Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [54]
Elisabeth waited, giving her cousin time.
When Anne spoke again, her voice was thin. “As one of his oldest friends, I wanted to comfort Michael in his grief. But I was an unmarried woman and could not rightly do so. As it was, the gossips refused to leave me alone …” She gripped the wooden cup in her hands. “They said I wanted Michael for myself. That I was … glad that Jenny …”
“What?” Elisabeth felt sick. “Annie, you could never think such a thing.”
“Nae, I could not. Least of all about Jenny.” She hung her head. “Michael still loves her, you know. And I still love him.”
When Elisabeth lightly rested a hand on Anne’s shoulder, her cousin shrank away from her, saying in a bitter voice, “Now it seems he cares for you.”
“Annie—”
“Nae.” She turned her head. “ ’Tis true, and you know it.”
“It is not true,” Elisabeth said, tamping down her frustration. “Though I am curious why you sent me to Michael’s shop, loving him as you do. There are other tailors in Selkirk who might have put me to work.”
Anne didn’t answer at first. When she did, her voice was low. “Michael was desperate for help. And since you were in mourning …”
“He could not court me.”
Anne finally met her gaze. “Aye.”
When Elisabeth saw the anguish in her cousin’s eyes, she vowed at once to help her. She did not know Michael’s heart and so dared not give Anne false hope. But what she’d seen pass between them at her birthday celebration was not imaginary.
“Annie, when I deliver his shirts today, may I speak with Michael? On your behalf?”
She shot to her feet. “Nae, you mustn’t! For he would surely deny having any feelings for me.”
Elisabeth stood as well. “Are you certain of that?”
Anne nodded, but Elisabeth saw the longing in her eyes.
Across the room Marjory stirred. “Good morn,” she murmured, tossing aside her bedcovers. If she was aware of their conversation, she did not say so.
When Marjory served them fresh porridge and toasted bread with raspberry jam, Anne ate slowly and Elisabeth swiftly, eager to finish the last of her shirts and see the lot of them delivered. As promised, she would say nothing of Anne’s feelings. But if Michael Dalgliesh offered a confession of his own, Elisabeth would gladly listen.
Before leaving for the shop, Elisabeth paid particular attention to her toilette, sweeping her hair into a knot of curls, then tucking Anne’s lovely silver comb among them. Should Michael recognize the comb, a conversation about Anne might ensue, and who knew where it could lead? Elisabeth had never fancied herself a matchmaker, but she was willing to try. Her face bathed, her gown brushed, Elisabeth gathered the remaining shirts in her arms and hurried out the door.
The rain had ceased, though not for long, she decided. The air was thick with mist, and the sky above was a dull, metallic gray. Picking her way across the slippery cobblestones, she found herself at Michael’s threshold before she was fully prepared. Could she keep from blurting out the truth, knowing what she knew?
The door was open as usual. But when she stepped inside, Elisabeth nearly dropped her bundle of shirts.
Twenty-Four
Change is not made
without inconvenience.
RICHARD HOOKER
lisabeth stared at the freshly swept floor, the sparkling clean window, the neatly trimmed candles. Michael, what have you done?
The broad cutting table was free of clutter except for a few bolts of wool, smoothly wrapped and waiting to be cut. Clothing in various stages still hung round the walls but with a clear sense of order. The stray threads and snippets of fabric that once decorated every surface had utterly vanished.
Elisabeth was so taken aback she could say naught but his name. “Mr. Dalgliesh?”
He came thundering down the turnpike stair, red faced by the time he reached the bottom landing. “Mrs.