Mine Is the Night A Novel

Thirteen

From the manner in which a woman draws her thread

at every stitch of her needlework,

any other woman can surmise her thoughts.

HONORÉ DE BALZAC



lisabeth glanced at the door. Muffled voices had floated up the stair for the last few minutes, too faint to be discerned. Her mother-in-law was probably speaking with Reverend Brown, if he’d escorted her home, or with Mr. Tait, the shoemaker who shared their entrance off Halliwell’s Close.

When she shifted her gaze toward Anne and her students, Elisabeth was touched by the lovely tableau. Sunlight gilded their faces as the threesome bent over their work, speaking softly in a lace tell, a rhythmic chant used by lace makers to keep a steady pace.

Nineteen miles to the Isle of Wight,

Shall I get there by candlelight?

Yes, if your fingers go lissome and light,

You’ll get there by candlelight.

Their lilting voices were as bonny as they were. Sandy-haired Lesley Boyd had a sweet smile and an effusive personality. Grace Caldwell was long-limbed, dark-haired, and gentler in nature, with eyes that hinted at a fine intellect. Both were six-and-ten, on the cusp of womanhood. Looking at them now, with their fine, smooth complexions, Elisabeth shook her head in disbelief. Had she ever been so young?

“I’ll turn five-and-twenty in a fortnight,” she’d confessed last evening to Anne, who’d muttered, “At least you were married once.” Elisabeth was left not knowing how to respond. One moment Anne seemed content to be unwed, and the next she was miserable.

Then there was Mr. Laidlaw. His brief appearance earlier had all but ruined the start of their quiet afternoon. Anne had blanched at the mere sight of him. With Marjory gone and the young ladies present, Elisabeth hadn’t allowed the factor across the threshold, only took the small sack of items from Tweedsford and placed it on Marjory’s bed, waiting for her return.

Seated at the empty dining table, Elisabeth had pressed on with her sewing, pulling her needle through the closely woven cambric. A fine French cotton, Mr. Dalgliesh had said proudly. The slight gloss on the right side of the fabric caught the afternoon sunlight pouring across the room. She hoped to deliver another finished shirt before supper. One simple phrase ran through her head as she stitched. Another shirt, another shilling. She had never in her life cared about money. But she cared very much about keeping food on their table.

At the sound of footsteps on the stair, Elisabeth quickly put aside her sewing, anxious to hear the details of Marjory’s meeting with the reverend. He could make their lives difficult if he chose to. A moment later, when the door creaked open and her mother-in-law appeared, Elisabeth saw at once how upset she was and so feared the worst.

Marjory yanked her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her brow. “I should have marched him up to the manse,” she fumed.

Elisabeth glanced at Anne and her students, who were agog. “Whatever did the reverend say?” Elisabeth asked in a low voice, stepping between Marjory and the others.

Her mother-in-law looked surprised by the question. “The reverend? Oh … well … we are free to make our home in Selkirk,” she told her. “And the admiral will not reside at Tweedsford.”

“Oh!” Elisabeth exclaimed. “Good news all round, then.”

“Not all.” Marjory frowned at the door. “I met Mr. Laidlaw in the close.”

At that, Lesley and Grace abandoned their lace making and hurried to Marjory’s side. “Who was that man?” Grace asked, her eyes aglow with curiosity, while Lesley pleaded, “Can you not tell us anything?”

“He’s an old family acquaintance,” Anne said offhandedly, then waved them toward the table. “Shall we have tea before resuming your lesson?”

“You’ll not put us off so easily,” Lesley protested. “We caught a glimpse of the man when he tarried at the threshold. He is far below your station, Miss Kerr.”

“I am glad you think so,” Anne told them. “He was once Mrs. Kerr’s factor. And that is all you need to know.”

Elisabeth took each girl by the elbow and steered them toward the chairs on the far side of the table. “We have gingerbread cakes,” she said, hoping to tempt them, “and fresh milk for your tea. Only promise you’ll not ask any more questions about our visitor.”

“Very well,” Grace said with an exaggerated sigh.

As soon as they were all gathered, her mother-in-law prompted the young ladies, “Tell us something of yourselves.” They did so in colorful detail, forgetting all about Anne’s mysterious caller, to Elisabeth’s great relief.

