When he placed the cool guinea in her palm, Elisabeth stared at the coin. “Are you always so generous with strangers?”
“You are no stranger to God,” he reminded her. “This is his blessing, not mine.”
Elisabeth looked down, overwhelmed. You have not forgotten us, Lord.
Then she felt something brush against her foot. “Charbon,” she said softly. “How glad you must be to have your master home.”
The admiral scowled at his pet. “There you are, you ungrateful creature. Transferring your affections at the first opportunity.” He bent down and scooped up Charbon, then tucked the animal under his arm. “You must be very special indeed, Mrs. Kerr, for my cat does not often pay attention to women.”
She scratched Charbon along the crooked white streak between his ears, setting off a roaring sort of purr. “He kept me company all week, awaiting your return.”
“Well done, puss.” He shifted his stance. “Shall I see you at kirk in the morn?”
She curtsied, then met his gaze. “Indeed you shall, milord.”
Thirty-Three
O day of rest!
How beautiful, how fair.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
arjory still could not believe it. A gentleman who’d sailed round the world was seated in her pew, in her kirk. Well, not truly her kirk. The earth is the Lord’s, and the fulness thereof. She knew everything belonged to the Almighty. Still, Lord Jack Buchanan was definitely situated in the Kerr aisle that Sabbath morning.
Furthermore, he’d engaged her daughter-in-law as a dressmaker, a position not without merit, even for a lady. As if that were not enough, his lordship had sent Elisabeth home with a gold guinea. A guinea! The three Kerr women had taken turns holding the coin through most of supper.
Our dear Bess, the dressmaker. And our new friend, the admiral.
Marjory was trying hard not to be prideful and failing miserably.
True, she was not much pleased when Elisabeth returned home early last evening with the news of Lord Buchanan’s offer. He was a bachelor, after all, and had suggested she reside at Bell Hill. A gentlewoman in mourning, sleep beneath his roof? The very idea. When her daughter-in-law explained the reason—for her safety—Marjory was willing to give his lordship another chance to earn her good opinion.
He’d done so the moment he’d arrived at kirk that morning, impeccably dressed in a royal blue silk coat and periwig, and had inquired if he might sit at the end of their pew. “Mrs. Kerr,” he’d said with a courtly bow, “it would be my great honor to share your aisle this morn if you would allow it.”
When a very tall, very polite, very rich man asked for two feet of wood on which to sit, only a foolish woman objected. “Naturally, milord,” she’d told him, moving down so he might be seated next to her rather than beside Elisabeth. It seemed prudent.
Marjory looked round the church, beginning to feel at home once more. Providing a written character for Tibbie Cranshaw had turned out to be a wise decision. Tibbie was now engaged as a kitchen maid at Bell Hill and so had honest work and a worthy incentive to keep hidden her unfortunate history. And mine. And Elisabeth’s.
The admiral would hardly be seated next to her if he knew the truth. Perhaps by the time he learned the whole of it—and Marjory had no doubt he eventually would, for Lord Buchanan was a clever man—they would already be friends and such things might be forgiven.
He’d sung the psalms with conviction, she decided, and listened to Reverend Brown’s dry discourse on the Midianites with particular attentiveness. Earlier that morning Marjory had enjoyed pleasant exchanges with Sarah Chisholm and Martha Ballantyne in the kirkyard. It was in every respect a commendable Sabbath. As to the weather, the day was clear and bright and mild. Wasn’t that like June, to make so sunny an entrance?
With the reverend’s stirring benediction still ringing through the sanctuary, Marjory turned to Lord Buchanan, a thousand questions bubbling up inside her. “Will you be constructing a loft here in the kirk?” she asked him. “I’d imagined it hanging just above us.”
“I prefer to sit with the congregation,” he said. “In the Kerr pew, if I’ll not be imposing on you and your household.”
“Not at all!” she cried, then wished she’d curbed her enthusiasm a little. People were staring, and not all their expressions were friendly ones. Tibbie Cranshaw had an especially sour look on her face, which Marjory found irksome after all she’d done for the woman.
