Mine Is the Night A Novel

Thirty-Five

Shall I never feel at home,

Never wholly be at ease?

SIR WILLIAM WATSON



e’ll not be much longer,” Elisabeth told the anxious cook, who stood beside her in the servants’ vacant dining hall having her measurements taken. “I know Lord Buchanan’s dinner is on your mind.”

“And in my cooking pot,” Mrs. Tudhope fretted. “The duck only stews for a quarter hour.”

Elisabeth bent down to measure waist to hem, hiding her smile. The cook herself stewed round the clock if reports from the kitchen could be trusted.

A woman of sixty-odd years, Mrs. Tudhope was a study in silvery gray, from her hair to her eyes to the spectacles perched on her nose. Her measurements were almost Mrs. Pringle’s in reverse, for the cook was very short and very round with no discernible waist.

As Elisabeth recorded the numbers on a slate, Mrs. Tudhope peered over her shoulder.

“No one will see those?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“Not a soul,” Elisabeth promised her. “By the time you return for a fitting this afternoon, your slate will be wiped clean.”

“If only ’twere that easy,” Mrs. Tudhope moaned. “Still, if I do not taste the food, how will I know if it’s seasoned correctly?”

“I could not agree more,” Elisabeth told her, “and you are a marvelous cook.”

When Mrs. Tudhope beamed, showing all her teeth, Elisabeth knew what his lordship would be having for dessert: raspberry tart.

“Off you go.” She patted the woman’s arm. “I shall need you here at three o’ the clock.”

No sooner did Mrs. Tudhope scurry out the door than Mrs. Pringle appeared, neatly dressed in her charcoal gray gown. The housekeeper frowned over her shoulder. “Will her dress be the same as mine?”

“The same design, aye, but with a few adjustments.” Elisabeth quietly covered the slate. “Every woman deserves a gown that flatters her figure.”

“Hmm,” was all Mrs. Pringle said.

As Charbon investigated the housekeeper’s shoes, Elisabeth began to unfold the bolt of fabric across the dining table. “How may I help you this morn?”

“Lord Buchanan wishes to speak with you.”

Sighing inwardly, Elisabeth shook the chalk dust from her apron. “Do you imagine this will take long? I told the cook—”

“Mrs. Kerr,” the housekeeper said sternly, “all of us who work at Bell Hill have a single priority: his lordship. Is that clear?”

“Aye, madam.” Duly chastened, Elisabeth started for the stair with Charbon darting ahead of her, soon out of sight. Mrs. Pringle was right: Lord Buchanan deserved their best service. Not only because he was generous and fair but also because the Buik required it. Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters. The truth could not be put more plainly. The next part, though, spoke louder to Elisabeth, describing how such service was to be rendered: in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ. If she was sewing for the Lord himself, for her true Master, then every unseen stitch, every hidden buttonhole mattered.

Elisabeth soon reached Lord Buchanan’s first-floor study, one of the many rooms she had yet to explore. Crossing the threshold, she paused, overwhelmed by what she saw. Books everywhere. On his desk. On his chairs. On his table. On his shelves.

In the midst of them sat Lord Buchanan with Charbon climbing onto his lap. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Kerr?”

“Not at all,” she said, then quickly curtsied. “You have an impressive library.”

He looked about the room as if noticing his collection for the first time. “Do you read?”

She stared at him, perplexed. “I both read and write, sir.”

He almost smiled. “I meant, do you often read books? For pleasure or enlightenment?”

“I do. For both.”

“What are reading now, pray tell?”

An easy question to answer since she and Marjory owned exactly one volume. “James Thomson’s The Seasons.”

“Poetry?” He wrinkled his brow. “I styled you a more adventurous reader. Defoe or Richardson or Fielding.”

“I began Moll Flanders,” Elisabeth admitted, “but I did not care for its heroine.”

“Well, she’s hardly heroic, our Moll, though she did spend her last days in sincere penitence. And I am a strong believer in forgiveness.” Lord Buchanan stood, letting Charbon slip to the floor. “Mrs. Kerr, I have a gift for you.” He reached behind his desk, withdrew a mysterious, cloth-wrapped bundle, and placed it in her arms.

Elisabeth knew at once it was fabric. The outer layer was an inexpensive muslin, wrapped in twine. But upon opening it, she discovered an exquisite broadcloth in a deep, rich black. Enough for at least two gowns.

She gazed at it, bewildered. “This is for me?”

“And for your mother-in-law. No widow should be forced to wear the same gown for an entire year of mourning. Those months are difficult enough.” He brushed his fingertips across the edge of the broadcloth. “I charged Hyslop to find a fabric of the highest quality. I hope this will do.”

Elisabeth swallowed. “You are too kind.”

“Nae, I am selfish,” he insisted, “for I wish to see all my household well dressed.”

She saw through his protest and was touched by his generosity. Again.

“I shall sew them at home in the evenings,” she told him. “Our two windows face west, so I’ll have sufficient light well into the gloaming.”

He looked horrified. “Your two windows?”

“Aye.” Elisabeth fingered the twine, suddenly aware of how very poor she must seem to so wealthy a gentleman.

When the cat meowed for attention, Elisabeth bent down and began scratching his head. “You are the adventurer among us, Charbon, with your Chinese pedigree and your French name.” She looked up at Lord Buchanan, hoping to dispel any awkwardness between them. “I believe Mrs. Pringle said your mother was French.”

“Did she?” As he stepped back, a shadow moved across his face. “What else did Mrs. Pringle say?”

Elisabeth stood, unnerved by the coolness in his voice. “That your father was Scottish.”

“Nothing else?”

“N-nothing,” she stammered.

“Good, because there is nothing to tell.” He turned toward his desk, a patent dismissal.

Holding her fabric to her heart, Elisabeth curtsied, then flew out the door, wishing she could take back her careless words.


In the days that followed, Elisabeth saw little of Lord Jack Buchanan. He was either riding with Dickson or working alone in his study or calling on the local gentry—the Murrays in particular. However vital Sir John’s role in Selkirk politics, his daughter Rosalind was the likely reason for the admiral’s repeated visits to Philiphaugh.

As for Elisabeth, she was lost in fabric.

Sunlit hours now stretched from three in the morning ’til nine at night. Whether at home or at Bell Hill, Elisabeth felt compelled to spend every minute sewing, though her fingers were growing numb, her neck was often tense, and she had a constant headache. Marjory insisted upon buying her another thimble and had her needles sharpened as well, which did help. But nothing made the hours or the stitches go faster.

Charbon kept her company in the workroom, a reminder of the master she had somehow offended. She’d spoken the truth: Mrs. Pringle had not told her anything else about his parents. Yet there must be a great deal to tell, or his lordship would not have reacted as he did.

She looked up when Sally entered the workroom bearing a dinner tray. “Guid day to ye, Mrs. Kerr.”

“And to you,” Elisabeth said, putting down her fabric, hoping for a moment’s conversation. Perhaps Sally knew something of the admiral’s upbringing.

But the lass disappeared as quickly as she’d come. “I’ll collect yer tray later, Mrs. Kerr.”

Once again Elisabeth was left feeling betwixt and between. She was not a servant, yet she didn’t hold one of the head positions. She also didn’t reside at Bell Hill. Instead, like one of the gardeners, she came and went each day but was not part of the household.

Folk were polite and kind. And each gown earned her a guinea, for which she was grateful. Still, Elisabeth longed for one good friend at Bell Hill. And a place she could truly call home.