Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,74
all our maidservants wearing gowns made of the same fabric. But they would not be wearing the same gowns, would they, Mrs. Pringle?”
“No indeed,” his housekeeper assured him. “Mrs. Kerr has a unique approach to dressmaking. And we’ve all seen how diligently she works.”
“Better to support one woman for six months,” Jack insisted, “than six women for one month and send them all struggling to find work come July.” He paused, trying not to gloat. Then he remembered these were his servants, who were bound to do his bidding whether he presented a valid argument or not.
“Very good, sir,” Roberts said.
“Well done, milord,” Mrs. Pringle echoed.
In his heart Jack heard a more truthful assessment. Honour is not seemly for a fool.
Thirty-Five
Shall I never feel at home,
Never wholly be at ease?
SIR WILLIAM WATSON
e’ll not be much longer,” Elisabeth told the anxious cook, who stood beside her in the servants’ vacant dining hall having her measurements taken. “I know Lord Buchanan’s dinner is on your mind.”
“And in my cooking pot,” Mrs. Tudhope fretted. “The duck only stews for a quarter hour.”
Elisabeth bent down to measure waist to hem, hiding her smile. The cook herself stewed round the clock if reports from the kitchen could be trusted.
A woman of sixty-odd years, Mrs. Tudhope was a study in silvery gray, from her hair to her eyes to the spectacles perched on her nose. Her measurements were almost Mrs. Pringle’s in reverse, for the cook was very short and very round with no discernible waist.
As Elisabeth recorded the numbers on a slate, Mrs. Tudhope peered over her shoulder.
“No one will see those?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“Not a soul,” Elisabeth promised her. “By the time you return for a fitting this afternoon, your slate will be wiped clean.”
“If only ’twere that easy,” Mrs. Tudhope moaned. “Still, if I do not taste the food, how will I know if it’s seasoned correctly?”
“I could not agree more,” Elisabeth told her, “and you are a marvelous cook.”
When Mrs. Tudhope beamed, showing all her teeth, Elisabeth knew what his lordship would be having for dessert: raspberry tart.
“Off you go.” She patted the woman’s arm. “I shall need you here at three o’ the clock.”
No sooner did Mrs. Tudhope scurry out the door than Mrs. Pringle appeared, neatly dressed in her charcoal gray gown. The housekeeper frowned over her shoulder. “Will her dress be the same as mine?”
“The same design, aye, but with a few adjustments.” Elisabeth quietly covered the slate. “Every woman deserves a gown that flatters her figure.”
“Hmm,” was all Mrs. Pringle said.
As Charbon investigated the housekeeper’s shoes, Elisabeth began to unfold the bolt of fabric across the dining table. “How may I help you this morn?”
“Lord Buchanan wishes to speak with you.”
Sighing inwardly, Elisabeth shook the chalk dust from her apron. “Do you imagine this will take long? I told the cook—”
“Mrs. Kerr,” the housekeeper said sternly, “all of us who work at Bell Hill have a single priority: his lordship. Is that clear?”
“Aye, madam.” Duly chastened, Elisabeth started for the stair with Charbon darting ahead of her, soon out of sight. Mrs. Pringle was right: Lord Buchanan deserved their best service. Not only because he was generous and fair but also because the Buik required it. Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters. The truth could not be put more plainly. The next part, though, spoke louder to Elisabeth, describing how such service was to be rendered: in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ. If she was sewing for the Lord himself, for her true Master, then every unseen stitch, every hidden buttonhole mattered.
Elisabeth soon reached Lord Buchanan’s first-floor study, one of the many rooms she had yet to explore. Crossing the threshold, she paused, overwhelmed by what she saw. Books everywhere. On his desk. On his chairs. On his table. On his shelves.
In the midst of them sat Lord Buchanan with Charbon climbing onto his lap. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Kerr?”
“Not at all,” she said, then quickly curtsied. “You have an impressive library.”
He looked about the room as if noticing his collection for the first time. “Do you read?”
She stared at him, perplexed. “I both read and write, sir.”
He almost smiled. “I meant, do you often read books? For pleasure or enlightenment?”
“I do. For both.”
“What are reading now, pray tell?”
An easy question to answer since she and Marjory owned exactly one volume. “James Thomson’s The Seasons.”
“Poetry?” He wrinkled his brow. “I styled you a more adventurous reader. Defoe or Richardson or Fielding.”