Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,27

thocht it might help me with my wark.”

Elisabeth could see how exhausted the tailor was. The lines round his eyes were more pronounced, and his shoulders sagged. “I wonder, have you considered taking a partner?”

His head snapped in her direction. “Whatsomever d’ye mean?”

“Another tailor. Or an apprentice.”

She’d not seen him frown before. He was frowning now.

“Anither tailor must be paid, and an apprentice taught.” Michael stood, tossing aside the waistcoat. “Jenny and I managed the shop verra weel thegither. But it hasna been the same without her.”

Regret washed over Elisabeth. Whatever was she thinking? Prying into this man’s life, making suggestions. She hastened to his side. “Please forgive me, Mr. Dalgliesh. We have only just met. ’Tis not my place—”

“Nae, nae,” he said, his features softening. “Dinna mind my ill-natured self. On the morrow ’twill be three years syne I lost my wife. ’Tis a hard time, ye ken?”

Elisabeth nodded, imagining how she might feel come the seventeenth of January. “You are right to mourn her still.”

Michael’s gaze met hers. “As ye do yer husband, I’ll warrant.”

“Aye.” But it wasn’t Donald who came to mind as she stood near the tailor. Elisabeth noted the measuring tape draped round his neck, the chalk poking out of his waistcoat pocket, and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and thought of Rob MacPherson. A childhood friend from the Highlands, Rob had moved to Edinburgh with his father, Angus, and had worked in his tailoring shop, as she had. Alas, Rob had grown too attached to her, seldom letting her out of his sight. Even now she shuddered, remembering his dark eyes.

“I must away,” she told Michael, stepping toward the door. “Perhaps on my next visit I’ll have the pleasure of meeting your son.”

“He’d like that,” Michael agreed.

“Tomorrow eve, then.” Elisabeth bade him farewell and made haste for Halliwell’s Close, uncertain of the time. The kirk bell did not ring every hour during the week, only at noon and six o’ the clock. Her mother-in-law’s demanding nature had eased considerably, but Marjory was still particular about a few things. Supper at eight was one of them.

Elisabeth arrived without a moment to spare. The table was set, Anne was seated, and Marjory was ladling her fragrant soup into wooden bowls, carved from knobby burls. Since the grain was whorled rather than straight, the bowls were less likely to crack. Elisabeth helped her serve, then took her place at table next to Marjory, who spoke a brief grace over their meal.

Supper was meager fare—one bowl of soup for each of them and a triangle cut from the large, round bannock—but Elisabeth had silver in her pocket. They would have meat on the morrow and send out the month of April with a flourish. “What shall it be, ladies?” she asked, holding up her coin. “Fish, flesh, or fowl?”

“The cook chooses,” Anne told her.

“If the flesher might have a pullet and a pound of veal,” Marjory said, “I recall a fine dish Helen Edgar oft served. Though I’ll need your help, Elisabeth.”

“ ’Tis yours,” she said, honored to be asked. Growing up as a cottager, Elisabeth had learned a great deal about cooking from sheer necessity. But this was an entirely new venture for her mother-in-law.

Later, when they stood to clear the table, Marjory said to her, “Reverend Brown shared a Highland proverb with me today, one I’d not heard. ‘Change is refreshing.’ ”

The words warmed Elisabeth’s heart. “My father loved that one.”

“Did he?” Marjory paused, dishes in hand, to look at her. “Bess, what does it sound like in Gaelic?”

Her request stole Elisabeth’s breath. Never in their years together at Milne Square had her mother-in-law asked her to speak in her native Highland tongue. In truth, Marjory had always seemed offended when she overheard Gaelic spoken in the street.

Now she was willing, even eager, to hear it. Another miracle.

Elisabeth smiled at her and said, “Is ùrachadh atharrachadh. Change is refreshing, Marjory.” And you are living proof.

Fourteen

What is so sweet and dear

As a prosperous morn in May?

SIR WILLIAM WATSON

hen the first rays of the sun stirred Marjory from her sleep on Thursday, the bedframe groaned at the precise same moment she did. Chagrined, she sat up and rubbed her stiff neck, then her aching knees, then her sore back. Surely there was some remedy for growing older. A sprinkle of morning dew on May Day was said to bring health and happiness for the year ahead. If the dew might also make her more youthful, she