Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,53
“I’ve only to gather my sewing things, and I’ll be ready.”
Last evening she’d washed her hair in rosewater and brushed it until it gleamed, then rubbed her teeth with a hazel twig until her gums ached, hoping a bright smile might please the housekeeper. She’d polished her black shoes with ashes from the grate, while her mourning gown, stiff after drying by the hearth, had been coaxed into soft folds by Anne’s skillful ironing.
Elisabeth reached for the small looking glass, chagrined to find a nagging fear reflected in her eyes. What if ten other dressmakers who were far more qualified presented themselves at Bell Hill? Or the housekeeper took one look at her tattered gown and sent her away?
Nae, Bess. Had she already forgotten what she’d read upon waking? In God I have put my trust. The time had come to act on those words instead of simply meditating on them.
She collected her sewing basket from the shelf, then tallied her dressmaking tools: a half-dozen spools of silk thread, her best cutting shears, a packet of straight pins, her measuring tape, her pincushion, a handful of shirt buttons, tailor’s chalk wrapped in linen, and a small wooden case with her precious needles. Whatever task might be required, she was prepared.
The most valuable tool her basket contained was the written character from Michael Dalgliesh and another one from Reverend Brown, which he’d provided at Marjory’s request last evening. Without them she could not hope to be taken seriously as a dressmaker.
Lastly she slipped round her neck a black ribbon from which dangled a slender pair of scissors meant for snipping loose threads and advertising her services. A gentlewoman would never appear in public displaying her scissors, but a dressmaker would.
She started to close the wooden lid of her basket when a glint of silver caught her eye. Jenny’s thimble. Elisabeth paused, her mind turning. “Annie,” she said, keeping her voice light, “might you return this for me?” She lifted out the delicate thimble and placed it in her cousin’s hand. “I am sure he meant this as a loan, not a gift, yet it would be awkward for me to visit Mr. Dalgliesh’s shop.” Elisabeth met her gaze. “You do understand?”
“Consider it done,” Anne said with a shrug, dropping the thimble in her apron pocket.
Elisabeth nodded to herself. The rest is up to you, Michael.
A moment later she slipped down the stair and into the close, holding her skirts above the muck until she reached the dry cobblestones in Kirk Wynd. Even at that early hour a goodly number of folk were in the street. Milkmaids and laundresses ducked round her, intent on their duties. Shopkeepers had already thrown open their doors. The street was crowded with livestock as sheep and cattle belonging to the townsfolk were driven to the common grazing land round Selkirk.
Whitsun Monday was well begun.
Elisabeth spied a young woman walking alone, wearing a freshly pressed gown and a timid expression. Molly Easton, a parishioner she’d had occasion to speak with, was a quiet lass, a few years short of her majority. Was she, too, bound for Bell Hill? Thinking a traveling companion might make the journey easier for both of them, Elisabeth quickly caught up with her. “Good day to you, Miss Easton.”
She bobbed her brown head. “To ye as weel, Mrs. Kerr.”
As they fell into step, Elisabeth asked, “Might you be seeking a position at Bell Hill?”
“I might,” Molly answered cryptically. “And ye?”
Elisabeth hesitated. Should she tell all or simply acknowledge the question, as Miss Easton had? Perhaps it was ill luck to voice one’s plans on such a day. “I hope to work for the admiral,” Elisabeth finally told her, then began speaking of the fine weather, seeing where their conversation might lead.
Alas, it led only to the edge of town, for Molly Easton was shy in the extreme. She spoke two words to Elisabeth’s twenty and offered little about herself other than her age, eight-and-ten, and her favorite month, June. “Because o’ the Common Riding,” she explained.
Elisabeth had heard the Riding mentioned in passing but knew little more than the name. “I’ve never seen one.”
“Och, Mrs. Kerr!” Like a puppet come to life, Molly began to hop from one foot to the next. “ ’Tis held on a Friday in June. When braw men on horseback take to the marches early that morn ’tis a sight to behold.” Color had blossomed in her cheeks, and her dark eyes shone like chestnuts. “Afore the day