Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,46

you on the Sabbath next,” Marjory assured her, after which Tibbie abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd, her soiled gown dragging across the grass.

Marjory was still watching her departure when Anne moved closer, a frown on her face. “Whatever did she want?”

Marjory hesitated, wondering what her cousin might say to their agreement. “She requested a written character,” was all Marjory told her. It was an honest answer without raising Anne’s hackles.

“Tibbie wants to work at Bell Hill,” her cousin guessed.

Marjory admitted to that much.

“She’ll not get through the door without a clean gown and God’s mercy,” Anne said, then moved toward the pend, waving to Elisabeth to join them. “At least we’ll not be among the throng walking up Bell Hill on Monday next. For I have my lace making. And you, Bess, have Michael Dalgliesh.”

“Only as long as he requires my needle,” Elisabeth hastened to say.

Anne’s frown returned. “I’ve seen the man’s shop. He will need you all the days of his life.”

Twenty-Three

Friendship is Love,

without either flowers or veil.

AUGUSTUS AND JULIUS HARE

lisabeth did not darken Michael’s door that week. Not only did it seem prudent with Anne moping about the house; Elisabeth also was determined to see an end to the pile of fabric draped over the back of her chair.

While she sewed well into each evening, her neighbors spent the long sunlit hours climbing Bell Hill. They admired Lord Buchanan’s gardens and orchards from a polite distance and hoped to spy the exalted owner tramping about the grounds. In Edinburgh, a city accustomed to visits from princes and kings, the admiral would’ve arrived unheralded; in rural Selkirk he was viewed as royalty.

Elisabeth shared her neighbors’ curiosity but not their ardent enthusiasm. She’d seen how wealth and a title could twist a man’s soul, convincing him he was above any moral or social constraints. Lord Donald Kerr had looked the part of a gentleman, yet his behavior was often disgraceful. Who was to say Lord Jack Buchanan would not be the same?

Only a man’s character mattered. The rest was window dressing.

Though she had to concede, Bell Hill did have very handsome windows.

When Saturday dawned, Elisabeth awakened before the others and tiptoed about as she dressed for the day. Cambric shirt in hand, she moved her chair closer to the window and began stitching the final sleeve, wondering what, if anything, Michael Dalgliesh might have in mind for her next. Would he permit her to sew a gentleman’s coat and waistcoat and thereby prove her tailoring skills? She could at least manage buttonholes and hems or prepare the muslin linings, freeing him to do weightier tasks.

Despite the gray, rainy weather that morning, Elisabeth’s heart grew lighter as she imagined the possibilities. Someday she hoped to own a dressmaking concern, but until then, working for Michael well suited her—as long as it suited him.

An hour later Anne rose, brushing aside her bed curtains. “Hard at work already?”

“Aye.” Elisabeth kept her voice low for Marjory’s sake. “I’ll be off to Mr. Dalgliesh’s by nine o’ the clock.” She averted her gaze as Anne bathed at the washbowl and slipped on the blue drugget gown she’d worn the night the Kerrs arrived. Though the fabric was an inexpensive wool, roughly woven, the color matched Anne’s blue eyes perfectly. “ ’Tis my favorite of your gowns,” Elisabeth told her.

Anne shrugged as she crossed the room. “Heaven knows I wear it often enough.”

Her cool tone suggested Anne was more irritable than usual. “I will gladly stitch you another gown,” Elisabeth assured her. “When I earn enough silver to purchase fabric at market—”

“Nae,” Anne said, cutting her short. “Your shillings are better spent on food or your own needs, not on a gown for a stayed lass.”

Anne seldom spoke of herself so dismissively. Treading with care, Elisabeth asked, “Why should an unmarried woman not be well dressed?”

“Silks and satins are meant for catching husbands,” Anne retorted. “I’ve long abandoned any such expectations.” She turned her back on Elisabeth and began filling the coal grate, abruptly ending their conversation.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Elisabeth searched her heart for some encouragement to offer. “Six-and-thirty is not so very old—”

“Oh?” Anne looked over her shoulder, her hands black with coal dust. “This spoken by a bonny lass in her twenties who has half the men in town besotted with her.”

Now Elisabeth understood.

“Annie.” She quickly put aside the shirt she was stitching and knelt by her cousin. “You are dear to many folk in Selkirk, to Marjory, and