Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-Seven

The grandest of heroic deeds are those

which are performed within four walls

and in domestic privacy.

JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER



lisabeth could not guess where the housekeeper was leading her or what she had in mind. Was an audience with Lord Buchanan literally round the corner?

“I am Mrs. Pringle,” the older woman said, then ordered one of her maidservants to take her place at the door. Turning her back on the busy entrance hall, she escorted Elisabeth toward the longer wing of the house. “Whether or not his lordship is prepared to engage a dressmaker for the servants’ gowns, I cannot say,” Mrs. Pringle told her, “though I shall address the matter when he returns from Edinburgh.”

“He is away?” Elisabeth was both relieved and disappointed. The admiral had not been spied at kirk yesterday morning. Now she knew why.

“Lord Buchanan is managing some business for His Majesty,” Mrs. Pringle said offhandedly. She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket as they approached a door of immense proportions. “In his stead, Roberts and I are perfectly capable of filling all the household positions.”

“Aye, madam,” Elisabeth said, not doubting the woman for an instant.

She followed Mrs. Pringle into a vast drawing room, large enough to hold Anne’s house and five more like it. They crossed the room in such haste, Elisabeth’s view was reduced to a single, breathtaking sweep of deep burgundy and royal blue. Thick carpeting, ornate columns, brocaded silk upholstery, gilded mirrors, fine oil portraits, and opulent velvet draperies all demanded her attention at once.

The effect was staggering, the admiral’s wealth beyond imagining. She barely noticed the corner exit, meant to blend into the décor, until the housekeeper slipped her key into a concealed lock and pushed on the broad wall panel.

“My ground floor office, where I handle the affairs of the household,” she said, ushering Elisabeth within. The square room, though small, was elegantly appointed. Mrs. Pringle pointed to a high-backed chair near her desk. “If you please.”

After the long walk Elisabeth was grateful to rest her feet, though she longed for something to drink, fearing her parched lips might stick together.

Mrs. Pringle tugged a woven cord, then sat. Her desk was exceptionally neat, with a shelf of books at her elbow. The light pouring in from the narrow window shone on the housekeeper’s face, revealing an intricate web of lines and creases. Just short of fifty years, Elisabeth decided. Marjory’s age.

“Mrs. Kerr,” the housekeeper began, “you are obviously a woman of quality. Yet you’ve come to Bell Hill with a pair of scissors draped round your neck, seeking employment. Explain yourself.”

“Perhaps these will help.” Elisabeth reached into her sewing basket for her written characters. She’d sealed both letters, lest she be tempted to read them, and offered them now for the housekeeper to examine. “Two characters for your perusal.”

Mrs. Pringle held up her hand. “I do not wish to know what others think of you. Not yet. I want to know why you’re here.” Her tone was cool, her demeanor more so.

Elisabeth met Mrs. Pringle’s gaze without apology, knowing she had to speak the truth now or spend the rest of her days trying to conceal it. “My late husband, Lord Donald Kerr, died in battle at Falkirk.” She paused, steeling herself. “Because of our family’s support of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, our title, property, and fortune were lost, leaving my mother-in-law and me without means beyond what my needle can provide.”

Mrs. Pringle studied her at length before she spoke. “Your situation is most regrettable,” she finally said, her expression softening ever so slightly. “There were also many in London who secretly favored the prince. Am I to assume you’ve been duly humbled and now support the rightful king?”

A sense of peace settled over Elisabeth. “Of that you can be certain.” For God is the King of all the earth.

“And you’ll not discuss your former Jacobite sympathies with his lordship?”

“Only if he asks me, in which case I am honor-bound to confess the truth.” Elisabeth reached for her basket, eager to press on. “May I show you a sample of my work?” She withdrew Marjory’s embroidered nightgown and held it out for Mrs. Pringle’s inspection. “Though I realize ’tis not nightgowns you’ll be needing—”

“I can see that you are accomplished, as any gentlewoman should be.” Mrs. Pringle returned the garment, having barely glanced at it. “What I cannot see is how quickly you work.”

A knock on the door announced a young, russet-haired maidservant balancing a tea tray. She poured them each a steaming cup, then curtsied, her manners as pleasing as her features. “Will there be anything else, mem?”

“The mending basket,” Mrs. Pringle said, then dismissed her with a nod.

If the housekeeper intended to watch her sew, Elisabeth would not be ruffled. Hadn’t Rob MacPherson spent many a quiet hour in Edinburgh with his gaze fixed on her while she stitched for his father? This would be no different.

Elisabeth was still adding milk to her tea when the maid reappeared with a large willow basket overflowing with garments.