Composing herself, Marjory said to the admiral, “I am told, milord, that your father was Scottish rather than English.”
“Indeed, madam, from the Borderland. Though he too sailed with the Royal Navy and sold his land to the Duke of Roxburgh long before I was born.”
Marjory smiled, realization dawning. “You bought it back, didn’t you? Bell Hill was once your family’s estate.”
“So it was.” Though the admiral did not smile in return, his brown eyes gleamed ever so slightly.
When he turned to speak with Elisabeth, Marjory gave them a moment’s privacy by blocking the Kerr aisle so no one else could interfere. She’d already learned two important bits of information about Lord Buchanan and found them both heartening. He was willing to sit among commoners. And his ancestors hailed from Selkirkshire. However, he still answered to King George, a vital fact not to be forgotten.
“Leddy Kerr?”
She turned round to find Gibson moving in her direction even as the reverend’s stern words rose up to scold her. Be cautious in your dealings with Gibson. She would do nothing of the sort. Neil Gibson was her oldest friend in Selkirk. Nae, in all the world. Since she could not write letters to a man who could not read, Marjory made the most of their encounters.
“Good day to you, sir,” she said, offering her gloved hand.
She meant for him to clasp it briefly in greeting. Instead, Gibson enveloped her hand in his, the centers of his blue gray eyes darkening. “Guid day to ye, milady.”
Marjory glanced over her shoulder, hoping Reverend Brown had already moved to the door. “Have a care,” she whispered.
Gibson tugged her closer. “I care mair than ye ken.”
Flustered, Marjory withdrew her hand. “My, but we’re being rather serious this morn.”
He stepped back, his expression cooling. “The reverend is bidding me come.”
“You must do so,” she urged him, not wishing to anger the man on whom Gibson depended for his living. So many masters to be served! Reverend Brown and now Lord Buchanan. Marjory had grown accustomed to owning few possessions and to living under someone else’s roof, but she still missed being in charge of her own household. Best not to dwell on a life she would never see again, she reminded herself, then turned to see how Elisabeth was faring with his lordship.
“So the creature jumped onto my bed without warning,” the admiral was saying, “and licked my face. A rude awakening, to say the least.”
Marjory thought she might faint.
Elisabeth calmly replied, “Then you must lock your door at night.”
“Or send my cat home with you,” he grumbled.
A cat. Marjory felt her rapid heartbeat easing.
“I’m afraid Cousin Anne would not be keen on that idea,” Elisabeth told him. “My mother-in-law and I are imposition enough without adding a guest with fur.”
Anne joined their conversation, having been properly introduced before the admiral was seated. “Lord Buchanan, I would gladly accept anything you wish to send to Halliwell’s Close, provided it has no claws.”
“Then I cannot send Dickson either,” he said, eying his younger valet. “For he has been known to scratch at my door at all hours.”
“Only when bidden,” Dickson replied dryly, clearly accustomed to such remarks.
Out of the corner of her eye, Marjory noticed Michael Dalgliesh and his lad approaching the Kerr aisle with lowered chins and furtive glances. She motioned the tailor forward. “Lord Buchanan, if I may be so presumptuous as to intr
oduce a friend and neighbor of our family, Mr. Michael Dalgliesh, a tailor, and his son, Peter.”
Michael bowed, a rather clumsy effort, but Peter made a fine show of it, bending straight from his waist, one foot to the front.
“What fine manners you have, lad,” Lord Buchanan told him.
Marjory saw the softening of his lordship’s expression and heard the tenderness in his voice. How odd the man had not married by now and had children of his own. Too many years at sea, she imagined, and no home for a bride. He’d solved both those problems with his move to Selkirkshire. Was a wife next on his list?
“Lord Buchanan, I thank ye for yer custom,” Michael Dalgliesh was saying.
The admiral cocked one brow. “My custom?”
“Mr. Hyslop, sir,” the tailor explained, his ruddy skin growing more so. “He came by the shop last eve, leuking to buy fabric with yer silver.”
“Ah.” The admiral leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “Suppose we keep that purchase just between us, aye?”
