Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  While the ceremony continued, Jack argued with the king in his head. Can you not see what a good woman Bess is, Your Majesty? Can you not look beyond her Highland past? ’Twould be no easy thing to tell King George one of his admirals intended to marry the widow of an attainted rebel. But tell him Jack would, when the time came. Not because the king required it, but because the king’s blessing would keep Elisabeth safe forever.

  “Even so,” Anne was saying, her voice clear, “I take him before God and in the presence of his people.”

  Looking down at Elisabeth, Jack imagined her saying those words. Imagined their hands joined together. Imagined a benediction being spoken over them. Imagined the kiss that would seal their vows. As if sensing his thoughts, she turned to meet his gaze and smiled. “Isn’t it a lovely wedding?” she whispered.

  “Aye,” he whispered back. “Most assuredly.”

  Fifty-Eight

  I saw old Autumn in the misty morn

  Stand shadowless like silence, listening

  To silence.

  THOMAS HOOD

  lisabeth could not recall a lovelier first of September. The morning air was mild, the mist was lifting, and dew sparkled on every flower in Lord Jack’s garden. With a few minutes to spare before the start of her workday, she approached the sprawling shrub of roses blooming in colorful profusion, eager for a closer look.

  “Autumn damask?” she asked the gardener’s assistant, who stepped back, bobbing his head. She leaned toward the pale pink blossoms and inhaled their sweet perfume. “Too delicate for my mother’s Highland garden, I’m afraid, but they manage very well here in the Borderland.”

  “Aye, mem,” the young lad said, then offered her a pair of gardening shears. “His lordship willna mind if ye cut a few.”

  “You are certain?” She eyed the shears.

  Another hand reached round her and snatched them instead. “O’ course he doesna mind.” Rob MacPherson cut off a fresh bloom with a careless snip of the blades, leaving a stem too short for any vase.

  When he handed her the flower, she buried her nose in its velvety petals, vowing to find a small cup that might support it rather than let the beautiful rose go to waste. “One bloom is all I need,” she assured the lad, plucking the shears from Rob’s grasp and returning them to their rightful owner. “Do thank Mr. Richardson for me,” she said as the boy hurried off to attend to his duties elsewhere.

  “And wha might that be?” Rob grumbled. Once she told him Gil Richardson was the head gardener and well married, Rob’s frown eased.

  Were you prepared to be jealous of him too? Elisabeth held her tongue, continuing her early morning stroll round the garden. She felt sorry for Rob, so slavish was his devotion—nae, his obsession. During his first week at Bell Hill, he’d found endless excuses to visit her workroom, glared at every man she spoke with, and reminded her how much he’d done for her, how much he cared for her, how much he needed her.

  Even now, he was too close on her heels, throwing his broad shadow across her path as she paused to look up at Lord Jack’s study and see if she might catch a glimpse of him standing at the window, as he did some mornings. Not this one, it seemed.

  Rob touched the small of her back. “He doesna luve ye as I do.”

  She closed her eyes, feeling almost sick. “Mr. MacPherson, please …”

  When she started toward the house, he quickly caught up, this time snagging her elbow. “Bess, what must I do to win ye?”

  Pulling free of his grasp, she turned to face him, then told him in Gaelic, lest they be overheard, “I am not a game to be won, sir.”

  After a long pause Rob responded in kind, his words soft and low. “I feared our language was lost to you.”

  Elisabeth looked down at her damask rose, her throat tightening. “Never,” she whispered. She’d not heard their Highland tongue for many months, nor spoken it except for the single proverb she’d recited for Marjory.

  Rob stepped closer. “Please forgive me, lass. I meant no offense.”

  How could she speak unkindly to such a man? And yet she had to tell him the truth.

  “I am the one who must ask your forgiveness,” she confessed. “For I do not and cannot love you.” She forced herself to meet his gaze, knowing the pain she would find in those black depths. “I am grateful for the friendship we had as children. But we have grown into two very different people.”

  The lines across his brow deepened as he shifted back to English. “Is it money ye’re wanting? A rich husband, not a tailor?”

  “Nae.” She shook her head, certain of her answer. “I want only to honor the vow I made to my mother-in-law and to the Lord. If the Almighty has a husband for me, I will marry again someday. But ’twill not be soon.”

  “So ye say,” he growled, then quit the garden in a huff.

