As the precentor sang the first line of the gathering psalm, Gibson squeezed her hand once more, then eased away. Marjory was both saddened and relieved. She could not risk Reverend Brown looking down from on high and noticing their hands joined. Not when he’d expressed such opposition to their growing friendship.
Marjory had rehearsed his words many times. One might think Neil Gibson had designs on you. She eyed the black-gowned minister, now waiting to ascend his pulpit. And what if I have designs on him, Reverend? Even the thought made her skin warm.
The sermon that dreich and dreary Sabbath morning was taken from Zechariah. Speaking slowly, deliberately, and with conviction, Reverend Brown seemed quite adamant that his congregation take heed of his words. “Execute true judgment,” he recited from memory. “Show mercy and compassions every man to his brother.” His fierce gaze raked across his audience, landing on one parishioner, then another. Folk squirmed in their seats and looked round the sanctuary, but the minister still did not relent.
When he said, “Oppress not the widow, nor the fatherless, the stranger, nor the poor,” Marjory was quite certain his eyes were directed at the Kerr pew, where two widows sat, both fatherless and poor. When the sermon finally ended, Marjory stood, anxious to move about, to escape the conflicting thoughts batting about inside her like moths trapped in a clay jar.
Gibson is a servant, yet a fine one. And I am a lady, yet a poor one.
Lord Buchanan announced to those in the Kerr pew, “Mrs. Pringle has sent me with a rather large dinner basket. Since the weather will not suit for a picnic, shall we find a spot with a fine prospect where we might dine together in the dry confines of my carriage? Unless, of course, you have other plans.”
Anne chuckled. “Milord, we have cold mutton and stale bread at home. Whatever is in your basket will be most welcome.”
Disappointed that Gibson could not join them, Marjory bade him farewell. “I hope I shall see you soon,” she murmured, then watched Gibson make his way through the crowd, not far behind the admiral, who was off to summon his carriage.
As Marjory and Elisabeth started down the aisle, Anne walked ahead of them, one hand tucked round the crook of Michael Dalgliesh’s elbow, the other firmly clasping Peter’s hand. With each step the threesome drew closer together, matching their strides, smiling into one another’s faces.
“Did you know about this?” Marjory gestured toward the small family in the making.
“Annie has always cared for him,” Elisabeth admitted. “Michael is finally free to return her affections. And Peter adores her, as you can see.”
Marjory heard something in her voice. Not regret, not sadness, not envy. Longing, perhaps.
When they all reached Kirk Wynd, freshly dampened by the rain, Lord Buchanan was waiting with his coach, as promised. The six of them were soon seated inside, dry and cozy.
“Hyslop has assured me we’ll not be disappointed with the view,” Lord Buchanan told them as the carriage jolted forward. “Come, Peter, let me see that new gap in your teeth.”
The lad, seated in his father’s lap, turned to his lordship and opened wide.
The admiral’s frown was exaggerated, the shaking of his head more so. “However shall we fill that? Perhaps I should ask Mrs. Pringle for a china teacup. Mr. Richardson might have a gardening tool that would serve. Or shall your father stitch you a new tooth? One made of black wool would be very dashing.”
Peter giggled as only a boy of seven can. “Faither says I’ll grow new teeth a’ by myself.”
Lord Buchanan feigned shock. “Certainly not during the day, when people are watching.”
“Nae!” Peter cried. “At nicht while I sleep.”
All through their playful exchange, Marjory watched Anne’s gaze shift from Michael to Peter and back again, the love in her eyes unmistakable. Only a fool could have missed such a thing. And you, Marjory Kerr, are certainly that.
Anne piped up with a question. “Lord Buchanan, will you be needing our services for your next household supper?”
“Nae, madam, for I could not possibly expect all of you to serve me again. I’ve asked a half-dozen servants from the Philiphaugh estate to join us on the thirty-first.”
“And what o’ the fiddlers, milord?” Michael asked.
The admiral glanced at Elisabeth. “I’ve something different in mind for this month’s supper. After our dessert we shall move to the drawing room, where I’ve arranged for several musicians to play. Once we’ve banished the furniture, that is.”
