Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-Four

Change is not made

without inconvenience.

RICHARD HOOKER



lisabeth stared at the freshly swept floor, the sparkling clean window, the neatly trimmed candles. Michael, what have you done?

The broad cutting table was free of clutter except for a few bolts of wool, smoothly wrapped and waiting to be cut. Clothing in various stages still hung round the walls but with a clear sense of order. The stray threads and snippets of fabric that once decorated every surface had utterly vanished.

Elisabeth was so taken aback she could say naught but his name. “Mr. Dalgliesh?”

He came thundering down the turnpike stair, red faced by the time he reached the bottom landing. “Mrs. Kerr! I didna expect … That is to say, I’ve not seen ye a’ this week.”

“I do apologize.” She placed his shirts on the empty table. “I thought it best to bring them all at once rather than bothering you for a shilling each day.”

“ ’Twas niver a bother to have ye call.” He drew closer, though his steps seemed reluctant, and his gaze shifted about the room. “We’ve cleaned the place a bit.”

We? Elisabeth kept her tone light. “You must have a brownie helping you.”

Michael pretended to be shocked. “Dinna let the reverend hear ye say that wird! He doesna believe in the shaggy wee men wha help round the hoose in the nicht.”

“I don’t believe in brownies either,” she admitted, looking from one tidy corner of the shop to the other. “But it does appear human hands have been hard at work here.”

“Aye, they have.” Michael’s expression sobered. “I took yer advice, Mrs. Kerr, and hired anither tailor.”

“Oh.” Elisabeth felt the ground beneath her shift. “Who might that be?”

Michael pointed to a second small worktable, positioned near the window. “He’s oot just noo. Thomas Brodie is his name. He came by the shop on Tuesday last, leuking for wark. Used to have his ain place in Melrose. Whan he offered to start richt awa and cleaned the shop in nae time.” He averted his gaze. “I couldna say nae. Not whan I need help so badly.”

“I am … happy for you,” she said, trying to convince herself she meant it. “With Mr. Brodie here, you’ll have more time for Peter.” She glanced at the stair, longing to feel his little hand in hers. “Is he here?”

“Nae.” Michael still could not meet her gaze. “He’ll be hame a bit later if ye care to stop by.”

He wants me to leave. Elisabeth gripped the nearest table edge, feeling faint. He has no more work for me. Dazed, she merely nodded at the shirts. “Those are the last of them. Five in all.”

Michael bolted for his purse, now hanging from a hook where he might easily find it. No doubt Mr. Brodie’s idea. “And I’ve five shillings for ye.” Michael dropped the silver into her gloved hand, taking pains not to touch her, or so it seemed.

As her fingers tightened round the coins, her throat tightened as well. Unless she found another employer, there would be no more meat at the Kerr table, no more sweets to share with their neighbors, no more coins for the collection plate.

Hard as it was, she had to ask him. “Mr. Dalgliesh, I hope you were pleased with my work.”

“Och, Bess,” he said roughly, then caught himself. “I mean Mrs. Kerr. O’ course I was pleased. Ye did a fine job. But noo …” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve nae mair for ye to do. Not with Mr. Brodie here.”

There. He said it. I am dismissed.

When her lower lip began to tremble, Elisabeth bit down hard to keep from crying. “I … thank you … for the chance … for the …”

“Mrs. Kerr.” He stepped closer. “ ’Tis nae fault o’ yers. I canna have a bonny lass warking in my shop a’ day. D’ye understand?”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Michael had not promised her such a position, so he’d not broken faith. And he was right: an unmarried man and woman could not work side by side within the confines of a shop. Hadn’t she always known that? Yet when she’d suggested he find a partner, she’d not imagined things ending like this.

Elisabeth forced herself to meet his gaze. “Will you give me a written character so I might seek employment elsewhere?”

“Och!” he groaned. “Ye ken I will. Richt noo if ye like.” Michael sat down at his newly organized desk and reached for paper, quill, and ink, all at hand.

He wasted no time scratching words across the page while Elisabeth watched him, calming her anxious heart, considering what she might do next. Though several tailors resided in Selkirk, she feared none would be so willing or so generous as this man.

When he finished, Michael cast sand across the ink, then presented the letter to her with a sad smile. “Ye’ll have nae trouble finding wark. Start with Edward Smail on Back Row. He’s a kind man and fair.”

Elisabeth carefully folded the letter, hoping Michael had given an honest appraisal of her talents. Better to have a new employer be pleasantly surprised than patently disappointed.

She lowered her gaze, seeking the strength she would need to begin anew. To call on a stranger and ask for his favor. To put her future in the Almighty’s hands once more and not be afraid. Please, Lord. In thee is my trust.

When she looked up, Michael was studying her, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen it. “I learned something, having ye here,” he said. “I learned I shouldna court a woman just because I need help in my shop or a mither for my son.”

“Court?” She looked at him quizzically. “But, Mr. Dalgliesh, I am a widow in mourning—”

“Hoot! I didna mean ye!” he exclaimed, then his whole face reddened. “That is … I had anither woman … in mind …”

Annie. Elisabeth relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived at Michael’s shop that morning. “You are right, Mr. Dalgliesh. You should court a woman for one reason—”

A single knock on the open door was her only warning.

“So!” a man cried, nearly scaring Elisabeth out of her wits. “Noo I see what ye meant, Mr. Dalgliesh.”

