Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,26

clink. She bent to retrieve it, then held out the small item. “From Michael Dalgliesh.”

“For me?” Elisabeth took the silver thimble and slipped it in place. “ ’Tis a perfect fit.”

“So I see,” Anne said evenly.

“When did he give you this?” Elisabeth asked, holding up her thumb.

“Earlier today when I went looking for parsley in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. He was on his way to deliver it. Thought you might find it helpful.”

Elisabeth studied the dimpled surface, worn from use. “How kind of him.”

Anne offered a faint shrug. “ ’Tis only a thimble.”

Elisabeth heard the note of irritation in her cousin’s voice, but could not press Anne further. Not with her students present and Marjory listening. Later, perhaps.

Once the young ladies took their places round the sewing table, Elisabeth saw that Anne’s assessment was correct: Lesley and Grace had little talent for needlework. The girls did one buttonhole stitch to Anne’s four. But their manners were refined and their expressions pleasing. If that was all their parents wished for, their shillings were well spent.

Elisabeth’s needle soon fell into rhythm with their lace tell.

Betsy Bays and Polly Mays,

They are two bonny lasses;

They built a bower upon the tower,

And covered it with rushes.

When the kirk bell chimed the hour of six, a carriage was already parked at the mouth of the close, and a patient footman stood at the stair door, waiting for the two young ladies. Their families’ fine estates were not far from town along the road leading from the West Port.

Anne sent them off with curtsies all round, then closed the door behind them with a heavy sigh. “I accomplish little of my own lace making while they’re here,” she admitted, then quickly reclaimed her seat and angled it just so, making the most of the late afternoon light. “How are you coming with your shirt, Bess?”

“Finished.” She shook out the fabric, then spread it across her skirts. “ ’Tis embarrassingly easy. Sleeves, seams, cuffs, and a collar.”

Anne picked up one of the sleeves and examined the cuff with a practiced eye. “You have a fine backstitch,” she told her. “And the neck gussets are neatly done. Michael must be pleased.”

Elisabeth eyed her. “Michael, is it?”

Anne did not blush often, but when she did, her pale skin turned quite rosy. “We attended school together, just down from the shop.”

“Then you knew Jenny, his late wife.”

Anne’s cheeks grew pinker still. “Aye.”

When her cousin said nothing more, Elisabeth stood and carefully folded the shirt. More pieces were falling into place. Anne clearly harbored feelings for her old classmate. Whether he returned them was less certain. “I shall give Mr. Dalgliesh your regards and return in time for supper.” Elisabeth looked toward the hearth. “Eight o’ the clock,” she promised her mother-in-law, then hurried down the stair.

The sun bronzed the lower western sky and cast long shadows across the marketplace, less crowded now with nightfall approaching. She clutched the shirt to her bodice lest it slip from her hands onto the dirty cobblestones of Kirk Wynd. Nodding at folk in passing, she realized some faces were beginning to look familiar. A pockmarked lad in dingy clothing, head bent to hide his scars. A barefoot dairymaid who danced when she walked yet never spilled a drop of milk. A crookbacked man with a hazel walking stick, making his way from one shop door to the next. She would learn their names, one by one, until Selkirk was truly home.

A minute later she knocked on the tailor’s door.

“Anither shirt?” His look of astonishment melted into a grin. “I suppose ye’ll be wanting anither shilling as weel.”

“ ’Tis our agreement,” Elisabeth reminded him, then placed the finished garment on the only uncluttered surface she could find. “Your thimble is to blame, Mr. Dalgliesh.” She wiggled her thumb. “Now I can sew even faster.”

“ ’Twas Jenny’s,” he said simply. “She sewed a fine shirt too.”

Yet you parted with your wife’s thimble so easily. Elisabeth found his nonchalance unsettling. Did he care nothing for material possessions? Or have little use for sentiment?

“I am honored to use Jenny’s thimble,” she finally said, slipping the coin he offered into her hanging pocket. “Bless you for sending it home with Annie.”

Some emotion flickered in his blue eyes. Not sorrow, not remorse, but something.

Thinking it prudent to change the subject, Elisabeth glanced at the turnpike stair. “I was hoping to finally meet Peter.”

Mr. Dalgliesh reached for a waistcoat in need of buttons. “His granmither in Lindean claimed him for the nicht. She