She’d not liked the look of Mr. Laidlaw from the moment she’d answered the door. Whether it was his too-familiar demeanor or his slouching stance, Elisabeth could not say. Anne’s words had marked him with the blackest of ink. A profligate of the worst kind. That was all Elisabeth needed to know.

When her teacup was empty and her gingerbread reduced to crumbs, she could not delay her labors any longer. “I have much to do if I’m to finish this shirt before sunset.”

As Anne pulled off her apron, an object dropped to the floor with a slight clink. She bent to retrieve it, then held out the small item. “From Michael Dalgliesh.”

“For me?” Elisabeth took the silver thimble and slipped it in place. “ ’Tis a perfect fit.”

“So I see,” Anne said evenly.

“When did he give you this?” Elisabeth asked, holding up her thumb.

“Earlier today when I went looking for parsley in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. He was on his way to deliver it. Thought you might find it helpful.”

Elisabeth studied the dimpled surface, worn from use. “How kind of him.”

Anne offered a faint shrug. “ ’Tis only a thimble.”

Elisabeth heard the note of irritation in her cousin’s voice, but could not press Anne further. Not with her students present and Marjory listening. Later, perhaps.

Once the young ladies took their places round the sewing table, Elisabeth saw that Anne’s assessment was correct: Lesley and Grace had little talent for needlework. The girls did one buttonhole stitch to Anne’s four. But their manners were refined and their expressions pleasing. If that was all their parents wished for, their shillings were well spent.

Elisabeth’s needle soon fell into rhythm with their lace tell.

Betsy Bays and Polly Mays,

They are two bonny lasses;

They built a bower upon the tower,

And covered it with rushes.

When the kirk bell chimed the hour of six, a carriage was already parked at the mouth of the close, and a patient footman stood at the stair door, waiting for the two young ladies. Their families’ fine estates were not far from town along the road leading from the West Port.

Anne sent them off with curtsies all round, then closed the door behind them with a heavy sigh. “I accomplish little of my own lace making while they’re here,” she admitted, then quickly reclaimed her seat and angled it just so, making the most of the late afternoon light. “How are you coming with your shirt, Bess?”

“Finished.” She shook out the fabric, then spread it across her skirts. “ ’Tis embarrassingly easy. Sleeves, seams, cuffs, and a collar.”

Anne picked up one of the sleeves and examined the cuff with a practiced eye. “You have a fine backstitch,” she told her. “And the neck gussets are neatly done. Michael must be pleased.”

Elisabeth eyed her. “Michael, is it?”

Anne did not blush often, but when she did, her pale skin turned quite rosy. “We attended school together, just down from the shop.”

“Then you knew Jenny, his late wife.”

Anne’s cheeks grew pinker still. “Aye.”

When her cousin said nothing more, Elisabeth stood and carefully folded the shirt. More pieces were falling into place. Anne clearly harbored feelings for her old classmate. Whether he returned them was less certain. “I shall give Mr. Dalgliesh your regards and return in time for supper.” Elisabeth looked toward the hearth. “Eight o’ the clock,” she promised her mother-in-law, then hurried down the stair.

The sun bronzed the lower western sky and cast long shadows across the marketplace, less crowded now with nightfall approaching. She clutched the shirt to her bodice lest it slip from her hands onto the dirty cobblestones of Kirk Wynd. Nodding at folk in passing, she realized some faces were beginning to look familiar. A pockmarked lad in dingy clothing, head bent to hide his scars. A barefoot dairymaid who danced when she walked yet never spilled a drop of milk. A crookbacked man with a hazel walking stick, making his way from one shop door to the next. She would learn their names, one by one, until Selkirk was truly home.

A minute later she knocked on the tailor’s door.

“Anither shirt?” His look of astonishment melted into a grin. “I suppose ye’ll be wanting anither shilling as weel.”

“ ’Tis our agreement,” Elisabeth reminded him, then placed the finished garment on the only uncluttered surface she could find. “Your thimble is to blame, Mr. Dalgliesh.” She wiggled her thumb. “Now I can sew even faster.”

“ ’Twas Jenny’s,” he said simply. “She sewed a fine shirt too.”

Yet you parted with your wife’s thimble so easily. Elisabeth found his nonchalance unsettling. Did he care nothing for material possessions? Or have little use for sentiment?