Mrs. Pringle drained her cup in one long draw, then placed it in the china saucer with a faint clink. “In that basket, Mrs. Kerr, you will find torn seams, missing buttons, dangling pockets, all the usual. Repair them if you can. I shall rejoin you well before the supper hour and see how you’ve progressed.”

Elisabeth stared at the basket. Was she expected to finish all of this by day’s end? “Very well, Mrs. Pringle.”

The housekeeper stood, dabbing at her mouth. “Sally will take you to the workroom. Meanwhile, I’ve a household to manage.” Mrs. Pringle did not wait for a response but quit her office with a sweep of her skirts.

Elisabeth could not waste a moment. She gulped down her tea, nearly scalding her tongue, then gathered her belongings and followed Sally back through the drawing room and into the broad hallway with its gleaming sconces and fabric-covered walls.

“This way, mem.” Still carrying the heavy basket, Sally led her through a side door and down a steep, curving stairway to the servants’ domain below. Though plain and unadorned, the service corridor was freshly scrubbed and well lit.

Elisabeth peered through each open door in passing, noting Mrs. Pringle’s influence reflected in the tidy shelves, neat rows of chairs, carefully folded linens, and polished brass lanterns. Twenty, perhaps even thirty servants would eventually labor here. The few souls on hand, hard at work that morning, paused long enough to bob their heads and smile at her. Was Lord Buchanan a fair and just employer or a tyrant? By week’s end, Lord willing, she would have her answer.

“Here ye are, mem.” Sally blushed prettily, holding open the door to a low-ceilinged room. Though it had only one window, and quite a high one at that, the room also had a candle-stool with a circle of chairs round it. “I’ll see to the fire,” Sally said, lifting the candle from the mantel, then kneeling before the small hearth, where twigs, sticks, and a split log were expertly laid, awaiting the touch of her flame. She also trimmed and lit the wick in the center of the three-legged candle-stool edged with round glass flasks, each filled with water, magnifying the light. One beeswax candle gleamed like a dozen.

“Will this suit ye, mem?” Sally asked as the wood fire began to crackle.

Elisabeth clasped her basket, surveying the room. Though it was chilly now, the fire would soon warm her, and the clever lighting was more than sufficient. If only Angus had kept such a stool in his dimly lit shop! The unknown contents of the willow basket were her main concern. “I’d best begin,” she told Sally, who disappeared with a curtsy.

Alone at last, Elisabeth slipped off her light wool cape and hung it by the door, then settled into one of the chairs, placing the mending basket at her feet and her sewing basket on the empty chair next to her. The day was still young. If the Lord smiled on her work, she might finish before the gloaming.

Elisabeth whispered a prayer for quick fingers and a keen eye, then claimed the first item to be mended, a gentleman’s shirt. Rather than the coarse muslin of a laborer or the thick linen of a servant, the fabric was a fine cambric: almost certainly Lord Buchanan’s.

A nervous shiver danced up her spine as she lifted the garment for a closer inspection. She’d sewn men’s shirts for the last month, but this was different. A gentleman who was not her husband, a gentleman she’d never even met, had worn this fabric against his skin. Numerous times, apparently, for cambric lost its sheen after several launderings.

Judging by the length of the sleeves and breadth of the shoulder seams, Lord Buchanan was indeed tall. She would need to look up to meet his gaze and would not easily see round him. A pleasant scent, more like soap than sweat, clung to the fabric, and the clean neckline hinted at a man who bathed often.

Enough, Bess. She blushed, lowering the shirt to her lap. Her task was to mend his clothes, not assess them. She quickly found a lengthy gap along the side seam, easily repaired. After threading her needle, she went to work and finished the last stitch a half hour later. She pressed on to the next item, a waistcoat with three missing buttons, requiring an entirely new set, which she retrieved from her basket. A rather new linen apron needed only a few stitches to reattach the waistband, and a second shirt of a lesser quality was quickly hemmed.

As the morning progressed, she draped each finished piece over the chair beside her, stopping occasionally to poke the fire, stretch her limbs, or step into the hall to listen for voices. She imagined Mrs. Pringle and Roberts in their respective offices above her, interviewing the many candidates. Would Molly Easton find herself a parlormaid before the day ended?

When the sun was high overhead, young Sally reappeared with a dinner tray. “I thocht ye might be peckish by noo,” she said, placing the wooden tray on a side table. “Cauld mutton, het tea, and Mrs. Tudhope’s shortbread.”

“They all sound delicious,” Elisabeth told her, grateful not only for the food but also for the company. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sally, how long have you worked at Bell Hill?”

“A fortnight,” the lass said proudly. “My mither is head laundress. We were the first in Selkirk to be hired. Mrs. Pringle and the ithers came from London toun.”

