Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [29]
“I am Mrs. Kerr now, as you well know.”
He shifted his stance. “Beg pardon, mem.”
Only then did she notice a sad look in his eyes. Still, if the rumors about him were true, he had much to account for. “What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Laidlaw?”
Before he could respond, a trio of maidservants came hurrying up the close and squeezed past, bobbing their white caps in apology. When his gaze followed them down the close, Marjory’s control snapped.
“So,” she hissed, “I see you’ve not changed your ways.” If indeed he’d misused Tibbie Cranshaw, his actions would not go unpunished. Were there not laws against such behavior? “I’ve a mind to report you to Tweedsford’s new owner,” she fumed. “Or ask the Sheriff of Selkirk to charge you in court.”
Mr. Laidlaw quickly backed away from her, averting his gaze. “Mebbe we might speak anither time, mem. Whan ye’re not … whan ’tis …” He turned and fled toward the marketplace, quickly disappearing from sight.
Thirteen
From the manner in which a woman draws her thread
at every stitch of her needlework,
any other woman can surmise her thoughts.
HONORÉ DE BALZAC
lisabeth glanced at the door. Muffled voices had floated up the stair for the last few minutes, too faint to be discerned. Her mother-in-law was probably speaking with Reverend Brown, if he’d escorted her home, or with Mr. Tait, the shoemaker who shared their entrance off Halliwell’s Close.
When she shifted her gaze toward Anne and her students, Elisabeth was touched by the lovely tableau. Sunlight gilded their faces as the threesome bent over their work, speaking softly in a lace tell, a rhythmic chant used by lace makers to keep a steady pace.
Nineteen miles to the Isle of Wight,
Shall I get there by candlelight?
Yes, if your fingers go lissome and light,
You’ll get there by candlelight.
Their lilting voices were as bonny as they were. Sandy-haired Lesley Boyd had a sweet smile and an effusive personality. Grace Caldwell was long-limbed, dark-haired, and gentler in nature, with eyes that hinted at a fine intellect. Both were six-and-ten, on the cusp of womanhood. Looking at them now, with their fine, smooth complexions, Elisabeth shook her head in disbelief. Had she ever been so young?
“I’ll turn five-and-twenty in a fortnight,” she’d confessed last evening to Anne, who’d muttered, “At least you were married once.” Elisabeth was left not knowing how to respond. One moment Anne seemed content to be unwed, and the next she was miserable.
Then there was Mr. Laidlaw. His brief appearance earlier had all but ruined the start of their quiet afternoon. Anne had blanched at the mere sight of him. With Marjory gone and the young ladies present, Elisabeth hadn’t allowed the factor across the threshold, only took the small sack of items from Tweedsford and placed it on Marjory’s bed, waiting for her return.
Seated at the empty dining table, Elisabeth had pressed on with her sewing, pulling her needle through the closely woven cambric. A fine French cotton, Mr. Dalgliesh had said proudly. The slight gloss on the right side of the fabric caught the afternoon sunlight pouring across the room. She hoped to deliver another finished shirt before supper. One simple phrase ran through her head as she stitched. Another shirt, another shilling. She had never in her life cared about money. But she cared very much about keeping food on their table.
At the sound of footsteps on the stair, Elisabeth quickly put aside her sewing, anxious to hear the details of Marjory’s meeting with the reverend. He could make their lives difficult if he chose to. A moment later, when the door creaked open and her mother-in-law appeared, Elisabeth saw at once how upset she was and so feared the worst.
Marjory yanked her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it against her brow. “I should have marched him up to the manse,” she fumed.
Elisabeth glanced at Anne and her students, who were agog. “Whatever did the reverend say?” Elisabeth asked in a low voice, stepping between Marjory and the others.
Her mother-in-law