Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [53]
Despite the gray, rainy weather that morning, Elisabeth’s heart grew lighter as she imagined the possibilities. Someday she hoped to own a dressmaking concern, but until then, working for Michael well suited her—as long as it suited him.
An hour later Anne rose, brushing aside her bed curtains. “Hard at work already?”
“Aye.” Elisabeth kept her voice low for Marjory’s sake. “I’ll be off to Mr. Dalgliesh’s by nine o’ the clock.” She averted her gaze as Anne bathed at the washbowl and slipped on the blue drugget gown she’d worn the night the Kerrs arrived. Though the fabric was an inexpensive wool, roughly woven, the color matched Anne’s blue eyes perfectly. “ ’Tis my favorite of your gowns,” Elisabeth told her.
Anne shrugged as she crossed the room. “Heaven knows I wear it often enough.”
Her cool tone suggested Anne was more irritable than usual. “I will gladly stitch you another gown,” Elisabeth assured her. “When I earn enough silver to purchase fabric at market—”
“Nae,” Anne said, cutting her short. “Your shillings are better spent on food or your own needs, not on a gown for a stayed lass.”
Anne seldom spoke of herself so dismissively. Treading with care, Elisabeth asked, “Why should an unmarried woman not be well dressed?”
“Silks and satins are meant for catching husbands,” Anne retorted. “I’ve long abandoned any such expectations.” She turned her back on Elisabeth and began filling the coal grate, abruptly ending their conversation.
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Elisabeth searched her heart for some encouragement to offer. “Six-and-thirty is not so very old—”
“Oh?” Anne looked over her shoulder, her hands black with coal dust. “This spoken by a bonny lass in her twenties who has half the men in town besotted with her.”
Now Elisabeth understood.
“Annie.” She quickly put aside the shirt she was stitching and knelt by her cousin. “You are dear to many folk in Selkirk, to Marjory, and to me most of all.” She slipped her arm round Anne’s narrow shoulders, praying her next words would not make things worse. “Though I do believe there is someone else who holds you in high regard.”
Anne was still frowning. “Who might that be?”
Elisabeth stood and brought her cousin to her feet, keeping a close watch on her expression. “On the night of my birthday, I saw a wee spark travel between you and Mr. Dalgliesh.”
“Michael?” She brushed the coal dust from her hands, clearly flustered. “We’ve … known each other a long time.”
Elisabeth saw through her dissembling and gently tried to help Anne put her feelings into words, which did not always come easily to her. “What of you and Michael now? Still just friends?”
When Anne turned her head away, Elisabeth feared she’d pushed too hard or spoken amiss. She waited for a moment, then said, “Forgive me—”
“Nae.” Anne looked at her, eyes glistening with tears. “There is nothing to forgive. You simply stated what you saw. But you do not know the rest.”
Elisabeth touched her arm in silent acknowledgment. “Tea, first. Then you may tell me whatever you like. Or nothing at all.” Minutes later, steaming cups in hand, the two women sat, their chairs pulled close together.
Anne studied her tea for a moment, her flaxen hair loosely gathered at the nape. When she spoke, her voice was low and strained. “From the time I was a wee lass, I was hopelessly in love with Michael Dalgliesh.”
Elisabeth could only imagine what a braw lad Michael must have been in his youth. “Did he not return your affections?”
Anne looked up, her face etched with sorrow. “Nae, he did not.”
“Oh, Annie.” Elisabeth swallowed hard, seeing the cost of that painful admission. “However did you bear it when he married Jenny?”
“I wanted to die,” Anne confessed. “You know how young girls are, thinking their lives are over when the man they love is claimed by another.”
“I do know,” Elisabeth assured her softly. “Yet you and Michael remained friends.”
“After a fashion,” Anne said with a shrug.