Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,18

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