Mine Is the Night (9 page)

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.”

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?”

She poked at the fish. “ ’Twill do.”

Relieved, Marjory sprinkled the salmon with parsley and served it with butter and potatoes. After the briefest of blessings, all three tucked into their food as if they’d not eaten in a week and quickly finished their dinner.

“Delicious,” Elisabeth pronounced, dabbing at her mouth.

“You’re certain it was not overdone?” Marjory asked.

Anne nodded at their empty woodenware. “Apparently not, for we ate every bite.” She stood, casting her gaze across the dish-strewn table. “My students will arrive shortly …”

“Go, both of you,” Marjory said with a wave of her hand. “I can take care of this.”

Elisabeth offered her thanks and resumed her sewing while Marjory started clearing away the dishes, ignoring the stiffness in her back as she worked. She’d served one tolerable meal at least. The table and hearth were soon set to rights and the house made presentable for Anne’s students, who arrived promptly each afternoon at two o’ the clock and departed at six.

Yesterday, Marjory had read a book while Elisabeth sewed, both of them
seated at the dining table so the girls could claim the upholstered chairs by the windows for their needlework. Today, she imagined, would be no different.

A sharp knock brought all three women to their feet. They pulled off their aprons and smoothed their hair so they might greet the young ladies properly. Anne was bent on polishing her students’ manners as well as their skills.

But when she opened the door, Anne froze in place.

“Beg pardon, sir. We were not … expecting you.”

thunderous voice rumbled through the house. “I would see the elder Mrs. Kerr. Alone.”

Marjory closed her eyes.
Reverend Brown
. The man who held their future in his hands. As the minister of the parish, he was answerable not only to God but also to King George.

She forced herself to look at him, to move forward, to greet him, then nodded at the others, setting them free.
Do not worry. The Lord is with me
. Elisabeth and Anne curtsied and retreated into the room, leaving Marjory and the minister standing by the door.

He gazed about the small house. “Where …, eh, might we converse?”

Marjory was at a loss for an answer. “Our cousin’s students are to arrive at any moment. I’m afraid we’ll have no privacy here. Perhaps another day—”

“Nae.” His permanent frown deepened. “We shall speak at the manse. ’Tis but a short walk up Kirk Wynd.”

When she turned to bid the others farewell, their eyes were wide with concern. “I’ll not be long,” she assured them, praying it might be so.

Her legs a bit unsteady, Marjory followed Reverend Brown down the stair and into the bustling, sunlit marketplace, the blithe atmosphere a strange counterpoint to her fears. The rich aroma of meat pies wafted past her, and the sound of a blacksmith’s anvil filled the air. Coaxed from their houses by the warmer weather, Selkirk’s residents mingled round the well or the mercat cross, the council room or the tolbooth, with its impressive new steeple. Looking
neither left nor right, Marjory remained close on the minister’s heels, lest someone step between them and begin chattering away, vexing the reverend further.

Draped in shapeless black clothing, with his shoulders hunched forward and his chin against his chest, David Brown resembled a bird of prey, dark plumed and sharp beaked, pecking his way up the steep wynd. He opened the door of the manse, across from the Mintos’ house, and bade Marjory inside.