Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,47
to me most of all.” She slipped her arm round Anne’s narrow shoulders, praying her next words would not make things worse. “Though I do believe there is someone else who holds you in high regard.”
Anne was still frowning. “Who might that be?”
Elisabeth stood and brought her cousin to her feet, keeping a close watch on her expression. “On the night of my birthday, I saw a wee spark travel between you and Mr. Dalgliesh.”
“Michael?” She brushed the coal dust from her hands, clearly flustered. “We’ve … known each other a long time.”
Elisabeth saw through her dissembling and gently tried to help Anne put her feelings into words, which did not always come easily to her. “What of you and Michael now? Still just friends?”
When Anne turned her head away, Elisabeth feared she’d pushed too hard or spoken amiss. She waited for a moment, then said, “Forgive me—”
“Nae.” Anne looked at her, eyes glistening with tears. “There is nothing to forgive. You simply stated what you saw. But you do not know the rest.”
Elisabeth touched her arm in silent acknowledgment. “Tea, first. Then you may tell me whatever you like. Or nothing at all.” Minutes later, steaming cups in hand, the two women sat, their chairs pulled close together.
Anne studied her tea for a moment, her flaxen hair loosely gathered at the nape. When she spoke, her voice was low and strained. “From the time I was a wee lass, I was hopelessly in love with Michael Dalgliesh.”
Elisabeth could only imagine what a braw lad Michael must have been in his youth. “Did he not return your affections?”
Anne looked up, her face etched with sorrow. “Nae, he did not.”
“Oh, Annie.” Elisabeth swallowed hard, seeing the cost of that painful admission. “However did you bear it when he married Jenny?”
“I wanted to die,” Anne confessed. “You know how young girls are, thinking their lives are over when the man they love is claimed by another.”
“I do know,” Elisabeth assured her softly. “Yet you and Michael remained friends.”
“After a fashion,” Anne said with a shrug. “Jenny was a kind soul and dear to me as well. I couldn’t blame Michael for adoring her. We all did. When Peter was born, their happiness was contagious. Everyone loved to be in their company. But when Jenny suffered from a terrible malady no doctor could cure.” She bowed her head.
Elisabeth waited, giving her cousin time.
When Anne spoke again, her voice was thin. “As one of his oldest friends, I wanted to comfort Michael in his grief. But I was an unmarried woman and could not rightly do so. As it was, the gossips refused to leave me alone …” She gripped the wooden cup in her hands. “They said I wanted Michael for myself. That I was … glad that Jenny …”
“What?” Elisabeth felt sick. “Annie, you could never think such a thing.”
“Nae, I could not. Least of all about Jenny.” She hung her head. “Michael still loves her, you know. And I still love him.”
When Elisabeth lightly rested a hand on Anne’s shoulder, her cousin shrank away from her, saying in a bitter voice, “Now it seems he cares for you.”
“Annie—”
“Nae.” She turned her head. “ ’Tis true, and you know it.”
“It is not true,” Elisabeth said, tamping down her frustration. “Though I am curious why you sent me to Michael’s shop, loving him as you do. There are other tailors in Selkirk who might have put me to work.”
Anne didn’t answer at first. When she did, her voice was low. “Michael was desperate for help. And since you were in mourning …”
“He could not court me.”
Anne finally met her gaze. “Aye.”
When Elisabeth saw the anguish in her cousin’s eyes, she vowed at once to help her. She did not know Michael’s heart and so dared not give Anne false hope. But what she’d seen pass between them at her birthday celebration was not imaginary.
“Annie, when I deliver his shirts today, may I speak with Michael? On your behalf?”
She shot to her feet. “Nae, you mustn’t! For he would surely deny having any feelings for me.”
Elisabeth stood as well. “Are you certain of that?”
Anne nodded, but Elisabeth saw the longing in her eyes.
Across the room Marjory stirred. “Good morn,” she murmured, tossing aside her bedcovers. If she was aware of their conversation, she did not say so.
When Marjory served them fresh porridge and toasted bread with raspberry jam, Anne ate slowly and Elisabeth swiftly, eager to finish the last of her shirts and see