Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [75]
Elisabeth had seen that expression. Brows lifted, eyes alight, mouth curved in a faint suggestion of a smile. He was even taller than she’d imagined and broader in the shoulders, his skin weathered by the sun, the jut of his chin hardened from years of being in command.
She recalled Sally Craig’s opinion of the admiral. Not verra handsome. But Sally was young.
“Mrs. Pringle?” Roberts stood by the open door to the workroom, his gaze shifting from one woman to the other. “His lordship would have a word with you. And bring Mrs. Kerr.”
Elisabeth gripped the fabric to keep her hands from trembling, then looked up at the housekeeper. “What will he want to know?”
“The truth,” Mrs. Pringle said firmly. “He is not a gentleman to be trifled with. If he asks about your Highland family, you must speak honestly.”
“I must speak?”
The housekeeper nodded. “I will meet with him first while you wait outside the door.” Mrs. Pringle leaned down and lowered her voice. “That is to say, listen outside the door.”
Elisabeth swallowed. “Is that not … dishonorable?”
“Nae, ’tis prudent,” the housekeeper insisted. “You’ll hear what his lordship and I discuss and will know what else must be said. Come, finish your stitches, for he does not like to be kept waiting.”
Elisabeth sewed in haste, her thoughts whirling. Speak honestly. How could she rightly do otherwise? Let the words of my mouth be acceptable in thy sight. Aye, that would be her prayer while she tarried in the hall. If Gibson was correct and Lord Buchanan was a man who sought to please God, then she would honor them both with the truth.
She knotted her thread with a decisive tug, then stood, shaking the loose clippings from her skirt. “Might I have a moment to freshen up?”
“Be quick,” the housekeeper cautioned her.
Elisabeth hurried to the water pitcher, washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hair, wishing she had a brush. Anne’s looking glass, pulled from her sewing basket, confirmed Elisabeth’s fears: her skin was becoming freckled from her morning walks, the circles beneath her eyes hinted at too little sleep, and her hair was a mass of wisps and curls brought on by the summer’s heat.
“You look presentable enough,” Mrs. Pringle told her with a note of impatience. “Come, we must away.”
Moments later Elisabeth was seated outside the dining room on a chair that Roberts placed very close to the door. He bade her farewell with a solemn wink, then took his leave.
“I will summon you shortly,” Mrs. Pringle murmured before sweeping into the room and greeting the admiral. “How may I be of service to you, milord?”
Clasping her hands in her lap, Elisabeth listened, hardly moving, barely breathing.
The admiral’s voice floated into the hallway. “I noticed a young woman standing just inside the entrance earlier today when I arrived, yet you did not introduce her.”
“Do forgive me,” Mrs. Pringle said at once. “Since we’ve not spoken of engaging a dressmaker, Mrs. Kerr is not yet in your employ. It seemed unwise to include her with the others.”
“I see. She is a dressmaker, you say? I can only assume she made your new gown.”
“She did, milord.”
Elisabeth could not ignore their conversation even if she tried. The chair was too close, their voices too clear. Above all, her livelihood depended upon the questions asked, the answers given, and the mercy his lordship might extend. She would not likely find work elsewhere in Selkirk. Though Michael Dalgliesh had made use of her talents, the other tailors in the parish seemed less inclined to do so.
“I know little about women’s clothing,” Lord Buchanan was saying, “though I do recognize quality when I see it. When and how did Mrs. Kerr present herself?”
As Elisabeth strained to hear, Mrs. Pringle described her arrival on Whitsun Monday. “She finished an entire basket of mending that very day, working from morn ’til eve, taking her dinner in the workroom, then continuing to labor.”
“She is not afraid of hard work,