Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [69]
Aye, and the praying.
Elisabeth gathered the fabric and her sewing basket, then hastened down the long hall to the same cozy room where she’d done her mending the day before. A fire was laid, and a fresh candle stood amid the globes of water in the candle-stool. She lit them both, relieved to have warmth and light, then began with the bodice, pinning the six pieces together, seam by seam.
As she worked, lively voices filtered into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Pringle’s new maids, she imagined. They sounded young, eager, and nervous. She smiled, remembering her first days at Mrs. Sinclair’s Boarding School for Young Ladies in Edinburgh. Elisabeth had been all of eight-and-ten and entirely green, knowing nothing of the world. She learned a great deal in the years that followed. Some of it was painful, yet all of it was needful.
What would Effie Sinclair think if she saw her now? Elisabeth considered her ragged mourning gown, her hastily combed hair, and her chapped fingers and knew what her esteemed schoolmistress would say. “Lift your head, Mrs. Kerr. You have a fine mind, a bonny face, skilled hands, and the Lord’s favor. Use them well in the service of others, and a full reward will be yours.”
Her spirits buoyed, Elisabeth pinned her seams with renewed fervor, paying no attention to the loud noises in the hall or the laughter spilling from the nearby kitchen. The bodice was soon fully pinned, as were the elbow-length sleeves, with only the skirt remaining. Her head was bent over her work, the pins mere inches from her face, when a gray and white paw batted at her nose.
“Oh!” She jumped to her feet, startled out of her wits.
Looking up at her was a round-faced cat. Its smooth fur was the very color of Mrs. Pringle’s new gown but with random streaks of white, as if the puss had come too near a pail of whitewash. Its ears were large, its whiskers long, its golden eyes attentive. Nothing would escape this cat’s notice, she decided.
“Who might you belong to?” Elisabeth bent down to scratch the animal’s head and realized it was purring rather noisily. When she eased onto her chair, the cat put its paws on her knees, stretching up to sniff her. “We must come to some agreement, you and I,” she told the furry creature. “I have much work to do and no time for petting.” Still, the animal’s fur was exceedingly soft, as velvety as the fabric in her lap. The longer she stroked its head, the louder it purred, until she was certain Mrs. Tudhope would come forth from her kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, intent on dispatching the four-legged intruder.
“Ye’ve been chosen,” a lass said from the doorway.
Elisabeth looked up to find Sally studying her, a dinner tray in her hands. “He doesna like monie o’ the servants,” Sally commented, placing the food atop a tall chest, well out of the cat’s reach. “Keeps his ain company whan the master isna here.”
Elisabeth blinked. “You mean this cat belongs to Lord Buchanan?” She could not imagine a man of such stature having a cat roaming about the house. Hunting dogs, perhaps, or collies. Cats were usually meant for byres and barns, not mansions.
Sally told her, “His lordship said the cat came aboard in Canton.”
“A Chinese cat?” Elisabeth eyed the animal with more interest. “Well, he certainly is friendly.”
Sally called over her shoulder as she left. “To ye, mebbe.”
Thirty
For he purrs in thankfulness
when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
CHRISTOPHER SMART
lisabeth’s bewhiskered friend was still there, circling the room, when she claimed her dinner tray. The plate of steaming beef broth, thick slice of bread, and generous serving of butter made her mouth water. She spoke a hasty grace over her meal, then ate at the small table while the cat settled at her feet, watching her spoon travel back and forth, its slanted eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
“I forgot to ask Sally your name,” Elisabeth said, placing her almost-empty plate on the floor and letting him lick it clean as she enjoyed her almond pudding. She retrieved the dish, then put her