Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,49
mair for ye to do. Not with Mr. Brodie here.”
There. He said it. I am dismissed.
When her lower lip began to tremble, Elisabeth bit down hard to keep from crying. “I … thank you … for the chance … for the …”
“Mrs. Kerr.” He stepped closer. “ ’Tis nae fault o’ yers. I canna have a bonny lass warking in my shop a’ day. D’ye understand?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Michael had not promised her such a position, so he’d not broken faith. And he was right: an unmarried man and woman could not work side by side within the confines of a shop. Hadn’t she always known that? Yet when she’d suggested he find a partner, she’d not imagined things ending like this.
Elisabeth forced herself to meet his gaze. “Will you give me a written character so I might seek employment elsewhere?”
“Och!” he groaned. “Ye ken I will. Richt noo if ye like.” Michael sat down at his newly organized desk and reached for paper, quill, and ink, all at hand.
He wasted no time scratching words across the page while Elisabeth watched him, calming her anxious heart, considering what she might do next. Though several tailors resided in Selkirk, she feared none would be so willing or so generous as this man.
When he finished, Michael cast sand across the ink, then presented the letter to her with a sad smile. “Ye’ll have nae trouble finding wark. Start with Edward Smail on Back Row. He’s a kind man and fair.”
Elisabeth carefully folded the letter, hoping Michael had given an honest appraisal of her talents. Better to have a new employer be pleasantly surprised than patently disappointed.
She lowered her gaze, seeking the strength she would need to begin anew. To call on a stranger and ask for his favor. To put her future in the Almighty’s hands once more and not be afraid. Please, Lord. In thee is my trust.
When she looked up, Michael was studying her, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen it. “I learned something, having ye here,” he said. “I learned I shouldna court a woman just because I need help in my shop or a mither for my son.”
“Court?” She looked at him quizzically. “But, Mr. Dalgliesh, I am a widow in mourning—”
“Hoot! I didna mean ye!” he exclaimed, then his whole face reddened. “That is … I had anither woman … in mind …”
Annie. Elisabeth relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived at Michael’s shop that morning. “You are right, Mr. Dalgliesh. You should court a woman for one reason—”
A single knock on the open door was her only warning.
“So!” a man cried, nearly scaring Elisabeth out of her wits. “Noo I see what ye meant, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
Elisabeth stood in place, letting her heart ease its frantic beating, while Michael mouthed an apology. Whether he was sorry for the presence of this newcomer or for the man’s loud greeting, she could not say.
He was standing beside Michael now: a gentleman tailor, if ever there was one. His face was clean shaven, his hair smartly gathered at the nape of his neck, his attire immaculate, and his shoes polished. Only the measuring tape round his neck gave away his profession.
“This is … Mr. Brownie,” Michael began haltingly.
“Brodie. Thomas Brodie,” he quickly corrected, then bowed from the waist. When he straightened, Mr. Brodie smiled, showing all his teeth. Sharp teeth at that. “Ye’re surely Mrs. Kerr, for I’ve heard o’ none ither but ye a’ week.”
“You’ve made quite a difference here,” she said evenly.
“Aye, aye.” Mr. Brodie clasped his hands behind his back and looked round with obvious satisfaction. “Meikle mair to do, but as my faither aye said, ‘A hard beginning is a guid beginning.’ ”
Elisabeth could see how uncomfortable Michael was with both of them there. Best to quit the shop at once. “I thank you for this,” she said, holding up the letter, then tucking it in her reticule. “And for all the ways you’ve blessed our household this month.”
Michael stepped forward. “A wird with ye, if I may?”
She nodded, grateful for a private farewell.
A moment later they stood in School Close. “Ye will find a position,” Michael assured her. “If not with Mr. Smail, then Charlie Purdie or Hugh Morrison will be pleased to have ye.” He paused. “As I was glad to have ye. And so was wee Peter.” He stepped back, a look of regret in his eyes. “I wish ye a’ the best, Mrs. Kerr.”