Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [67]
They washed their hands first, then stood dutifully by the coal fire. “I’m famished,” Elisabeth admitted. “Do forgive me if I eat before describing my day at Bell Hill.”
“By all means,” Anne said, pouring fresh tea. “We’ll save our stories for later.”
When all three took their places, Marjory smiled. “Grace before meat, as they say. Though you’ll not find meat on your table this night.” What she served them was egg pie, one of Helen Edgar’s favorite dishes. Cinnamon and nutmeg made it flavorful, cream and butter made it rich, and currants gave them something to chew on.
Marjory was pleased when her family cleaned their plates and even happier when they accepted a second serving. Odd, how satisfying it was to see loved ones enjoy her simple dishes. Lady Nesbitt would not have approved of that sentiment either. As for what her late mother might say about Neil Gibson … well, some subjects were best left untouched.
“We’ve waited long enough, Bess,” Anne said, folding her hands in her lap.
Marjory put aside her napkin, also eager to hear a full report.
“I do not have a position yet,” Elisabeth began, “but I do have work.” She went on to describe her long day at Bell Hill, from meeting shy Molly Easton of Shaw’s Close to accepting her new assignment from the formidable Mrs. Pringle. “She worked for the admiral in London and arrived in Selkirk only a fortnight ago.”
Marjory was relieved to hear it. “Then she knows nothing of your Jacobite ties.”
But the look on her daughter-in-law’s face and the hesitancy of her response did not bode well. “I told her myself,” Elisabeth finally confessed.
“Oh, Bess.” Marjory sank back in her chair, undone. “Must you always be so honest?”
Anne arched her brows. “Cousin, I believe you were the one who announced your family’s support of the Stuarts in front of the entire parish.”
With both of them looking at her—and rather smugly, she thought—Marjory could do nothing but nod in agreement.
“Mrs. Pringle was sure to hear the story from someone,” Elisabeth said gently. “I thought it best she hear it from me. And since she insisted I never mention it to his lordship, you can be sure she’ll keep the news to herself.”
Marjory sighed. “Let us hope Tibbie Cranshaw follows suit.”
“It’s possible she’ll not even be hired,” Elisabeth told her. “I imagine we’ll know in a day or two. This eve I’ll sketch the gown I plan to make, then seek Mrs. Pringle’s approval in the morn.” Elisabeth winked at their cousin. “I won’t need to leave the house quite so early. Not until seven o’ the clock.”
“You lazy girl,” Anne teased her. “The sun will be halfway across the sky.”
Marjory thought their cousin looked especially happy and told her so. “Did something blithe happen on your errand this eve?”
Anne shrugged but could not hide her smile. “I went to Michael’s shop to return Jenny’s thimble.”
“So kind of you to do that for me,” Elisabeth said.
“For you? Oh, aye.” Anne’s cheeks pinked. “Peter, at least, seemed glad to see me.”
“And his father?” Elisabeth prompted her.
She grew pinker still. “The three of us had a wee visit while Mr. Brodie waited on a customer.”
Marjory watched Anne with growing interest. What was it about Michael Dalgliesh that affected young women so? The man was handsome enough, in a rough sort of way, and a charming storyteller, as he’d demonstrated at Elisabeth’s birthday gathering. Perhaps wee Peter Dalgliesh had run off with Anne’s affections, which Marjory certainly understood. Hadn’t young Donald and Andrew stolen her heart on a daily basis?
“Tell me how Mr. Brodie is faring,” Elisabeth said.
“Poor Michael spends more time up the stair than down,” Anne confessed. “He says the shop is entirely too neat for his taste, and he cannot find a thing.”
“Indeed, he never could.” Elisabeth smiled at Anne across the table. “Though it seems he’s found something