Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,133
more than sympathy, though she deserved a large measure of that too. “Every man in my employ will be sworn to protect you—”
“As well as the other women of Bell Hill,” she insisted.
How like you, Bess, to think of others. “Aye,” he promised her. “Another tailor will be engaged, though he’ll not reside here.”
“Not all tailors are like Rob MacPherson,” Elisabeth said gently. “ ’Twas his obsession, not his profession, that made him dangerous.”
“Indeed.” Jack exhaled, as if breath alone might drive out the fear, the anger, the guilt that lingered inside him. “Yesterday morn I imagined you might have gone with him.”
“Never, milord,” she whispered. “My heart is here at Bell Hill.”
He lifted her hands and lightly kissed them once more. “I am glad, Bess.” More than you know. More than I can say.
Sixty-Four
There is a secret drawer
in every woman’s heart.
VICTOR HUGO
lisabeth’s fingers trembled as she tried to pin another cuff in place.
My heart is here at Bell Hill. Without meaning to, she’d all but confessed her fond affection for his lordship. No wonder he’d responded as he did. The tenderness in his voice, the warmth of his touch, the attentiveness of his gaze left little doubt of his mutual regard.
But ’tis too soon, milord. Much too soon.
She’d retreated to her workroom in haste, needing time to sort through her feelings. Keep thy heart with all diligence. Aye, she must. The only two men who’d ever professed to love her had also wounded her, savagely. She’d not offer her heart again until she was sure—very sure—he was not simply a good man but also the man of God’s choosing.
Elisabeth looked up at the window, a golden yellow square spilling light into the room. Is Lord Buchanan that man, Father? Silence was all she heard, though deep inside she knew the answer: Wait, my daughter. Wait.
She pressed on with her sewing, grateful to have work that occupied her hands if not always her thoughts. At least in her quiet workroom she was free to abandon the too-large bonnet, on loan from Mrs. Tait. In another day or two the unsightly mark on her cheek would disappear. Certainly by the Sabbath, or she’d be forced to wear the borrowed bonnet all day.
“Och!” Sally flung open the door unannounced, eyes and mouth gaping. “He did harm ye! That scoonrel.”
Elisabeth rose to her feet even as her heart sank. If Sally knew, so did the entire household.
Still catching her breath, Sally blurted out, “His lordship called us a’ into the dining hall. Told us ye’d been accosted by a man on the road hame and that we were to watch for strangers.” The maidservant drew closer, studying Elisabeth’s cheek. “Comfrey leaves,” she said. “Mr. Richardson can pluck ye some.”
“Such a remedy would be most welcome.” Elisabeth sat once more, then tugged on Sally’s apron, drawing the lass into the chair next to hers. “Did Lord Buchanan tell you anything else?”
Sally nodded vigorously. “Said we were to treat ye with respect. And to leuk oot for ye. Which I’m happy to do.”
“Bless you,” Elisabeth murmured. He’d not mentioned Rob’s name, then.
Sally went on, “The men o’ the hoose were vexed whan they heard what happened. A’ the lads have sworn to protect ye and keep ye safe.” She sighed dramatically. “I wouldna mind if Johnnie Hume did the same for me.”
Elisabeth pictured the young blacksmith on Water Row, his muscular arms wielding sledgehammers with ease. “Perhaps you’ll have your wish someday, lass.”
“Aye.” Sally winked at her, then jumped up from the chair and quit the room as swiftly as she’d arrived.
Elisabeth watched her go, then resumed her sewing, wondering if other visitors might come by to assess the damage. However embarrassing to have the household see her thus, Elisabeth was grateful they knew of her injury. Better to have such things discussed openly than whispered behind doors.
The path to her workroom was soon well trod. Mrs. Pringle brought a large flatiron. “A fine weapon, should the lout make another appearance.” Mr. Richardson did indeed find comfrey growing in a shady spot not far from the gardens and produced an abundance of fresh leaves to press against her wound. Mrs. Tudhope came in for a brief commiseration, leaving one of Elisabeth’s favorite apple tarts in her wake. And late in the afternoon, Hyslop stopped in to assure her that Belda would be saddled and ready promptly at five o’ the clock.
“Five?” Elisabeth asked, wrinkling her brow. “Not six?”