Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,60

two. This eve I’ll sketch the gown I plan to make, then seek Mrs. Pringle’s approval in the morn.” Elisabeth winked at their cousin. “I won’t need to leave the house quite so early. Not until seven o’ the clock.”

“You lazy girl,” Anne teased her. “The sun will be halfway across the sky.”

Marjory thought their cousin looked especially happy and told her so. “Did something blithe happen on your errand this eve?”

Anne shrugged but could not hide her smile. “I went to Michael’s shop to return Jenny’s thimble.”

“So kind of you to do that for me,” Elisabeth said.

“For you? Oh, aye.” Anne’s cheeks pinked. “Peter, at least, seemed glad to see me.”

“And his father?” Elisabeth prompted her.

She grew pinker still. “The three of us had a wee visit while Mr. Brodie waited on a customer.”

Marjory watched Anne with growing interest. What was it about Michael Dalgliesh that affected young women so? The man was handsome enough, in a rough sort of way, and a charming storyteller, as he’d demonstrated at Elisabeth’s birthday gathering. Perhaps wee Peter Dalgliesh had run off with Anne’s affections, which Marjory certainly understood. Hadn’t young Donald and Andrew stolen her heart on a daily basis?

“Tell me how Mr. Brodie is faring,” Elisabeth said.

“Poor Michael spends more time up the stair than down,” Anne confessed. “He says the shop is entirely too neat for his taste, and he cannot find a thing.”

“Indeed, he never could.” Elisabeth smiled at Anne across the table. “Though it seems he’s found something worth keeping.”

Twenty-Nine

A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread—

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

THOMAS HOOD

lisabeth unrolled the fine wool broadcloth, sweeping her hands across the downy nap. Like velvet. That’s how the fabric felt, so close was the weave, calendered between heated rollers to make the finish exceptionally smooth. She eyed her chalk and shears, itching to begin.

“Will the table suit your needs?” Mrs. Pringle asked, standing near, hands clasped at her waist. “You’ll need to quit this room by noontide so the table may be laid for the servants’ dinner at one o’ the clock.”

Elisabeth assured her she would finish chalking and cutting the fabric within the hour, then tapped the drawing she’d placed on the corner of the borrowed dining table. “You are quite certain my design pleases you?”

The housekeeper gave it a cursory glance. “ ’Twill do,” she said dismissively. “Comfort is what concerns me most.”

“Naturally,” Elisabeth agreed. “We’ll do two fittings before your gown is completed.”

“By Saturday,” the housekeeper said firmly.

“Aye, madam.” Elisabeth moistened her lips, parched at the thought of all that lay ahead. “If you will stop by the workroom at three o’ the clock, I shall have it pinned and ready for your first fitting.”

When Mrs. Pringle reached out to touch the fabric, Elisabeth noticed a slight fraying on the edges of the woman’s cuffs. Though her white apron was crisply starched, Mrs. Pringle needed this new gown. The rich charcoal gray fabric would complement her coppery hair far better than the dull brown the housekeeper was currently wearing, though Elisabeth would never mention it.

“While you are here at Bell Hill,” Mrs. Pringle said, “you will be addressed as Mrs. Kerr since you are not counted among the household servants.”

“Very well,” Elisabeth said. She knew she was foreign, in every sense of the word. A Highlander, a Jacobite, a gentlewoman. If the servants took her into their confidence even a little, she’d be grateful.

“In the meantime,” Mrs. Pringle continued, “I’ve hired fourteen new maidservants, all of whom begin today.” She splayed her long, tapered fingers and counted them. “Two kitchen for Mrs. Tudhope, two parlor, two scullery, one stillroom, three upper house, two lower house, and two dairy.”

Elisabeth briefly bowed her head. And one dressmaker come week’s end? Please may it be so. Clearly not everyone who’d applied on Monday had found a position. She’d not seen Molly Easton on the road that morning. Only a grim sky full of low clouds promising rain.

“The new maids are to arrive at nine o’ the clock.” Mrs. Pringle consulted a gentleman’s pocket watch, pulled from the recesses of her apron. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Kerr?”

She mustered her courage and asked, “When might the master of the house be expected?”

“I know neither the day nor the hour,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “The admiral has been at sea for three quarters of his life. He has lodgings in London and Portsmouth but has never owned a proper estate in the country. I imagine it will