Mine Is the Night (20 page)

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.

arjory was stirring a pot of sheep’s-head broth for their noontide dinner when her daughter-in-law trudged through the door, dripping wet. Sending Anne to fetch clean towels, Marjory wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to Elisabeth’s side. “Poor Bess. I hoped you’d be home before this.”

“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.

“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.”

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.

She collected her sewing basket from the shelf, then tallied her dressmaking tools: a half-dozen spools of silk thread, her best cutting shears, a packet of straight pins, her measuring tape, her pincushion, a handful of shirt buttons, tailor’s chalk wrapped in linen, and a small wooden case with her precious needles. Whatever task might be required, she was prepared.

The most valuable tool her basket contained was the written character from Michael Dalgliesh and another one from Reverend Brown, which he’d provided at Marjory’s request last evening. Without them she could not hope to be taken seriously as a dressmaker.

Lastly she slipped round her neck a black ribbon from which dangled a slender pair of scissors meant for snipping loose threads and advertising her services. A gentlewoman would never appear in public displaying her scissors, but a dressmaker would.

She started to close the wooden lid of her basket when a glint of silver caught her eye.
Jenny’s thimble
. Elisabeth paused, her mind turning. “Annie,” she said, keeping her voice light, “might you return this for me?” She lifted out the delicate thimble and placed it in her cousin’s hand. “I am sure he meant this as a loan, not a gift, yet it would be awkward for me to visit Mr. Dalgliesh’s shop.” Elisabeth met her gaze. “You do understand?”