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.”
Thirty
For he purrs in thankfulness
when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
CHRISTOPHER SMART
lisabeth’s bewhiskered friend was still there, circling the room, when she claimed her dinner tray. The plate of steaming beef broth, thick slice of bread, and generous serving of butter made her mouth water. She spoke a hasty grace over her meal, then ate at the small table while the cat settled at her feet, watching her spoon travel back and forth, its slanted eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
“I forgot to ask Sally your name,” Elisabeth said, placing her almost-empty plate on the floor and letting him lick it clean as she enjoyed her almond pudding. She retrieved the dish, then put her dinner tray atop the chest once more, washed her hands in the bowl of water beneath the window, and returned to her labors.
Still the cat did not leave, though the door was ajar and the hall filled with enticing sounds and smells. While she pinned the long side seams of Mrs. Pringle’s skirt, the cat stretched out before the hearth, legs extended, showing off his pristine white belly.
“You must see to your own amusement this afternoon,” Elisabeth told him, “for I’ve a fitting at three o’ the clock.” Mrs. Pringle would surely know the cat’s name, if he had one. Perhaps the admiral simply called him Puss.
Elisabeth was putting the final pins in the voluminous skirt when Mrs. Pringle appeared, pocket watch in hand. “I am here for my fitting,” she announced.
Whether it was the housekeeper’s brusque manner or stern voice that spooked him, the cat shot past her skirts and through the door like a trail of gray smoke. “That cat!” Mrs. Pringle grumbled under her breath, then closed the door with a decisive bang.
“Nothing is stitched,” Elisabeth reminded her, “and the pins are sharp, so do take care while I slip this on you.” She made quick work of the fitting. “We can take in the waist a full inch,” she declared, which brought a smile to the housekeeper’s face just as Elisabeth had hoped, having intentionally made the waistline an inch too big. A wise dressmaker did what she could to please her customers. “I do wish we had a long looking glass,” Elisabeth said, “so you might see how well this fabric suits your coloring.”
Mrs. Pringle touched her hair. “ ’Twas even brighter when I was a girl.”
Elisabeth smiled. At last something personal. “ ’Tis a lovely shade, like a freshly cut orange.” The housekeeper looked the other way but not before Elisabeth saw a hint of a smile.
“If we’re finished,” Mrs. Pringle said, “I have several younger girls who require a bit of coddling.” She quickly dressed herself, then met Elisabeth’s gaze. “You are made of stronger stuff, Mrs. Kerr. I cannot imagine having to dry your eyes.”
Elisabeth pushed a stray pin into the cushion. “Had you been with me in January when I lost my husband, all the handkerchiefs in your linen closet would not have dried my tears.”
“Aye, well.” Mrs. Pringle began tying her apron strings. “True for us all. Mr. Pringle died of the plague soon after we married.”
Elisabeth gasped before she could stop herself. “The plague?”
“He and another merchant went to the Isle of Man to purchase trade goods. When ships from Marseilles sailed into port, the rats on board brought the plague with them.” Her delivery was matter-of-fact, but the lingering sadness in her eyes was not. She fished in her apron pocket, drew out two shillings, then pressed them into Elisabeth’s hand. “For yesterday’s mending. Mrs. Craig, the head laundress, said you did exceedingly fine work.”
Elisabeth gripped the coins, overcome. “I did not expect this …”
Mrs. Pringle had already opened the door before she turned to ask, “You’ll not mind being down here alone all week?”
Elisabeth caught a glimpse of a gray tail flicking past the housekeeper’s skirts. “I suspect I’ll have company.” Unbidden, the cat trotted into the room and sat before the hearth, looking very pleased with himself. “Does this animal have a name?”
Mrs. Pringle made a slight face. “The admiral calls him Charbon. A French word, apparently.”
Of course. Elisabeth smiled at the cat and then at the housekeeper. “It means ‘coal.’ He is indeed charcoal gray, just like the fabric Lord Buchanan selected. Do you think he meant for his household staff to match his cat?”
“I hardly think so.” Mrs. Pringle was not amused. “I may not see you again until Saturday. I trust you have everything required to complete my gown?”
“Aye, madam.” Elisabeth slipped the coins into her pocket, thinking of mutton and veal, salmon and beef, for that was surely how her earnings would be spent. She glanced at Charbon, then wondered aloud, “Why a French word, do you suppose?”
“That I do know.” Mrs. Pringle stepped into the hall. “Lord Buchanan’s father was Scottish. But his mother was French.”