Michael ducked his head. “Whatsomever ye say, milord.”
Marjory found their little exchange most interesting. Elisabeth seemed intrigued as well. If fabric was being purchased, would her daughter-in-law be expected to create something with it?
Straightening, Lord Buchanan caught his valet’s eye. “We must away,” he said, “or Mrs. Tudhope will be most vexed. She worked hard late last eve preparing my Sabbath dinner and is determined to have it on my table at precisely two o’ the clock.” A faint smile creased his swarthy countenance. “The fact that it is served cold apparently does not signify.”
When the admiral turned to her, Marjory was struck again by his size. Taller even than Donald and broader by far. His unpowdered wig, with its long queue curling down his back, matched his dark brown eyes.
“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kerr,” he said. “And you as well, Miss Kerr.” He bowed to Marjory and Anne, then turned to Elisabeth. “As for you, madam, I shall see you early in the morn.”
“Not too early, milord,” Elisabeth responded. “With summer upon us, the sun is peeking over the horizon soon after three.”
His scowl seemed largely a pretense. “I’ll not have you storming my front door at six bells in the middle watch,” he told her. “Eight o’ the clock will suffice.”
Elisabeth nodded. “Very good, milord.”
Only then did Marjory notice the Murrays of Philiphaugh sailing toward them like a British warship, Sir John at the helm with a smiling young lady on each arm.
“Admiral!” he said jovially. “Sir John Murray at your service.” The gentlemen exchanged bows before Sir John continued, “If I might introduce my lovely wife and daughters.”
Marjory had never felt so invisible. Neither Sir John nor Lady Eleanora even looked at her, giving the admiral their undivided attention.
Rosalind and Clara curtsied as gracefully as they could in a crowded kirk aisle. Clara was still the shy, rather plain girl Marjory remembered from years past. But her older sister had blossomed into a hothouse flower, fragrant and exotic, with sleek black hair and eyes the color of Scottish bluebells.
“Lord Buchanan,” Rosalind said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “Your fine reputation is introduction enough.”
Marjory watched the Murrays fawn over the admiral, their intentions embarrassingly clear: Sir John and Lady Eleanora wanted his lordship for their son-in-law. Marjory could hardly fault them. Had she not once sought a titled, wealthy bride for Andrew? Still, she hoped she’d not been this obvious, offering up Rosalind like a juicy pheasant on a silver platter. Lord Buchanan was provided neither bib nor fork, but the Murrays did their best to whet his appetite, praising Rosalind’s many accomplishments.
Only when the Murrays took their leave did Lord Buchanan turn to bid the Kerrs a hasty farewell. “I fear Mrs. Tudhope will not soon forgive my tardiness. Until we meet again.”
His bow was brief but polite, Marjory noted, and aimed solely at Elisabeth.
Thirty-Four
Few men have been admired
by their own households.
MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE
ack smoothed his hand along Janvier’s neck. “You’ve brushed him thoroughly, have you, lad? And picked out his feet? Before you sponge him with water, let me use the wisp.”
The young groom quickly produced the tightly woven knot of rope meant to massage the horse’s muscles and stimulate the skin. Freshly dampened, the hay wisp fit neatly in Jack’s grip. Wherever Janvier’s muscles were firm and flat, Jack vigorously applied the wisp, following the lay of the coat, feeling his own muscles straining.
When he finished, he stood back and rubbed a bare forearm across his damp brow. “Sponge him, lad, and see to his saddle. I’ll be taking a long ride this morning.”
Jack stepped into the coolness of the stables and bathed his face and hands in a clean bucket of water, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped hair before dropping his peruke back in place. Some days he missed the sea but not on a summer day like this. Before long he was astride Janvier heading for the orchards at an easy trot. Judging by the slant of the sun, the hour was no later than seven o’ the clock.
He kept to the edge of the orchard, not wanting to slow the laborers at their tasks or risk injuring Janvier on protruding roots. Jack lifted his hand to greet his head gardener, Gil Richardson, a local man who’d begun work on the property the moment it was purchased. Many of the trees were old, no doubt planted by his grandfather Buchanan, but some were newly added to the orchards and would not produce fruit for several seasons.