“For dancing!” Elisabeth’s eyes sparkled. “Well done, milord.”
He tipped his head. “I believe you were the one who called for a reel or a jig.”
“Aye, but as a widow, I cannot dance.” Her careless shrug belied her feelings.
“I do not care for it myself,” Lord Buchanan confessed.
Whether he spoke the truth or meant simply to put Elisabeth at ease Marjory could not tell. She slipped her arm round Elisabeth’s shoulders. “Your dancing days are far from over, my dear. Half the year has already slipped through our fingers. Why, autumn is almost upon us. Isn’t that so, Admiral?”
He settled his gaze on Elisabeth. “I am counting the days, madam.”
Forty-Seven
My lord a-hunting he is gane,
But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane.
ROBERT BURNS
or you, milord.” Roberts placed a slender letter in his hands.
Jack broke the thick seal, curious about the contents. “Do we know who it’s from?” He’d received little correspondence during his months in Selkirkshire. Once a navy man came ashore, his shipmates soon forgot him. Even the king had been quiet of late, though that sleeping giant could rouse at any moment.
Roberts opened the study curtains farther, bathing Jack’s desk in late afternoon sunlight. “Sir John Murray of Philiphaugh,” he informed him.
“Aye, here’s his signature.” Jack smoothed out the creases. “Remind me who is dining with us this eve?”
“The Chisholms of Broadmeadows, milord, with their daughter, Miss Susan Chisholm. If you care to review the menu—”
“I prefer to be surprised,” Jack said, already engrossed in reading. “But thank you, Roberts.” As the butler quietly departed, Jack settled back in his chair with Sir John’s brief letter.
To Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan
Bell Hill, Selkirkshire
Saturday, 2 August 1746
Lord Jack:
Might you care to join me for a fortnight of hunting in the Highlands? August is a fine month for deer stalking and grouse shooting. I can promise heather moorlands and waterfalls, golden eagles and peregrine falcons, and at our dinner table, venison, salmon, and pheasant.
Jack’s brows lifted. Well, sir. You have my attention. He scanned the rest of the letter, noting the details, all to his liking. A fine hunting lodge. Magnificent scenery. A gamekeeper to guide them. Hours of amiable conversation.
Had he not grown restless on occasion? Longing for the sea, missing his London companions? Having traveled no farther north in Scotland than Edinburgh, Jack knew at once how he’d respond to the man’s generous invitation. He dashed off a letter and put it in his butler’s hands a quarter hour later. “Have one of the stable lads deliver this for me,” he told Roberts, then headed for the turnpike stair leading down to the servants’ hall, Sir John’s letter in hand.
Jack paused halfway down the steps, a question nagging at him. When he had good or bad news to report, why was Elisabeth Kerr the first person who came to mind? The answer was patently obvious: she was always the first person who came to mind, from the moment he lifted his head each morning until his last waking thought at night.
A moment later Jack strolled through the door of her workroom, waving his letter like an eager schoolboy on his first outing. “I am soon bound for Braemar,” he told her. “With any luck I’ll bring home a brace of red grouse.”
She looked up, Charbon curled at her feet. “Is that so, milord
?”
Jack saw at once she was troubled, though by what he could not imagine. He claimed the empty chair beside her, drawing it as near as he dared. “What is it, Bess?”
“No doubt you’ve forgotten, but Braemar is my home.”
He frowned. “I thought it was Castleton …” Well done, Jack. As if Scotland had only one castle town.
“Castleton of Braemar,” she said. “I wonder if you might …” She paused. “If you might deliver a letter to my mother. Unless ’tis an inconvenience. I write her almost every month and know the cost of my posts must be a burden to her.”
“ ’Twill be my pleasure,” he said, glad for any chance to serve her.
“I do wonder if ’tis wise to travel north,” she said, “with the Duke of Cumberland still menacing the Highlands.”
“The king’s son has no quarrel with me,” Jack assured her. “In any case, I will have a gun in hand and Dickson by my side. We are to lodge with Sir John and his manservant at the Mar estate, owned by a Mr. Duff.”
“William Duff.” She sighed pensively. “I suppose you’ll be safe enough there.”
