Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,25

threesome bent over their work, speaking softly in a lace tell, a rhythmic chant used by lace makers to keep a steady pace.

Nineteen miles to the Isle of Wight,

Shall I get there by candlelight?

Yes, if your fingers go lissome and light,

You’ll get there by candlelight.

Their lilting voices were as bonny as they were. Sandy-haired Lesley Boyd had a sweet smile and an effusive personality. Grace Caldwell was long-limbed, dark-haired, and gentler in nature, with eyes that hinted at a fine intellect. Both were six-and-ten, on the cusp of womanhood. Looking at them now, with their fine, smooth complexions, Elisabeth shook her head in disbelief. Had she ever been so young?

“I’ll turn five-and-twenty in a fortnight,” she’d confessed last evening to Anne, who’d muttered, “At least you were married once.” Elisabeth was left not knowing how to respond. One moment Anne seemed content to be unwed, and the next she was miserable.

Then there was Mr. Laidlaw. His brief appearance earlier had all but ruined the start of their quiet afternoon. Anne had blanched at the mere sight of him. With Marjory gone and the young ladies present, Elisabeth hadn’t allowed the factor across the threshold, only took the small sack of items from Tweedsford and placed it on Marjory’s bed, waiting for her return.

Seated at the empty dining table, Elisabeth had pressed on with her sewing, pulling her needle through the closely woven cambric. A fine French cotton, Mr. Dalgliesh had said proudly. The slight gloss on the right side of the fabric caught the afternoon sunlight pouring across the room. She hoped to deliver another finished shirt before supper. One simple phrase ran through her head as she stitched. Another shirt, another shilling. She had never in her life cared about money. But she cared very much about keeping food on their table.

At the sound of footsteps on the stair, Elisabeth quickly put aside her sewing, anxious to hear the details of Marjory’s meeting with the reverend. He could make their lives difficult if he chose to. A moment later, when the door creaked open and her mother-in-law appeared, Elisabeth saw at once how upset she was and so feared the worst.

Marjory yanked her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her brow. “I should have marched him up to the manse,” she fumed.

Elisabeth glanced at Anne and her students, who were agog. “Whatever did the reverend say?” Elisabeth asked in a low voice, stepping between Marjory and the others.

Her mother-in-law looked surprised by the question. “The reverend? Oh … well … we are free to make our home in Selkirk,” she told her. “And the admiral will not reside at Tweedsford.”

“Oh!” Elisabeth exclaimed. “Good news all round, then.”

“Not all.” Marjory frowned at the door. “I met Mr. Laidlaw in the close.”

At that, Lesley and Grace abandoned their lace making and hurried to Marjory’s side. “Who was that man?” Grace asked, her eyes aglow with curiosity, while Lesley pleaded, “Can you not tell us anything?”

“He’s an old family acquaintance,” Anne said offhandedly, then waved them toward the table. “Shall we have tea before resuming your lesson?”

“You’ll not put us off so easily,” Lesley protested. “We caught a glimpse of the man when he tarried at the threshold. He is far below your station, Miss Kerr.”

“I am glad you think so,” Anne told them. “He was once Mrs. Kerr’s factor. And that is all you need to know.”

Elisabeth took each girl by the elbow and steered them toward the chairs on the far side of the table. “We have gingerbread cakes,” she said, hoping to tempt them, “and fresh milk for your tea. Only promise you’ll not ask any more questions about our visitor.”

“Very well,” Grace said with an exaggerated sigh.

As soon as they were all gathered, her mother-in-law prompted the young ladies, “Tell us something of yourselves.” They did so in colorful detail, forgetting all about Anne’s mysterious caller, to Elisabeth’s great relief.

She’d not liked the look of Mr. Laidlaw from the moment she’d answered the door. Whether it was his too-familiar demeanor or his slouching stance, Elisabeth could not say. Anne’s words had marked him with the blackest of ink. A profligate of the worst kind. That was all Elisabeth needed to know.

When her teacup was empty and her gingerbread reduced to crumbs, she could not delay her labors any longer. “I have much to do if I’m to finish this shirt before sunset.”

As Anne pulled off her apron, an object dropped to the floor with a slight