Mine Is the Night Page 14
Elisabeth forced herself to meet his gaze. “Will you give me a written character so I might seek employment elsewhere?”
“Och!” he groaned. “Ye ken I will. Richt noo if ye like.” Michael sat down at his newly organized desk and reached for paper, quill, and ink, all at hand.
He wasted no time scratching words across the page while Elisabeth watched him, calming her anxious heart, considering what she might do next. Though several tailors resided in Selkirk, she feared none would be so willing or so generous as this man.
When he finished, Michael cast sand across the ink, then presented the letter to her with a sad smile. “Ye’ll have nae trouble finding wark. Start with Edward Smail on Back Row. He’s a kind man and fair.”
Elisabeth carefully folded the letter, hoping Michael had given an honest appraisal of her talents. Better to have a new employer be pleasantly surprised than patently disappointed.
She lowered her gaze, seeking the strength she would need to begin anew. To call on a stranger and ask for his favor. To put her future in the Almighty’s hands once more and not be afraid. Please, Lord. In thee is my trust.
When she looked up, Michael was studying her, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen it. “I learned something, having ye here,” he said. “I learned I shouldna court a woman just because I need help in my shop or a mither for my son.”
“Court?” She looked at him quizzically. “But, Mr. Dalgliesh, I am a widow in mourning—”
“Hoot! I didna mean ye!” he exclaimed, then his whole face reddened. “That is … I had anither woman … in mind …”
Annie. Elisabeth relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived at Michael’s shop that morning. “You are right, Mr. Dalgliesh. You should court a woman for one reason—”
A single knock on the open door was her only warning.
“So!” a man cried, nearly scaring Elisabeth out of her wits. “Noo I see what ye meant, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
Elisabeth stood in place, letting her heart ease its frantic beating, while Michael mouthed an apology. Whether he was sorry for the presence of this newcomer or for the man’s loud greeting, she could not say.
He was standing beside Michael now: a gentleman tailor, if ever there was one. His face was clean shaven, his hair smartly gathered at the nape of his neck, his attire immaculate, and his shoes polished. Only the measuring tape round his neck gave away his profession.
“This is … Mr. Brownie,” Michael began haltingly.
“Brodie. Thomas Brodie,” he quickly corrected, then bowed from the waist. When he straightened, Mr. Brodie smiled, showing all his teeth. Sharp teeth at that. “Ye’re surely Mrs. Kerr, for I’ve heard o’ none ither but ye a’ week.”
“You’ve made quite a difference here,” she said evenly.
“Aye, aye.” Mr. Brodie clasped his hands behind his back and looked round with obvious satisfaction. “Meikle mair to do, but as my faither aye said, ‘A hard beginning is a guid beginning.’ ”
Elisabeth could see how uncomfortable Michael was with both of them there. Best to quit the shop at once. “I thank you for this,” she said, holding up the letter, then tucking it in her reticule. “And for all the ways you’ve blessed our household this month.”
Michael stepped forward. “A wird with ye, if I may?”
She nodded, grateful for a private farewell.
A moment later they stood in School Close. “Ye will find a position,” Michael assured her. “If not with Mr. Smail, then Charlie Purdie or Hugh Morrison will be pleased to have ye.” He paused. “As I was glad to have ye. And so was wee Peter.” He stepped back, a look of regret in his eyes. “I wish ye a’ the best, Mrs. Kerr.”
The moment Michael returned to his shop, Mr. Brodie closed the door, not loudly, but very firmly, shutting her out.
Wounded by his rebuff and more than a little desperate, Elisabeth strode toward Kirk Wynd. She had no work, little money, and only a few hours to resolve the problem before the threatening clouds spilled their contents.
Edward Smail. Though the name was familiar, she could not picture the man. But she had little doubt she’d find him, for no tailor who wanted business lay in hiding. She climbed uphill toward Back Row, the third leg of the triangle of streets that formed Selkirk. When she reached the ridge where Peter had pointed to the castle ruins, she turned left down a cobbled street lined with stone houses and shops.
The names painted across the lintels were helpful. Fletcher. Waugh. Black-hall. Dunn. When she found a promising-looking shop with Smail over the entrance and a waistcoat hanging on the open door, she stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the dim interior before seeking out the owner.
