“Some lads were even younger,” he admitted. “The army requires its budding officers to purchase a commission. But in the navy, a first post usually comes about because of family connections.”
She tipped her head. “Then you’ve been at sea for …”
“Six-and-twenty years.” He seldom said the number aloud, finding it rather disheartening, as if he’d wasted the better part of his life. But he’d had no choice. Once his mother succumbed to fever, he had to sail. “I was five-and-thirty,” he continued, “when I joined Admiral Anson aboard the Centurion, the flagship among six fighting ships. Some four years later we returned to London, bringing home as our prize a Spanish treasure worth eight hundred thousand British pounds.”
He let the number sink in—not to impress her, but simply to help her understand his situation. “The officers shared the bulk of the prize, and several were promoted to the admiralty. But we lost more than half the men who sailed with us and all the vessels but one. Not a good bargain, I’d say.”
“Nae,” she agreed. After a quiet moment she posed the question he’d been asking himself for two years. “What are your plans now?”
Jack exhaled. “I’ve had enough of life at sea.” He did not confess the rest. That he was tired of being alone, of having no family, no wife, no children. “Within a fortnight I shall officially retire from the navy—”
“Retire?” She looked at him aghast. “And lose your pension?”
He shrugged, almost ashamed. “I’ve no need of it, Mrs. Kerr.”
“Oh. I see.”
When Charbon jumped down, Elisabeth stood. Weary of their conversation, no doubt, or appalled at the thought of someone throwing away a perfectly good pension when she had so little money of her own.
“Forgive me, but I must attend to my work,” Elisabeth told him.
He was on his feet at once, chastising himself for not rising the moment she did. Had his manners escaped him completely? “Mrs. Kerr, will you be attending the Common Riding on Friday?”
She nodded. “Apparently all of Selkirk turns out for it. And you?”
“As a landowner I’ll be inspecting the marches.” He tried to sound blasé, but, in truth, the prospect of riding over the hills astride Janvier appealed to him.
“Might you join us for dinner at noontide?” Elisabeth asked. “Our house is a stone’s throw from the mercat cross, where the festivities end.”
He knew where she lived. Not the sort of place a gentleman of rank was oft seen, but he cared little for social conventions. “I cannot be certain of my duties for the day,” he said cautiously, “but I will look for you on Friday. And join you for dinner if I can.”
Thirty-Seven
It’s no’ in steeds, it’s no’ in speeds,
It’s something in the heart abiding;
The kindly customs, words, and deeds,
It’s these that make the Common Riding.
ROBERT HUNTER
ave you ever seen such excitement?” Marjory felt like clapping her hands or spinning round where she stood or throwing her arms in the air. A mature woman did none of those things, of course. But she could feel such urges and no one be the wiser.
She had a right to be merry: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan was dining at their house this day. She could hardly believe their good fortune. Though they’d spent time and coins they could not spare, their efforts would be rewarded by having the most influential man in Selkirk at their table. Elisabeth had insisted she merely wanted to express her gratitude to the admiral, but Marjory hoped to accomplish more than that. An entrée into society for all the Kerr women. A chance to begin anew.
Her heart light, she surveyed the crowded marketplace. Folk had begun gathering just after the midsummer dawn, bedecked in their brightest and best, reserved for weddings and fairs. Colored ribbons streamed from their hats, and the large cockades worn on their coats declared their allegiance to one of the trades. Anne stood on one side of her and Elisabeth on the other, both happy to be free of their needles and pins for the occasion. Only innkeepers and ale sellers were hard at work this day. The rest of Selkirk left their cares behind, prepared to observe the Common Riding.
Though the air was cool, the June sun would warm them soon enough. So would the press of bodies. Marjory reached for the nosegay of roses tucked in her bodice and breathed in their fresh scent—gifts from Lord Buchanan’s garden, provided for each of the Kerr women. Such a generous man. And to think she’d once dreaded his move to Selkirk! By noontide he would be dining at their table. She’d left everything simmering, baking, and stewing and so needed to return home shortly. For a few minutes at least, she could enjoy the day.
