Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [21]
The younger women exchanged glances.
“Whatever is the matter?” Marjory demanded, hearing the strain in her voice, the higher pitch.
“Our quarrel is not with you, dear.” Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory’s arm. “Annie shared with me something of Mr. Laidlaw’s character. He is … not what he seems.”
“Nae,” Anne fumed, “he is precisely what he seems. A lecherous man without scruples.”
Marjory stared at her in disbelief. “You cannot mean this!”
“I wish ’twere not so, Cousin. But the maidservants at Tweedsford say otherwise. So do I.” The firm line of Anne’s mouth and the seriousness of her tone were undeniable.
Marjory sank onto a wooden chair. “The man has worked for our family for fifteen years.”
“Then be grateful you are done with him,” Anne said with a decisive nod. “Come, let us have our tea, and I shall tell you what I told your daughter-in-law.”
A half hour later Marjory was still seated at table, hands wrapped round an empty cup, her heart heavy.
How could she have been so blind to Mr. Laidlaw’s devious ways? She’d blamed pregnant Tibbie when it was Sir John’s factor who should have been dismissed. Anne, meanwhile, was forced to choose immorality or poverty, all because her wealthy cousin Marjory paid little attention to the needs of others, thinking only of herself.
She sought Anne’s gaze across the table. “I should have known—”
“And I should have been long married by now,” Anne said abruptly. “So then, what shall we do with this reprobate headed our way?”
Marjory pursed her lips. “If Gibson were here, he would stand up to Roger Laidlaw in our stead.”
“Alas, Gibson is not here,” Elisabeth gently reminded her. “We must prepare to address the man ourselves.”
“Indeed we must,” Anne echoed.
They looked at one another across the table, determination reflected on each face.
“Agreed,” Marjory said at last. “When Mr. Laidlaw knocks on our door, he will find three women who are not afraid to face him.”
Ten
The beginning, as the proverb says,
is half the whole.
ARISTOTLE
lisabeth brushed a damp cloth over her mourning gown, wishing she had lemon juice to clean the fabric or fragrant attar of roses to freshen the scent. Tailors were particular about such things.
At least she’d bathed from head to toe with hot water and her last bit of heather soap and cleaned her teeth with a twig of hazel she’d brought home from their forest walk. Her hair was styled, her ivory comb in place, and her prayers whispered across the open pages of the Buik earlier that morning.
Elisabeth took a quick peek in Anne’s looking glass, then turned toward the door, glad to see a patch of blue sky through the curtains.
“Michael Dalgliesh is the finest tailor in Selkirk,” Anne informed her, sweeping the flagstone hearth with quick, sharp movements. “You’ll find him a few steps up Kirk Wynd, then down School Close. Call at the first door on the right.”
Elisabeth nodded, trying not to stare at Marjory, who was scrubbing the oval dining table. Dowager Lady Kerr cleaning the house? A twelvemonth ago Elisabeth could not have imagined her once proud and haughty mother-in-law performing so menial a task. God giveth grace to the humble. Indeed he had. Could Marjory see how much she’d changed? How she’d softened yet grown stronger? Become bolder and yet more sensitive?
Elisabeth knew miracles were real because she was looking at one.
Now it was her turn to labor. “Do keep me in your thoughts this morn. Mr. Dalgliesh will not be expecting me.”
“See that he pays you a fair wage,” Marjory warned. “You are not a common seamstress.”
“Why, I’m as common as they come!” Elisabeth protested. “Trained in a Highland cottage. Though my mother was a fine teacher. Pray Mr. Dalgliesh will give me the chance to prove it.”
She tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin, then started down the stair. The watery tea and toasted bread would keep her stomach from growling, and the hard cheese