Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [57]
“Ye’ve been sewing shirts for Michael Dalgliesh,” he said, casting a wary eye over her. “I confess I envy the man his trade. There was a time not so lang syne whan I had mair wark than I could handle. But not noo.” He nodded at the many empty shelves. “I’ve enough to keep my family in meat and meal, but that is a’.”
Whether or not Mr. Smail was kind and fair, he assuredly was not prosperous.
“What brings ye to my door?” he asked rather bluntly, offering her the only seat in his shop.
She hesitated, not wanting to put the man in an awkward position. Or was it pride that stilled her tongue? Finally she confessed, “Mr. Dalgliesh has hired another tailor, so my sewing services are no longer needed.”
Mr. Smail frowned. “Mair likely he didna want a bonny lass round his door.”
His words stung. “I do all my sewing at home,” Elisabeth hastened to explain. “Furthermore, Mr. Dalgliesh has given me a written character.”
When she reached for her reticule, the tailor stayed her hand. “Niver mind, Mrs. Kerr. I canna afford ye. And my wife wouldna want ye here oniewise.”
“Then I am sorry to have bothered you,” she said, already on her feet. “I bid you good day.”
Mortified, she fled into Back Row, uncertain which way to turn. She had no addresses for the other tailors and little courage left to ask directions from the strangers milling about, staring at her like the outlander she was.
She was too angry to cry and too hurt not to admit his rejection stung.
What shall I do, Lord? Where shall I go?
The answer came quickly. Home.
She would lick her wounds, then see about Mr. Purdie or Mr. Morrison, though she feared a similar response. Was there no tailor in Selkirk like Angus MacPherson, who’d given her challenging work and didn’t care whether she was bonny or not? She could still remember the twinkle in his eye and the index finger he playfully wagged beneath her nose. Oh, Angus, how I miss you.
Discouraged, she pointed her feet toward Halliwell’s Close. Perhaps if she found an ugly hat or wore her hair in her face or made certain to always frown, perhaps then she might sew for her supper without distracting men from their work. Foolishness.
When she turned onto Kirk Wynd, the heavens opened, and rain poured down in sheets, soaking her to the skin before she reached Anne’s house. There would be no more interviews this day; her gown would not dry for hours.
Only when she started up the stair did she remember her conversation with Michael Dalgliesh. I had anither woman in mind. But he’d not spoken Anne’s name. What if he meant someone else entirely?
By the time she reached the door, Elisabeth was certain of her decision: she would say nothing, lest Anne’s hopes for the future be crushed as thoroughly as her own.
Twenty-Five
Now we sit close about this taper here
And call in question our necessities.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
arjory was stirring a pot of sheep’s-head broth for their noontide dinner when her daughter-in-law trudged through the door, dripping wet. Sending Anne to fetch clean towels, Marjory wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to Elisabeth’s side. “Poor Bess. I hoped you’d be home before this.”
“Mmm,” was all Elisabeth said, pulling the silver comb from her drooping curls.
Anne produced several linen towels, then helped Elisabeth undress. “I’ve an old gown of my mother’s you might wear.”
“No need. I’ll wrap myself in a plaid and hang my dress by the fire,” Elisabeth said, rubbing her hair dry with more vigor than the task required.
“But my young ladies will be coming at two,” Anne reminded her.
“All right, then.” Without another word Elisabeth curled up in the upholstered chair and closed her eyes while Anne went about airing the well-worn gown stored beneath her box bed for many seasons.
Marjory returned to the hearth, keeping an eye on Elisabeth. She’d not seen her this discouraged in a very long time. Even in Edinburgh with their many losses, Elisabeth was the one who’d lifted everyone’s spirits.
Letting the broth