Mine Is the Night Page 6

  The younger women exchanged glances.

  “Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.

  “Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”

  “Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”

  Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”

  “I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.

  Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”

  “Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”

  A half hour later Marjory was still seated at table, hands wrapped round an empty cup, her heart heavy.

  How could she have been so blind to Mr. Laidlaw’s devious ways? She’d blamed pregnant Tibbie when it was Sir John’s factor who should have been dismissed. Anne, meanwhile, was forced to choose immorality or poverty, all because her wealthy cousin Marjory paid little attention to the needs of others, thinking only of herself.

  She sought Anne’s gaze across the table. “I should have known—”

  “And I should have been long married by now,” Anne said abruptly. “So then, what shall we do with this reprobate headed our way?”

  Marjory pursed her lips. “If Gibson were here, he would stand up to Roger Laidlaw in our stead.”

  “Alas, Gibson is not here,” Elisabeth gently reminded her. “We must prepare to address the man ourselves.”

  “Indeed we must,” Anne echoed.

  They looked at one another across the table, determination reflected on each face.

  “Agreed,” Marjory said at last. “When Mr. Laidlaw knocks on our door, he will find three women who are not afraid to face him.”

  Ten

  The beginning, as the proverb says,

  is half the whole.

  ARISTOTLE

  lisabeth brushed a damp cloth over her mourning gown, wishing she had lemon juice to clean the fabric or fragrant attar of roses to freshen the scent. Tailors were particular about such things.

  At least she’d bathed from head to toe with hot water and her last bit of heather soap and cleaned her teeth with a twig of hazel she’d brought home from their forest walk. Her hair was styled, her ivory comb in place, and her prayers whispered across the open pages of the Buik earlier that morning.

  Elisabeth took a quick peek in Anne’s looking glass, then turned toward the door, glad to see a patch of blue sky through the curtains.

  “Michael Dalgliesh is the finest tailor in Selkirk,” Anne informed her, sweeping the flagstone hearth with quick, sharp movements. “You’ll find him a few steps up Kirk Wynd, then down School Close. Call at the first door on the right.”

  Elisabeth nodded, trying not to stare at Marjory, who was scrubbing the oval dining table. Dowager Lady Kerr cleaning the house? A twelvemonth ago Elisabeth could not have imagined her once proud and haughty mother-in-law performing so menial a task. God giveth grace to the humble. Indeed he had. Could Marjory see how much she’d changed? How she’d softened yet grown stronger? Become bolder and yet more sensitive?

  Elisabeth knew miracles were real because she was looking at one.

  Now it was her turn to labor. “Do keep me in your thoughts this morn. Mr. Dalgliesh will not be expecting me.”

  “See that he pays you a fair wage,” Marjory warned. “You are not a common seamstress.”

  “Why, I’m as common as they come!” Elisabeth protested. “Trained in a Highland cottage. Though my mother was a fine teacher. Pray Mr. Dalgliesh will give me the chance to prove it.”

  She tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin, then started down the stair. The watery tea and toasted bread would keep her stomach from growling, and the hard cheese she’d wrapped in linen and tucked into her pocket would serve for dinner should she find work.

  Halliwell’s Close was as chilly as a cave, but the late April sun boded well. With such fine weather, Gibson might reach Selkirk before day’s end. Elisabeth saw the fear that clouded her mother-in-law’s eyes whenever his name was mentioned. Bring him safely to us, Lord. Soon, if it be your will.

  The moment Elisabeth entered the marketplace, a familiar-looking woman came strolling out of the corner bakeshop and into her path. “Miss Cranston,” Elisabeth said with a curtsy. “We met briefly at the kirk. You were my husband’s governess.”

  “So I was.” The older woman swept her gaze over Elisabeth. “He was a handsome lad, Donald, and an accomplished reader. You have my deepest sympathy, Mrs. Kerr.”

  Elisabeth murmured her thanks, noticing several others in the marketplace who’d found some reason to linger nearby, curiosity written on their faces. If they each stopped to speak with her, she’d not reach the tailor’s shop before noon. But these were her new neighbors. If only for Marjory’s sake, she would make an effort.

