Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [68]
Twenty-Nine
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread—
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
THOMAS HOOD
lisabeth unrolled the fine wool broadcloth, sweeping her hands across the downy nap. Like velvet. That’s how the fabric felt, so close was the weave, calendered between heated rollers to make the finish exceptionally smooth. She eyed her chalk and shears, itching to begin.
“Will the table suit your needs?” Mrs. Pringle asked, standing near, hands clasped at her waist. “You’ll need to quit this room by noontide so the table may be laid for the servants’ dinner at one o’ the clock.”
Elisabeth assured her she would finish chalking and cutting the fabric within the hour, then tapped the drawing she’d placed on the corner of the borrowed dining table. “You are quite certain my design pleases you?”
The housekeeper gave it a cursory glance. “ ’Twill do,” she said dismissively. “Comfort is what concerns me most.”
“Naturally,” Elisabeth agreed. “We’ll do two fittings before your gown is completed.”
“By Saturday,” the housekeeper said firmly.
“Aye, madam.” Elisabeth moistened her lips, parched at the thought of all that lay ahead. “If you will stop by the workroom at three o’ the clock, I shall have it pinned and ready for your first fitting.”
When Mrs. Pringle reached out to touch the fabric, Elisabeth noticed a slight fraying on the edges of the woman’s cuffs. Though her white apron was crisply starched, Mrs. Pringle needed this new gown. The rich charcoal gray fabric would complement her coppery hair far better than the dull brown the housekeeper was currently wearing, though Elisabeth would never mention it.
“While you are here at Bell Hill,” Mrs. Pringle said, “you will be addressed as Mrs. Kerr since you are not counted among the household servants.”
“Very well,” Elisabeth said. She knew she was foreign, in every sense of the word. A Highlander, a Jacobite, a gentlewoman. If the servants took her into their confidence even a little, she’d be grateful.
“In the meantime,” Mrs. Pringle continued, “I’ve hired fourteen new maidservants, all of whom begin today.” She splayed her long, tapered fingers and counted them. “Two kitchen for Mrs. Tudhope, two parlor, two scullery, one stillroom, three upper house, two lower house, and two dairy.”
Elisabeth briefly bowed her head. And one dressmaker come week’s end? Please may it be so. Clearly not everyone who’d applied on Monday had found a position. She’d not seen Molly Easton on the road that morning. Only a grim sky full of low clouds promising rain.
“The new maids are to arrive at nine o’ the clock.” Mrs. Pringle consulted a gentleman’s pocket watch, pulled from the recesses of her apron. “Will there be anything else, Mrs. Kerr?”
She mustered her courage and asked, “When might the master of the house be expected?”
“I know neither the day nor the hour,” Mrs. Pringle told her. “The admiral has been at sea for three quarters of his life. He has lodgings in London and Portsmouth but has never owned a proper estate in the country. I imagine it will take Lord Buchanan several months before he considers Bell Hill his true home.” After a long pause she asked, “Are you frightened of meeting the admiral because of your late husband’s treason?”
The housekeeper’s bold question took Elisabeth by surprise. “I am,” she admitted.
“Then we must see it is never mentioned.” Mrs. Pringle stepped back. “Ply your needle, madam. If you need anything, Sally Craig can assist you.” She quit the room, the heels of her shoes marking her confident steps along the flagstone floor of the servants’ hall.
With the small dining room to herself, Elisabeth went to work at once, marking the dark fabric with her slender chalk. What she wouldn’t have given for Angus MacPherson’s old dress form or sufficient time to make a muslin pattern. Sharpened before they’d left Edinburgh, her shears glided through the fine wool like a knife through butter. Sleeves, then sections of the bodice, then numerous skirt panels were set aside until nothing remained but the pinning. And the