Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [30]
“Oh!” Elisabeth exclaimed. “Good news all round, then.”
“Not all.” Marjory frowned at the door. “I met Mr. Laidlaw in the close.”
At that, Lesley and Grace abandoned their lace making and hurried to Marjory’s side. “Who was that man?” Grace asked, her eyes aglow with curiosity, while Lesley pleaded, “Can you not tell us anything?”
“He’s an old family acquaintance,” Anne said offhandedly, then waved them toward the table. “Shall we have tea before resuming your lesson?”
“You’ll not put us off so easily,” Lesley protested. “We caught a glimpse of the man when he tarried at the threshold. He is far below your station, Miss Kerr.”
“I am glad you think so,” Anne told them. “He was once Mrs. Kerr’s factor. And that is all you need to know.”
Elisabeth took each girl by the elbow and steered them toward the chairs on the far side of the table. “We have gingerbread cakes,” she said, hoping to tempt them, “and fresh milk for your tea. Only promise you’ll not ask any more questions about our visitor.”
“Very well,” Grace said with an exaggerated sigh.
As soon as they were all gathered, her mother-in-law prompted the young ladies, “Tell us something of yourselves.” They did so in colorful detail, forgetting all about Anne’s mysterious caller, to Elisabeth’s great relief.
She’d not liked the look of Mr. Laidlaw from the moment she’d answered the door. Whether it was his too-familiar demeanor or his slouching stance, Elisabeth could not say. Anne’s words had marked him with the blackest of ink. A profligate of the worst kind. That was all Elisabeth needed to know.
When her teacup was empty and her gingerbread reduced to crumbs, she could not delay her labors any longer. “I have much to do if I’m to finish this shirt before sunset.”
As Anne pulled off her apron, an object dropped to the floor with a slight clink. She bent to retrieve it, then held out the small item. “From Michael Dalgliesh.”
“For me?” Elisabeth took the silver thimble and slipped it in place. “ ’Tis a perfect fit.”
“So I see,” Anne said evenly.
“When did he give you this?” Elisabeth asked, holding up her thumb.
“Earlier today when I went looking for parsley in Mrs. Thorburn’s garden. He was on his way to deliver it. Thought you might find it helpful.”
Elisabeth studied the dimpled surface, worn from use. “How kind of him.”
Anne offered a faint shrug. “ ’Tis only a thimble.”
Elisabeth heard the note of irritation in her cousin’s voice, but could not press Anne further. Not with her students present and Marjory listening. Later, perhaps.
Once the young ladies took their places round the sewing table, Elisabeth saw that Anne’s assessment was correct: Lesley and Grace had little talent for needlework. The girls did one buttonhole stitch to Anne’s four. But their manners were refined and their expressions pleasing. If that was all their parents wished for, their shillings were well spent.
Elisabeth’s needle soon fell into rhythm with their lace tell.
Betsy Bays and Polly Mays,
They are two bonny lasses;
They built a bower upon the tower,
And covered it with rushes.
When the kirk bell chimed the hour of six, a carriage was already parked at the mouth of the close, and a patient footman stood at the stair door, waiting for the two young ladies. Their families’ fine estates were not far from town along the road leading from the West Port.
Anne sent them off with curtsies all round, then closed the door behind them with a heavy sigh. “I accomplish little of my own lace making while they’re here,” she admitted, then quickly reclaimed her seat and angled it just so, making the most of the late afternoon light. “How are you coming with your shirt, Bess?”
“Finished.” She shook out the fabric, then spread it across her skirts. “ ’Tis embarrassingly easy. Sleeves, seams, cuffs, and a collar.”
Anne picked up one of the sleeves and examined the cuff with a practiced eye. “You have a fine backstitch,