Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [17]
Elisabeth glanced at Anne and saw her nodding absently. Lady Murray, it seemed, was no longer a true friend to Marjory, if indeed she ever was.
“You’ve endured quite enough this Sabbath morn,” Elisabeth told her mother-in-law, moving forward. “A light meal and a long nap are in order. If visitors come knocking, I shall see they venture no farther than the foot of the stair.”
A soft breeze beckoned the women across the stone threshold and onto the grassy knoll of the kirkyard. The mist was gone, and a wash of pale yellow bathed the landscape. Elisabeth paused to take in her new surroundings. Gently shaped hills undulated round the countryside, covered in the first grass of the season, a bright spring green, and the forest edging the kirkyard was thick with oak and elm, birch and pine, hazel and willow. ’Twas nothing like the vast, treeless moors and glens of the Highlands. Would she ever feel at home here?
“We can use the pend this time,” Anne said, then led them through the narrow passageway to Kirk Wynd. A minute’s walk downhill and they were in Halliwell’s Close again.
Early afternoon light poured into the small house, warming the air. Anne served their dinner without a word, placing hot tea and cold mutton at each of their places. Marjory had barely finished her meal before she crawled into the hurlie bed with a soft moan. She quickly fell asleep, the sound of her steady breathing an undercurrent flowing through their quiet lodgings.
Elisabeth eyed her leather trunk. “I should unpack my few belongings. That is, if you’ll not object …”
Anne responded with a faint shrug. “I cannot turn you out. Where else could you stay?”
Nowhere. How hard that was to admit! “ ’Twill not always be thus,” Elisabeth promised, for her own benefit as well as Anne’s.
Kneeling beside the trunk, Elisabeth lifted out a wrinkled linen chemise and several pairs of stockings, all of which required laundering, a task for Monday morning. She owned no jewelry, no silk fans, no fine hats, only a pair of brocade shoes and a handful of accessories. An ivory comb to tuck in her curls and the hairbrush she’d used that morning found a place on the washstand, then she hung her gray wool cape on a hook by the door.
All that remained was a single gown suitable for evening, though not for a widow.
“Lovely,” Anne murmured, peering over her shoulder.
Elisabeth held up the rich, lavender-colored satin adorned with silk gauze and gold sequins. “A gift from my late husband.”
Anne’s breath caught. “Brussels lace?” She reverently touched the broad, creamy swath that draped from each elbow-length sleeve. “You cannot imagine the months women spent creating this.”
Elisabeth watched Anne examine the delicate needlework, fingers lightly caressing the tiny buttonhole stitches that formed each lacy flower and stem. “You know something of the craft?”
Anne lifted her head. “Did I not tell you? I am a lace maker.” She gestured toward the sewing table between the upholstered chairs. “ ’Tis how I support myself. If you open the drawer, you’ll find some of my work.”
For a dressmaker the invitation was irresistible. Elisabeth eased the silk gown back into her trunk, then moved to the low table and tugged on the drawer. “Oh my.” She lifted out a narrow length of lace in the making, taking care not to disturb the many pins holding it in place. “Such delicate knots! Whatever do you call this?”
“Point de neige,” Anne said in French, kneeling beside her. “The points are meant to look like snow. Not long before my mother died, she gave me her most treasured possession, a Venetian lace collar. Then I bought a pattern book from a chapman, and …” She shrugged.
Elisabeth held Anne’s work up to the light, marveling at the intricate pattern. “Surely the gentry pay you handsomely for your labors.”
“Aye. Lady Murray once purchased several lace-trimmed handkerchiefs and a jabot for Sir John. I lived on that silver for half a year,” Anne told her. “But few in Selkirk can afford such luxury.