese and butter were next, wrapped in cool, wet muslin.

  Most of the sellers were polite, some were even kind, but Elisabeth also heard disparaging words muttered in passing and saw several countenances darken at her approach. Peter, too innocent to notice, proudly pulled her along the thoroughfare.

  All through the marketplace one name rose above the din: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. “Sailing the high seas,” a cloth merchant marveled. “Can ye imagine such a life?” A pie seller said with a note of yearning, “Onie man wha’s seen the world carries it in his pocket.”

  Women seemed more interested in the look of the man. A dairymaid said coyly, “I hear he’s braw,” then winked at Elisabeth. “And I hear he’s rich,” the lass beside her purred.

  Elisabeth squeezed Peter’s hand and thought of his kind father. Michael Dalgliesh would never be rich. But as long as men needed shirts, breeches, and waistcoats, a tailor would also never be poor.

  As to Lord Buchanan, Elisabeth suspected that the reports were too good to be true, that something unseen and unseemly lurked beneath the surface. Not all men were like Donald Kerr, she reminded herself. Not all men had secrets. But a never-married gentleman surely was hiding something, and a British admiral was to be avoided at all costs.

  By the time Elisabeth and Peter had given their custom to the flesher on the far side of the tolbooth, their shillings were reduced to pennies, and the basket was growing heavy on her arm.

  “Noo may I have a toy?” Peter asked, his tone plaintive, his expression more so.

  She felt her pocket. Michael’s money was all spent, but she had a few copper ha’pence of her own left. “See if you can find something for a penny or two.”

  He slipped from her grasp and dashed straight for the chapmen’s stalls. By the time she caught up with him, Peter was on his knees, breathlessly examining a soft leather pouch containing a dozen marbles made of polished stones.

  The black-haired chapman hovering over Peter was beaming. “ ’Tis a fine set,” he told the lad. “If ye have eight pence, ’tis yers.”

  Peter slowly put them back.

  “What d’ye think o’ these?” The chapman poured out a handful of inferior clay marbles from a rough linen sack. “Only four pence, lad.”

  This time Peter looked up at her with a hope-filled expression.

  Much as she hated doing so, Elisabeth shook her head. “Not today, I’m afraid. Is there something else you want?”

  Peter stood. “Nae, mem,” he said in a small voice.

  Aching for him, Elisabeth took his hand and started toward Kirk Wynd. “I am sorry, Peter. Maybe something could be arranged for your birthday.”

  He brightened at that. “ ’Tis in February.”

  “Such a long time to wait,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “My birthday is in less than a fortnight. Do you suppose we could exchange them?”

  Peter was not fond of the idea. “My faither might forget to gie me a praisent.”

  Elisabeth was quite certain that would never happen and told Peter so as they turned down School Close.

  When they walked into the shop, Michael was waiting on a customer. She quietly moved toward the stair, thinking to carry up their purchases, but Peter was his father’s son and swiftly made his presence known.

  “How d’ye do, Mr. Mitchelhill?” the lad exclaimed, then pointed to the man’s hands, stained the same color as his chestnut brown hair. “He’s a tanner.”

  With a wry smile, the man splayed his fingers. “I canna deny it.”

  Michael motioned Elisabeth closer. “Here’s one o’ the men ye’ve been sewing for, Mrs. Kerr.” He patted the stack of shirts on the counter. “And a bonny seamstress ye are.”

  When she stepped into the candlelight, Mr. Mitchellhill did not hide his admiration. “Aye, verra bonny.” He winked, then tossed two guineas on the counter and quit the shop, tipping his hat to her on the way out.

  A troubled look crossed Michael’s face. “He didna mean to offend ye.”

  “Truly, he didn’t,” she assured Michael, placing the market basket on the counter.

  He quickly added, “What I meant was, yer sewing is bonny.”

  “I see.” Now she was amused.

  “Och!” he stammered, his skin almost matching his bright red hair. “But ye’re bonny too, Mrs. Kerr. As loosome as they come.”