Wednesday dawned grayer still. Though the air was mild, a capricious wind blew Elisabeth’s skirts about her ankles as she climbed Bell Hill, bound for another day of sewing. In Edinburgh the breeze was often tinged with brine from the North Sea but not so in the Borderl
and. Would the admiral miss that bracing scent once he settled here for good? Someday she would ask him. When she met him. If she met him.
Taking Sally’s advice, Elisabeth used the servants’ entrance round the back of the house rather than walk through the grand halls upstairs. Once she was through the door, her workroom was steps away, with the unfinished gown precisely where she’d left it, draped across the chair. It seemed Mrs. Pringle ran her household in the same way an admiral might command his ship, for the floor was swept clean, the fire already burning, the candles lit, and the water pitcher filled, with a clean linen towel beside it.
A breakfast tray, covered with a linen napkin, rested on the table. Elisabeth lifted the cloth, delighted to find a boiled egg, a buttered roll, and a rasher of bacon. No one could have known she’d overslept and not had time for a single bite of food, yet here was a fine repast, waiting for her.
“Guid morn,” Sally said from the doorway, holding up her teapot. “May I pour yer tea?”
“Bless you,” Elisabeth said, holding out the empty cup and saucer. “I’d forgotten how nice china feels against my lips. At home we drink from wooden cups.”
Sally said nothing, though a look of surprise registered in her sea-colored eyes. In a land where the rich and the poor lived side by side yet never shared table or bed, Elisabeth’s situation—an educated lady living in poverty yet working for the gentry—must have struck the lass as very strange indeed.
The moment Sally disappeared down the hall, Charbon entered the room, his gray tail like a flag, waving a silent greeting. He inspected her shoes, still damp from the dewy grass, then sniffed at her skirt hem.
“Aye, ’tis the same gown,” she told him. She was quite sure Charbon not only heard but also understood her and responded with the appropriate long blinks. “Pick a warm spot by the fire while I enjoy breakfast,” she told him. “I promise to save you a wee bite of my bacon and will scratch your head before I see to my needle.”
Charbon dutifully took his place, beating his tail against the floor, waiting his turn.
On Saturday Elisabeth began her journey east to Bell Hill with a lighter step. Though the air was still moist, the rain had abated, and the high clouds bore no further threat.
But it wasn’t the change in the weather that brightened her outlook: Mrs. Pringle’s gown was all but finished. There were buttons to be added, cuffs to be hemmed, sleeves to be pressed, but the hardest work was behind her.
Elisabeth had sewn many garments in her life, yet none mattered more than this one. Mrs. Pringle must be pleased, of course, and Lord Buchanan even more so. But only if the Almighty was satisfied with her labors could Elisabeth sleep well that night.
“What pleases the Lord is faith,” her mother-in-law had reminded her over their bowls of porridge. “And you, my dear, have that in abundance.”
Elisabeth carried Marjory’s assurance with her that morning, through Foul Bridge Port, then across the broad meadow, and up Bell Hill. She chose the front entrance, hoping to gather a bit of news on the way to her workroom. “Shall we see the admiral today?” she asked the footman at the door.
“I cannot say, madam,” he replied, though his half smile indicated otherwise.
Crossing the entrance hall, Elisabeth saw maidservants everywhere, dusting, scrubbing, and polishing each surface until it gleamed. As she turned down the long hallway, she discovered two footmen cleaning the sconces and trimming the wicks, while a third hurried past her with an armload of firewood.
Amid the hubbub she heard a familiar voice. “Mrs. Kerr?”
“Good morn, Mrs. Pringle,” she said, turning round to greet her.
The housekeeper hurried to catch up with her, clearly flustered. “I know my last fitting was to be at three o’ the clock. ’Twill need to be promptly at eleven instead, for I wish to wear it today. You’ll be ready for me?”
Elisabeth gulped. “Aye.”
“Off you go, then,” the housekeeper said and fled in the opposite direction.
Her heart beating at a breathless pace, Elisabeth aimed for the workroom, looking neither left nor right, lest she be distracted. Her list of remaining tasks lengthened with each step. She’d not sewn pockets in the lining yet, meant for fragrant herbs. Nor had she stitched linen patches inside each cuff for the small weights that held the sleeves in place. And the buttonholes required finishing. And the gown needed a row of hooks and eyes.
A children’s rhyme skipped through her head as she hastened down the lower hall. Jack, be nimble! Jack, be quick! At least her candlestick was already burning and the log in the hearth as well. She was almost relieved no one had left a breakfast tray for her. How could they be bothered when every pair of hands was readying the house for Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan’s return?
Elisabeth was convinced of his arrival now. Nothing else could explain such a whirlwind of activity. Time you joined them, Bess.