“Look, ’tis Molly Easton.” Elisabeth nodded toward a lass dressed in a sunny yellow gown. “She once told me June was her favorite month because of the Riding.”
“Mine too,” Marjory confessed. “A shame she didn’t find work at Bell Hill.”
“Whitmuir Hall needed a parlormaid, so she’s well placed.” Elisabeth shifted her attention, looking up Kirk Wynd. “When shall we see the riders?”
“Soon,” Anne promised.
Marjory heard the drummers growing restless and the fiddlers tuning their strings. Not much longer now. What began centuries ago with the town burgesses riding the marches—seeing that property boundaries were observed and common lands were not encroached upon—had become an annual summer rite, complete with flags and banners, parades and song.
“There’s the reverend,” Anne said, nodding toward the corner where Kirk Wynd and Cross Gait met.
Marjory followed her gaze, knowing why Anne had pointed out the minister: Gibson was standing beside him. Although not so tall as his employer, Gibson nonetheless had better posture and a far more pleasing countenance. While the reverend’s attention was drawn elsewhere, Gibson lifted his hand in greeting.
I care mair than ye ken. Marjory shivered, recalling his words, not entirely certain of his meaning. He was no longer her manservant, but he was still in service.
And what are you, Marjory Kerr? She well knew the answer: an ill-trained, unpaid cook. That a brave and honest man the likes of Neil Gibson might harbor some affection for her was a blessing and nothing short of it.
“ ’Tis the admiral!” Elisabeth cried, standing on tiptoe.
Dozens of heads turned in the same direction, including Marjory’s. Gibson’s too, she noticed.
Coming down Kirk Wynd on a handsome gray thoroughbred, Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan cut a dashing figure. His elegant powdered wig suited his rank, and his tricorne fit like a crown. The dark blue coat flared round his knees, eclipsed only by the rich scarlet waistcoat beneath it. Anne was no doubt enraptured by the froth of lace round his neck and sleeves, but it was the braided trim that stole Marjory’s breath. Every pocket, every buttonhole, and every hem was edged in thick gold braid.
Someone shouted over the crowd, making the admiral’s horse grow skittish, forcing his lordship to calm the animal. When he rode by without so much as a glance in their direction. Marjory was more than a little miffed. Might the admiral not at least have looked toward Halliwell’s Close?
“Here come the hammer men to start the parade,” Anne said.
Marjory’s irritation quickly gave way as she watched the burgesses and landowners convene on horseback while the freemen, journeymen, and apprentices of the trade guilds mustered in a designated order, swords held high, flags proudly displayed. Since each guild had its own song, the music was deafening, with drums, pipes, trumpets, flutes, and a host of fiddlers.
The men who worked with hammers—masons, blacksmiths, coopers, and wrights—marched off first. Then came the pride of Selkirk—the souters—a loud and boisterous company of shoemakers. When the weavers marched by, plaids draped over their shoulders and kilted round their waists, Elisabeth sighed. “How my father would have loved this.”
Among the tailors, Michael and Peter Dalgliesh were easy to spot with their crimson heads and bright smiles. Anne gave eve
ryone round them a start, loudly calling out to Peter, who waved back with bright-eyed enthusiasm. At last came the fleshers, bearing the sharp-edged tools of their trade and signaling the town to follow them.
“You two walk while I cook,” Marjory told them as the crowd moved forward: hundreds of folk cheering, shouting, waving, and singing as they escorted the riders to the edge of town.
Marjory added her voice to the throng, tears filling her eyes, as she remembered the years she’d stood with her husband and sons in their place of honor by the mercat cross.
I am here, dear lads. I am home.
Thirty-Eight
Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!
COLLEY CIBBER
here are you, lass?
Jack knew Elisabeth Kerr was here in the marketplace. He could feel it in his bones, had almost sensed her gaze pinned on him as he’d ridden into town, though he’d not spied her lovely face.