  “No need to explain yourself,” she assured him, then lifted out her butter, flour, and barley from the basket. She turned her attention to Peter, smiling down at him. “What a fine morn we had.”

  He grinned back. “Aye, we did.”

  Elisabeth longed to touch his wee button of a nose or brush aside the loose curls from his small brow. “Shall I see you on the morrow, Peter, when I bring another shirt?”

  The boy nodded with his entire body.

  Michael laughed. “Weel, young Peter, ye’ve found a guid freen in Mrs. Kerr. Noo up the stair ye go, and take our oatmeal and such with ye.”

  Peter did his father’s bidding without complaint, carrying the heavy basket up one stair step at a time. Plunk, step. Plunk, step.

  Only when he disappeared from sight could Elisabeth finally tear her gaze away from the child and turn to his father. “He is the dearest of lads.” Her throat tightened round the words. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”

  Michael shrugged, his heightened color having eased. “Feel free to borrow Peter whanever it suits ye. ’Tis guid for him to be., weel, to spend time …”

  “With a woman,” she finished for him. When Michael nodded, she thought to spare him any further embarrassment and so eased toward the door. “Speaking of women, my mother-in-law will be wondering what’s kept me so long.”

  Michael’s exaggerated frown was worthy of the stage. “Must ye leave so soon?”

  “I am behind on my sewing,” she reminded him, “and you have work to do.”

  “Aye, aye,” he said, sending her on her way.

  When she stepped into School Close, Elisabeth decided to plant her ha’pence in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. She hastened across Kirk Wynd and entered the narrow passageway between the manse and Mrs. Thorburn’s house. When she reached the kitchen garden in the rear, Elisabeth chose a small head of cabbage, some ripe lettuce, and a few stems of sage, then laid her coins on t
he ground. Carefully balancing everything, she gathered up her market fare and started for home, her arms full but her pockets empty.

  The joy of her outing with Peter had begun to fade into a sobering reality. She could not hope to provide sufficient food for their household on a few shillings a week. Nor could she add to her earnings by laboring with Michael in his shop, much as he needed her help. A widower and a young widow alone for hours at a time? The gossips would never cease their blethering.

  Earlier that morning Michael Dalgliesh had hinted at finding a partner. Elisabeth glanced at the heavens. Does he mean a tailor, Lord? Or does he mean a wife?

  She tripped over a large stone propped against the outer wall of the house, losing her footing for a moment. Righting herself, she wriggled her toe to be sure it wasn’t broken, then shook her head. Mind your step, Bess. However trustworthy the tailor might seem, and however dear his son, she could not—nae, would not—risk her heart again. Especially if she might break Anne’s heart in the bargain.

  Nineteen

  Poverty is the test of civility

  and the touchstone of friendship.

  WILLIAM HAZLITT

  e’ve rain on the way.” Marjory glanced at the windows, noting the thick clouds looming over the empty marketplace on a cool Saturday morning. “The sooner you’re out the door, Gibson, the better.”

  “Aye, mem.”

  He stood patiently while she brushed the lint from his clothes, borrowed from their neighbor, Mr. Tait. Though the sleeves were too short and the breeches too snug, Gibson certainly looked more presentable than when he’d arrived on Thursday.

  Two nights’ sleep had brightened his eyes, and meat and ale had softened the sharp contours of his face. A fresh shave with a razor provided by their landlord and neighbor, Walter Halliwell, had also done wonders. “Should ye be wanting a periwig, ye ken whaur to find me,” the wigmaker had said affably. Gibson had never worn a wig in his life, but Marjory had thanked Mr. Halliwell nonetheless.

  At his own insistence Gibson had slept each night rolled up in a plaid, his body pressed against the bottom seam of the door. “To keep ye safe,” he’d said. Gibson was still worried about the British dragoons, especially after Marjory had described their unfortunate encounter on the road to Selkirk. “Bess and I put them in their place,” she’d assured him, trying not to sound too prideful.