Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,51
dripping wet. Sending Anne to fetch clean towels, Marjory wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to Elisabeth’s side. “Poor Bess. I hoped you’d be home before this.”
“Mmm,” was all Elisabeth said, pulling the silver comb from her drooping curls.
Anne produced several linen towels, then helped Elisabeth undress. “I’ve an old gown of my mother’s you might wear.”
“No need. I’ll wrap myself in a plaid and hang my dress by the fire,” Elisabeth said, rubbing her hair dry with more vigor than the task required.
“But my young ladies will be coming at two,” Anne reminded her.
“All right, then.” Without another word Elisabeth curled up in the upholstered chair and closed her eyes while Anne went about airing the well-worn gown stored beneath her box bed for many seasons.
Marjory returned to the hearth, keeping an eye on Elisabeth. She’d not seen her this discouraged in a very long time. Even in Edinburgh with their many losses, Elisabeth was the one who’d lifted everyone’s spirits.
Letting the broth simmer, Marjory sat on the creepie at Elisabeth’s feet and clasped her daughter-in-law’s long, slender hands. “So cold,” Marjory fretted, rubbing until the skin warmed. She touched Elisabeth’s forehead as well and was relieved not to find her feverish.
Finally Elisabeth opened her eyes and offered a wan smile.
“I’m behaving like a mother, aren’t I?” Marjory asked, keeping her voice light, hoping to engage her in conversation.
“You are the only true mother I have now,” Elisabeth murmured almost to herself.
Oh my dear Bess. Marjory blinked, recalling her daughter-in-law’s tearful entreaties when they’d prepared to board separate carriages in White Horse Close. Please, I cannot go home to Castleton. My mother will not have me. Marjory did not know Fiona Ferguson. Nor did she care to know her. What woman would not gladly claim Elisabeth as her own?
Marjory said softly, “Suppose we get you into some dry clothing and fill you up with a bowl of hot broth.”
The gown fit poorly and the mustard color was less than flattering, but for a rainy afternoon withindoors, it would do. After Marjory spoke grace over their meal, she reached for a wooden spoon, still praying silently for Elisabeth. Comfort her, Lord. Give her strength. Ease whatever burdens she bears.
Only when their soup bowls were empty did Elisabeth release a lengthy sigh and meet their worried gazes. “I will no longer be sewing for Mr. Dalgliesh,” she announced, looking at Anne. “He has hired another tailor to work in the shop, a Mr. Brodie from Melrose.”
“Nae!” Marjory cried. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“I am certain Michael wasn’t unhappy with you,” Anne insisted. “Perhaps he simply needed a sturdy man about the place to move things and wait on his gentlemen customers.”
Elisabeth plucked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Apparently he did.”
“There are other tailors,” Marjory said, feeling guilty yet again for sending her daughter-in-law out into the world to earn money for them. But what other choice did they have? No more sewing meant no more shillings, a dismal truth left unsaid but understood.
When Anne suggested a tailor named Mr. Smail, Elisabeth admitted she’d already visited the man, then described their brief exchange. “He told me his wife wouldn’t want me there.”
Marjory cringed. No wonder Elisabeth had returned home discouraged. “This dreary weather is sufficient to make anyone feel gloomy,” she told her, lighting another tallow candle, ignoring the expense. The steady glow of the candlelight brightened their corner of the room, just as she’d hoped. “Now, then, where might we send our dear Bess where she’ll be appreciated?”
Anne pursed her lips for a moment. “Mrs. Stoddart is a mantua maker in Well Wynd, but she pays her seamstresses very meager wages.”
Elisabeth glanced upward, deep in thought. “Might Lady Murray allow me to design a gown for her?”
“Her ladyship trusts no one to stitch her gowns except a dressmaker in Edinburgh,” Anne said, almost apologetically. “Perhaps you know the woman. A Miss Callander in Lady Stair’s Close.”
Marjory and Elisabeth exchanged glances.
“Aye, we know her,” Marjory said, trying not to sound bitter. “Before we left the capital, Miss Callander purchased nearly every gown we owned.”
“And paid you well, I hope?” Anne asked.
Marjory did not want to seem ungrateful, and so she said nothing, which said everything.
Their dinner dishes were still scattered across the table when Gibson dropped by unexpectedly. Anne jumped up at once, gathering the woodenware, inviting their friend to sit by the fire. “You’ll have a sweet biscuit, won’t you? Marjory baked them this morn.”