By necessity he faced forward in the saddle, keeping a firm control over Janvier, having had a bit of trouble earlier. The strange surroundings, the jostling onlookers, the trumpet blasts, all tested the horse’s mettle. “Easy, lad,” Jack told him, keeping his grip on the reins supple but sure. Though he longed to turn round and look over his shoulder, Janvier would then follow his lead and disrupt the parade marching up Water Row.
Sir John Murray rode up on his right. “Mind if I join you, Admiral?”
Their horses fell into step as the two men lifted their voices above the melee, discussing the route. Jack was only now realizing how valuable the common lands were to the burgh. Though he didn’t require peat for fuel or turf for building, the cottagers of Selkirk certainly did.
“We’ll be riding the marches of the North Common this morn,” Sir John explained.
Jack nodded, having studied a crude map to learn where the neighboring lairds resided. Some of them were old enough to remember his grandfather Buchanan and so had bidden him a warm welcome.
When the riders passed through the East Port, they left behind the townsfolk, who sent them off with loud cheers and well wishes. For the riding party a light breeze and abundant sunshine promised a grand outing. Thirty strong, they started downhill and were soon fording the Ettrick Water, ignoring a perfectly good bridge in the process.
When Jack frowned, perplexed, Sir John was quick to say, “Tradition, milord. You’ll hear that many times this day.”
They cantered on to Linglie Glen, where the men paused to check their horses’ girths and enjoy a wee drink of water or a sip of whisky or both—the first stop of many, Jack soon discovered. The ancient northern route covered fourteen miles with only a series of natural markers to indicate the perimeter of the North Common. Crests of hills, lines of hedges, clumps of woods, meandering streams, even solitary trees served the purpose along with the occasional march stone planted amid the wild, open country. With so many riders, Jack had only to fall in step while he took in the splendid scenery his father had once described.
They were climbing now, a long pull toward a summit where three immense cairns stood guard over the Borderland. “The Three Brethren,” Sir John told him. “ ’Tis tradition to add a stone to each pile.”
From this vantage point Jack could see for miles in every direction. The Eildon Hills, a cluster of three peaks, overlooked the Tweed Valley, with the Moorfoots to the north and the Lammermuirs to the northeast. When his father, who’d never lost his Scottish burr, had spoken the names aloud, they’d rolled off his tongue like music.
“There’s Philiphaugh.” Sir John pointed southward. “On the other side of Harehead Hill.”
Jack nodded, having been to the Murray estate on several occasions. During his first visit Lady Murray had insisted, “You must hear Rosalind play the pianoforte.” Then on his second the young lady was urged to converse in French, German, and Italian, all of which she managed easily. By the third visit Sir John was dropping hints of a sizable dowry. “But only for a gentleman truly worthy of her.”
Jack had not lived forty years without learning something of the world. They wanted his title, they wanted his money, and they wanted their daughter in his marriage bed.
His needs were more modest: a wife and children. Still, Rosalind Murray would make a bonny bride, and her mother had borne six children, which boded well.
Sir John turned to him now, smiling broadly, the light in his eyes more avarice than affection. “Rosalind hoped you would dine with us after the Riding.”
Jack said nothing, recalling another invitation. Might you join us for dinner? He’d made no promises to Elisabeth Kerr, and they’d not spoken of it all week. No one would fault him for preferring a fine meal at a wealthy man’s table.
When thou makest a feast, call the poor. Not merely his conscience, but the Lord’s own words prodded him.
Jack finally said, “I may have … other plans, Sir John.”
The sheriff frowned. “Lady Murray will be sorely vexed if I do not bring you home with me.”
“I’ll know by the time we reach the marketplace,” Jack told him, stalling for time as he started back downhill, following the others. With the sun well overhead, Jack wished for a lighter coat. And no hat. And no periwig. But the other men had also dressed for the occasion, so at least he had company.
At Dunsdale, not far north of town, the Common Riding party was met by young men on horseback eager to race their steeds, with a goodly number of spectators prepared to do their part. Jack let his horse graze in the rich pasture while he watched men half his age race for nothing more than a kiss from a blushing lass. Why had he not married when he was a young lieutenant, when life was less complicated and a lady’s hand easily won?
