Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,69
you are not ill treated or taken advantage of.” He seemed most adamant on that point.
Mrs. Pringle piped up. “You can be sure I will see to Mrs. Kerr’s safety.”
“Aye, and to her daily meat and drink as well,” he added. “As to payment for your labors, rather than holding your wages until Martinmas, Mrs. Pringle will pay you for each gown when it’s finished. Shall we say … one guinea each?”
Elisabeth swallowed. A guinea? ’Tis twenty-one shillings!
Mrs. Pringle said faintly, “But that …”
He held up his hand. “Am I not permitted to spend my money as I see fit?”
“Aye, milord.” The housekeeper bowed her head, as meek as Elisabeth had ever seen her. “Forgive me.”
“You are merely being mindful of my household accounts, Mrs. Pringle, as well you should be. I shall add sufficient guineas to your ledger such that we needn’t give up sugar, aye?”
She lifted her coppery head and smiled. “Very good, milord.”
Elisabeth simply looked at the man, awed by a generosity she’d seldom known. “Shall I begin on Monday, then?”
“You shall,” he agreed, “though, in truth, you’ve labored all week.” The admiral produced a hefty calfskin purse from which he drew a gold coin. “For Mrs. Pringle’s gown. The first of many.”
When he placed the cool guinea in her palm, Elisabeth stared at the coin. “Are you always so generous with strangers?”
“You are no stranger to God,” he reminded her. “This is his blessing, not mine.”
Elisabeth looked down, overwhelmed. You have not forgotten us, Lord.
Then she felt something brush against her foot. “Charbon,” she said softly. “How glad you must be to have your master home.”
The admiral scowled at his pet. “There you are, you ungrateful creature. Transferring your affections at the first opportunity.” He bent down and scooped up Charbon, then tucked the animal under his arm. “You must be very special indeed, Mrs. Kerr, for my cat does not often pay attention to women.”
She scratched Charbon along the crooked white streak between his ears, setting off a roaring sort of purr. “He kept me company all week, awaiting your return.”
“Well done, puss.” He shifted his stance. “Shall I see you at kirk in the morn?”
She curtsied, then met his gaze. “Indeed you shall, milord.”
Thirty-Three
O day of rest!
How beautiful, how fair.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
arjory still could not believe it. A gentleman who’d sailed round the world was seated in her pew, in her kirk. Well, not truly her kirk. The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof. She knew everything belonged to the Almighty. Still, Lord Jack Buchanan was definitely situated in the Kerr aisle that Sabbath morning.
Furthermore, he’d engaged her daughter-in-law as a dressmaker, a position not without merit, even for a lady. As if that were not enough, his lordship had sent Elisabeth home with a gold guinea. A guinea! The three Kerr women had taken turns holding the coin through most of supper.
Our dear Bess, the dressmaker. And our new friend, the admiral.
Marjory was trying hard not to be prideful and failing miserably.
True, she was not much pleased when Elisabeth returned home early last evening with the news of Lord Buchanan’s offer. He was a bachelor, after all, and had suggested she reside at Bell Hill. A gentlewoman in mourning, sleep beneath his roof? The very idea. When her daughter-in-law explained the reason—for her safety—Marjory was willing to give his lordship another chance to earn her good opinion.
He’d done so the moment he’d arrived at kirk that morning, impeccably dressed in a royal blue silk coat and periwig, and had inquired if he might sit at the end of their pew. “Mrs. Kerr,” he’d said with a courtly bow, “it would be my great honor to share your aisle this morn if you would allow it.”
When a very tall, very polite, very rich man asked for two feet of wood on which to sit, only a foolish woman objected. “Naturally, milord,” she’d told him, moving down so he might be seated next to her rather than beside Elisabeth. It seemed prudent.
Marjory looked round the church, beginning to feel at home once more. Providing a written character for Tibbie Cranshaw had turned out to be a wise decision. Tibbie was now engaged as a kitchen maid at Bell Hill and so had honest work and a worthy incentive to keep hidden her unfortunate history. And mine. And Elisabeth’s.
The admiral would hardly be seated next to her if he knew the truth. Perhaps by the time he learned the whole of it—and Marjory had