Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,55
returns from Edinburgh.”
“He is away?” Elisabeth was both relieved and disappointed. The admiral had not been spied at kirk yesterday morning. Now she knew why.
“Lord Buchanan is managing some business for His Majesty,” Mrs. Pringle said offhandedly. She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket as they approached a door of immense proportions. “In his stead, Roberts and I are perfectly capable of filling all the household positions.”
“Aye, madam,” Elisabeth said, not doubting the woman for an instant.
She followed Mrs. Pringle into a vast drawing room, large enough to hold Anne’s house and five more like it. They crossed the room in such haste, Elisabeth’s view was reduced to a single, breathtaking sweep of deep burgundy and royal blue. Thick carpeting, ornate columns, brocaded silk upholstery, gilded mirrors, fine oil portraits, and opulent velvet draperies all demanded her attention at once.
The effect was staggering, the admiral’s wealth beyond imagining. She barely noticed the corner exit, meant to blend into the décor, until the housekeeper slipped her key into a concealed lock and pushed on the broad wall panel.
“My ground floor office, where I handle the affairs of the household,” she said, ushering Elisabeth within. The square room, though small, was elegantly appointed. Mrs. Pringle pointed to a high-backed chair near her desk. “If you please.”
After the long walk Elisabeth was grateful to rest her feet, though she longed for something to drink, fearing her parched lips might stick together.
Mrs. Pringle tugged a woven cord, then sat. Her desk was exceptionally neat, with a shelf of books at her elbow. The light pouring in from the narrow window shone on the housekeeper’s face, revealing an intricate web of lines and creases. Just short of fifty years, Elisabeth decided. Marjory’s age.
“Mrs. Kerr,” the housekeeper began, “you are obviously a woman of quality. Yet you’ve come to Bell Hill with a pair of scissors draped round your neck, seeking employment. Explain yourself.”
“Perhaps these will help.” Elisabeth reached into her sewing basket for her written characters. She’d sealed both letters, lest she be tempted to read them, and offered them now for the housekeeper to examine. “Two characters for your perusal.”
Mrs. Pringle held up her hand. “I do not wish to know what others think of you. Not yet. I want to know why you’re here.” Her tone was cool, her demeanor more so.
Elisabeth met Mrs. Pringle’s gaze without apology, knowing she had to speak the truth now or spend the rest of her days trying to conceal it. “My late husband, Lord Donald Kerr, died in battle at Falkirk.” She paused, steeling herself. “Because of our family’s support of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, our title, property, and fortune were lost, leaving my mother-in-law and me without means beyond what my needle can provide.”
Mrs. Pringle studied her at length before she spoke. “Your situation is most regrettable,” she finally said, her expression softening ever so slightly. “There were also many in London who secretly favored the prince. Am I to assume you’ve been duly humbled and now support the rightful king?”
A sense of peace settled over Elisabeth. “Of that you can be certain.” For God is the King of all the earth.
“And you’ll not discuss your former Jacobite sympathies with his lordship?”
“Only if he asks me, in which case I am honor-bound to confess the truth.” Elisabeth reached for her basket, eager to press on. “May I show you a sample of my work?” She withdrew Marjory’s embroidered nightgown and held it out for Mrs. Pringle’s inspection. “Though I realize ’tis not nightgowns you’ll be needing—”
“I can see that you are accomplished, as any gentlewoman should be.” Mrs. Pringle returned the garment, having barely glanced at it. “What I cannot see is how quickly you work.”
A knock on the door announced a young, russet-haired maidservant balancing a tea tray. She poured them each a steaming cup, then curtsied, her manners as pleasing as her features. “Will there be anything else, mem?”
“The mending basket,” Mrs. Pringle said, then dismissed her with a nod.
If the housekeeper intended to watch her sew, Elisabeth would not be ruffled. Hadn’t Rob MacPherson spent many a quiet hour in Edinburgh with his gaze fixed on her while she stitched for his father? This would be no different.
Elisabeth was still adding milk to her tea when the maid reappeared with a large willow basket overflowing with garments.
Mrs. Pringle drained her cup in one long draw, then placed it in the china saucer with a faint clink. “In that basket, Mrs.