Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “How d’ye ken ’twas him?” Robert Watson demanded to know.

  The tanner grinned. “I called oot to him, ‘Guid day to ye, Lord Buchanan,’ and he lifted his hand.”

  On the heels of Mr. Mitchelhill’s report, another chorus of voices filled the air.

  “Then it was his lordship!”

  “Mounted on a gray horse, ye say?”

  “I wonder how monie ithers he has in his stables.”

  Marjory exchanged glances with Elisabeth and Anne, wishing she might read their thoughts. Anne had no reason to fear their new neighbor, but her Jacobite daughter-in-law certainly did. Marjory took them both by the arm, meaning to steer them down the pend toward home, when Elspeth Cranston asked the question foremost in Marjory’s mind.

  “When will we have the pleasure of meeting his lordship?”

  Reverend Brown spoke up from the threshold. “I can answer that.”

  At once the gathering of parishioners turned toward the doorway, seeking a trustworthy voice amid the uncertain clamor.

  “I spoke with the admiral earlier this week,” the minister informed them. “Lord Buchanan will be meeting many of you soon enough.” He paused, either for effect or to be sure they were listening. “The admiral plans to engage the balance of his household staff a week from the morrow on Whitsun Monday. Nearly two dozen experienced hands will be required.”

  There was no controlling the crowd now. Cries of glee rang out across the grassy hillside, and maidservants hugged one another.

  Marjory well remembered Whitsun Monday at Tweedsford. Servants, gardeners, shepherds, and field workers were hired to labor through the summer and harvest seasons, with their wages to be paid at Martinmas. For those in need of employment, a wealthy newcomer with a large property was cause for celebration.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Tibbie Cranshaw starting toward her. She turned to greet her old maidservant, hoping to make amends. All she had to offer the woman was a heartfelt apology, but she would do so gladly if Tibbie would receive it.

  When she drew near, Marjory met her with a smile. “A blessed Sabbath to you.”

  “Weel, aren’t ye the gracie one?” Tibbie said, her words laced with sarcasm.

  Chagrined, Marjory stepped away from the others so the two might speak privately. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Tibbie—”

  “Nae!” The woman’s green eyes flared. “Ye owe me a great deal mair than that. Ye owe me a guid position.” Tibbie nodded toward Bell Hill in the distance. “I’ve a mind to seek wark there on Monday next. Gie me a written character, and I’ll not tell his lordship what sort o’ person ye are.”

  Marjory looked at her, appalled. Was Tibbie making an idle threat? Or would she present herself to the admiral and fill his ear with tales of a heartless former employer who later turned her back on the king? Such accusations would destroy any hope of the Kerrs enjoying the admiral’s company and might well bring the dragoons to their door.

  “I will do as you ask,” Marjory agreed, knowing she had little choice. “You were a fine kitchen maid, Tibbie. ’Twill not grieve me to say so in writing.”

  Tibbie stepped closer, her words low but sharp edged. “And ye’ll make nae mention of the babe?”

  “Certainly not,” Marjory promised. “Mr. Laidlaw was far more to blame than you in that unfortunate situation.”

  Tibbie shrank back, her eyes narrowing. “Wha told ye that?”

  Marjory had no intention of drawing Anne into their conversation. “What matters, Tibbie, is that you find a position in a household where you’ll neither be tempted nor mistreated. Isn’t that so?”

  Tibbie’s features softened a bit. “Aye.”

  “Then I’ll have a letter for you on the Sabbath next,” Marjory assured her, after which Tibbie abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd, her soiled gown dragging across the grass.

  Marjory was still watching her departure when Anne moved closer, a frown on her face. “Whatever did she want?”

  Marjory hesitated, wondering what her cousin might say to their agreement. “She requested a written character,” was all Marjory told her. It was an honest answer without raising Anne’s hackles.

  “Tibbie wants to work at Bell Hill,” her cousin guessed.

  Marjory admitted to that much.

  “She’ll not get through the door without a clean gown and God’s mercy,” Anne said, then moved toward the pend, waving to Elisabeth to join them. “At least we’ll not be among the throng walking up Bell Hill on Monday next. For I have my lace making. And you, Bess, have Michael Dalgliesh.”

  “Only as long as he requires my needle,” Elisabeth hastened to say.

  Anne’s frown returned. “I’ve seen the man’s shop. He will need you all the days of his life.”

