Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,57

beside her, stopping occasionally to poke the fire, stretch her limbs, or step into the hall to listen for voices. She imagined Mrs. Pringle and Roberts in their respective offices above her, interviewing the many candidates. Would Molly Easton find herself a parlormaid before the day ended?

When the sun was high overhead, young Sally reappeared with a dinner tray. “I thocht ye might be peckish by noo,” she said, placing the wooden tray on a side table. “Cauld mutton, het tea, and Mrs. Tudhope’s shortbread.”

“They all sound delicious,” Elisabeth told her, grateful not only for the food but also for the company. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sally, how long have you worked at Bell Hill?”

“A fortnight,” the lass said proudly. “My mither is head laundress. We were the first in Selkirk to be hired. Mrs. Pringle and the ithers came from London toun.”

“What about Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth asked, trying not to sound too curious. “Is he a worthy master?”

Sally smiled. “I’ve niver met a kinder man. He’s auld, ye ken. Nigh to forty. And not verra handsome. But he is guid.”

Elisabeth nodded, adding the details to her store of knowledge concerning Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. She could almost picture him now and would certainly recognize him if he walked through the door, which he might at any time. She thanked Sally, dined with haste, then returned to her sewing, the shadows outside her window lengthening with each passing hour.

When she reached the last garment, a sturdy wool waistcoat, Elisabeth counted the buttons and studied the seams, finding nothing wrong. Had the garment landed in the mending basket by mistake? Running her fingers over the fabric in the waning light, she felt more than saw the problem: a slight tear in the fabric, as if a blade had poked through the wool, severing the weave.

Elisabeth frowned, knowing there was little hope of saving the waistcoat. Cotton and silk thread would never do a proper job of it. She inched closer to the candle-stool, examining the spun wool in the flickering light. If her father were here, he would know what might be done. Think, Bess. How would a weaver repair this?

Using a flatiron heated by the fire, Elisabeth pressed the damaged area, then picked apart a section of the hem that would not show, carefully removing a few strands of wool. She inserted the strands along the tear, making certain the colors were a perfect match, then rewove the warp and then the weft, using only her fingers and a blunt needle. At last she snipped away the trailing ends, then pressed the fabric once more.

Elisabeth held up the waistcoat, pride welling inside her. Not because of the work she’d done, but because of the father who’d taught her so long ago.

A woman’s voice floated through the doorway. “Still sewing, Mrs. Kerr?”

Elisabeth spun round. “Mrs. Pringle! I thought perhaps you’d forgotten me,” she said lightly, then hoped the housekeeper would not take offense.

“I am later than I intended to be,” she admitted. “Come, let me see your work.”

Elisabeth laid aside the waistcoat for a moment and showed her the rest.

Mrs. Pringle seemed taken aback. “You finished all of it?” The housekeeper inspected each item of clothing, her eyebrows lifting incrementally with each one until finally her face was the picture of astonishment. “You’ve done three days’ work in one, Mrs. Kerr.” She nodded toward the waistcoat. “Of course, that must be delivered to a tailor or a weaver in Edinburgh with very particular skills. Rather a nasty gash.”

“Aye, it was,” Elisabeth said, then held out the mended garment. “See if this is any improvement.”

Frowning, Mrs. Pringle took the waistcoat and turned it over in her hands. Once, then twice. “But where is it? I distinctly remember—”

“ ’Twas here,” Elisabeth said, pointing to the spot she’d labored over.

Mrs. Pringle peered at it more closely, then shook her head. “I would not have believed it possible. Where did you learn such a skill?”

“My father was a weaver. And my oldest friend in Edinburgh was a tailor.”

“Well.” Mrs. Pringle pursed her lips. “I’ve one more task for you, Mrs. Kerr, and then we shall see about a position for you at Bell Hill.”

Elisabeth stole a glance at the window. The last rays of the sun would be gone in an hour, and she’d not had supper. “Will it take very long?” she asked.

“A week, I imagine.” The housekeeper plucked the measuring tape from Elisabeth’s sewing basket. “If you are to sew gowns