Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,14
places. Marjory had barely finished her meal before she crawled into the hurlie bed with a soft moan. She quickly fell asleep, the sound of her steady breathing an undercurrent flowing through their quiet lodgings.
Elisabeth eyed her leather trunk. “I should unpack my few belongings. That is, if you’ll not object …”
Anne responded with a faint shrug. “I cannot turn you out. Where else could you stay?”
Nowhere. How hard that was to admit! “ ’Twill not always be thus,” Elisabeth promised, for her own benefit as well as Anne’s.
Kneeling beside the trunk, Elisabeth lifted out a wrinkled linen chemise and several pairs of stockings, all of which required laundering, a task for Monday morning. She owned no jewelry, no silk fans, no fine hats, only a pair of brocade shoes and a handful of accessories. An ivory comb to tuck in her curls and the hairbrush she’d used that morning found a place on the washstand, then she hung her gray wool cape on a hook by the door.
All that remained was a single gown suitable for evening, though not for a widow.
“Lovely,” Anne murmured, peering over her shoulder.
Elisabeth held up the rich, lavender-colored satin adorned with silk gauze and gold sequins. “A gift from my late husband.”
Anne’s breath caught. “Brussels lace?” She reverently touched the broad, creamy swath that draped from each elbow-length sleeve. “You cannot imagine the months women spent creating this.”
Elisabeth watched Anne examine the delicate needlework, fingers lightly caressing the tiny buttonhole stitches that formed each lacy flower and stem. “You know something of the craft?”
Anne lifted her head. “Did I not tell you? I am a lace maker.” She gestured toward the sewing table between the upholstered chairs. “ ’Tis how I support myself. If you open the drawer, you’ll find some of my work.”
For a dressmaker the invitation was irresistible. Elisabeth eased the silk gown back into her trunk, then moved to the low table and tugged on the drawer. “Oh my.” She lifted out a narrow length of lace in the making, taking care not to disturb the many pins holding it in place. “Such delicate knots! Whatever do you call this?”
“Point de neige,” Anne said in French, kneeling beside her. “The points are meant to look like snow. Not long before my mother died, she gave me her most treasured possession, a Venetian lace collar. Then I bought a pattern book from a chapman, and …” She shrugged.
Elisabeth held Anne’s work up to the light, marveling at the intricate pattern. “Surely the gentry pay you handsomely for your labors.”
“Aye. Lady Murray once purchased several lace-trimmed handkerchiefs and a jabot for Sir John. I lived on that silver for half a year,” Anne told her. “But few in Selkirk can afford such luxury. I depend upon occasional visits from a traveling merchant who purchases my work for a shop in Covent Garden.” She carefully retrieved her lace from Elisabeth and placed it back in the drawer. “Unfortunately, he’s not come through town in a twelvemonth.”
Elisabeth gaped at her. “Annie, however do you manage?”
Her thin-lipped smile did not reach her eyes. “I teach lace making to the daughters of local gentry who can spare a shilling a week.” She stood and began clearing the dining table. “On Tuesday you’ll meet my two pupils, Miss Caldwell and Miss Boyd. Neither of them enjoys needlework, but they’ve kindly not complained to their mothers. At least not yet.”
Elisabeth joined her, collecting the wooden utensils that, by Sabbath law, could not be washed until morning. Two shillings a week? Even in rural Selkirk those coins would be quickly spent. “And yet you served us mutton this noontide.”
Anne turned to meet her gaze. “ ’Tis the one day of the week I have meat.”
Elisabeth glanced in the direction of the hurlie bed, then asked in a low voice, “Might your titled cousins not have provided at least a small income for you?”
Anne was slow to answer. “I was not a close relative of Lord John’s, nor did I travel in the same social circles.” She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable. “When no one asked for my hand in marriage, Lord John took pity on me and quietly arranged a monthly stipend. Lady Marjory was unaware of his generosity. As she was of many things.”
Elisabeth merely nodded. Three years of living with her mother-in-law had taught her much about the gentry and their willingness to look the other way when it suited them.
Her cousin went on. “The coins were delivered to my