  Twenty-Three

  Friendship is Love,

  without either flowers or veil.

  AUGUSTUS AND JULIUS HARE

  lisabeth did not darken Michael’s door that week. Not only did it seem prudent with Anne moping about the house; Elisabeth also was determined to see an end to the pile of fabric draped over the back of her chair.

  While she sewed well into each evening, her neighbors spent the long sunlit hours climbing Bell Hill. They admired Lord Buchanan’s gardens and orchards from a polite distance and hoped to spy the exalted owner tramping about the grounds. In Edinburgh, a city accustomed to visits from princes and kings, the admiral would’ve arrived unheralded; in rural Selkirk he was viewed as royalty.

  Elisabeth shared her neighbors’ curiosity but not their ardent enthusiasm. She’d seen how wealth and a title could twist a man’s soul, convincing him he was above any moral or social constraints. Lord Donald Kerr had looked the part of a gentleman, yet his behavior was often disgraceful. Who was to say Lord Jack Buchanan would not be the same?

  Only a man’s character mattered. The rest was window dressing.

  Though she had to concede, Bell Hill did have very handsome windows.

  When Saturday dawned, Elisabeth awakened before the others and tiptoed about as she dressed for the day. Cambric shirt in hand, she moved her chair closer to the window and began stitching the final sleeve, wondering what, if anything, Michael Dalgliesh might have in mind for her next. Would he permit her to sew a gentleman’s coat and waistcoat and thereby prove her tailoring skills? She could at least manage buttonholes and hems or prepare the muslin linings, freeing him to do weightier tasks.

  Despite the gray, rainy weather that morning, Elisabeth’s heart grew lighter as she imagined the possibilities. Someday she hoped to own a dressmaking concern, but until then, working for Michael well suited her—as long as it suited him.

  An hour later Anne rose, brushing aside her bed curtains. “Hard at work already?”

  “Aye.” Elisabeth kept her voice low for Marjory’s sake. “I’ll be off to Mr. Dalgliesh’s by nine o’ the clock.” She averted her gaze as Anne bathed at the washbowl and slipped on the blue drugget gown she’d worn the night the Kerrs arrived. Though the fabric was an inexpensive wool, roughly woven, the color matched Anne’s blue eyes perfectly. “ ’Tis my favorite of your gowns,” Elisabeth told her.

  Anne shrugged as she crossed the room. “Heaven knows I wear it often enough.”

  Her cool tone suggested Anne was more irritable than usual. “I will gladly stitch you another gown,” Elisabeth assured her. “When I earn enough silver to purchase fabric at market—”

  “Nae,” Anne said, cutting her short. “Your shillings are better spent on food or your own needs, not on a gown for a stayed lass.”

  Anne seldom spoke of herself so dismissively. Treading with care, Elisabeth asked, “Why should an unmarried woman not be well dressed?”

  “Silks and satins are meant for catching husbands,” Anne retorted. “I’ve long abandoned any such expectations.” She turned her back on Elisabeth and began filling the coal grate, abruptly ending their conversation.

  In the uncomfortable silence
that followed, Elisabeth searched her heart for some encouragement to offer. “Six-and-thirty is not so very old—”

  “Oh?” Anne looked over her shoulder, her hands black with coal dust. “This spoken by a bonny lass in her twenties who has half the men in town besotted with her.”

  Now Elisabeth understood.

  “Annie.” She quickly put aside the shirt she was stitching and knelt by her cousin. “You are dear to many folk in Selkirk, to Marjory, and to me most of all.” She slipped her arm round Anne’s narrow shoulders, praying her next words would not make things worse. “Though I do believe there is someone else who holds you in high regard.”

  Anne was still frowning. “Who might that be?”

  Elisabeth stood and brought her cousin to her feet, keeping a close watch on her expression. “On the night of my birthday, I saw a wee spark travel between you and Mr. Dalgliesh.”

  “Michael?” She brushed the coal dust from her hands, clearly flustered. “We’ve … known each other a long time.”

  Elisabeth saw through her dissembling and gently tried to help Anne put her feelings into words, which did not always come easily to her. “What of you and Michael now? Still just friends?”

  When Anne turned her head away, Elisabeth feared she’d pushed too hard or spoken amiss. She waited for a moment, then said, “Forgive me—”

  “Nae.” Anne looked at her, eyes glistening with tears. “There is nothing to forgive. You simply stated what you saw. But you do not know the rest.”

