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.”
Twenty-Eight
Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes;
and adversity is not without comforts and hopes.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
arjory prepared tea for Reverend Brown even as she kept an eye on the windows, watching the bright evening sky fade to a rosy blue. Wherever was Elisabeth? Surely the admiral did not expect his household staff to travel home on foot past the gloaming? Sometimes the gentry could be so inconsiderate.
Marjory had been on edge all day, jumping at every footfall on the stair, every shout from the marketplace. To make matters worse, Anne’s young ladies had been fidgety from first hour to last, and Gibson had not found a moment to visit. Then at seven o’ the clock, the minister had come to the house unexpectedly, asking to meet with her. “Alone,” he’d insisted. Anne had graciously embarked on an errand, leaving Marjory and the reverend to converse in peace.
However, peace was the very last word she would use to describe her feelings at present.
With her back toward the reverend, Marjory closed her eyes and silently prayed where she stood. Peace be within thy walls, and prosperity within thy palaces. If peace reigned in Halliwell’s Close this evening and prosperity poured forth from Bell Hill, the Kerr women might yet have hope and a future.
Comforted by the thought, Marjory finished slicing the butter cake, poured their tea, and served Reverend Brown at table, where he sat, looking rather ill at ease. He ate the rich cake in a few hurried bites, then gulped down his steaming cupful as if eager to return home.
“Reverend Brown, it is clear you have something to say.” Marjory put down her fork, having no appetite at all. “How might I make this easier for you?”
“You already have,” he said gruffly, “and I thank you for it.” He cleared his throat, then met her gaze. “I’ve come to speak about Neil Gibson.”
“Oh?” Marjory’s skin cooled, her imagination running up and down Kirk Wynd. What is it, Gibson? What has happened?
The reverend leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “I am certain you are not aware of this, Mrs. Kerr, but Gibson speaks of you in rather too familiar a manner.”
“Too … familiar?” She frowned, at a loss even to imagine such a thing. “What, may I ask, has Gibson said about me?”
The reverend sat back, studying his hands, perhaps trying to think of an example. Finally he confessed, “He has never spoken of you in my presence. But this morn I overheard him tell the milkmaid that you were a fine lady and a good friend.” The reverend spread out his hands, beseeching her. “You must understand my concern.”
“Oh, I do,” Marjory said to appease him. A fine lady. A good friend. She could not remember the last time she’d been so complimented. “Though I would be more troubled if Gibson spoke poorly of me. I was, after all, his employer for thirty years.”
“Precisely,” the reverend said, banging his fist on the table for emphasis. “The man has forgotten his place. Despite your present circumstances, Mrs. Kerr, you are a lady and must not be spoken of so freely, nor in such glowing terms, by a mere manservant. One might think Neil Gibson had designs on you.”
“One might,” she agreed, then quickly hid behind her teacup. Tread with care, dear Gibson. I’ll not have you dismissed because of me. “What would you suggest, Reverend Brown? Gibson is, after all, a friend of our family. I cannot think of making him unwelcome here. ’Twould not be the Christian thing to do.”
Reverend Brown nodded, his frown more pronounced. “It is indeed a puzzle, madam. One that requires further consideration. In the meantime, if
you will be cautious in your dealings with Gibson and not …, well, encourage such., eh, flattery.”
“I would never do so,” Marjory said smoothly. She did not need to. Neil Gibson was ever generous with his praise. “He served the Kerrs through many seasons, Reverend. I pray he will do the same for you.”
“Aye, aye.” He stood, looking relieved at having discharged his solemn duty. “I do hope my written character was of use to your daughter-in-law this day.”
Marjory glanced at the door, her fears rushing up the steps to greet her anew. “I thank you again for your willingness to help us,” she said, then after a few formalities, bade the minister farewell.
Keeping an eye on the darkening sky, she set the table for three and willed her loved ones home. Though Anne was too old to be her natural daughter, Marjory could not help feeling a certain motherly affection toward her. And Elisabeth was her daughter now. Had the lass not said so herself? Hurry home, dear girls. Whatever their ages, they would always be young to her.