  Elisabeth managed to avoid Rob the rest of Monday by tarrying in her workroom. A handful of gowns remained to be sewn: two for upper housemaids, three for lower housemaids, all of whom were most anxious to match their peers. Elisabeth spent the day measuring the five of them, hoping she might speed the process for their sakes and enjoy their company in the bargain.

  Mrs. Pringle had trained her staff well. Each young woman was polite and quiet in demeanor, clean and neat in appearance. A maid named Biddy, all arms and legs, was grateful Elisabeth could lengthen her cuffs, making her arms appear less spindly. Elsie was a good deal rounder than the others and so asked, “Might ye add a wee trim about my neck so folk will leuk at my face and not my form?” Elisabeth assured her such a thing was easily done.

  Ada, with her ivory complexion and wheat-colored hair, was relieved her gown would feature a line of pearl buttons to brighten the charcoal gray fabric against her pale skin. Nessie was the youngest and smallest and so earned a dainty ruffle along the square neckline. And Muriel, who said no more than five words—“Aye,” “Nae,” and “Thank ye, mem”—was elated to know a row of pleats across the bodice would give the impression of fullness where there was none.

  When Sally swept into the room with her tea tray late in the afternoon, Elisabeth was surrounded with slates full of numbers and notations. Sally deposited her repast on the table, then smoothed her hands over her gown. “Mine is the bonniest,” she confided. “My ain mither says so.”

  Elisabeth smiled as the maidservant poured her tea. “I’m glad you’re pleased. A few more gowns, and I’ll be finished.”

  “But, Mrs. Kerr, ye canna leave us!” the lass cried, nearly filling the cup to overflowing. “Ye belong at Bell Hill.”

  “That will depend on his lordship.” Elisabeth rescued her cup, then took a sip, trying not to burn her lips. “If there’s sewing to be done, I shall be glad to stay.”

  Sally rolled her eyes. “If ye think his lordship wants ye for yer needle, ye’re not so canny as I thocht.”

  Elisabeth tried not to smile. “You know very well I cannot entertain such a notion, and neither can Lord Buchanan.”

  The lass tossed her russet hair, making her cap dance about. “Say what ye will, ye’ll be married afore lang. And not to the Hielander wha’s sewing for the lads.”

  “Nae,” Elisabeth agreed, “though I’m curious why you say so.”

  Sally’s voice dropped a notch. “At oor supper on Saturday last, the tailor didna take his eyes aff ye. But ye niver once leuked at him.”

  Elisabeth could hardly argue with so keen an observation.

  “Is he the reason ye’ve not stepped oot yer door a’ day?” Sally asked. When Elisabeth nodded, the bonny maidservant added, “If I see Mr. MacPherson walking doon this hall, I’ll tell him ye’re busy. Which ye are.” She winked, then quit the workroom with a skip in her step, leaving Elisabeth with her chalk-marked slates and her scattered thoughts.

  Only when the distant kirk bell began tolling the hour of six did Sally reappear, bearing a note in her hand and a rueful expression. “Mr. MacPherson bade me gie ye this, so I couldna say nae.”

  “Of course.” Elisa
beth tucked it inside her pocket to read on the way home. “A good eve to you, Sally.”

  The maidservant eyed her pocket. “And to ye, mem.”

  Elisabeth did not open the letter until she was halfway down Bell Hill, well out of anyone’s sight, Rob’s in particular. Just as Sally had said, Elisabeth felt his eyes on her all the time, watching her come and go.

  She paused at a wide spot on the road and broke the beeswax seal. The letter was brief, the paper inexpensive, but the Gaelic words chilled her heart.

  Monday, 1 September 1746

  Madam,

  You say you do not love me, but I know you better than you know yourself.

  Elisabeth’s heart sank. Oh, Rob. He did not know her at all. Nor did he listen to her. Cannot love you. That was what she’d said.

  When I spoke our Highland tongue this morn, your eyes rose to meet mine, and I saw the truth.

  What truth, Rob? He saw only what he wanted to see.

  As you did, Bess, with Donald? She winced, stung by the realization. Aye, she had lied to herself, denied the truth of her husband’s affairs, pretended he was a changed man when he was not. She knew about looking into a beloved’s eyes and imagining what she found there.

  No Lowlander will ever make you happy. But I can.

