Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,36
“My faither might forget to gie me a praisent.”
Elisabeth was quite certain that would never happen and told Peter so as they turned down School Close.
When they walked into the shop, Michael was waiting on a customer. She quietly moved toward the stair, thinking to carry up their purchases, but Peter was his father’s son and swiftly made his presence known.
“How d’ye do, Mr. Mitchelhill?” the lad exclaimed, then pointed to the man’s hands, stained the same color as his chestnut brown hair. “He’s a tanner.”
With a wry smile, the man splayed his fingers. “I canna deny it.”
Michael motioned Elisabeth closer. “Here’s one o’ the men ye’ve been sewing for, Mrs. Kerr.” He patted the stack of shirts on the counter. “And a bonny seamstress ye are.”
When she stepped into the candlelight, Mr. Mitchellhill did not hide his admiration. “Aye, verra bonny.” He winked, then tossed two guineas on the counter and quit the shop, tipping his hat to her on the way out.
A troubled look crossed Michael’s face. “He didna mean to offend ye.”
“Truly, he didn’t,” she assured Michael, placing the market basket on the counter.
He quickly added, “What I meant was, yer sewing is bonny.”
“I see.” Now she was amused.
“Och!” he stammered, his skin almost matching his bright red hair. “But ye’re bonny too, Mrs. Kerr. As loosome as they come.”
“No need to explain yourself,” she assured him, then lifted out her butter, flour, and barley from the basket. She turned her attention to Peter, smiling down at him. “What a fine morn we had.”
He grinned back. “Aye, we did.”
Elisabeth longed to touch his wee button of a nose or brush aside the loose curls from his small brow. “Shall I see you on the morrow, Peter, when I bring another shirt?”
The boy nodded with his entire body.
Michael laughed. “Weel, young Peter, ye’ve found a guid freen in Mrs. Kerr. Noo up the stair ye go, and take our oatmeal and such with ye.”
Peter did his father’s bidding without complaint, carrying the heavy basket up one stair step at a time. Plunk, step. Plunk, step.
Only when he disappeared from sight could Elisabeth finally tear her gaze away from the child and turn to his father. “He is the dearest of lads.” Her throat tightened round the words. “Thank you for sharing him with me.”
Michael shrugged, his heightened color having eased. “Feel free to borrow Peter whanever it suits ye. ’Tis guid for him to be., weel, to spend time …”
“With a woman,” she finished for him. When Michael nodded, she thought to spare him any further embarrassment and so eased toward the door. “Speaking of women, my mother-in-law will be wondering what’s kept me so long.”
Michael’s exaggerated frown was worthy of the stage. “Must ye leave so soon?”
“I am behind on my sewing,” she reminded him, “and you have work to do.”
“Aye, aye,” he said, sending her on her way.
When she stepped into School Close, Elisabeth decided to plant her ha’pence in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. She hastened across Kirk Wynd and entered the narrow passageway between the manse and Mrs. Thorburn’s house. When she reached the kitchen garden in the rear, Elisabeth chose a small head of cabbage, some ripe lettuce, and a few stems of sage, then laid her coins on the ground. Carefully balancing everything, she gathered up her market fare and started for home, her arms full but her pockets empty.
The joy of her outing with Peter had begun to fade into a sobering reality. She could not hope to provide sufficient food for their household on a few shillings a week. Nor could she add to her earnings by laboring with Michael in his shop, much as he needed her help. A widower and a young widow alone for hours at a time? The gossips would never cease their blethering.
Earlier that morning Michael Dalgliesh had hinted at finding a partner. Elisabeth glanced at the heavens. Does he mean a tailor, Lord? Or does he mean a wife?
She tripped over a large stone propped against the outer wall of the house, losing her footing for a moment. Righting herself, she wriggled her toe to be sure it wasn’t broken, then shook her head. Mind your step, Bess. However trustworthy the tailor might seem, and however dear his son, she could not—nae, would not—risk her heart again. Especially if she might break Anne’s heart in the bargain.
Nineteen
Poverty is the test of civility
and the touchstone of friendship.
WILLIAM HAZLITT
e’ve rain on the way.” Marjory glanced at the windows,