Mine Is the Night A Novel

Twenty-Nine

A woman sat in unwomanly rags,

Plying her needle and thread—

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

THOMAS HOOD



lisabeth unrolled the fine wool broadcloth, sweeping her hands across the downy nap. Like velvet. That’s how the fabric felt, so close was the weave, calendered between heated rollers to make the finish exceptionally smooth. She eyed her chalk and shears, itching to begin.

“Will the table suit your needs?” Mrs. Pringle asked, standing near, hands clasped at her waist. “You’ll need to quit this room by noontide so the table may be laid for the servants’ dinner at one o’ the clock.”

Elisabeth assured her she would finish chalking and cutting the fabric within the hour, then tapped the drawing she’d placed on the corner of the borrowed dining table. “You are quite certain my design pleases you?”

The housekeeper gave it a cursory glance. “ ’Twill do,” she said dismissively. “Comfort is what concerns me most.”

“Naturally,” Elisabeth agreed. “We’ll do two fittings before your gown is completed.”

“By Saturday,” the housekeeper said firmly.

“Aye, madam.” Elisabeth moistened her lips, parched at the thought of all that lay ahead. “If you will stop by the workroom at three o’ the clock, I shall have it pinned and ready for your first fitting.”

When Mrs. Pringle reached out to touch the fabric, Elisabeth noticed a slight fraying on the edges of the woman’s cuffs. Though her white apron was crisply starched, Mrs. Pringle needed this new gown. The rich charcoal gray fabric would complement her coppery hair far better than the dull brown the housekeeper was currently wearing, though Elisabeth would never mention it.

“While you are here at Bell Hill,” Mrs. Pringle said, “you will be addressed as Mrs. Kerr since you are not counted among the household servants.”

“Very well,” Elisabeth said. She knew she was foreign, in every sense of the word. A Highlander, a Jacobite, a gentlewoman. If the servants took her into their confidence even a little, she’d be grateful.

“In the meantime,” Mrs. Pringle continued, “I’ve hired fourteen new maidservants, all of whom begin today.” She splayed her long, tapered fingers and counted them. “Two kitchen for Mrs. Tudhope, two parlor, two scullery, one stillroom, three upper house, two lower house, and two dairy.”

Elisabeth briefly bowed her head. And one dressmaker come week’s end? Please may it be so. Clearly not everyone who’d applied on Monday had found a position. She’d not seen Molly Easton on the road that morning. Only a grim sky full of low clouds promising rain.

“The new maids are to arrive at nine o’ the clock.” Mrs. Pringle consulted a gentleman’s pocket watch, pulled from the recesses of her apron. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Kerr?”

She mustered her courage and asked, “When might the master of the house be expected?”

“I know neither the day nor the hour,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “The admiral has been at sea for three quarters of his life. He has lodgings in London and Portsmouth but has never owned a proper estate in the country. I imagine it will take Lord Buchanan several months before he considers Bell Hill his true home.” After a long pause she asked, “Are you frightened of meeting the admiral because of your late husband’s treason?”

The housekeeper’s bold question took Elisabeth by surprise. “I am,” she admitted.

“Then we must see it is never mentioned.” Mrs. Pringle stepped back. “Ply your needle, madam. If you need anything, Sally Craig can assist you.” She quit the room, the heels of her shoes marking her confident steps along the flagstone floor of the servants’ hall.

With the small dining room to herself, Elisabeth went to work at once, marking the dark fabric with her slender chalk. What she wouldn’t have given for Angus MacPherson’s old dress form or sufficient time to make a muslin pattern. Sharpened before they’d left Edinburgh, her shears glided through the fine wool like a knife through butter. Sleeves, then sections of the bodice, then numerous skirt panels were set aside until nothing remained but the pinning. And the stitching. And the fitting. And the hemming.

Aye, and the praying.

Elisabeth gathered the fabric and her sewing basket, then hastened down the long hall to the same cozy room where she’d done her mending the day before. A fire was laid, and a fresh candle stood amid the globes of water in the candle-stool. She lit them both, relieved to have warmth and light, then began with the bodice, pinning the six pieces together, seam by seam.

As she worked, lively voices filtered into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Pringle’s new maids, she imagined. They sounded young, eager, and nervous. She smiled, remembering her first days at Mrs. Sinclair’s Boarding School for Young Ladies in Edinburgh. Elisabeth had been all of eight-and-ten and entirely green, knowing nothing of the world. She learned a great deal in the years that followed. Some of it was painful, yet all of it was needful.

What would Effie Sinclair think if she saw her now? Elisabeth considered her ragged mourning gown, her hastily combed hair, and her chapped fingers and knew what her esteemed schoolmistress would say. “Lift your head, Mrs. Kerr. You have a fine mind, a bonny face, skilled hands, and the Lord’s favor. Use them well in the service of others, and a full reward will be yours.”

Her spirits buoyed, Elisabeth pinned her seams with renewed fervor, paying no attention to the loud noises in the hall or the laughter spilling from the nearby kitchen. The bodice was soon fully pinned, as were the elbow-length sleeves, with only the skirt remaining. Her head was bent over her work, the pins mere inches from her face, when a gray and white paw batted at her nose.

“Oh!” She jumped to her feet, startled out of her wits.

Looking up at her was a round-faced cat. Its smooth fur was the very color of Mrs. Pringle’s new gown but with random streaks of white, as if the puss had come too near a pail of whitewash. Its ears were large, its whiskers long, its golden eyes attentive. Nothing would escape this cat’s notice, she decided.

“Who might you belong to?” Elisabeth bent down to scratch the animal’s head and realized it was purring rather noisily. When she eased onto her chair, the cat put its paws on her knees, stretching up to sniff her. “We must come to some agreement, you and I,” she told the furry creature. “I have much work to do and no time for petting.” Still, the animal’s fur was exceedingly soft, as velvety as the fabric in her lap. The longer she stroked its head, the louder it purred, until she was certain Mrs. Tudhope would come forth from her kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, intent on dispatching the four-legged intruder.

“Ye’ve been chosen,” a lass said from the doorway.

Elisabeth looked up to find Sally studying her, a dinner tray in her hands. “He doesna like monie o’ the servants,” Sally commented, placing the food atop a tall chest, well out of the cat’s reach. “Keeps his ain company whan the master isna here.”

Elisabeth blinked. “You mean this cat belongs to Lord Buchanan?” She could not imagine a man of such stature having a cat roaming about the house. Hunting dogs, perhaps, or collies. Cats were usually meant for byres and barns, not mansions.

Sally told her, “His lordship said the cat came aboard in Canton.”

“A Chinese cat?” Elisabeth eyed the animal with more interest. “Well, he certainly is friendly.”

Sally called over her shoulder as she left. “To ye, mebbe.”