Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,19
round his establishment. “Here’s whaur I do my cutting,” he said, pointing to the large table dominating the room. “Woolens, linens, broadcloth, serge. Whatsomever folk ask for.” Bolts of fabric were stacked high on one end, and muslin patterns were scattered everywhere.
“You seem much engaged,” she said, noting the many coats and breeches hanging about. Some clothes were nearly finished; others were marked with chalk, waiting their turn.
“There’s aye meikle wark to be done.” He shrugged when he said it, but she heard the distress in his voice. No doubt he was overwhelmed by all the tasks at hand. It would have taken Angus MacPherson and his son, Rob, weeks to complete this many pieces.
In the only window, which faced School Close, a plain woolen coat hung on display. “The men o’ Selkirk dinna favor velvets, satins, or silk,” he explained. “Nor do they like any fancy stitching.”
His words gave her pause. In the capital she was known for embellishing waistcoats with intricate embroidery. Would her skills even be needed here? It was time she found out.
“Mr. Dalgliesh,” she began, “you must wonder why I’ve come this morn.”
He chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “I was quite certain ye didna want a greatcoat.”
“Nae. But I would be honored to stitch them for your customers.” Elisabeth slipped off her gloves, wanting him to see the truth. She no longer had the soft, pale hands of a gentlewoman. Her chapped fingers had wrung out too many wet rags. “I’ve come to offer my services. As a seamstress.”
For the first time since she’d crossed his threshold, Michael Dalgliesh seemed bereft of words. Finally he said, “Ye want … to wark for me?”
“I do,” she said without apology. “Mr. MacPherson, a tailor in the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh, kept my needle busy for many seasons.”
“Is that so?” His gaze began circling the shop. “Weel, leuk at that!” he exclaimed as if he’d discovered a new island off the Scottish coast. He grabbed a pile of fine cambric, already cut and pinned. “Can ye stitch a man’s shirt, Mrs. Kerr?”
“Well, as it happens—”
He’d already thrust the unfinished shirts into her arms. “Not a’ men are blessed to have a woman in their lives to sew for them.” His freckled skin grew ruddier. “I make shirts for Reverend Brown, Daniel Cumming, and James Mitchelhill too. But I’m woefully behind, as ye can see, and would be grateful for those busy hands o’ yers.”
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.”