Edward Smail spied her first. “Mrs. Kerr?” he asked, stepping into the lantern light.
The moment she laid eyes on the tailor, she remembered seeing him at kirk and at market, though she’d not known his name. Mr. Smail was aptly named, for he was small and round. His nose was flat, his eyes were close together, and his hands seemed to grow out of his elbows.
“Ye’ve been sewing shirts for Michael Dalgliesh,” he said, casting a wary eye over her. “I confess I envy the man his trade. There was a time not so lang syne whan I had mair wark than I could handle. But not noo.” He nodded at the many empty shelves. “I’ve enough to keep my family in meat and meal, but that is a’.”
Whether or not Mr. Smail was kind and fair, he assuredly was not prosperous.
“What brings ye to my door?” he asked rather bluntly, offering her the only seat in his shop.
She hesitated, not wanting to put the man in an awkward position. Or was it pride that stilled her tongue? Finally she confessed, “Mr. Dalgliesh has hired another tailor, so my sewing services are no longer needed.”
Mr. Smail frowned. “Mair likely he didna want a bonny lass round his door.”
His words stung. “I do all my sewing at home,” Elisabeth hastened to explain. “Furthermore, Mr. Dalgliesh has given me a written character.”
When she reached for her reticule, the tailor stayed her hand. “Niver mind, Mrs. Kerr. I canna afford ye. And my wife wouldna want ye here oniewise.”
“Then I am sorry to have bothered you,” she said, already on her feet. “I bid you good day.”
Mortified, she fled into Back Row, uncertain which way to turn. She had no addresses for the other tailors and little courage left to ask directions from the strangers milling about, staring at her like the outlander she was.
She was too angry to cry and too hurt not to admit his rejection stung.
What shall I do, Lord? Where shall I go?
The answer came quickly. Home.
She would lick her wounds, then see about Mr. Purdie or Mr. Morrison, though she feared a similar response. Was there no tailor in Selkirk like Angus MacPherson, who’d given her challenging work and didn’t care whether she was bonny or not? She could still remember the twinkle in his eye and the index finger he playfully wagged beneath her nose. Oh, Angus, how I miss you.
Discouraged, she pointed her feet toward Halliwell’s Close. Perhaps if she found an ugly hat or wore her hair in her face or made certain to always frown, perhaps then she might sew for her supper without distracting men from their work. Foolishness.
When she turned onto Kirk Wynd, the heavens opened, and rain poured down in sheets, soaking her to the skin before she reached Anne’s house. There would be no more interviews this day; her gown would not dry for hours.
Only when she started up the stair did she remember her conversation with Michael Dalgliesh. I had anither woman in mind. But he’d not spoken Anne’s name. What if he meant someone else entirely?
By the time she reached the door, Elisabeth was certain of her decision: she would say nothing, lest Anne’s hopes for the future be crushed as thoroughly as her own.
Twenty-Five
Now we sit close about this taper here
And call in question our necessities.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
“Mmm,” was all Elisabeth said, pulling the silver comb from her drooping curls.
Anne produced several linen towels, then helped Elisabeth undress. “I’ve an old gown of my mother’s you might wear.”
“No need. I’ll wrap myself in a plaid and hang my dress by the fire,” Elisabeth said, rubbing her hair dry with more vigor than the task required.
“But my young ladies will be coming at two,” Anne reminded her.
“All right, then.” Without another word Elisabeth curled up in the upholstered chair and closed her eyes while Anne went about airing the well-worn gown stored beneath her box bed for many seasons.
Marjory returned to the hearth, keeping an eye on Elisabeth. She’d not seen her this discouraged in a very long time. Even in Edinburgh with their many losses, Elisabeth was the one who’d lifted everyone’s spirits.
Letting the broth simmer, Marjory sat on the creepie at Elisabeth’s feet and clasped her daughter-in-law’s long, slender hands. “So cold,” Marjory fretted, rubbing until the skin warmed. She touched Elisabeth’s forehead as well and was relieved not to find her feverish.
Finally Elisabeth opened her eyes and offered a wan smile.