  After Elspeth Cranston continued on her way, a couple in rustic clothing approached, full of questions. “We’ve niver been to Edinburgh,” the wife said, her eyes round. “Are the lands really ten stories high?” A copper-headed woman, bent over with age, reminisced about Lord John, whom she’d known from her youth. “Every lass in Selkirk set her cap for John Kerr, including me,” she confessed. Elisabeth moved a few feet up Kirk Wynd, only to be stopped by a young mother holding on to a wriggling charge with each hand. “We’re blithe to have a new face in Selkirk,” the woman said. “I do hope you’ve come to stay.”

  Not all the townsfolk were friendly. One shopkeeper wandered into the street simply to glare at her. Other passersby gave her a wide berth, as if supporting the Jacobites were a contagious disease. Some men stared; more than a few leered.

  Elisabeth was relieved when she finally reached School Close and ducked into the chilly passageway, bound for the tailor’s shop. She entered through the open doorway, lightly tapping on the wood in passing. “Mr. Dalgliesh?”

  Even in the dim interior, the tradesman was easily found, bent over his work, a cluster of candles at his elbow. He was younger than she’d expected: five-and-thirty at most. She’d never seen a brighter redhead nor forearms covered with more freckles.

  When he looked up, his blue eyes measured her at once, as if she’d come to him needing a suit of clothes. “What can I do for ye, mem?”

  All at once Elisabeth felt rather foolish. Aye, she’d worked for a tailor in Edinburgh, but the late Angus MacPherson had been a family friend. This man seated before her was a stranger. She moistened her lips and braved a smile. “My cousin, Anne Kerr, tells me you are the finest tailor in Selkirk.”

  “Does she noo?” When he smiled broadly, her apprehension vanished. “Ye must be the young Widow Kerr.”

  She curtsied. “I am.”

  “Weel then!” He stood, abandoning his needle and thread. “I am Michael Dalgliesh. Walcome to my wee shop. Come, come, have a leuk.”

  His outgoing nature took her by surprise. Anne had not mentioned that.

  With expansive gestures and an abundance of words, the tailor guided her round his establishment. “Here’s whaur I do my cutting,” he said, pointing to the large table dominating the room. “Woolens, linens, broadcloth, serge. Whatsomever folk ask for.” Bolts of fabric were stacked high on one end, and muslin patterns were scattered everywhere.

  “You seem much engaged,” she said, noting the many coats and breeches hanging about. Some clothes were nearly finished; others were marked with chalk, waiting their turn.

  “There’s aye meikle wark to be done.” He shrugged when he said it, but she heard the distress in his voice. No doubt he was overwhelmed by all the tasks at hand. It would have taken Angus MacPh
erson and his son, Rob, weeks to complete this many pieces.

  In the only window, which faced School Close, a plain woolen coat hung on display. “The men o’ Selkirk dinna favor velvets, satins, or silk,” he explained. “Nor do they like any fancy stitching.”

  His words gave her pause. In the capital she was known for embellishing waistcoats with intricate embroidery. Would her skills even be needed here? It was time she found out.

  “Mr. Dalgliesh,” she began, “you must wonder why I’ve come this morn.”

  He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “I was quite certain ye didna want a greatcoat.”

  “Nae. But I would be honored to stitch them for your customers.” Elisabeth slipped off her gloves, wanting him to see the truth. She no longer had the soft, pale hands of a gentlewoman. Her chapped fingers had wrung out too many wet rags. “I’ve come to offer my services. As a seamstress.”

  For the first time since she’d crossed his threshold, Michael Dalgliesh seemed bereft of words. Finally he said, “Ye want … to wark for me?”

  “I do,” she said without apology. “Mr. MacPherson, a tailor in the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh, kept my needle busy for many seasons.”

  “Is that so?” His gaze began circling the shop. “Weel, leuk at that!” he exclaimed as if he’d discovered a new island off the Scottish coast. He grabbed a pile of fine cambric, already cut and pinned. “Can ye stitch a man’s shirt, Mrs. Kerr?”

