Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-Six

Fairest and best adorned is she

Whose clothing is humility.

JAMES MONTGOMERY



lisabeth rose from the breakfast table, grateful Marjory and Anne could not see her knees trembling beneath her gown. “I must go. ’Tis two miles to Bell Hill.”

“And only six o’ the clock in the morn,” Anne reminded her. “Do you think the others will arrive so early?”

Elisabeth shrugged, if only to shake off her nervousness. “You know what the old wives say. ‘The coo that’s first up gets the first o’ the dew.’ ”

“You are not a cow,” Anne said pointedly. “And I’d hate for you to appear too eager.”

“But I am eager,” Elisabeth confessed. “Our food stores are dwindling. And Mr. Halliwell expects his shillings today, does he not?” At Whitsuntide rents were paid, debts settled, and new servants hired. Lord willing, she would be counted among the latter. “I’ve only to gather my sewing things, and I’ll be ready.”

Last evening she’d washed her hair in rosewater and brushed it until it gleamed, then rubbed her teeth with a hazel twig until her gums ached, hoping a bright smile might please the housekeeper. She’d polished her black shoes with ashes from the grate, while her mourning gown, stiff after drying by the hearth, had been coaxed into soft folds by Anne’s skillful ironing.

Elisabeth reached for the small looking glass, chagrined to find a nagging fear reflected in her eyes. What if ten other dressmakers who were far more qualified presented themselves at Bell Hill? Or the housekeeper took one look at her tattered gown and sent her away?

Nae, Bess. Had she already forgotten what she’d read upon waking? In God I have put my trust. The time had come to act on those words instead of simply meditating on them.

She collected her sewing basket from the shelf, then tallied her dressmaking tools: a half-dozen spools of silk thread, her best cutting shears, a packet of straight pins, her measuring tape, her pincushion, a handful of shirt buttons, tailor’s chalk wrapped in linen, and a small wooden case with her precious needles. Whatever task might be required, she was prepared.

The most valuable tool her basket contained was the written character from Michael Dalgliesh and another one from Reverend Brown, which he’d provided at Marjory’s request last evening. Without them she could not hope to be taken seriously as a dressmaker.

Lastly she slipped round her neck a black ribbon from which dangled a slender pair of scissors meant for snipping loose threads and advertising her services. A gentlewoman would never appear in public displaying her scissors, but a dressmaker would.

She started to close the wooden lid of her basket when a glint of silver caught her eye. Jenny’s thimble. Elisabeth paused, her mind turning. “Annie,” she said, keeping her voice light, “might you return this for me?” She lifted out the delicate thimble and placed it in her cousin’s hand. “I am sure he meant this as a loan, not a gift, yet it would be awkward for me to visit Mr. Dalgliesh’s shop.” Elisabeth met her gaze. “You do understand?”

“Consider it done,” Anne said with a shrug, dropping the thimble in her apron pocket.

Elisabeth nodded to herself. The rest is up to you, Michael.

A moment later she slipped down the stair and into the close, holding her skirts above the muck until she reached the dry cobblestones in Kirk Wynd. Even at that early hour a goodly number of folk were in the street. Milkmaids and laundresses ducked round her, intent on their duties. Shopkeepers had already thrown open their doors. The street was crowded with livestock as sheep and cattle belonging to the townsfolk were driven to the common grazing land round Selkirk.

Whitsun Monday was well begun.

Elisabeth spied a young woman walking alone, wearing a freshly pressed gown and a timid expression. Molly Easton, a parishioner she’d had occasion to speak with, was a quiet lass, a few years short of her majority. Was she, too, bound for Bell Hill? Thinking a traveling companion might make the journey easier for both of them, Elisabeth quickly caught up with her. “Good day to you, Miss Easton.”

She bobbed her brown head. “To ye as weel, Mrs. Kerr.”

As they fell into step, Elisabeth asked, “Might you be seeking a position at Bell Hill?”

“I might,” Molly answered cryptically. “And ye?”

Elisabeth hesitated. Should she tell all or simply acknowledge the question, as Miss Easton had? Perhaps it was ill luck to voice one’s plans on such a day. “I hope to work for the admiral,” Elisabeth finally told her, then began speaking of the fine weather, seeing where their conversation might lead.