“I’m behaving like a mother, aren’t I?” Marjory asked, keeping her voice light, hoping to engage her in conversation.
“You are the only true mother I have now,” Elisabeth murmured almost to herself.
Oh my dear Bess. Marjory blinked, recalling her daughter-in-law’s tearful entreaties when they’d prepared to board separate carriages in White Horse Close. Please, I cannot go home to Castleton. My mother will not have me. Marjory did not know Fiona Ferguson. Nor did she care to know her. What woman would not gladly claim Elisabeth as her own?
Marjory said softly, “Suppose we get you into some dry clothing and fill you up with a bowl of hot broth.”
The gown fit poorly and the mustard color was less than flattering, but for a rainy afternoon withindoors, it would do. After Marjory spoke grace over their meal, she reached for a wooden spoon, still praying silently for Elisabeth. Comfort her, Lord. Give her strength. Ease whatever burdens she bears.
Only when their soup bowls were empty did Elisabeth release a lengthy sigh and meet their worried gazes. “I will no longer be sewing for Mr. Dalgliesh,” she announced, looking at Anne. “He has hired another tailor to work in the shop, a Mr. Brodie from Melrose.”
“Nae!” Marjory cried. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“I am certain Michael wasn’t unhappy with you,” Anne insisted. “Perhaps he simply needed a sturdy man about the place to move things and wait on his gentlemen customers.”
Elisabeth plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Apparently he did.”
“There are other tailors,” Marjory said, feeling guilty yet again for sending her daughter-in-law out into the world to earn money for them. But what other choice did they have? No more sewing meant no more shillings, a dismal truth left unsaid but understood.
When Anne suggested a tailor named Mr. Smail, Elisabeth admitted she’d already visited the man, then described their brief exchange. “He told me his wife wouldn’t want me there.”
Marjory cringed. No wonder Elisabeth had returned home discouraged. “This dreary weather is sufficient to make anyone feel gloomy,” she told her, lighting another tallow candle, ignoring the expense. The steady glow of the candlelight brightened their corner of the room, just as she’d hoped. “Now, then, where might we send our dear Bess where she’ll be appreciated?”
Anne pursed her lips for a moment. “Mrs. Stoddart is a mantua maker in Well Wynd, but she pays her seamstresses very meager wages.”
Elisabeth glanced upward, deep in thought. “Might Lady Murray allow me to design a gown for her?”
“Her ladyship trusts no one to stitch her gowns except a dressmaker in Edinburgh,” Anne said, almost apologetically. “Perhaps you know the woman. A Miss Callander in Lady Stair’s Close.”
Marjory and Elisabeth exchanged glances.
“Aye, we know her,” Marjory said, trying not to sound bitter. “Before we left the capital, Miss Callander purchased nearly every gown we owned.”
“And paid you well, I hope?” Anne asked.
Marjory did not want to seem ungrateful, and so she said nothing, which said everything.
Their dinner dishes were still scattered across the table when Gibson dropped by unexpectedly. Anne jumped up at once, gathering the woodenware, inviting their friend to sit by the fire. “You’ll have a sweet biscuit, won’t you? Marjory baked them this morn.”
Gibson turned to Marjory, warming her with his smile. “Ye ken I will.” Moments later with biscuit and tea in hand, he said, “I canna stay lang, for I’m on an errand for the reverend. But I had a wee bit o’ news I thocht ye’d want to hear.” He paused, his smile broadening. “I just noo saw Lord Buchanan at the manse.”
“Did you?” Anne exclaimed. “Some claim he’s a spirit, the way he comes and goes without being seen.”
“He’s verra real. O’ course, I didna speak to the man myself. But I overheard meikle o’ what the admiral and the reverend said to each ither.” He took a bite of biscuit and chewed it at a leisurely pace. “ ’Tis a puir servant’s lot to listen whan great folk speak.”
“Come, Gibson,” Marjory scolded him lightly. “You cannot keep us in suspense. What might you tell us about Lord Buchanan?”
“What ye already ken. He’s wealthy and weel traveled, with guid speech.”
Anne inched her chair closer. “But what does the admiral look like?”
Gibson all but shrugged. “He leuks like a man.”
