Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Excellent plan,” Jack assured him. He thanked them one by one, then sent them off to the kitchen. Such friends were more precious than rubies.

  No sooner had they left than Mrs. Pringle entered his study, looking quite agitated. “You have a visitor, sir. General Lord Mark Kerr of Tweedsford.”

  One thought was foremost in his mind. Bess.

  Jack was halfway to the door. “Escort my guest to the drawing room and serve him tea. I shall join him shortly,” he said, then bolted into the hall and down the stair. He’d avoided the man for more than a week. Why had he come today of all days?

  The moment he crossed the threshold into Elisabeth’s workroom, Jack blurted out, “Lord Mark Kerr is here.”

  She quickly put aside her sewing. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

  “Nae.” Jack began to walk the perimeter of the room, his fists clenched. “How can I possibly drink tea with a man who so wronged your family?”

  “With decorum, milord.” Elisabeth stood, her hands clasped behind her back.

  Only then did he notice she was wearing her new black gown. “You look wonderful, by the way. That is to say, your gown—”

  “I’m glad you are pleased.” She moved closer. “I’ve been saving it for your supper.” Elisabeth touched his arm so slightly he might have imagined it. “Do not let Lord Mark ruin the hours to come.”

  “Indeed I will not,” he assured her. “I intend to find out why he is here, tell him nothing, and bid him leave.”

  Minutes later Jack strode into his drawing room, not bothering to button his coat, his sheathed sword slapping against his boot. “General,” he said with a nod.

  “Admiral,” he replied, nodding back. A man of perhaps sixty, the governor was tall, but not broad, and impeccably dressed. “Forgive me if my visit is poorly timed.”

  “I am afraid it is.” Jack joined him at the spacious round table where an elaborate tea had been laid, with sweets and savories enough to feed ten military officers. He could trust Mrs. Pringle to see a thing well done. “Our visit must be brief,” Jack informed his unwelcome guest. “This eve I am hosting a supper for thirty.”

  Lord Mark nearly choked on his tea. “Thirty people of rank? You must have imported them, sir, for you’ll not find more than a half-dozen peers in Selkirkshire.”

  Jack held his tongue, remembering his own vow. Tell him nothing. “What brings you to Bell Hill, sir?”

  “I wish only to make your acquaintance. As you know, I was awarded Tweedsford for my success in defeating the Jacobites.”

  The man’s arrogance was contemptible. “I was not aware you single-handedly routed Prince Charlie and his men,” Jack said evenly.

  Lord Mark stiffened. “I suppose a navy man cannot be expected to comprehend the dangers of close combat.”

  “Oh, I’ve bested enough Spanish steel to understand very well.”

  Lord Mark smoothed his narrow mustache. “May I trust you also will show no mercy to any Jacobite rebels who cross your path? You’ll find them to be cowards, easily dispatched.”

  Jack shot to his feet, wanting to put an end to things before he thrust his sword through the man’s gullet. “Forgive me, but we’ll need to resume our discussion some other time. When Roberts escorts you to the door, inform him of a day that might suit you.”

  Lord Mark abruptly stood. “I’ve no intention of remaining in Selkirkshire beyond the week. The house is drafty and ill furnished, and the gardens are in shambles. With due respect for His Majesty, Tweedsford is a poor prize. I’ve other estates, you know, and the Governor’s House at Edinburgh Castle is but four years old. I hardly need another residence.”

  “So Tweedsford will sit empty?”

  “I may return now and again.” Lord Mark shrugged. “The house has been vacant for a decade. Another ten years would hardly matter.”

  The men bade each other farewell without crossing swords—a miracle, to Jack’s way of thinking. If he never spoke with General Lord Mark Kerr again, so much the better.

  Jack walked into his dining room at precisely eight o’ the clock and found his household staff standing quietly round the table as the candles shimmered and the sterling silver gleamed. Thirty well-scrubbed faces turned to greet him: thirty souls, entrusted to his care, who daily served him with gladness.

  Jack swallowed until the tightness in his throat eased. “ ’Tis an honor to have you at my table. Grace be unto you, and peace.” He bowed his head, gave thanks for the meal, then invited them to sit, which they did in haste, their eyes as round as the china saucers beneath their teacups.