Any thoughts of red grouse or fresh salmon vanished when he realized she was concerned for his welfare. Emboldened, he took her hand. “You can be sure I’ll return in one piece.”
“One can never be certain of such things,” she said. “I thought my husband would return from war, and he did not.”
Lord Donald Kerr. In all their many discussions, they’d shared few words about the man who’d loved her, married her, then left her a widow. Did she love him still? Would she mourn him always? Is there hope for me? That was the question Jack most wanted to ask but could not.
“What might you tell me about Lord Donald?” he inquired at last, letting her decide how much, or how little, to reveal about her marriage.
She did not withdraw her hand, though her tone grew cooler. “My husband was everything a gentleman should be. Well read, well traveled, well educated, well mannered. He was also one thing a gentleman should never be.”
Jack waited, his heart thudding in his chest. What is it, Bess? He sorted through his memories of their conversations. Perhaps she’d hinted at this before. Was Donald Kerr a drunkard? A gambler? A liar? A coward? Thinking to put her at ease, Jack assured her, “Whatever his weakness, I will not think less of the man. Nor of you for marrying him.”
She turned her head away as her limp hand slipped from his grasp. “My husband was unfaithful to me. Repeatedly.”
Jack stared at her, certain he’d misunderstood. “You do not mean he—”
“Aye.”
He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “It is not possible,” he finally said. “No gentleman with you by his side would ever look anywhere else.”
“Nonetheless, he did, milord.” Elisabeth rose, casting aside her sewing. “He confessed as much to me, both in person and on paper. And I met one of his … women. I can assure you, ’tis more than possible.” She moved to the hearth, then stood with her back to him, her shoulders bent from the weight of her burden.
Go to her, Jack. Do something, say something.
He was on his feet and walking toward her before he had time to think of what he might say or do. He wanted to kill the man, but Donald Kerr was already dead. He wanted to take Elisabeth in his arms, though for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to—
“Forgive me, milord.” She turned round just as he reached her, then, startled, lost her balance and began falling backward toward the fire.
“Bess!” He caught her in his embrace, meaning only to spare her. For an instant he felt her heart beating against his chest and her warm breath on his cheek.
“Pardon me,” she murmured, quickly pulling free. “I did not realize you were so close.”
Jack looked down at the floor, at his boots, at Charbon. Anything to clear his mind. The last thing Elisabeth Kerr needed was a gentleman making advances toward her, however unintentionally. “Your husband’s behavior was unconscionable,” he said in a low voice, fighting to control his emotions. “Not all men are unfaithful.”
After a long silence she said, “At least my father honored his vows to my mother.”
Jack nodded, his anger and frustration beginning to abate. “I would have expected no less from the man who fathered you.”
She reclaimed her chair and began sewing again, her needle moving in and out of the fabric. The steady rhythm seemed to calm her. Perhaps his fortnight in the Highlands would be a blessing for Elisabeth. A relief simply to sew and not have a retired admiral seeking her company at every turn.
Watching her, Jack tallied her labors thus far. Nine gowns were finished. Nine gowns remained. And then what, Lord? Shall I find her more work come Saint Andrew’s Day? Or must I bid her farewell?
No decision was required at the moment. He would go a-hunting in Braemar and perhaps learn something of her family. “I shall depart two days hence,” Jack told her, trying to gauge her reaction, “and will return long before month’s end.”
Elisabeth’s hands stilled. “Then you’ll not be here for Saint Lawrence Fair.”
“I’m afraid not. But with the marketplace below your window, you and your family won’t miss a moment.”
“Nae, I suppose not.” Her needle began moving again. “But we will miss you, milord.”
Forty-Eight
Came but for friendship,
and took away love.
THOMAS MOORE
lisabeth gazed down at the flood of strangers pouring into Selkirk and imagined eight days of eating and drinking, bartering and trading, dancing and merrymaking. Lord Jack was right: they could hardly miss the fair with its colorful sights, pungent smells, and riotous sounds hovering over the town like a low bank of thunderclouds, charging the air with electricity.