Elisabeth almost smiled. “Nae more biscuits for you, Gibson, unless you tell all.”
“Weel, he was dressed in a verra braw manner. Fit to ride his horse, ye ken, with bonny black boots in fine leather up ower his knees.”
Anne said, “I heard he was quite tall.”
“So he is,” Gibson agreed, “with dark skin from years at sea.”
However honorable or handsome he might be, Marjory still feared the man. “Would you say he is wholly dedicated to God and king?”
“Oo aye.” Gibson paused. “But I jalouse by his wirds he favors the first mair than the second. We’ll soon ken what sort o’ man the admiral is whan he hires folk from the toun.” His biscuit gone, his cup empty, the manservant stood and bowed. “I must awa. Guid day to ye, leddies, and I thank ye for yer kind walcome.”
No sooner had Gibson left than Elisabeth rose, a look of resignation on her face. “I’ve no choice in the matter. Come Monday I shall present myself at Bell Hill and see if Lord Buchanan might offer me a position as a dressmaker.”
“Bess!” Marjory was aghast. “Are you certain that’s wise?”
“If he’s going to expand his staff,” Elisabeth reasoned, “the maidservants will need new gowns, aye?”
Her logic was sound, but the situation was perilous. Even if Tibbie Cranshaw held her tongue, Lord Buchanan might still learn of Donald’s treason and refuse to engage Elisabeth. Or, worse, deliver her to the king to further earn His Majesty’s favor. Marjory glanced at Anne, begging for her support. She cannot do this. Say something. Do something.
Anne was a quick study. “But his housekeeper will surely require a sample of your work, and you’ve naught to show her.”
Marjory nodded, relieved. Well done, Annie. Elisabeth had sold all her creations to Miss Callander. She had nothing in hand to demonstrate her talents.
But Elisabeth was already opening the trunk in which Marjory had stored her stockings and stays. Her daughter-in-law lifted out the cambric nightgown she’d made, beautifully embroidered with deep pink roses round the neckline.<
br />
“Helen Edgar cleaned and pressed it before we left Edinburgh,” Marjory told her, realizing she could do little to stop Elisabeth once she’d made up her mind. “If you want to carry it to Bell Hill to show to the housekeeper, I’ll not object.”
Elisabeth crossed the room at once and pressed a kiss to her brow. “Thank you. And I’ll wear Annie’s silver comb, so the two people I cherish most will travel up Bell Hill with me. As to my dress”—she gestured toward the black gown dripping beside the hearth—“at least ’tis freshly washed.”
Twenty-Six
Fairest and best adorned is she
Whose clothing is humility.
JAMES MONTGOMERY
lisabeth rose from the breakfast table, grateful Marjory and Anne could not see her knees trembling beneath her gown. “I must go. ’Tis two miles to Bell Hill.”
“And only six o’ the clock in the morn,” Anne reminded her. “Do you think the others will arrive so early?”
Elisabeth shrugged, if only to shake off her nervousness. “You know what the old wives say. ‘The coo that’s first up gets the first o’ the dew.’ ”
“You are not a cow,” Anne said pointedly. “And I’d hate for you to appear too eager.”
“But I am eager,” Elisabeth confessed. “Our food stores are dwindling. And Mr. Halliwell expects his shillings today, does he not?” At Whitsuntide rents were paid, debts settled, and new servants hired. Lord willing, she would be counted among the latter. “I’ve only to gather my sewing things, and I’ll be ready.”
Last evening she’d washed her hair in rosewater and brushed it until it gleamed, then rubbed her teeth with a hazel twig until her gums ached, hoping a bright smile might please the housekeeper. She’d polished her black shoes with ashes from the grate, while her mourning gown, stiff after drying by the hearth, had been coaxed into soft folds by Anne’s skillful ironing.
Elisabeth reached for the small looking glass, chagrined to find a nagging fear reflected in her eyes. What if ten other dressmakers who were far more qualified presented themselves at Bell Hill? Or the housekeeper took one look at her tattered gown and sent her away?
Nae, Bess. Had she already forgotten what she’d read upon waking? In God I have put my trust. The time had come to act on those words instead of simply meditating on them.