Mine Is the Night (22 page)

“Will this suit ye, mem?” Sally asked as the wood fire began to crackle.

Elisabeth clasped her basket, surveying the room. Though it was chilly now, the fire would soon warm her, and the clever lighting was more than sufficient. If only Angus had kept such a stool in his dimly lit shop! The unknown contents of the willow basket were her main concern. “I’d best begin,” she told Sally, who disappeared with a curtsy.

Alone at last, Elisabeth slipped off her light wool cape and hung it by the door, then settled into one of the chairs, placing the mending basket at her
feet and her sewing basket on the empty chair next to her. The day was still young. If the Lord smiled on her work, she might finish before the gloaming.

Elisabeth whispered a prayer for quick fingers and a keen eye, then claimed the first item to be mended, a gentleman’s shirt. Rather than the coarse muslin of a laborer or the thick linen of a servant, the fabric was a fine cambric: almost certainly Lord Buchanan’s.

A nervous shiver danced up her spine as she lifted the garment for a closer inspection. She’d sewn men’s shirts for the last month, but this was different. A gentleman who was not her husband, a gentleman she’d never even met, had worn this fabric against his skin. Numerous times, apparently, for cambric lost its sheen after several launderings.

Judging by the length of the sleeves and breadth of the shoulder seams, Lord Buchanan was indeed tall. She would need to look up to meet his gaze and would not easily see round him. A pleasant scent, more like soap than sweat, clung to the fabric, and the clean neckline hinted at a man who bathed often.

Enough, Bess
. She blushed, lowering the shirt to her lap. Her task was to mend his clothes, not assess them. She quickly found a lengthy gap along the side seam, easily repaired. After threading her needle, she went to work and finished the last stitch a half hour later. She pressed on to the next item, a waistcoat with three missing buttons, requiring an entirely new set, which she retrieved from her basket. A rather new linen apron needed only a few stitches to reattach the waistband, and a second shirt of a lesser quality was quickly hemmed.

As the morning progressed, she draped each finished piece over the chair beside her, stopping occasionally to poke the fire, stretch her limbs, or step into the hall to listen for voices. She imagined Mrs. Pringle and Roberts in their respective offices above her, interviewing the many candidates. Would Molly Easton find herself a parlormaid before the day ended?

When the sun was high overhead, young Sally reappeared with a dinner tray. “I thocht ye might be peckish by noo,” she said, placing the wooden tray on a side table. “
Cauld
mutton,
het
tea, and Mrs. Tudhope’s shortbread.”

“They all sound delicious,” Elisabeth told her, grateful not only for the food but also for the company. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sally, how long have you worked at Bell Hill?”

“A fortnight,” the lass said proudly. “My mither is head laundress. We were the first in Selkirk to be hired. Mrs. Pringle and the ithers came from London toun.”

“What about Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth asked, trying not to sound too curious. “Is he a worthy master?”

Sally smiled. “I’ve niver met a kinder man. He’s auld, ye ken. Nigh to forty. And not verra handsome. But he is guid.”

Elisabeth nodded, adding the details to her store of knowledge concerning Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. She could almost picture him now and would certainly recognize him if he walked through the door, which he might at any time. She thanked Sally, dined with haste, then returned to her sewing, the shadows outside her window lengthening with each passing hour.

When she reached the last garment, a sturdy wool waistcoat, Elisabeth counted the buttons and studied the seams, finding nothing wrong. Had the garment landed in the mending basket by mistake? Running her fingers over the fabric in the waning light, she felt more than saw the problem: a slight tear in the fabric, as if a blade had poked through the wool, severing the weave.

Elisabeth frowned, knowing there was little hope of saving the waistcoat. Cotton and silk thread would never do a proper job of it. She inched closer to the candle-stool, examining the spun wool in the flickering light. If her father were here, he would know what might be done.
Think, Bess. How would a weaver repair this?

Using a flatiron heated by the fire, Elisabeth pressed the damaged area, then picked apart a section of the hem that would not show, carefully removing a few strands of wool. She inserted the strands along the tear, making certain the colors were a perfect match, then rewove the warp and then the weft, using only her fingers and a blunt needle. At last she snipped away the trailing ends, then pressed the fabric once more.

Elisabeth held up the waistcoat, pride welling inside her. Not because of the work she’d done, but because of the father who’d taught her so long ago.

A woman’s voice floated through the doorway. “Still sewing, Mrs. Kerr?”

Elisabeth spun round. “Mrs. Pringle! I thought perhaps you’d forgotten me,” she said lightly, then hoped the housekeeper would not take offense.

“I am later than I intended to be,” she admitted. “Come, let me see your work.”

Elisabeth laid aside the waistcoat for a moment and showed her the rest.

Mrs. Pringle seemed taken aback. “You finished all of it?” The housekeeper inspected each item of clothing, her eyebrows lifting incrementally with each one until finally her face was the picture of astonishment. “You’ve done three days’ work in one, Mrs. Kerr.” She nodded toward the waistcoat. “Of course, that must be delivered to a tailor or a weaver in Edinburgh with very particular skills. Rather a nasty gash.”

“Aye, it was,” Elisabeth said, then held out the mended garment. “See if this is any improvement.”

Frowning, Mrs. Pringle took the waistcoat and turned it over in her hands. Once, then twice. “But where is it? I distinctly remember—”

“ ’Twas here,” Elisabeth said, pointing to the spot she’d labored over.

Mrs. Pringle peered at it more closely, then shook her head. “I would not have believed it possible. Where did you learn such a skill?”

“My father was a weaver. And my oldest friend in Edinburgh was a tailor.”

“Well.” Mrs. Pringle pursed her lips. “I’ve one more task for you, Mrs. Kerr, and then we shall see about a position for you at Bell Hill.”