  At the far end of the table sat Elisabeth Kerr, lovely as ever. The candlelight brought out the reddish gold strands in her hair and made her eyes shine like stars.

  Jack leaned toward Mrs. Pringle on his left and asked in a low voice, “Why is Mrs. Kerr seated at such a distance?”

  The housekeeper was quick to explain, “Because she is at Bell Hill by special appointment, milord, and not a servant. I thought it most appropriate she be seated at the foot of the table, usually reserved for the lady of the house.”

  “Well done.” He gazed past the long row of candles. You are not mine, Bess. But you are indeed a lady.

  Roberts, seated at his right hand, and Mrs. Pringle each looked down their sides of the table, then lifted their linen napkins and placed them across their laps, their movements slow and deliberate. Much elbowing and whispering ensued until all the servants had done the same.

  Meanwhile, Gibson tarried at the door, anticipating his signal. When Jack nodded at him, his volunteer force went into action. Tureens of soup sailed through the door in the hands of people who’d never in their lives served at table. Not a drop was spilled, not a spoon forgotten. Jack was so engrossed he forgot to eat Mrs. Tudhope’s flavorful broth until his housekeeper shot him a stern look, and he swiftly emptied his plate.

  The second course, a richly seasoned salmon, came and went smoothly, as did the third, an asparagus ragout, followed by a pig in jelly. Though the laughter was a bit loud and the conversation of a common nature, Jack was pleased to see all his guests enjoying themselves, and his unpaid staff even more so. Marjory Kerr was positively glowing, like a grand hostess in a Paris salon. No wonder Gibson never took his eyes off her. The Dalgliesh men moved rather slowly down the table but only because they were busily entertaining folk. Anne Kerr looked the prettiest he’d ever seen her, and the happiest as well, keeping a close eye on young Peter. And on his father.

  Jack tasted everything so he might compliment the cook with all sincerity. But his attention was repeatedly drawn to the opposite end of the table. Elisabeth Kerr was simply too far away. Dessert was almost upon them. How might he bid her to come closer?

  Ah. He smiled to himself. Just the thing.

  Forty-Five

  A good dinner sharpens wit,

  while it softens the heart.

  JOHN DORAN

  s Elisabeth watched, Lord Buchanan rose from his chair, saying nothing yet commanding every eye. His servants put down their forks at once and turned in his direction. Did he see the admiration reflected on their faces, their genuine affection for him?

  “I trust you’re enjoying the evening,” his lordship began. “While our plates are cleared by our able volunteers, I would invite our dressmaker, Mrs. Kerr, to join me at the head of the table.”

  A smattering of applause brought Elisabeth to her feet. Uncertain of his intentions, Elisabeth moved past the long row of servants, exchanging glances with Mrs. Pringle. Did she know what her master had in mind? Apparently not, for the housekeeper shook her head. Elisabeth turned to Marjory and Anne, thinking her family might have some clue what was afoot, but their hands were full of plates, and their wide-eyed expressions offered no answers.

  When Elisabeth reached the admiral’s side, he lifted his glass of claret and invited those gathered round his table to do likewise. She pressed her hands to her waist, if only to keep her stomach from fluttering. Whatever is
this about, milord?

  Still holding his glass aloft, the admiral explained, “In the clubs I once frequented in London, when a gentleman appeared in a new suit of clothing, he would stand before his friends and say, ‘Look how well my garments sit upon me.’ You know, from The Tempest.”

  His servants eyed one another, confusion written upon their features.

  Elisabeth blinked at him. “Surely, milord, you are not asking me to do the same? To praise my own work?”

  “Oh.” He lowered his glass. “I suppose that would be immodest.” He paused, as if seeking some graceful exit. “Am I to understand that ladies do not have such a custom when they appear in a new gown?”

  “We do not, milord,” she said as the maidservants laughed behind their hands. “But I’m grateful you noticed. I believe we all saw quite enough of my old gown.”

  “Hear, hear,” Roberts said, standing, then raising his goblet higher. “To Mrs. Kerr and her fine garment.”

  Chairs were hastily pushed back as the whole assembly followed suit. “To Mrs. Kerr.”