“I am honored to use Jenny’s thimble,” she finally said, slipping the coin he offered into her hanging pocket. “Bless you for sending it home with Annie.”

Some emotion flickered in his blue eyes. Not sorrow, not remorse, but something.

Thinking it prudent to change the subject, Elisabeth glanced at the turnpike stair. “I was hoping to finally meet Peter.”

Mr. Dalgliesh reached for a waistcoat in need of buttons. “His granmither in Lindean claimed him for the nicht. She thocht it might help me with my wark.”

Elisabeth could see how exhausted the tailor was. The lines round his eyes were more pronounced, and his shoulders sagged. “I wonder, have you considered taking a partner?”

His head snapped in her direction. “Whatsomever d’ye mean?”

“Another tailor. Or an apprentice.”

She’d not seen him frown before. He was frowning now.

“Anither tailor must be paid, and an apprentice taught.” Michael stood, tossing aside the waistcoat. “Jenny and I managed the shop verra weel thegither. But it hasna been the same without her.”

Regret washed over Elisabeth. Whatever was she thinking? Prying into this man’s life, making suggestions. She hastened to his side. “Please forgive me, Mr. Dalgliesh. We have only just met. ’Tis not my place—”

“Nae, nae,” he said, his features softening. “Dinna mind my ill-natured self. On the morrow ’twill be three years syne I lost my wife. ’Tis a hard time, ye ken?”

Elisabeth nodded, imagining how she might feel come the seventeenth of January. “You are right to mourn her still.”

Michael’s gaze met hers. “As ye do yer husband, I’ll warrant.”

“Aye.” But it wasn’t Donald who came to mind as she stood near the tailor. Elisabeth noted the measuring tape draped round his neck, the chalk poking out of his waistcoat pocket, and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and thought of Rob MacPherson. A childhood friend from the Highlands, Rob had moved to Edinburgh with his father, Angus, and had worked in his tailoring shop, as she had. Alas, Rob had grown too attached to her, seldom letting her out of his sight. Even now she shuddered, remembering his dark eyes.

“I must away,” she told Michael, stepping toward the door. “Perhaps on my next visit I’ll have the pleasure of meeting your son.”

“He’d like that,” Michael agreed.

“Tomorrow eve, then.” Elisabeth bade him farewell and made haste for Halliwell’s Close, uncertain of the time. The kirk bell did not ring every hour during the week, only at noon and six o’ the clock. Her mother-in-law’s demanding nature had eased considerably, but Marjory was still particular about a few things. Supper at eight was one of them.

Elisabeth arrived without a moment to spare. The table was set, Anne was seated, and Marjory was ladling her fragrant soup into wooden bowls, carved from knobby burls. Since the grain was whorled rather than straight, the bowls were less likely to crack. Elisabeth helped her serve, then took her place at table next to Marjory, who spoke a brief grace over their meal.

Supper was meager fare—one bowl of soup for each of them and a triangle cut from the large, round bannock—but Elisabeth had silver in her pocket. They would have meat on the morrow and send out the month of April with a flourish. “What shall it be, ladies?” she asked, holding up her coin. “Fish, flesh, or fowl?”

“The cook chooses,” Anne told her.

“If the flesher might have a pullet and a pound of veal,” Marjory said, “I recall a fine dish Helen Edgar oft served. Though I’ll need your help, Elisabeth.”

“ ’Tis yours,” she said, honored to be asked. Growing up as a cottager, Elisabeth had learned a great deal about cooking from sheer necessity. But this was an entirely new venture for her mother-in-law.

Later, when they stood to clear the table, Marjory said to her, “Reverend Brown shared a Highland proverb with me today, one I’d not heard. ‘Change is refreshing.’ ”

The words warmed Elisabeth’s heart. “My father loved that one.”

“Did he?” Marjory paused, dishes in hand, to look at her. “Bess, what does it sound like in Gaelic?”

Her request stole Elisabeth’s breath. Never in their years together at Milne Square had her mother-in-law asked her to speak in her native Highland tongue. In truth, Marjory had always seemed offended when she overheard Gaelic spoken in the street.

Now she was willing, even eager, to hear it. Another miracle.

Elisabeth smiled at her and said, “Is ùrachadh atharrachadh. Change is refreshing, Marjory.” And you are living proof.