Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,122
glimpse of him standing at the window, as he did some mornings. Not this one, it seemed.
Rob touched the small of her back. “He doesna luve ye as I do.”
She closed her eyes, feeling almost sick. “Mr. MacPherson, please …”
When she started toward the house, he quickly caught up, this time snagging her elbow. “Bess, what must I do to win ye?”
Pulling free of his grasp, she turned to face him, then told him in Gaelic, lest they be overheard, “I am not a game to be won, sir.”
After a long pause Rob responded in kind, his words soft and low. “I feared our language was lost to you.”
Elisabeth looked down at her damask rose, her throat tightening. “Never,” she whispered. She’d not heard their Highland tongue for many months, nor spoken it except for the single proverb she’d recited for Marjory.
Rob stepped closer. “Please forgive me, lass. I meant no offense.”
How could she speak unkindly to such a man? And yet she had to tell him the truth.
“I am the one who must ask your forgiveness,” she confessed. “For I do not and cannot love you.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, knowing the pain she would find in those black depths. “I am grateful for the friendship we had as children. But we have grown into two very different people.”
The lines across his brow deepened as he shifted back to English. “Is it money ye’re wanting? A rich husband, not a tailor?”
“Nae.” She shook her head, certain of her answer. “I want only to honor the vow I made to my mother-in-law and to the Lord. If the Almighty has a husband for me, I will marry again someday. But ’twill not be soon.”
“So ye say,” he growled, then quit the garden in a huff.
Elisabeth managed to avoid Rob the rest of Monday by tarrying in her workroom. A handful of gowns remained to be sewn: two for upper housemaids, three for lower housemaids, all of whom were most anxious to match their peers. Elisabeth spent the day measuring the five of them, hoping she might speed the process for their sakes and enjoy their company in the bargain.
Mrs. Pringle had trained her staff well. Each young woman was polite and quiet in demeanor, clean and neat in appearance. A maid named Biddy, all arms and legs, was grateful Elisabeth could lengthen her cuffs, making her arms appear less spindly. Elsie was a good deal rounder than the others and so asked, “Might ye add a wee trim about my neck so folk will leuk at my face and not my form?” Elisabeth assured her such a thing was easily done.
Ada, with her ivory complexion and wheat-colored hair, was relieved her gown would feature a line of pearl buttons to brighten the charcoal gray fabric against her pale skin. Nessie was the youngest and smallest and so earned a dainty ruffle along the square neckline. And Muriel, who said no more than five words—“Aye,” “Nae,” and “Thank ye, mem”—was elated to know a row of pleats across the bodice would give the impression of fullness where there was none.
When Sally swept into the room with her tea tray late in the afternoon, Elisabeth was surrounded with slates full of numbers and notations. Sally deposited her repast on the table, then smoothed her hands over her gown. “Mine is the bonniest,” she confided. “My ain mither says so.”
Elisabeth smiled as the maidservant poured her tea. “I’m glad you’re pleased. A few more gowns, and I’ll be finished.”
“But, Mrs. Kerr, ye canna leave us!” the lass cried, nearly filling the cup to overflowing. “Ye belong at Bell Hill.”
“That will depend on his lordship.” Elisabeth rescued her cup, then took a sip, trying not to burn her lips. “If there’s sewing to be done, I shall be glad to stay.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “If ye think his lordship wants ye for yer needle, ye’re not so canny as I thocht.”
Elisabeth tried not to smile. “You know very well I cannot entertain such a notion, and neither can Lord Buchanan.”
The lass tossed her russet hair, making her cap dance about. “Say what ye will, ye’ll be married afore lang. And not to the Hielander wha’s sewing for the lads.”
“Nae,” Elisabeth agreed, “though I’m curious why you say so.”
Sally’s voice dropped a notch. “At oor supper on Saturday last, the tailor didna take his eyes aff ye. But ye niver once leuked at him.”
Elisabeth could hardly argue with so keen an observation.