began Moll Flanders,” Elisabeth admitted, “but I did not care for its heroine.”
“Well, she’s hardly heroic, our Moll, though she did spend her last days in sincere penitence. And I am a strong believer in forgiveness.” Lord Buchanan stood, letting Charbon slip to the floor. “Mrs. Kerr, I have a gift for you.” He reached behind his desk, withdrew a mysterious, cloth-wrapped bundle, and placed it in her arms.
Elisabeth knew at once it was fabric. The outer layer was an inexpensive muslin, wrapped in twine. But upon opening it, she discovered an exquisite broadcloth in a deep, rich black. Enough for at least two gowns.
She gazed at it, bewildered. “This is for me?”
“And for your mother-in-law. No widow should be forced to wear the same gown for an entire year of mourning. Those months are difficult enough.” He brushed his fingertips across the edge of the broadcloth. “I charged Hyslop to find a fabric of the highest quality. I hope this will do.”
Elisabeth swallowed. “You are too kind.”
“Nae, I am selfish,” he insisted, “for I wish to see all my household well dressed.”
She saw through his protest and was touched by his generosity. Again.
“I shall sew them at home in the evenings,” she told him. “Our two windows face west, so I’ll have sufficient light well into the gloaming.”
He looked horrified. “Your two windows?”
“Aye.” Elisabeth fingered the twine, suddenly aware of how very poor she must seem to so wealthy a gentleman.
When the cat meowed for attention, Elisabeth bent down and began scratching his head. “You are the adventurer among us, Charbon, with your Chinese pedigree and your French name.” She looked up at Lord Buchanan, hoping to dispel any awkwardness between them. “I believe Mrs. Pringle said your mother was French.”
“Did she?” As he stepped back, a shadow moved across his face. “What else did Mrs. Pringle say?”
Elisabeth stood, unnerved by the coolness in his voice. “That your father was Scottish.”
“Nothing else?”
“N-nothing,” she stammered.
“Good, because there is nothing to tell.” He turned toward his desk, a patent dismissal.
Holding her fabric to her heart, Elisabeth curtsied, then flew out the door, wishing she could take back her careless words.
In the days that followed, Elisabeth saw little of Lord Jack Buchanan. He was either riding with Dickson or working alone in his study or calling on the local gentry—the Murrays in particular. However vital Sir John’s role in Selkirk politics, his daughter Rosalind was the likely reason for the admiral’s repeated visits to Philiphaugh.
As for Elisabeth, she was lost in fabric.
Sunlit hours now stretched from three in the morning ’til nine at night. Whether at home or at Bell Hill, Elisabeth felt compelled to spend every minute sewing, though her fingers were growing numb, her neck was often tense, and she had a constant headache. Marjory insisted upon buying her another thimble and had her needles sharpened as well, which did help. But nothing made the hours or the stitches go faster.
Charbon kept her company in the workroom, a reminder of the master she had somehow offended. She’d spoken the truth: Mrs. Pringle had not told her anything else about his parents. Yet there must be a great deal to tell, or his lordship would not have reacted as he did.
She looked up when Sally entered the workroom bearing a dinner tray. “Guid day to ye, Mrs. Kerr.”
“And to you,” Elisabeth said, putting down her fabric, hoping for a moment’s conversation. Perhaps Sally knew something of the admiral’s upbringing.
But the lass disappeared as quickly as she’d come. “I’ll collect yer tray later, Mrs. Kerr.”
Once again Elisabeth was left feeling betwixt and between. She was not a servant, yet she didn’t hold one of the head positions. She also didn’t reside at Bell Hill. Instead, like one of the gardeners, she came and went each day but was not part of the household.
Folk were polite and kind. And each gown earned her a guinea, for which she was grateful. Still, Elisabeth longed for one good friend at Bell Hill. And a place she could truly call home.
Thirty-Six
There are some occasions when a man must
tell half his secret, in order to conceal the rest.
PHILIP STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD
harbon was stretched out on a sunny patch of carpet, tail twitching, while Jack drank his third cup of tea and gazed out his study window. ’Tis almost eight o’ the clock, Mrs. Kerr. Will I not see you this morn?
He’d managed to keep his distance for a full week—avoiding her in the house, on the