Elisabeth stood in place, letting her heart ease its frantic beating, while Michael mouthed an apology. Whether he was sorry for the presence of this newcomer or for the man’s loud greeting, she could not say.

He was standing beside Michael now: a gentleman tailor, if ever there was one. His face was clean shaven, his hair smartly gathered at the nape of his neck, his attire immaculate, and his shoes polished. Only the measuring tape round his neck gave away his profession.

“This is … Mr. Brownie,” Michael began haltingly.

“Brodie. Thomas Brodie,” he quickly corrected, then bowed from the waist. When he straightened, Mr. Brodie smiled, showing all his teeth. Sharp teeth at that. “Ye’re surely Mrs. Kerr, for I’ve heard o’ none ither but ye a’ week.”

“You’ve made quite a difference here,” she said evenly.

“Aye, aye.” Mr. Brodie clasped his hands behind his back and looked round with obvious satisfaction. “Meikle mair to do, but as my faither aye said, ‘A hard beginning is a guid beginning.’ ”

Elisabeth could see how uncomfortable Michael was with both of them there. Best to quit the shop at once. “I thank you for this,” she said, holding up the letter, then tucking it in her reticule. “And for all the ways you’ve blessed our household this month.”

Michael stepped forward. “A wird with ye, if I may?”

She nodded, grateful for a private farewell.

A moment later they stood in School Close. “Ye will find a position,” Michael assured her. “If not with Mr. Smail, then Charlie Purdie or Hugh Morrison will be pleased to have ye.” He paused. “As I was glad to have ye. And so was wee Peter.” He stepped back, a look of regret in his eyes. “I wish ye a’ the best, Mrs. Kerr.”

The moment Michael returned to his shop, Mr. Brodie closed the door, not loudly, but very firmly, shutting her out.

Wounded by his rebuff and more than a little desperate, Elisabeth strode toward Kirk Wynd. She had no work, little money, and only a few hours to resolve the problem before the threatening clouds spilled their contents.

Edward Smail. Though the name was familiar, she could not picture the man. But she had little doubt she’d find him, for no tailor who wanted business lay in hiding. She climbed uphill toward Back Row, the third leg of the triangle of streets that formed Selkirk. When she reached the ridge where Peter had pointed to the castle ruins, she turned left down a cobbled street lined with stone houses and shops.

The names painted across the lintels were helpful. Fletcher. Waugh. Black-hall. Dunn. When she found a promising-looking shop with Smail over the entrance and a waistcoat hanging on the open door, she stepped inside and let her eyes adjust to the dim interior before seeking out the owner.

Edward Smail spied her first. “Mrs. Kerr?” he asked, stepping into the lantern light.

The moment she laid eyes on the tailor, she remembered seeing him at kirk and at market, though she’d not known his name. Mr. Smail was aptly named, for he was small and round. His nose was flat, his eyes were close together, and his hands seemed to grow out of his elbows.

“Ye’ve been sewing shirts for Michael Dalgliesh,” he said, casting a wary eye over her. “I confess I envy the man his trade. There was a time not so lang syne whan I had mair wark than I could handle. But not noo.” He nodded at the many empty shelves. “I’ve enough to keep my family in meat and meal, but that is a’.”

Whether or not Mr. Smail was kind and fair, he assuredly was not prosperous.

“What brings ye to my door?” he asked rather bluntly, offering her the only seat in his shop.

She hesitated, not wanting to put the man in an awkward position. Or was it pride that stilled her tongue? Finally she confessed, “Mr. Dalgliesh has hired another tailor, so my sewing services are no longer needed.”

Mr. Smail frowned. “Mair likely he didna want a bonny lass round his door.”

His words stung. “I do all my sewing at home,” Elisabeth hastened to explain. “Furthermore, Mr. Dalgliesh has given me a written character.”

When she reached for her reticule, the tailor stayed her hand. “Niver mind, Mrs. Kerr. I canna afford ye. And my wife wouldna want ye here oniewise.”

“Then I am sorry to have bothered you,” she said, already on her feet. “I bid you good day.”

Mortified, she fled into Back Row, uncertain which way to turn. She had no addresses for the other tailors and little courage left to ask directions from the strangers milling about, staring at her like the outlander she was.

She was too angry to cry and too hurt not to admit his rejection stung.

What shall I do, Lord? Where shall I go?

The answer came quickly. Home.

She would lick her wounds, then see about Mr. Purdie or Mr. Morrison, though she feared a similar response. Was there no tailor in Selkirk like Angus MacPherson, who’d given her challenging work and didn’t care whether she was bonny or not? She could still remember the twinkle in his eye and the index finger he playfully wagged beneath her nose. Oh, Angus, how I miss you.

Discouraged, she pointed her feet toward Halliwell’s Close. Perhaps if she found an ugly hat or wore her hair in her face or made certain to always frown, perhaps then she might sew for her supper without distracting men from their work. Foolishness.

When she turned onto Kirk Wynd, the heavens opened, and rain poured down in sheets, soaking her to the skin before she reached Anne’s house. There would be no more interviews this day; her gown would not dry for hours.

Only when she started up the stair did she remember her conversation with Michael Dalgliesh. I had anither woman in mind. But he’d not spoken Anne’s name. What if he meant someone else entirely?

By the time she reached the door, Elisabeth was certain of her decision: she would say nothing, lest Anne’s hopes for the future be crushed as thoroughly as her own.