Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,48

the lot of them delivered. As promised, she would say nothing of Anne’s feelings. But if Michael Dalgliesh offered a confession of his own, Elisabeth would gladly listen.

Before leaving for the shop, Elisabeth paid particular attention to her toilette, sweeping her hair into a knot of curls, then tucking Anne’s lovely silver comb among them. Should Michael recognize the comb, a conversation about Anne might ensue, and who knew where it could lead? Elisabeth had never fancied herself a matchmaker, but she was willing to try. Her face bathed, her gown brushed, Elisabeth gathered the remaining shirts in her arms and hurried out the door.

The rain had ceased, though not for long, she decided. The air was thick with mist, and the sky above was a dull, metallic gray. Picking her way across the slippery cobblestones, she found herself at Michael’s threshold before she was fully prepared. Could she keep from blurting out the truth, knowing what she knew?

The door was open as usual. But when she stepped inside, Elisabeth nearly dropped her bundle of shirts.

Twenty-Four

Change is not made

without inconvenience.

RICHARD HOOKER

lisabeth stared at the freshly swept floor, the sparkling clean window, the neatly trimmed candles. Michael, what have you done?

The broad cutting table was free of clutter except for a few bolts of wool, smoothly wrapped and waiting to be cut. Clothing in various stages still hung round the walls but with a clear sense of order. The stray threads and snippets of fabric that once decorated every surface had utterly vanished.

Elisabeth was so taken aback she could say naught but his name. “Mr. Dalgliesh?”

He came thundering down the turnpike stair, red faced by the time he reached the bottom landing. “Mrs. Kerr! I didna expect … That is to say, I’ve not seen ye a’ this week.”

“I do apologize.” She placed his shirts on the empty table. “I thought it best to bring them all at once rather than bothering you for a shilling each day.”

“ ’Twas niver a bother to have ye call.” He drew closer, though his steps seemed reluctant, and his gaze shifted about the room. “We’ve cleaned the place a bit.”

We? Elisabeth kept her tone light. “You must have a brownie helping you.”

Michael pretended to be shocked. “Dinna let the reverend hear ye say that wird! He doesna believe in the shaggy wee men wha help round the hoose in the nicht.”

“I don’t believe in brownies either,” she admitted, looking from one tidy corner of the shop to the other. “But it does appear human hands have been hard at work here.”

“Aye, they have.” Michael’s expression sobered. “I took yer advice, Mrs. Kerr, and hired anither tailor.”

“Oh.” Elisabeth felt the ground beneath her shift. “Who might that be?”

Michael pointed to a second small worktable, positioned near the window. “He’s oot just noo. Thomas Brodie is his name. He came by the shop on Tuesday last, leuking for wark. Used to have his ain place in Melrose. Whan he offered to start richt awa and cleaned the shop in nae time.” He averted his gaze. “I couldna say nae. Not whan I need help so badly.”

“I am … happy for you,” she said, trying to convince herself she meant it. “With Mr. Brodie here, you’ll have more time for Peter.” She glanced at the stair, longing to feel his little hand in hers. “Is he here?”

“Nae.” Michael still could not meet her gaze. “He’ll be hame a bit later if ye care to stop by.”

He wants me to leave. Elisabeth gripped the nearest table edge, feeling faint. He has no more work for me. Dazed, she merely nodded at the shirts. “Those are the last of them. Five in all.”

Michael bolted for his purse, now hanging from a hook where he might easily find it. No doubt Mr. Brodie’s idea. “And I’ve five shillings for ye.” Michael dropped the silver into her gloved hand, taking pains not to touch her, or so it seemed.

As her fingers tightened round the coins, her throat tightened as well. Unless she found another employer, there would be no more meat at the Kerr table, no more sweets to share with their neighbors, no more coins for the collection plate.

Hard as it was, she had to ask him. “Mr. Dalgliesh, I hope you were pleased with my work.”

“Och, Bess,” he said roughly, then caught himself. “I mean Mrs. Kerr. O’ course I was pleased. Ye did a fine job. But noo …” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve nae