“What about Lord Buchanan?” Elisabeth asked, trying not to sound too curious. “Is he a worthy master?”

Sally smiled. “I’ve niver met a kinder man. He’s auld, ye ken. Nigh to forty. And not verra handsome. But he is guid.”

Elisabeth nodded, adding the details to her store of knowledge concerning Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan. She could almost picture him now and would certainly recognize him if he walked through the door, which he might at any time. She thanked Sally, dined with haste, then returned to her sewing, the shadows outside her window lengthening with each passing hour.

When she reached the last garment, a sturdy wool waistcoat, Elisabeth counted the buttons and studied the seams, finding nothing wrong. Had the garment landed in the mending basket by mistake? Running her fingers over the fabric in the waning light, she felt more than saw the problem: a slight tear in the fabric, as if a blade had poked through the wool, severing the weave.

Elisabeth frowned, knowing there was little hope of saving the waistcoat. Cotton and silk thread would never do a proper job of it. She inched closer to the candle-stool, examining the spun wool in the flickering light. If her father were here, he would know what might be done. Think, Bess. How would a weaver repair this?

Using a flatiron heated by the fire, Elisabeth pressed the damaged area, then picked apart a section of the hem that would not show, carefully removing a few strands of wool. She inserted the strands along the tear, making certain the colors were a perfect match, then rewove the warp and then the weft, using only her fingers and a blunt needle. At last she snipped away the trailing ends, then pressed the fabric once more.

Elisabeth held up the waistcoat, pride welling inside her. Not because of the work she’d done, but because of the father who’d taught her so long ago.

A woman’s voice floated through the doorway. “Still sewing, Mrs. Kerr?”

Elisabeth spun round. “Mrs. Pringle! I thought perhaps you’d forgotten me,” she said lightly, then hoped the housekeeper would not take offense.

“I am later than I intended to be,” she admitted. “Come, let me see your work.”

Elisabeth laid aside the waistcoat for a moment and showed her the rest.

Mrs. Pringle seemed taken aback. “You finished all of it?” The housekeeper inspected each item of clothing, her eyebrows lifting incrementally with each one until finally her face was the picture of astonishment. “You’ve done three days’ work in one, Mrs. Kerr.” She nodded toward the waistcoat. “Of course, that must be delivered to a tailor or a weaver in Edinburgh with very particular skills. Rather a nasty gash.”

“Aye, it was,” Elisabeth said, then held out the mended garment. “See if this is any improvement.”

Frowning, Mrs. Pringle took the waistcoat and turned it over in her hands. Once, then twice. “But where is it? I distinctly remember—”

“ ’Twas here,” Elisabeth said, pointing to the spot she’d labored over.

Mrs. Pringle peered at it more closely, then shook her head. “I would not have believed it possible. Where did you learn such a skill?”

“My father was a weaver. And my oldest friend in Edinburgh was a tailor.”

“Well.” Mrs. Pringle pursed her lips. “I’ve one more task for you, Mrs. Kerr, and then we shall see about a position for you at Bell Hill.”

Elisabeth stole a glance at the window. The last rays of the sun would be gone in an hour, and she’d not had supper. “Will it take very long?” she asked.

“A week, I imagine.” The housekeeper plucked the measuring tape from Elisabeth’s sewing basket. “If you are to sew gowns for the maidservants of Bell Hill, you’d best start with mine. Take my measurements, if you please.”

Elisabeth’s hopes soared. Surely this meant Mrs. Pringle was pleased with her work.

“Lord Buchanan purchased the fabric in London,” Mrs. Pringle explained. “Bolts upon bolts of a fine charcoal gray broadcloth.”

Elisabeth merely nodded as she took the housekeeper’s measurements. Shoulder to elbow, ten inches. Neck to waist, two-and-twenty in the front, twelve in the back. Waist to hem, eight-and-thirty inches. She was already imagining the gown she would design. Simple, yet flattering, and above all practical.

When she began measuring Mrs. Pringle’s slightly thicker waist, the housekeeper murmured, “You’ll not tell a soul the number? Mrs. Tudhope is entirely to blame. We’ve both worked for his lordship since the Centurion came into port, and I cannot resist her shortbread.”

“ ’Twill be our secret,” Elisabeth assured her, making a mental note. One-and-thirty inches.

“Leave your basket with me, if you like,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “I shall expect you at eight in the morn, prepared to work.” Her brow darkened a bit. “This is a trial, you understand, with no promise of engagement.”

“Then I shall do my best to win your approval and his lordship’s as well.”

Mrs. Pringle nodded toward the door. “See that you do, Mrs. Kerr.”