  Elisabeth was quite certain her skin matched the deep red claret—hairline to neckline—but she couldn’t look away and risk hurting their feelings. Instead she smiled as they took polite sips, dutifully noted her new garment, then sat down again.

  Before she could do the same, Lord Buchanan lightly captured her by the wrist. “Come, sit with me, madam. Mrs. Pringle will be glad to take your place at the foot of the table.”

  The housekeeper vacated her chair at once, leaving Elisabeth no choice but to sit at his left hand, which still encircled hers.

  “You must have one of Mrs. Tudhope’s orange tarts,” he said, leaning closer, his thumb rubbing against the inside of her wrist. “Though she’ll never confess it, her tarts require a fortnight to make. Something to do with soaking the fruit. And her puff paste is the finest I’ve ever tasted.”

  Elisabeth had not felt a man’s touch in so long that even his lordship’s innocent caress made her lightheaded. “Did you eat such rich fare on the Centurion?” she managed to ask.

  He laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Our diet consisted of salted pork, salted beef, and, on Tuesdays and Fridays, salted fish.” His lordship gently released her as Anne placed a flaky tart before each of them. He added, “I vowed that when I retired, I would eat well and eat often.”

  “And so you do,” Elisabeth said, looking at her plate, relieved for somewhere else to cast her gaze for a moment.

  Anne bent down and whispered in her ear, “I shall expect a full report on the walk home, Bess.”

  While the fiddlers tuned their instruments, Lord Jack consumed his tart in three or four bites, as did most folk seated at his table. Elisabeth barely tasted hers, still thinking about his touch. Did he, like Donald, find sport in toying with a woman’s affections? Or did the admiral not realize what his actions implied?

  Without preamble, the fiddlers began a tender air, their two instruments seamlessly blending melody and harmony. Elisabeth’s throat tightened as the familiar Highland tune swept her away to Castleton of Braemar. She imagined her father at his loom. Her mother at the hearth. Simon with his whetstone, sharpening his dirk. And in the inglenook, a neighbor with fiddle or flute playing a tune they all loved, “My Love’s Bonny When She Smiles on Me.”

  Just when Elisabeth thought she could not bear it another moment, she felt a woman’s hand on her shoulder. Marjory. She alone would understand why the music affected her so. By song’s end Elisabeth saw several round the room using their linen napkins as handkerchiefs. The fiddlers played a slow waltz next, equally moving.

  When a minor-key lament followed, threatening to drown the room in sorrow, Elisabeth motioned Lord Jack closer. “I wonder if you might you ask them to play a jig or a reel. Something more cheerful.”

  In a low voice the admiral confessed, “Michael Dalgliesh found the lads for me. Old friends from school, apparently. They play only at funerals.”

  “Oh.” Elisabeth leaned back in her seat and tried not to laugh. Or cry.

  The tall case clock in Lord Buchanan’s study was chiming the hour of ten when the musicians took their final bow. However melancholy their tunes, their playing was superb, and the household’s applause enthusiastic.

  “Your first supper was a great success, milord,” Elisabeth assured him.

  He seemed pleased as he bade his servants good night, sending them to their lodgings on the ground floor off the servants’ hall. The women resided on the east end of the mansion, the men on the west, with the kitchen and laundry rooms between them. Mrs. Tudhope and Mrs. Craig remained ever vigilant for midnight trysts.

  Only one servant among those hired on Whitsun Monday had been dismissed: Tibbie Cranshaw, who’d flirted shamelessly with the head footman and spoken out of turn on too many occasions. Elisabeth had seldom crossed paths with Tibbie, yet was not sorry to see her go.

  Once the dining room was empty, Marjory and the others made quick work of clearing the last of the dessert plates. When Elisabeth joined them, gathering the silverware, a frown crossed Lord Buchanan’s face.

  “ ’Tis not beneath me,” Elisabeth said gently. “Not if my mother-in-law is willing to do such work.”

  “As a gift,” Marjory reminded him, sallying out with an empty plate in each hand.

