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.”
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 tal
l. 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.
Mine Is the Night Page 15
