Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [52]
Chagrined, Marjory stepped away from the others so the two might speak privately. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Tibbie—”
“Nae!” The woman’s green eyes flared. “Ye owe me a great deal mair than that. Ye owe me a guid position.” Tibbie nodded toward Bell Hill in the distance. “I’ve a mind to seek wark there on Monday next. Gie me a written character, and I’ll not tell his lordship what sort o’ person ye are.”
Marjory looked at her, appalled. Was Tibbie making an idle threat? Or would she present herself to the admiral and fill his ear with tales of a heartless former employer who later turned her back on the king? Such accusations would destroy any hope of the Kerrs enjoying the admiral’s company and might well bring the dragoons to their door.
“I will do as you ask,” Marjory agreed, knowing she had little choice. “You were a fine kitchen maid, Tibbie. ’Twill not grieve me to say so in writing.”
Tibbie stepped closer, her words low but sharp edged. “And ye’ll make nae mention of the babe?”
“Certainly not,” Marjory promised. “Mr. Laidlaw was far more to blame than you in that unfortunate situation.”
Tibbie shrank back, her eyes narrowing. “Wha told ye that?”
Marjory had no intention of drawing Anne into their conversation. “What matters, Tibbie, is that you find a position in a household where you’ll neither be tempted nor mistreated. Isn’t that so?”
Tibbie’s features softened a bit. “Aye.”
“Then I’ll have a letter for you on the Sabbath next,” Marjory assured her, after which Tibbie abruptly turned and disappeared into the crowd, her soiled gown dragging across the grass.
Marjory was still watching her departure when Anne moved closer, a frown on her face. “Whatever did she want?”
Marjory hesitated, wondering what her cousin might say to their agreement. “She requested a written character,” was all Marjory told her. It was an honest answer without raising Anne’s hackles.
“Tibbie wants to work at Bell Hill,” her cousin guessed.
Marjory admitted to that much.
“She’ll not get through the door without a clean gown and God’s mercy,” Anne said, then moved toward the pend, waving to Elisabeth to join them. “At least we’ll not be among the throng walking up Bell Hill on Monday next. For I have my lace making. And you, Bess, have Michael Dalgliesh.”
“Only as long as he requires my needle,” Elisabeth hastened to say.
Anne’s frown returned. “I’ve seen the man’s shop. He will need you all the days of his life.”
Twenty-Three
Friendship is Love,
without either flowers or veil.
AUGUSTUS AND JULIUS HARE
lisabeth did not darken Michael’s door that week. Not only did it seem prudent with Anne moping about the house; Elisabeth also was determined to see an end to the pile of fabric draped over the back of her chair.
While she sewed well into each evening, her neighbors spent the long sunlit hours climbing Bell Hill. They admired Lord Buchanan’s gardens and orchards from a polite distance and hoped to spy the exalted owner tramping about the grounds. In Edinburgh, a city accustomed to visits from princes and kings, the admiral would’ve arrived unheralded; in rural Selkirk he was viewed as royalty.
Elisabeth shared her neighbors’ curiosity but not their ardent enthusiasm. She’d seen how wealth and a title could twist a man’s soul, convincing him he was above any moral or social constraints. Lord Donald Kerr had looked the part of a gentleman, yet his behavior was often disgraceful. Who was to say Lord Jack Buchanan would not be the same?
Only a man’s character mattered. The rest was window dressing.
Though she had to concede, Bell Hill did have very handsome windows.
When Saturday dawned, Elisabeth awakened before the others and tiptoed about as she dressed for the day. Cambric shirt in hand, she moved her chair closer to the window and began stitching the final sleeve, wondering what, if anything, Michael Dalgliesh might have in mind for her next. Would he permit her to sew a gentleman’s coat and waistcoat and thereby prove her tailoring