Elisabeth stole a glance at the window. The last rays of the sun would be gone in an hour, and she’d not had supper. “Will it take very long?” she asked.

“A week, I imagine.” The housekeeper plucked the measuring tape from Elisabeth’s sewing basket. “If you are to sew gowns for the maidservants of Bell Hill, you’d best start with mine. Take my measurements, if you please.”

Elisabeth’s hopes soared. Surely this meant Mrs. Pringle was pleased with her work.

“Lord Buchanan purchased the fabric in London,” Mrs. Pringle explained. “Bolts upon bolts of a fine charcoal gray broadcloth.”

Elisabeth merely nodded as she took the housekeeper’s measurements.
Shoulder to elbow, ten inches. Neck to waist, two-and-twenty in the front, twelve in the back. Waist to hem, eight-and-thirty inches
. She was already imagining the gown she would design. Simple, yet flattering, and above all practical.

When she began measuring Mrs. Pringle’s slightly thicker waist, the housekeeper murmured, “You’ll not tell a soul the number? Mrs. Tudhope is entirely to blame. We’ve both worked for his lordship since the
Centurion
came into port, and I cannot resist her shortbread.”

“ ’Twill be our secret,” Elisabeth assured her, making a mental note.
One-and-thirty inches
.

“Leave your basket with me, if you like,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “I shall expect you at eight in the morn, prepared to work.” Her brow darkened a bit. “This is a trial, you understand, with no promise of engagement.”

“Then I shall do my best to win your approval and his lordship’s as well.”

Mrs. Pringle nodded toward the door. “See that you do, Mrs. Kerr.”

arjory prepared tea for Reverend Brown even as she kept an eye on the windows, watching the bright evening sky fade to a rosy blue. Wherever was Elisabeth? Surely the admiral did not expect his household staff to travel home on foot past the gloaming? Sometimes the gentry could be so inconsiderate.

Marjory had been on edge all day, jumping at every footfall on the stair, every shout from the marketplace. To make matters worse, Anne’s young ladies had been fidgety from first hour to last, and Gibson had not found a moment to visit. Then at seven o’ the clock, the minister had come to the house unexpectedly, asking to meet with her. “Alone,” he’d insisted. Anne had graciously embarked on an errand, leaving Marjory and the reverend to converse in peace.

However,
peace
was the very last word she would use to describe her feelings at present.

With her back toward the reverend, Marjory closed her eyes and silently prayed where she stood.
Peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces
. If peace reigned in Halliwell’s Close this evening and prosperity poured forth from Bell Hill, the Kerr women might yet have hope and a future.

Comforted by the thought, Marjory finished slicing the butter cake, poured their tea, and served Reverend Brown at table, where he sat, looking rather ill at ease. He ate the rich cake in a few hurried bites, then gulped down his steaming cupful as if eager to return home.

“Reverend Brown, it is clear you have something to say.” Marjory put down her fork, having no appetite at all. “How might I make this easier for you?”

“You already have,” he said gruffly, “and I thank you for it.” He cleared his throat, then met her gaze. “I’ve come to speak about Neil Gibson.”

“Oh?” Marjory’s skin cooled, her imagination running up and down Kirk Wynd.
What is it, Gibson? What has happened?

The reverend leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “I am certain you are not aware of this, Mrs. Kerr, but Gibson speaks of you in rather too familiar a manner.”

“Too … familiar?” She frowned, at a loss even to imagine such a thing. “What, may I ask, has Gibson said about me?”

The reverend sat back, studying his hands, perhaps trying to think of an example. Finally he confessed, “He has never spoken of you in my presence. But this morn I overheard him tell the milkmaid that you were a fine lady and a good friend.” The reverend spread out his hands, beseeching her. “You must understand my concern.”

“Oh, I do,” Marjory said to appease him.
A fine lady. A good friend
. She could not remember the last time she’d been so complimented. “Though I would be more troubled if Gibson spoke poorly of me. I was, after all, his employer for thirty years.”

“Precisely,” the reverend said, banging his fist on the table for emphasis. “The man has forgotten his place. Despite your present circumstances, Mrs. Kerr, you are a lady and must not be spoken of so freely, nor in such glowing terms, by a mere manservant. One might think Neil Gibson had designs on you.”

“One might,” she agreed, then quickly hid behind her teacup.
Tread with care, dear Gibson. I’ll not have you dismissed because of me
. “What would you suggest, Reverend Brown? Gibson is, after all, a friend of our family. I cannot think of making him unwelcome here. ’Twould not be the Christian thing to do.”

Reverend Brown nodded, his frown more pronounced. “It is indeed a puzzle, madam. One that requires further consideration. In the meantime, if you will be cautious in your dealings with Gibson and not …, well, encourage such., eh, flattery.”

“I would never do so,” Marjory said smoothly. She did not need to. Neil Gibson was ever generous with his praise. “He served the Kerrs through many seasons, Reverend. I pray he will do the same for you.”

“Aye, aye.” He stood, looking relieved at having discharged his solemn duty. “I do hope my written character was of use to your daughter-in-law this day.”

Marjory glanced at the door, her fears rushing up the steps to greet her anew. “I thank you again for your willingness to help us,” she said, then after a few formalities, bade the minister farewell.

Keeping an eye on the darkening sky, she set the table for three and willed her loved ones home. Though Anne was too old to be her natural daughter, Marjory could not help feeling a certain motherly affection toward her. And Elisabeth
was
her daughter now. Had the lass not said so herself?
Hurry home, dear girls
. Whatever their ages, they would always be young to her.

A half hour crawled by while Marjory walked about the room, picking things up and putting them down with no purpose other than occupying her hands and corralling her anxious thoughts. When at last she heard voices at the foot of the stair, she flung open the upper door. “Annie? Bess?”