Mine Is the Night A Novel

Seventeen

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW



s that a’?” Michael Dalgliesh regarded Elisabeth with mock disdain, his red eyebrows arched, his full mouth curled in a most convincing sneer. “I’ve not clapped eyes on ye syne Wednesday, and ye bring me one shirt?”

Elisabeth laughed, seeing through his broad pretense. “I’d hoped to finish more, but—”

“Yer manservant arrived from Edinburgh.”

“Oh, you’ve heard, then?”

It was the tailor’s turn to laugh. “ ’Tis a’ folk can blether about.”

Elisabeth was not surprised. After dining on their broth and bread yesterday afternoon, the Kerr women had gone for a walk, allowing Gibson the privacy needed for his first hot bath in many days. They’d stopped at the reverend’s to share the good news and inquired about another impending arrival, that of Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. The reverend had nothing further to report. For Marjory’s sake, Elisabeth was relieved the admiral would not be living at Tweedsford, but she was still wary of having an officer of the Royal Navy two miles from their door.

Wondering what Michael might know of the matter, Elisabeth baited him. “I should think the gossips would find Lord Buchanan a much worthier subject of discussion than our Gibson.”

The tailor wagged his finger at her. “Ye’ll not tempt me to sin, Mrs. Kerr. Or have ye forgotten? ‘Thou shalt not go up and doon as a talebearer among thy people.’ ”

“Nae, I’ve not forgotten.” Elisabeth was sorry she’d broached the subject. Even if Michael Dalgliesh was teasing, he was not wrong.

She grew quiet, letting him finish a buttonhole without distraction. He had nimble fingers for a man, handling his needle and thread with effortless efficiency. According to Anne, Michael had learned his trade from his late father, just as Angus MacPherson had taught his son, Rob, though the two young tailors had little else in common. Michael was outgoing; Rob was taciturn. Michael had a playful nature; Rob was a brooding sort.

Rob had also loved her rather desperately, though she’d not returned his affections. In the end she’d banished him from her door when he shattered Marjory’s good opinion of Donald with the ugly truth of her son’s infidelities. Elisabeth had not heard from Rob since he’d headed north to take up arms for Prince Charlie. A thousand Highlanders had died in the final battle at Culloden near Inverness. Was Rob MacPherson among them? She feared she would never know.

Needing some fresh air to clear her mind, Elisabeth stepped back. “Perhaps I’d best leave you to your work this morn.”

“Wait.” Michael jumped to his feet, casting aside his sewing. “Let me find yer shilling afore ye go.”

Elisabeth watched him pat his pockets, lift the lids of several wooden boxes, then start tossing fabric about—all in an attempt to locate his leather drawstring purse. She pressed her lips together, lest a laugh slip out. No one could banish a moment of sadness like Michael Dalgliesh. Though the tailor had many skills, keeping track of things was not one of them.

Standing by his cutting table, she smoothed her hand across a length of gray wool, newly chalked, then eyed his scissors, longing to feel the blades glide through the fibers, a part of sewing she sorely missed. Perhaps cutting his fabric was once Jenny’s task. And keeping his books. And straightening his shop.

When Elisabeth looked up, Michael was studying her. Rather intently, it seemed. “Chalk isna shears,” he said.

She’d heard Angus utter the same proverb many times. “Just because something is begun doesn’t mean it will be finished, aye?”

“Weel said.” Michael held up the newly found shilling, then pressed the coin into her hand. “I’ve given some thocht to yer suggestion o’ finding a partner.”

“For the shop?”

“Aye. And for—”

“Faither.” A child’s voice sang out from the floor above them. The sound of little footsteps followed, bounding down the turnpike stair. A moment later a curly-haired lad appeared on the landing, wearing clothes he’d all but outgrown, though he was still small for his age. “Wha be the leddy?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye and a dimple in his cheek.

Elisabeth was instantly smitten.

“She is Mrs. Kerr from Halliwell’s Close,” Michael said, waving the boy forward. “And this is my son, Peter.”

Elisabeth looked at them both, astounded. “ ’Tis not your son,” she protested, “but yourself in miniature.” The blue eyes, the bright red hair, the freckled skin, the charming disposition—Peter Dalgliesh was more twin than offspring, though decidedly smaller and with at least two missing teeth. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, young Peter.”

His little brow wrinkled. “Nae, mem. My name isna ‘Young.’ ’Tis just ‘Peter.’ ”

Michael ruffled his son’s hair. “The leddy kens yer name, lad.”

Peter’s grin returned. “ ’Tis mercat day,” he said with glee. “Ye’ll take me, Faither? Like ye said ye would?”

“Weel …” Michael looked round the cluttered room. “Mebbe in a wee while …”

“I ken.” Peter groaned loudly. “Ye must wark and canna get awa.”

Elisabeth’s heart went out to the lad. How many times had Peter heard those words? And how hard for his busy father, being forced to say them.

Seeing the sad expressions on both their faces, she made a proposal. “I am bound for the marketplace this morn and would welcome your company, Peter. That is, if your father can spare you. For I am sure you are a great help in his shop.”

“Aye,” Peter trumpeted, his chest swelling. “I count the buttons.”

“Ye’re sure ye’ll not mind, Mrs. Kerr?” Michael fished something out of his waistcoat pocket. “ ’Tis a great kindness.” Eyes shining with gratitude, he produced a wrinkled scrap of paper and two shillings.

“What have we here?” Elisabeth eyed the paper, then tucked it in her hanging pocket with his silver coins. “A market list? I am impressed.”

He shrugged. “If I dinna write it a’ doon, I get hame with half o’ what I went for. Jenny could carry it a’ in her head, but I’ve nae gift for it.”

“You have other gifts,” Elisabeth told him.

The color in his ruddy cheeks deepened. “Ither than holding a needle, I canna think of onie just noo.”

“Come now … Mr. Dalgliesh.” She’d almost called him by his Christian name. Little wonder when she felt so comfortable in his presence. Michael was sincere and genuine and unassuming. She could only imagine how much Jenny Dalgliesh had loved this man. And could only guess what Anne’s feelings were for him now.

If propriety allowed, Elisabeth would touch his hand and assure Michael that he was not only a good tailor but also a good father, that it was difficult to do both at once, that he was managing far better than most widowers, that a tidy shop was not the measure of a life well lived. But she could not say or do any of those things. She could only escort his son to market and hope the simple gesture would ease any sense of guilt or regret.

“We’ll find everything on your father’s list, won’t we, Peter?” Elisabeth claimed the large market basket by the door, then wiggled her fingers in the lad’s direction, a tacit invitation. He responded at once, fitting his small hand inside hers, artlessly stealing her heart.

“We’re aff,” Peter announced, tugging her toward the open door.