  “Well, as it happens—”

  He’d already thrust the unfinished shirts into her arms. “Not a’ men are blessed to have a woman in their lives to sew for them.” His freckled skin grew ruddier. “I make shirts for Reverend Brown, Daniel Cumming, and James Mitchelhill too. But I’m woefully behind, as ye can see, and would be grateful for those busy hands o’ yers.”

  Elisabeth hardly knew what to say. She’d not been in his shop a quarter hour and already had enough work for a fortnight. But they’d not discussed money. “I wonder, Mr.—”

  “I earn ten shillings for ilka shirt,” he blurted out. “One shilling will be yers.”

  “One shilling?” she repeated, numbers spinning through her head. If she finished a shirt each day, she could earn six shillings in a week. Six shillings! Enough to put meat or fish on the table every night and coins in Anne’s pocket for their lodgings.

  She clutched the shirts to her chest, trying hard not to cry.

  Mr. Dalgliesh shifted his weight. “I can see I’ve offended ye, Mrs. Kerr. But after I buy the fabric from a merchant and the thread as weel—”

  “Oh! Of course—”

  “And my Peter is growing so fast I canna keep him in shoes.”

  Elisabeth felt a tug at her heart. “You have a son?”

  “Aye.” He nodded toward the turnpike stair in the corner, leading to a room above the shop. “Peter is seven. Playing with a freen just noo.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Jenny.” He rubbed the back of his neck, not quite meeting her gaze. “She died whan the lad was four.”

  Elisabeth looked round, all the pieces falling together. A tailor with too many customers and not enough hours in the day. A father raising his son with no one to help him. A man, starved for company, talking to every stranger who came into his shop. A widower.

  “I am sorry for your loss.” Such words, however oft spoken, gave little comfort. But they needed to be said.

  “Ye’ve had a loss as weel,” he reminded her, lifting his head.

  Their eyes met. In the silence a bargain was struck.

  “I’ll bring you each shirt when it’s finished,” Elisabeth promised.

  “And I’ll pay ye a shilling whan ye do.” He stuck out his hand as if he meant to shake hers, then realized her arms were full. “I may have mair wark for ye whan ye’re done.” He threw up his hands and sighed rather dramatically. “I canna deny, the place is a mess.”

  Elisabeth smiled. “We’ll see what can be done, Mr. Dalgliesh.”

  Eleven

  Whoever fears God,

  fears to sit at ease.

  ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

  arjory balanced the fresh salmon in her hands, impressed by its heft and size, hoping she might do it justice. “ ’Tis a fine catch.”

  “The fishwife said her husband pulled it from the River Tweed this morn.” Elisabeth nodded toward the table. “If you’re certain you want to do this, Marjory, I’ve put out all the herbs you’ll need.”

  Anne stepped closer, drying her hands on her apron. “Maybe I should see to our dinner—”

  “Nae need,” Marjory told her firmly. “I watched Mrs. Edgar prepare court-bouillon many a time.” Well, at least once. Perhaps even twice.

  Her cousin had every right to question her cooking abilities. Did not Marjory doubt them herself? Still, a Scotswoman ought to be able to poach a salmon. “Attend to your own duties,” she told them. Then she added in her sternest, Reverend Brown voice, “If any would not work, neither should he eat.”

  Elisabeth looked up from her sewing and winked. “Then I’ll not quit my needle for an instant.”

  Her daughter-in-law was quickly turning a lapful of cambric into a well-made garment. She’d finished one gentleman’s shirt last eve, then collected her first shilling this morning. On the way home Elisabeth had exchanged her silver coin for the salmon, a pound of fresh butter, and a tidy collection of herbs and still had pennies jingling in her pocket. My prudent Bess.

  For her part Marjory was determined to prepare their meals, having no other talent to offer the household. If Elisabeth might provide some instructions, and Anne a measure of patience, Marjory thought she could manage it.

  Cleaning the fish turned out to be a messy, smelly business. When the unpleasant job was finally done to her satisfaction, Marjory scored the sides with Anne’s sharpest knife and doused the fish with finely beaten mace, cloves, nutmeg, black pepper, and salt. The spices tickled her nose, threatening to make her sneeze, as she stuffed the notches with butter rolled in flour and tucked a few bay leaves inside the belly of the fish.