A half hour crawled by while Marjory walked about the room, picking things up and putting them down with no purpose other than occupying her hands and corralling her anxious thoughts. When at last she heard voices at the foot of the stair, she flung open the upper door. “Annie? Bess?”
“Aye,” they called in unison, starting up the stair.
Marjory stood back, fighting the urge to hug them both. Her own mother, Lady Joanna Nesbitt, had never embraced her children, not even in private. Marjory could at least clasp their hands and draw them toward the hearth. “Come, warm yourselves while I serve our supper.”
They washed their hands first, then stood dutifully by the coal fire. “I’m famished,” Elisabeth admitted. “Do forgive me if I eat before describing my day at Bell Hill.”
“By all means,” Anne said, pouring fresh tea. “We’ll save our stories for later.”
When all three took their places, Marjory smiled. “Grace before meat, as they say. Though you’ll not find meat on your table this night.” What she served them was egg pie, one of Helen Edgar’s favorite dishes. Cinnamon and nutmeg made it flavorful, cream and butter made it rich, and currants gave them something to chew on.
Marjory was pleased when her family cleaned their plates and even happier when they accepted a second serving. Odd, how satisfying it was to see loved ones enjoy her simple dishes. Lady Nesbitt would not have approved of that sentiment either. As for what her late mother might say about Neil Gibson … well, some subjects were best left untouched.
“We’ve waited long enough, Bess,” Anne said, folding her hands in her lap.
Marjory put aside her napkin, also eager to hear a full report.
“I do not have a position yet,” Elisabeth began, “but I do have work.” She went on to describe her long day at Bell Hill, from meeting shy Molly Easton of Shaw’s Close to accepting her new assignment from the formidable Mrs. Pringle. “She worked for the admiral in London and arrived in Selkirk only a fortnight ago.”
Marjory was relieved to hear it. “Then she knows nothing of your Jacobite ties.”
But the look on her daughter-in-law’s face and the hesitancy of her response did not bode well. “I told her myself,” Elisabeth finally confessed.
“Oh, Bess.” Marjory sank back in her chair, undone. “Must you always be so honest?”
Anne arched her brows. “Cousin, I believe you were the one who announced your family’s support of the Stuarts in front of the entire parish.”
With both of them looking at her—and rather smugly, she thought—Marjory could do nothing but nod in agreement.
“Mrs. Pringle was sure to hear the story from someone,” Elisabeth said gently. “I thought it best she hear it from me. And since she insisted I never mention it to his lordship, you can be sure she’ll keep the news to herself.”
Marjory sighed. “Let us hope Tibbie Cranshaw follows suit.”
“It’s possible she’ll not even be hired,” Elisabeth told her. “I imagine we’ll know in a day or two. This eve I’ll sketch the gown I plan to make, then seek Mrs. Pringle’s approval in the morn.” Elisabeth winked at their cousin. “I won’t need to leave the house quite so early. Not until seven o’ the clock.”
“You lazy girl,” Anne teased her. “The sun will be halfway across the sky.”
Marjory thought their cousin looked especially happy and told her so. “Did something blithe happen on your errand this eve?”
Anne shrugged but could not hide her smile. “I went to Michael’s shop to return Jenny’s thimble.”
“So kind of you to do that for me,” Elisabeth said.
“For you? Oh, aye.” Anne’s cheeks pinked. “Peter, at least, seemed glad to see me.”
“And his father?” Elisabeth prompted her.
She grew pinker still. “The three of us had a wee visit while Mr. Brodie waited on a customer.”
Marjory watched Anne with growing interest. What was it about Michael Dalgliesh that affected young women so? The man was handsome enough, in a rough sort of way, and a charming storyteller, as he’d demonstrated at Elisabeth’s birthday gathering. Perhaps wee Peter Dalgliesh had run off with Anne’s affections, which Marjory certainly understood. Hadn’t young Donald and Andrew stolen her heart on a daily basis?
“Tell me how Mr. Brodie is faring,” Elisabeth said.
“Poor Michael spends more time up the stair than down,” Anne confessed. “He says the shop is entirely too neat for his taste, and he cannot find a thing.”
“Indeed, he never could.” Elisabeth smiled at Anne across the table. “Though it seems he’s found something worth keeping.”
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.
Mine Is the Night Page 16