Forcing herself to breathe, to think, to plan, she started with the final touches that mattered most and worked her way through her mental list. Charbon must have sensed her urgency, for he curled up in the chair opposite hers, demanding nothing more than her presence.
As each hour passed, the noise level in the servants’ hall rose another notch, while excitement and hysteria danced a jig round the doors. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen, and cooking aromas filled the air. Mrs. Tudhope was serving fish, flesh, fowl, and any number of other courses, all undoubtedly chosen to bless their master.
When Mrs. Pringle came rushing in, her face as bright as her hair, Elisabeth begged her to sit for a moment. “Your gown is ready,” she assured her, “but the fabric will stick to your skin unless you take a moment to calm yourself.” She pressed a cool, wet cloth against the housekeeper’s forehead and offered her a saucer of lukewarm tea, which Mrs. Pringle gulped down like an elixir.
After closing the door, Elisabeth helped the housekeeper into her new gown, praying as she did so. May it be a perfect fit, Lord. May she be satisfied with my work. Elisabeth adjusted the bodice, then fastened the hooks and eyes as if she were a lady’s maid dressing her mistress.
“How does the gown feel to you?” she asked, though Elisabeth could see how neatly it followed the natural curves of her body.
Mrs. Pringle ran her hands over the gown, inspecting each critical seam round her bodice and waist. “The fabric is very fine.”
But what of my sewing? What of the gown itself? Elisabeth held her tongue, remembering Marjory’s words. Faith is what pleases the Lord.
From her sewing basket Elisabeth pulled Anne’s looking glass, borrowed for the day. “See what you think,” she urged the housekeeper. “I believe you’ll find the color and style very becoming.”
Mrs. Pringle held the glass as far away as she could, peering at her reflection. In the soft candlelight the lines and creases in her face disappeared except the few that framed her smile. “My, won’t he be pleased?”
It was all Elisabeth needed to hear.
“Now, then.” The housekeeper handed Elisabeth the glass and straightened her shoulders. “You must stitch the hem at once, Mrs. Kerr, for we’ve no time left. Lord Buchanan is expected at any moment.”
Thirty-One
And last of all an Admiral came.
ROBERT SOUTHEY
lmost home, milord.”
Jack Buchanan fixed his gaze on Bell Hill, less than a mile away. He’d resided there but a fortnight, and half of that he’d spent elsewhere. Could even so grand a house as this one finally tether him to land? In all his forty years he’d not stepped foot in his father’s native Scotland. Yet here he was, looking at a hilly green landscape purchased with Spanish gold.
Home? That remained to be seen.
Jack urged his horse forward, calling over his shoulder, “See to your mount, Dickson, or my dinner will be served cold.”
“I think not, milord,” his valet replied. A decent horseman, Christopher Dickson closed the gap between them as the horses lengthened their stride
s into a full gallop.
Jack eased his weight forward, lifting slightly off the saddle, holding himself in balance, while his horse thundered toward the stables. He reveled in the fresh wind against his face and the sheer power of the magnificent animal beneath him. After endless years of riding nothing but waves, Jack valued the gray thoroughbred above all his earthly possessions.
The lofty branches of mature oaks, maples, and elms arched above him as he neared the property and slowed the horse with a quick take-and-give on the reins. Moments later horse and rider reached the stables, and Jack reluctantly surrendered the reins to his head coachman.
“Janvier has earned his oats and hay,” Jack told dark-haired Timothy Hyslop.
A taciturn man in his thirties, the coachman had few words for two-legged creatures. He led the horse into the cool interior of the stables, murmuring endearments into Janvier’s velvety ear, while Dickson dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms.
As the two men walked toward the house, Dickson reminded him, “Roberts and Mrs. Pringle will have their new staffs waiting at the front door to greet you.”
Jack slowed his gait, giving the shorter man a fair go at keeping up with him. “You mean we cannot slip through the servants’ entrance and see to my grooming first?”
Dickson chuckled. “I am afraid not, milord.” Having circled the globe in his service, the valet well knew his master cared little about appearances.
Jack put up with Dickson’s fussing only on those occasions when attire truly mattered. On this last day of May he was simply a gentleman returning home from business in Edinburgh. The king’s business, to be sure, but nothing that called for velvet or silk.
When Jack rounded the corner, he found his butler, George Roberts, standing at attention near the entrance with servants lining either side of the paved walk. Along with Dickson and Hyslop, Mrs. Pringle and Mrs. Tudhope, Roberts had traveled from London at Jack’s bidding. He trusted each one without reservation and had left Bell Hill in their capable hands over Whitsuntide, allowing them to hire the servants they deemed best.
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