Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [65]
A woman’s voice floated through the doorway. “Still sewing, Mrs. Kerr?”
Elisabeth spun round. “Mrs. Pringle! I thought perhaps you’d forgotten me,” she said lightly, then hoped the housekeeper would not take offense.
“I am later than I intended to be,” she admitted. “Come, let me see your work.”
Elisabeth laid aside the waistcoat for a moment and showed her the rest.
Mrs. Pringle seemed taken aback. “You finished all of it?” The housekeeper inspected each item of clothing, her eyebrows lifting incrementally with each one until finally her face was the picture of astonishment. “You’ve done three days’ work in one, Mrs. Kerr.” She nodded toward the waistcoat. “Of course, that must be delivered to a tailor or a weaver in Edinburgh with very particular skills. Rather a nasty gash.”
“Aye, it was,” Elisabeth said, then held out the mended garment. “See if this is any improvement.”
Frowning, Mrs. Pringle took the waistcoat and turned it over in her hands. Once, then twice. “But where is it? I distinctly remember—”
“ ’Twas here,” Elisabeth said, pointing to the spot she’d labored over.
Mrs. Pringle peered at it more closely, then shook her head. “I would not have believed it possible. Where did you learn such a skill?”
“My father was a weaver. And my oldest friend in Edinburgh was a tailor.”
“Well.” Mrs. Pringle pursed her lips. “I’ve one more task for you, Mrs. Kerr, and then we shall see about a position for you at Bell Hill.”
Elisabeth stole a glance at the window. The last rays of the sun would be gone in an hour, and she’d not had supper. “Will it take very long?” she asked.
“A week, I imagine.” The housekeeper plucked the measuring tape from Elisabeth’s sewing basket. “If you are to sew gowns for the maidservants of Bell Hill, you’d best start with mine. Take my measurements, if you please.”
Elisabeth’s hopes soared. Surely this meant Mrs. Pringle was pleased with her work.
“Lord Buchanan purchased the fabric in London,” Mrs. Pringle explained. “Bolts upon bolts of a fine charcoal gray broadcloth.”
Elisabeth merely nodded as she took the housekeeper’s measurements. Shoulder to elbow, ten inches. Neck to waist, two-and-twenty in the front, twelve in the back. Waist to hem, eight-and-thirty inches. She was already imagining the gown she would design. Simple, yet flattering, and above all practical.
When she began measuring Mrs. Pringle’s slightly thicker waist, the housekeeper murmured, “You’ll not tell a soul the number? Mrs. Tudhope is entirely to blame. We’ve both worked for his lordship since the Centurion came into port, and I cannot resist her shortbread.”
“ ’Twill be our secret,” Elisabeth assured her, making a mental note. One-and-thirty inches.
“Leave your basket with me, if you like,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “I shall expect you at eight in the morn, prepared to work.” Her brow darkened a bit. “This is a trial, you understand, with no promise of engagement.”
“Then I shall do my best to win your approval and his lordship’s as well.”
Mrs. Pringle nodded toward the door. “See that you do, Mrs. Kerr.”
Twenty-Eight
Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes;
and adversity is not without comforts and hopes.
SIR FRANCIS BACON
arjory prepared tea for Reverend Brown even as she kept an eye on the windows, watching the bright evening sky fade to a rosy blue. Wherever was Elisabeth? Surely the admiral did not expect his household staff to travel home on foot past the gloaming? Sometimes the gentry could be so inconsiderate.
Marjory had been on edge all day, jumping at every footfall on the stair, every shout from the marketplace. To make matters worse, Anne’s young ladies had been fidgety from first hour to last, and Gibson had not found a moment to visit. Then at seven o’ the clock, the minister had come to the house unexpectedly, asking to meet with her. “Alone,” he’d insisted. Anne had graciously embarked on an errand, leaving Marjory and the reverend to converse in peace.
However, peace was the