  “Behold, our seasoned cook,” Elisabeth teased her, though Marjory heard approval as well.

  “At least it looks right,” Marjory said, wrapping the fish in linen and binding it with twine. She laid it in a shallow kettle, then added water and vinegar, and swung the kettle over the brightly burning coals.

  Anne claimed her knife and wiped it clean. “You cannot have salmon without fresh parsley,” she insisted. “Mrs. Thorburn, who lives by the manse, has a goodly supply in her kitchen garden.”

  Marjory frowned. “She’ll not mind if you help yourself?”

  Anne pulled a ha’penny from her apron pocket. “Whenever an onion, radish, or lettuce is called for, I pluck what I need and plant a coin in its stead for her children to find. A fair trade, Mrs. Thorburn says. Half the neighborhood does the same.”

  When Anne hurried off without cape or hat, Marjory reminded herself that the first of May was only two days hence, with a warm Borderland summer just beyond it.

  And still no Gibson.

  She drew her chair closer to the fire to mind their dinner and stared at the glowing coals, considering the possibilities. However unfriendly Lady Murray’s welcome, her husband was Sheriff of Selkirk. Might he send a party of men to look for Gibson? Sir John might think Marjory daft to be so fretful. But she dared not approach Reverend Brown. He’d summon her soon enough. Too soon.

  After a lengthy silence Elisabeth asked, “Is it Gibson?”

  Marjory turned, acknowledging her with a faint smile. “You know me well, Bess.”

  “And I know Gibson. Whatever has delayed him, he will join us.”

  Marjory nodded absently. “In quiet moments I hear him whisper, ‘Ye’ll aye be Leddy Kerr to me.’ His last words before we parted at Milne Square.” Longing to ease her melancholy, she turned back to the work at hand, stirring the boiling potatoes and poking at the salmon. Her former housekeeper, Helen Edgar, had a canny way
of knowing when fish was perfectly cooked. Lift it from the water too soon and the texture was like jelly. Too late and the fish was tough. Helen’s salmon was always flaky and smooth, like butter in the mouth.

  At least Helen was safely at her mother’s cottage in Lasswade and not wandering the Moorfoot Hills, injured, lost, taken ill, or worse. Poor Gibson.

  Marjory bowed her head, the heat from the coals warming her brow. My soul, wait thou only upon God; for my expectation is from him. She savored the ancient words, more fragrant than the herbs she’d rubbed between her fingers. A sense of peace began settling round her heart. Elisabeth was right: Gibson would join them in God’s good timing. Marjory looked up, her gaze drawn to the window, picturing Neil Gibson striding across the marketplace, his blue gray eyes fixed on Halliwell’s Close.

  She and Elisabeth both jumped when the door swung open.

  “Home again.” Anne clasped a bunch of green parsley like a bride with her bouquet. “Still fresh with dew.” She held out the leafy herb, her countenance bright as the sun.

  “Very fresh.” Marjory took the parsley from Anne’s hands, studying her closely. Whatever had happened to their sober-minded cousin?

  Elisabeth must have seen it too, for she asked, “Who crossed your path, Annie?”

  Their cousin flapped her hand, batting away the question. “Oh, many folk are out this noontide.”

  Marjory and Elisabeth exchanged glances. Anne Kerr had a forthright manner that did not always endear her to others. Whom had she seen on her way to Mrs. Thorburn’s garden?

  Anne wasted no time washing and chopping the parsley, then sprinkling it onto a flat griddle and holding it over the coals. “ ’Twill taste better crisp.” When she peered into the fish kettle, her smile faded. “Has the salmon been cooking all the while I’ve been gone?”

  “Aye,” Marjory confessed, backing away from the hearth. Had she spoiled their dinner and wasted Elisabeth’s hard-earned shilling?

  “Ten minutes to the pound,” Anne told her with a note of impatience, then used two wooden spoons to lift the fish from the kettle. “We’ll soon know if ’tis ruined.”

  Marjory carefully unwrapped the salmon, releasing a pungent aroma through the house. “What say you, Anne?”