Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,63
slipped the coins into her pocket, thinking of mutton and veal, salmon and beef, for that was surely how her earnings would be spent. She glanced at Charbon, then wondered aloud, “Why a French word, do you suppose?”
“That I do know.” Mrs. Pringle stepped into the hall. “Lord Buchanan’s father was Scottish. But his mother was French.”
Wednesday dawned grayer still. Though the air was mild, a capricious wind blew Elisabeth’s skirts about her ankles as she climbed Bell Hill, bound for another day of sewing. In Edinburgh the breeze was often tinged with brine from the North Sea but not so in the Borderland. Would the admiral miss that bracing scent once he settled here for good? Someday she would ask him. When she met him. If she met him.
Taking Sally’s advice, Elisabeth used the servants’ entrance round the back of the house rather than walk through the grand halls upstairs. Once she was through the door, her workroom was steps away, with the unfinished gown precisely where she’d left it, draped across the chair. It seemed Mrs. Pringle ran her household in the same way an admiral might command his ship, for the floor was swept clean, the fire already burning, the candles lit, and the water pitcher filled, with a clean linen towel beside it.
A breakfast tray, covered with a linen napkin, rested on the table. Elisabeth lifted the cloth, delighted to find a boiled egg, a buttered roll, and a rasher of bacon. No one could have known she’d overslept and not had time for a single bite of food, yet here was a fine repast, waiting for her.
“Guid morn,” Sally said from the doorway, holding up her teapot. “May I pour yer tea?”
“Bless you,” Elisabeth said, holding out the empty cup and saucer. “I’d forgotten how nice china feels against my lips. At home we drink from wooden cups.”
Sally said nothing, though a look of surprise registered in her sea-colored eyes. In a land where the rich and the poor lived side by side yet never shared table or bed, Elisabeth’s situation—an educated lady living in poverty yet working for the gentry—must have struck the lass as very strange indeed.
The moment Sally disappeared down the hall, Charbon entered the room, his gray tail like a flag, waving a silent greeting. He inspected her shoes, still damp from the dewy grass, then sniffed at her skirt hem.
“Aye, ’tis the same gown,” she told him. She was quite sure Charbon not only heard but also understood her and responded with the appropriate long blinks. “Pick a warm spot by the fire while I enjoy breakfast,” she told him. “I promise to save you a wee bite of my bacon and will scratch your head before I see to my needle.”
Charbon dutifully took his place, beating his tail against the floor, waiting his turn.
On Saturday Elisabeth began her journey east to Bell Hill with a lighter step. Though the air was still moist, the rain had abated, and the high clouds bore no further threat.
But it wasn’t the change in the weather that brightened her outlook: Mrs. Pringle’s gown was all but finished. There were buttons to be added, cuffs to be hemmed, sleeves to be pressed, but the hardest work was behind her.
Elisabeth had sewn many garments in her life, yet none mattered more than this one. Mrs. Pringle must be pleased, of course, and Lord Buchanan even more so. But only if the Almighty was satisfied with her labors could Elisabeth sleep well that night.
“What pleases the Lord is faith,” her mother-in-law had reminded her over their bowls of porridge. “And you, my dear, have that in abundance.”
Elisabeth carried Marjory’s assurance with her that morning, through Foul Bridge Port, then across the broad meadow, and up Bell Hill. She chose the front entrance, hoping to gather a bit of news on the way to her workroom. “Shall we see the admiral today?” she asked the footman at the door.
“I cannot say, madam,” he replied, though his half smile indicated otherwise.
Crossing the entrance hall, Elisabeth saw maidservants everywhere, dusting, scrubbing, and polishing each surface until it gleamed. As she turned down the long hallway, she discovered two footmen cleaning the sconces and trimming the wicks, while a third hurried past her with an armload of firewood.
Amid the hubbub she heard a familiar voice. “Mrs. Kerr?”
“Good morn, Mrs. Pringle,” she said, turning round to greet her.
The housekeeper hurried to catch up with her, clearly flustered. “I know my last