Mine Is the Night (8 page)

“Verra weel,” he grumbled, stuffing her correspondence inside his greatcoat. He nodded toward Halliwell’s Close. “I ken whaur ye live, mem. If I dinna get my money—”

“Oh but you will,” Marjory promised him, stepping back.

He’d lifted the reins, preparing to depart, when she suddenly thought of Gibson.

“Wait!” Marjory stepped forward and grabbed the carriage wheel to keep her balance. “Have you seen or heard of a manservant by the name of Neil Gibson? From an innkeeper perhaps? Or another coachman? Mr. Gibson is traveling alone from Edinburgh on foot. Older fellow, silver hair, with fine posture.”

The coachman dragged a hand across his rough beard. “I’ve not seen such a man on the road. Gibson, ye say?”

“Aye. He has served our family for thirty years.” She pointed to Anne’s window. “Our name is Kerr. Should you hear of him …”

“If I do, I’ll get wird to ye
whan
I’m next in Selkirk,” he said, then called out to his horses, which responded at once, their iron horseshoes striking the cobblestones.

“Godspeed!” she cried, then hastened withindoors, lest one of the kirk elders spy her in the street.

A moment later Marjory stood before the hearth, catching her breath, pleased to have done something of value that afternoon. Odd, though, to be alone in the house. Wherever had Anne and Elisabeth gone? She was too restless to read, too unsettled to pray—the two pastimes deemed suitable for the Sabbath.

Looking round, she realized Elisabeth had unpacked her few belongings. She could do the same, couldn’t she? It wasn’t truly work, like washing dishes or laundering clothes. As long as Anne wouldn’t think her presumptuous, making herself at home, it seemed a worthy task.

Marjory opened her trunk and placed two pairs of white gloves, her embroidered silk reticule, and a simple black hat on the shelf between the windows. She left her spare whalebone stays, cotton stockings, and embroidered nightgown in her trunk for modesty’s sake, then closed the lid, chagrined at how hollow it sounded. She was wearing the only gown she owned, having sold her many satin, silk, brocade, and velvet costumes in Edinburgh, desperate for guineas.

Elisabeth had set the example, selling all her gowns first. Except for the lavender one. The lass might never have an occasion to wear it in Selkirk, but Marjory was glad her daughter-in-law had chosen to keep Donald’s gift. Despite his shameful behavior, Elisabeth had loved him while he lived and honored his memory. No daughter-in-law could be more faithful.

Marjory was tucking a pair of damask shoes beneath her bed when she heard voices on the stair. Elisabeth and Anne came strolling through the door, their cheeks bright with color.

“Tea,” Anne said without preamble, reaching for clean cups from the shelf by the hearth.

Elisabeth smoothed back the wisps of hair curling round her damp brow. “Forgive us for leaving you, Marjory. We’ve been walking in the forest near the kirk. I trust you slept well.”

“And wrote a letter too,” Marjory said, rather proud of herself. “Already on its way to Tweedsford with a short list of personal items I’ve asked Mr. Laidlaw to bring to me.”

A beat of silence followed.

“Mr. Laidlaw?” Elisabeth repeated as if she’d misunderstood.

Anne put down the cups with a dull bang. “You’ve asked that man to come here? To my house?”

“I’m afraid I did.” Marjory stared at them, confused. “Mr. Laidlaw is the only person who can help me retrieve what is rightfully mine before this admiral arrives to claim my property.”

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.”

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 MacPherson 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.”