  Elisabeth touched her arm in silent acknowledgment. “Tea, first. Then you may tell me whatever you like. Or nothing at all.” Minutes later, steaming cups in hand, the two women sat, their chairs pulled close together.

  Anne studied her tea for a moment, her flaxen hair loosely gathered at the nape. When she spoke, her voice was low and strained. “From the time I was a wee lass, I was hopelessly in love with Michael Dalgliesh.”

  Elisabeth could only imagine what a braw lad Michael must have been in his youth. “Did he not return your affections?”

  Anne looked up, her face etched with sorrow. “Nae, he did not.”

  “Oh, Annie.” Elisabeth swallowed hard, seeing the cost of that painful admission. “However did you bear it when he married Jenny?”

  “I wanted to die,” Anne confessed. “You know how young girls are, thinking their lives are over when the man they love is claimed by another.”

  “I do know,” Elisabeth assured her softly. “Yet you and Michael remained friends.”

  “After a fashion,” Anne said with a shrug. “Jenny was a kind soul and dear to me as well. I couldn’t blame Michael for adoring her. We all did. When Peter was born, their happiness was contagious. Everyone loved to be in their company. But when Jenny suffered from a terrible malady no doctor could cure.” She bowed her head.

  Elisabeth waited, giving her cousin time.

  When Anne spoke again, her voice was thin. “As one of his oldest friends, I wanted to comfort Michael in his grief. But I was an unmarried woman and could not rightly do so. As it was, the gossips refused to leave me alone …” She gripped the wooden cup in her hands. “They said I wanted Michael for myself. That I was … glad that Jenny …”

  “What?” Elisabeth felt sick. “Annie, you could never think such a thing.”

  “Nae, I could not. Least of all about Jenny.” She hung her head. “Michael still loves her, you know. And I still love him.”

  When Elisabeth lightly rested a hand on Anne’s shoulder, her cousin shrank away from her, saying in a bitter voice, “Now it seems he cares for you.”

  “Annie—”

  “Nae.” She turned her head. “ ’Tis true, and you know it.”

  “It is not true,” Elisabeth said, tamping down her frustration. “Though I am curious why you sent me to Michael’s shop, loving him as you do. There are other tailors in Selkirk who might have put me to work.”

  Anne didn’t answer at first. When she did, her voice was low. “Michael was desperate for help. And since you were in mourning …”

  “He could not court me.”

  Anne finally met her gaze. “Aye.”

  When Elisabeth saw the anguish in her cousin’s eyes, she vowed at once to help her. She did not know Michael’s heart and so dared not give Anne false hope. But what she’d seen pass between them at her birthday celebration was not imaginary.

  “Annie, when I deliver his shirts today, may I speak with Michael? On your behalf?”

  She shot to her feet. “Nae, you mustn’t! For he would surely deny having any feelings for me.”

  Elisabeth stood as well. “Are you certain of that?”

  Anne nodded, but Elisabeth saw the longing in her eyes.

  Across the room Marjory stirred. “Good morn,” she murmured, tossing aside her bedcovers. If she was aware of their conversation, she did not say so.

  When Marjory served them fresh porridge and toasted bread with raspberry jam, Anne ate slowly and Elisabeth swiftly, eager to finish the last of her shirts and see the lot of them delivered. As promised, she would say nothing of Anne’s feelings. But if Michael Dalgliesh offered a confession of his own, Elisabeth would gladly listen.

  Before leaving for the shop, Elisabeth paid particular attention to her toilette, sweeping her hair into a knot of curls, then tucking Anne’s lovely silver comb among them. Should Michael recognize the comb, a conversation about Anne might ensue, and who knew where it could lead? Elisabeth had never fancied herself a matchmaker, but she was willing to try. Her face bathed, her gown brushed, Elisabeth gathered the remaining shirts in her arms and hurried out the door.

  The rain had ceased, though not for long, she decided. The air was thick with mist, and the sky above was a dull, metallic gray. Picking her way across the slippery cobblestones, she found herself at Michael’s threshold before she was fully prepared. Could she keep from blurting out the truth, knowing what she knew?

  The door was open as usual. But when she stepped inside, Elisabeth nearly dropped her bundle of shirts.

  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.