  With an exasperated sigh, the admiral picked up two wine goblets and followed the others through the hall and down the stair, then deposited the glasses in the hands of a startled young maid. While the rest of the household slept, the scullery maids would be scrubbing the night’s dishes, with a promise they could sleep until the forenoon.

  Lord Jack escorted his guests down the candlelit servants’ hall and through the rear entrance, then started across the grassy expanse, lantern in hand.

  “Milord?” Elisabeth hurried to keep up with his long stride, the others trailing close behind. “ ’Twould be better if we went round the other direction. This is hardly the way home.”

  “Nae, but it is the way to the stables. The hour is too late for traveling by foot, and the waning quarter moon will not light your path. I’ve asked Hyslop to take you home by coach.”

  “Och!” Michael Dalgliesh scoffed. “ ’Tis but two miles, milord, and a’ doon hill. We’ll be hame afore lang.”

  “He’s richt,” Gibson chimed in. “We’ll take guid care o’ the leddies. Won’t we, Peter?”

  “Aye.” The lad rubbed his eyes, his bedtime long past.

  But the admiral would not be dissuaded. “I do not hear the ladies protesting. You’ve all worked hard this day and deserve a bit of comfort.”

  When they reached the stables, they found the horses already harnessed and Timothy Hyslop and a footman waiting for them. The weary party was settled in their seats before another complaint, however feeble, might be raised.

  Elisabeth was the last to climb in. When she turned to lean out the open window and thank their host, he was standing in a pool of lantern light. His size and strength, his dark coloring and prominent features might be daunting, even alarming to someone who didn’t know him. But Lord Jack did not frighten her.

  “I shall see you on the morrow, milord.”

  “Depend upon it,” he said with a steady gaze, then stepped back, signaling the driver. “Carry on.”

  Forty-Six

  The showers of God’s grace fall

  into lowly hearts and humble souls.

  JOHN WORTHINGTON

  arjory did not see Lord Buchanan again until the following Sabbath at kirk. Despite the soggy, rainy weather, the admiral was dressed in a striking burgundy coat and waistcoat with nary a splash of mud on his boots. He greeted each Kerr woman individually before claiming the vacant seat next to Elisabeth.

  Marjory could hardly object in so public and sacred a place. Nor could she blame her daughter-in-law for brightening when his lordship appeared. Did not her own heart lift each time they met?

  She was turning to address Anne when her cousin suddenly rose. “
Come and sit with us, Gibson.”

  “Aye, please do.” Marjory patted the seat next to her. “My cousin won’t mind making room.”

  Gibson bowed as neatly as any gentleman. “Reverend Brown gave me leave to sit with ye.” Then he added in a low voice, “I think ’twas the ginger biscuits ye sent on Thursday last.”

  Marjory smiled. Her plan had worked.

  After he settled next to her on the pew, Gibson did a shocking thing: he quietly captured her hand, safely out of view beneath the folds of her skirt. When she didn’t pull away, his strong fingers, rough from years of work, tightened round hers.

  Oh my dear Gibson.

  Marjory could no longer deny her feelings, at least not to herself. I am falling in love with a servant. And not just any man in service but her own Gibson, her own dear friend. Nae, he was more than that. His warmth, his scent, his touch stirred something inside her that was well beyond friendship.

  Was it wrong, their mutual affection? In God’s eyes, in God’s Word, was it wrong?

  She knew the answer and was comforted by it. But society had its own rules, and they did not stretch this far. Only the very wealthy could afford to do as they pleased.

  Marjory lifted her head, gazing past the leaky roof and rotting beams. Give me wisdom, Lord. And courage. Aye, especially that.

  Hearing a slight commotion, she glanced down the pew and saw Michael and Peter Dalgliesh taking their seats next to Anne. Late as usual, though who could fault a man with a child to dress and no wife or valet to help him? Anne’s face glowed like a candle, even as Peter grinned broadly, showing off his latest missing tooth.

  Marjory well recalled young Donald on a similar occasion keeping his lips tightly closed, hoping no one would notice the gaps in his teeth, while Andrew ran up and down the kirk aisles, begging everyone to look.

  Gibson glanced at Peter, then bent his head toward hers. “Are ye thinking o’ yer lads?”

  “I am,” she confessed. Gibson had been there. He remembered too.