Anne joined her at the window, her shoulder pressing against Elisabeth’s arm. “The town council threw open the ports at dawn and will not close them again ’til Monday next.”
“However will we sleep at night?” Elisabeth wondered.
“With the windows closed,” Marjory said firmly, “and wool in our ears.” Standing at the hearth, she neatly turned over a barley bannock, despite working with a hot girdle and a thin cake the size of a dinner plate.
“I’ll not mind the wool,” Anne agreed, “but ’tis too warm for closed windows.”
Elisabeth moved toward the washstand and away from the fire. She was already overheated, and the August day had barely begun. They’d not don their gowns until absolutely necessary—one of the advantages of living in a house with three women. Stays, chemises, stockings, and shoes were covering enough for the moment.
As she splashed cool water on her face, Elisabeth thought of Lord Jack doing the same in some sparkling Highland burn. He’d already been gone a full week, though it seemed even longer. Bell Hill felt empty without him. So did the kirk yesterday morning. Elisabeth tried not to speak of him, lest someone misunderstand. They were simply friends. Good friends. Very good friends.
The same could not be said of Cousin Anne and Michael Dalgliesh, who’d traded friendship for courtship nearly two months past. Michael came calling most evenings, bringing Peter along with a treat from the market to add to their supper. A new spice. Honey in a clay jar. A handful of carrots. Five juicy plums. Marjory seemed pleased to have a man at their table and a boy even more so. Peter had grown at least an inch since they’d arrived in Selkirk and would attend the parish school in the fall, just down the close from his father’s shop.
Elisabeth looked at Anne pulling out her lace making supplies, her small hands and nimble fingers well suited to the work. Since Michael had begun to court her, a smile was seldom far from Anne’s lips. Michael already grinned round the clock, but the heated look in his eyes whenever he took Anne’s hand was enough to make Elisabeth blush and turn her head.
Whatever was the man waiting for? Michael was already a successful tailor, and Anne would make him more so. His son adored her, and
the lodgings over their shop could easily accommodate another. Elisabeth could think of no impediment to marriage, save one: Michael was afraid of losing a second wife and of Peter’s losing a second mother. Elisabeth could not fault the man for his caution. But she could pray.
Let him trust in you, Lord. Let him take a leap of faith.
She smiled, looking across the room at Anne, thinking of them together, certain they were meant for each other. In her heart of hearts, Elisabeth felt only joy and not an ounce of envy. Well, perhaps a tiny bit when it came to Peter. What a charming companion he would be at the fair! If she asked nicely, the wee lad might let her hold his hand again.
“Breakfast,” Marjory sang out, pouring three steaming cups of tea.
The women were soon seated at table, enjoying warm bannocks with Michael’s gift of honey, fresh from the comb.
“When shall we venture out?” Marjory wanted to know.
“The earlier the better,” Anne insisted. “As the day goes on and the whisky flows, ’tis a less sanguine place for a woman on her own.”
“But we’ll not be alone,” Elisabeth reminded her. “The Dalgliesh men will see that we’re safe.”
Anne winked at her over her teacup. “Too bad a certain admiral is away. There’s not a man in Selkirkshire, or any county round, who would challenge Lord Buchanan.”
Elisabeth couldn’t agree more and said absolutely nothing.
“Odd,” Marjory mused, “that the sheriff is off hunting in the Highlands during Saint Lawrence Fair. Should he not be here keeping the peace?”
“ ’Tis not necessary,” Anne replied as she folded her bannock with care, honey trickling over her fingers. Between dainty bites she explained the rules of the fair. “There are no restrictions on who can trade, and no one is to be arrested, except for some terrible crime, which never happens with so many witnesses.”
Elisabeth glanced toward the window, sensing the size of the crowd swelling. “Those are the only rules?”
Anne laughed. “It is rather carefree. One year the fair was canceled, when the plague struck in June, but that was more than a century ago. In my lifetime it’s been a grand place to meet folk from neighboring counties. Our fair is proclaimed from all the mercat crosses round. Hawick, Jedburgh, Kelso, Melrose, even as far away as Linlithgow.” She downed the last of her tea and stood. “I, for one, am getting dressed.”
Mine Is the Night Page 26