Alas, it led only to the edge of town, for Molly Easton was shy in the extreme. She spoke two words to Elisabeth’s twenty and offered little about herself other than her age, eight-and-ten, and her favorite month, June. “Because o’ the Common Riding,” she explained.

Elisabeth had heard the Riding mentioned in passing but knew little more than the name. “I’ve never seen one.”

“Och, Mrs. Kerr!” Like a puppet come to life, Molly began to hop from one foot to the next. “ ’Tis held on a Friday in June. When braw men on horseback take to the marches early that morn ’tis a sight to behold.” Color had blossomed in her cheeks, and her dark eyes shone like chestnuts. “Afore the day is done, there’s music and dancing in the marketplace.”

The lass chattered away as they crossed the road to Hawick and began climbing the grassy track toward Bell Hill. While the sun rose higher, bathing the pastures in the soft light of morning, other folk appeared on foot, all aimed in the same direction. Only when they neared the admiral’s property did Molly’s comments return to the matter at hand. “Will there be onie ithers, d’ye think, who’ll want to be parlormaids?”

“I cannot say,” Elisabeth told her truthfully, unfamiliar with the ins and outs of domestic service. In the Kerrs’ six-room house in Edinburgh, they’d managed with a housekeeper, butler, and maid. But Bell Hill would require dozens of servants, carefully ranked and paid accordingly. Grooms and footmen, cooks and scullery maids, housemaids and dairymaids. Would she be expected to know the duties of each? Or might she be assigned a small sewing room and left to her own devices?

When they started up the long drive, Elisabeth’s stomach twisted into a knot and stayed that way as the leafy trees she’d seen from a distance now loomed over her. The gray stone mansion, rising three stories above the ground, seemed loftier and more imposing with each step. Laid out like the letter L, the house was older than she’d imagined, with the remnant of a medieval castle joined to a longer section with a bank of windows overlooking the freshly planted gardens.

Molly whispered as if the gables and turrets might hear, “I have niver seen such a place.”

Elisabeth had once danced at the Palace of Holyroodhouse, so she could not say the same. But she’d never worked or lived in so fine a house as this. As they turned the corner, bound for the open door, voices floated out to greet them. She and Molly were not among the first arrivals, then. They quickened their steps, the massive carved entranceway beckoning.

When she crossed the threshold, Elisabeth’s heart sank. Dozens upon dozens of eager applicants milled round the broad hall, many more folk than would ever be needed or hired. How many other dressmakers might there be among the sea of faces? Molly Easton’s dismayed expression mirrored her own.

Standing just inside the doorway was a tall, middle-aged woman with carefully styled hair the shade of a shiny new ha’penny. Though she lifted her voice, the woman never shouted. “Housemaids in the center. Laundry maids under the window. Scullery maids by the far door.” Clearly she was Bell Hill’s housekeeper, in charge of the female staff. An impressive gentleman, who could only be the butler, stood beside her, giving similar orders to the men as they entered, sending them to various stations on the opposite side of the entrance hall.

“Parlormaids, mem?” Molly asked tentatively.

The housekeeper appraised her with a quick, sharp glance. “With the housemaids, if you please.”

As Molly darted off, Elisabeth lifted her chin, hoping to make a good first impression. “Madam, my name is Mrs. Kerr. I have come to offer my services as a dressmaker. Where shall I stand?”

Her steel gray eyes narrowed. “You have never worked in service.”

Elisabeth blanched.

“If you had,” the woman said curtly, “you would know there are no permanent positions for dressmakers or tailors. They are engaged only when needed and never on Whitsun Monday.”

Embarrassment swept over Elisabeth like a wave. Why did I not ask someone? Why did I make assumptions? She locked her knees, lest they give way entirely, and found the courage to respond. “You are right when you say I’ve not been in service. But I have been a seamstress in two tailoring establishments—”

“Still, you’ve not worked for a gentleman.”

“I have not,” Elisabeth conceded, “though I did live in a gentleman’s house.” She swallowed, then said the rest. “As his wife.”

The housekeeper abruptly took her by the arm. “Come with me, madam.”