An hour later, when they’d had their fill of racing, both walkers and riders headed for the mercat cross for the Casting of Colors. “ ’Tis the highlight of the event,” Sir John assured him as the townsfolk greeted the riding party at the East Port.
Stable lads at the edge of the crowd took the horses so the riders could move to the very center of things, where a broad wooden platform had been erected. A hush fell over the gathering as, one by one, craft guild members stepped onto the stage with their enormous flags, then swept them round at waist level, forming a figure eight.
Sir John said in a low voice, “The tradition goes back two centuries. Selkirk sent eighty well-armed men to the battle of Flodden Field. A lone survivor returned, bearing a captured English banner. He was so overcome with grief he could only swing the flag round like a scythe.” Sir John nodded toward the platform as a weaver performed the same motion. “ ’Twas his way of showing the townsfolk that all their lads had been cut down.”
Sobered by the story, Jack listened as a song of remembrance rose from the crowd while tears were wiped away and heads were bowed. In that quiet moment he glanced toward Halliwell’s Close and saw Elisabeth standing beside her cousin and the redheaded tailor.
Jack waited until the last note rang out, then bade Sir John a hasty farewell. “My apologies to Lady Murray, but I must honor a previous engagement,” he said, certain he was committing some grave social faux pas.
The townsfolk parted at his approach, ending any pretense of a chance encounter. Elisabeth would see him coming from twenty ells away. By the time he reached her, a small clearing had encircled them. Their eyes met briefly before he bowed and Elisabeth curtsied, then he moved forward, nodding at the crowd, hoping they might go about their business and let him converse with her in private.
A foolish expectation. Every eye and every ear was fixed on the drama at hand.
The admiral from the sea. The dressmaker from the town.
Had someone sold tickets, he’d have made a handsome profit.
“Safe oot and safe in,” she offered him in greeting. “ ’Tis what the cottagers cried when they sent out the riders.”
Jack lifted his brows. “So that’s what they were saying.”
“Now the feasting begins,” her cousin told him. “Each guild has its
own fete. The town council also serves food and drink for all, with music and dancing ’til the wee hours of the morn.” Her pale blue eyes looked up at him. “But you’ll be joining us for dinner, aye, milord?”
Thirty-Nine
Penniless amid great plenty.
HORACE
ye.” Jack smiled at Elisabeth, certain he’d made the right choice.
“A plate of food with the Kerrs would suit me very well.”
“Reverend Brown has agreed to join us,” Elisabeth said, “along with Mr. Dalgliesh and his son. You remember young Peter.”
Jack looked down at the lad, who did not hide behind his father, as most boys would, but stood proudly in front of him. Imagine having such a son! “The Almighty has been most kind to you, Mr. Dalgliesh.”
The tailor smiled broadly, planting his hand on Peter’s head. “Indeed he has, milord.”
“Come, sir!” Peter cried, tugging on Jack’s coat.
“Our house is modest, but our welcome is sure.” Elisabeth led him down the shadowy close with the others trailing behind, their lively voices echoing against the dank stone walls.
Jack took careful note of his surroundings, troubled by the thought of Elisabeth facing this grim view every day of her life. Only when they reached the door did he remember Janvier. “I’ve left my horse with one of the stable lads from Bell Hill. He’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”
Mr. Dalgliesh chuckled. “Is he a Selkirk lad?” When Jack assured him that he was, the tailor said, “Then ye’ve nae need to worry, for he’ll be sitting with the ither lads in a shady spot, watching yer mount and drinking punch for hours. He kens ye’ll find him whan ye’re done.”
Elisabeth studied Jack more intently. “Would you prefer we sent someone to tell him of your whereabouts?”
“Nae,” Jack said, trusting the tailor’s assessment. “After our brief exchange in the marketplace, Mrs. Kerr, a hundred folk could tell him where I’ve gone.” He stood back. “Now, if someone might unlock the door.”
Soft laughter rippled through the group.
“ ’Tis an outside door and has no lock,” Elisabeth explained, pushing it open. A musty smell wafted out. “This isn’t London, milord. We’ve no need for lock and key here.”
Mine Is the Night Page 21
