Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,67
what else must be said. Come, finish your stitches, for he does not like to be kept waiting.”
Elisabeth sewed in haste, her thoughts whirling. Speak honestly. How could she rightly do otherwise? Let the words of my mouth be acceptable in thy sight. Aye, that would be her prayer while she tarried in the hall. If Gibson was correct and Lord Buchanan was a man who sought to please God, then she would honor them both with the truth.
She knotted her thread with a decisive tug, then stood, shaking the loose clippings from her skirt. “Might I have a moment to freshen up?”
“Be quick,” the housekeeper cautioned her.
Elisabeth hurried to the water pitcher, washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hair, wishing she had a brush. Anne’s looking glass, pulled from her sewing basket, confirmed Elisabeth’s fears: her skin was becoming freckled from her morning walks, the circles beneath her eyes hinted at too little sleep, and her hair was a mass of wisps and curls brought on by the summer’s heat.
“You look presentable enough,” Mrs. Pringle told her with a note of impatience. “Come, we must away.”
Moments later Elisabeth was seated outside the dining room on a chair that Roberts placed very close to the door. He bade her farewell with a solemn wink, then took his leave.
“I will summon you shortly,” Mrs. Pringle murmured before sweeping into the room and greeting the admiral. “How may I be of service to you, milord?”
Clasping her hands in her lap, Elisabeth listened, hardly moving, barely breathing.
The admiral’s voice floated into the hallway. “I noticed a young woman standing just inside the entrance earlier today when I arrived, yet you did not introduce her.”
“Do forgive me,” Mrs. Pringle said at once. “Since we’ve not spoken of engaging a dressmaker, Mrs. Kerr is not yet in your employ. It seemed unwise to include her with the others.”
“I see. She is a dressmaker, you say? I can only assume she made your new gown.”
“She did, milord.”
Elisabeth could not ignore their conversation even if she tried. The chair was too close, their voices too clear. Above all, her livelihood depended upon the questions asked, the answers given, and the mercy his lordship might extend. She would not likely find work elsewhere in Selkirk. Though Michael Dalgliesh had made use of her talents, the other tailors in the parish seemed less inclined to do so.
“I know little about women’s clothing,” Lord Buchanan was saying, “though I do recognize quality when I see it. When and how did Mrs. Kerr present herself?”
As Elisabeth strained to hear, Mrs. Pringle described her arrival on Whitsun Monday. “She finished an entire basket of mending that very day, working from morn ’til eve, taking her dinner in the workroom, then continuing to labor.”
“She is not afraid of hard work, then.”
“On the contrary,” the housekeeper said emphatically, “she embraces it.”
Elisabeth heard him shift in his chair.
“What else does Mrs. Kerr embrace, pray tell? Is she prone to drink? To gossip? To dally with menservants? To steal the silver from the cabinets? Or is she a devout woman?”
“Oh, very devout,” Mrs. Pringle said. “Sally Craig informs me that Mrs. Kerr prays before taking so much as a sip of tea or a bite of meat. More than once in our discussions she has quoted from the psalms, yet I do not think she does so to impress me.”
The housekeeper’s words gave Elisabeth pause. Is that true? Or do I secretly wish to gain the approval of others? At the moment she desperately needed Lord Buchanan’s approval. But if she was anything less than genuine, he would surely see through her.
Mrs. Pringle was saying, “It might be best if you spoke with the young woman yourself, milord.”
Elisabeth stood, wanting to be sure her knees would support her. ’Twould not do to stumble into his presence. When Mrs. Pringle appeared, not a word was exchanged as together they entered the sumptuously decorated room with its lofty ceilings, enormous glass chandelier, long windows facing south, and a massive mahogany dining table.
Once Elisabeth settled her gaze on Lord Jack Buchanan, the décor ceased to hold much interest. Though she’d glimpsed him earlier from a distance, now she could assess him properly. His brow was lined with a lifetime of experience, and his brown eyes shone with intelligence.
“Milord,” she said, then curtsied.
“Mrs. Kerr,” he said with a polite nod. “Roberts informs me you are a Highlander.” He quit there as if waiting for her to elaborate.