Richardson had chosen the varieties with care. The plums were imperial and damask, the apples golden pippin and autumn permain, and the pears, naturally, were red Buchanan. The trees marched along in neat rows, their branches covered with leaves but not yet heavy with fruit. Jack spotted buds of yellow, green, and a rosy amber. By summer’s end he’d have freshly picked fruit at table—a luxury few men in the Royal Navy ever knew.
Sensing Janvier growing restless, Jack turned round and began trotting at a good pace along the ridge of Bell Hill. He intended to explore the eastern marches of his property rather than head downhill toward the ribbon of track that ran between his home and Selkirk, where a certain young widow would be walking that very hour.
Elisabeth Kerr was an enigma. For a dressmaker she was exceptionally well educated and well mannered. They’d not discussed literature or history, but he suspected she was well read in those subjects as well as others. Clearly there was more to the young woman than met the eye, though that was impressive too.
He urged Janvier into a full gallop, seeking a distraction. While in his employ, Elisabeth Kerr deserved his respect, not his unwelcome attention.
Horse and rider covered the rolling terrain, jumping the occasional stone dyke with ease, then slowing to pick their way through the forested portions of his family’s estate. Had his grandfather marveled at the same view on summer mornings long ago? And had his father bothered to look back when he quit Bell Hill, filled with dreams of the sea?
“When I left Scotland,” William Buchanan once confessed, “I broke your grandfather’s heart.”
Remembering his words, Jack grimaced. And then you broke mine.
As a captain in the Royal Navy, his father had sailed the world’s oceans but seldom came into port, leaving behind his French wife and British son for months at a time until the loyal captain departed this world forever. Jacques Buchanan was seven when he lost his father, fourteen when Renée Buchanan drew her last breath.
Orphaned, he’d remained adrift in northern France until a naval friend of his father’s took him aboard the HMS Britannia to train at sea as Midshipman Jack Buchanan. He’d moved up the ranks more swiftly than most, unfettered by family responsibilities. His every waking moment was focused on claiming victories at sea and the prizes that inevitably followed.
According to his bankers in London and Edinburgh, h
is fortune was prodigious. But Jack knew the truth: he had nothing of genuine value. No wife, no son, and, until now, no true home. He’d remedied the last; Lord willing, the others would follow in swift order.
He pulled Janvier’s head round rather sharply and aimed toward Bell Hill. “Run, lad,” Jack called out, a command his horse knew well. They were soon galloping hard, the fields and pastures a green blur, the stables forgotten. Only when Jack started downhill toward Selkirk did he see Elisabeth Kerr climbing the narrow track. He brought his horse to an abrupt stop just before he reached her.
She looked up, her face shadowed by the brim of her hat. “Good morn, milord.”
“And to you, Mrs. Kerr.” He dismounted, then took the reins in hand and began walking beside her as she continued uphill. There was no point pretending he’d not hoped for such a rendezvous. A pity he could not think of a single intelligent thing to say.
“You’ve a fine horse,” she commented. “What do you call him?”
“He was foaled in January, so I named him Janvier.”
She reached out to touch the animal’s neck. “Rather fond of gray, aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am.” Jack forced himself to look at the cloudless sky, the rolling hills, the sheep in the lower meadow—anything to avoid studying the lovely young woman beside him. The Almighty had called him to provide for her and protect her, not pursue her. In any case, he was nearly old enough to be her father.
After a quiet moment she said, “Lord Buchanan, you expressed some concern about my traveling alone.” She waved her hand across the broad expanse. “As you can see, I have the countryside to myself.”
“This morn, aye,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “But there are shepherds in the commons, farm workers in the fields, dragoons on horseback, chapmen with their goods—”
“Admiral,” she said firmly, “I am a Highlander. Even Mrs. Pringle said I am made of stronger stuff. I can run like the wind if I need to and scream quite loudly if I must. I also carry a lethal pair of scissors round my neck.” She held them up to prove her point.
Mine Is the Night Page 19