  She shook her head, saddened by Rob’s conviction. Would he never accept her refusal?

  When Michaelmas comes, I shall sail to the Americas. My father left a small inheritance, enough to buy passage for two. Come with me, Bess. We can make a future together.

  Nae, Rob. We have no future. Not together.

  She folded the letter, intending to slip it in the coal grate the moment she reached Anne’s house. ’Twas best if no one else knew of Rob’s delusion. She would handle this herself and spare her old friend any more embarrassment than necessary.

  Elisabeth looked across the western sky, where the sun had all but disappeared, leaving only a faint wash of orange glowing behind the hills. However uncertain the days to come, she knew the Lord had not forgotten her. Anne had thought herself a stayed lass, yet Michael had come round with his heart in his hands. Marjory had given up ever knowing the love of another man, yet Gibson had stepped forward with God’s leading and the minister’s blessing. Though the two had no definite plans, their love for each other shone clear and bright upon their faces.

  Might the Lord not have a future in mind for her as well? Elisabeth hoped so. Nae, she prayed so. She continued downhill, quickening her steps now that night was falling. One name beat inside her, warming her through, carrying her home.

  Fifty-Nine

  Our patience will achieve

  more than our force.

  EDMUND BURKE

  ack paused outside the open door to Rob MacPherson’s workroom, watching the man labor over a pair of trousers. His movements were swift and efficient, his expression intent, his finished work exemplary. Were it not for the Highlander’s preoccupation with Elisabeth, Rob would make a fine addition to Bell Hill’s staff.

  Jack knocked just before he entered. “Good morn to you, Mr. MacPherson.”

  The man turned toward the door, his features unchanging. “Milord.”

  A shiver ran down Jack’s spine. Aye, the air was cool and the furnishings sterile, with none of the warmth and coziness of Elisabeth’s workroom. But it was more than that. Rob MacPherson was like a block of ice cut from a northern loch in the dead of winter. Cold, hard, impenetrable. Jack drew up a chair, determined to find a way in.

  “Working on another livery, I see,” Jack began. “For one of the footmen?”

  Rob nodded his dark, bushy head. “A tall lad by the name o’ Gregor.” He held up the trousers, the fabric draping onto the flagstones. “He’ll be newly dressed by Friday.”

  “Very good.” Jack shifted in his seat, hearing a faint jingle from the extra guineas in his waistcoat pocket. He’d come prepared to dismiss Mr. MacPherson if it came to it. To pay him for work he’d not yet performed and send him whence he’d come. None could fault a master who rewarded a servant in full.

  But the idea did not sit well with Jack. He would hear out Rob MacPherson before deciding the man’s future at Bell Hill.

  “I was sorry not to see you in kirk on Sunday morn,” Jack said, keeping his tone light.

  Rob shrugged. “I didna ken if I’d be walcome.”

  “We’d be more than glad to have you.” Jack almost clapped him on the shoulder as a friendly gesture, then thought better of it. “I shall save a place for you in the Kerr aisle next Sabbath,” he promised, to which Rob offered no response. Was the man ungodly? A pagan? Jack knew almost nothing of Rob’s history. Only that he was born and raised in Braemar parish. Like Bess.

  “Did you settle in Castleton after leaving Edinburgh?” Jack asked him. An innocent question, he thought.

  Rob’s eyes narrowed. “Why d’ye care whaur I lived?”

  “ ’Tis Mrs. Cromar I have in mind,” Jack explained. “If you spent the summer in Castleton, you must have seen her on several occasions. Mrs. Kerr is concerned about her mother’s welfare, as am I, having met her husband.”

  Rob abruptly stood, casting aside cloth and needle. “Ye’ve no richt to speak ill o’ Ben Cromar.”

  “He’s a friend of yours, then?” Jack rose and faced him directly, not in the least intimidated by the man, however fierce his countenance.

  Rob finally admitted, “Cromar’s a freen, aye.”

  “Would you say he’s a good husband?”

  He frowned at that. “What d’ye mean by guid?”

  “Does he protect her, provide for her, care for her?” Jack felt his voice rising and his temper with it. “Is Mrs. Cromar safe in his company?”

  “O’ course she’s safe,” Rob said with an ugly sneer. “He’s her husband.”

  Jack grit his teeth, his patience dwindling. “Let us be clear on this, Mr. MacPherson. You’ve never seen Cromar strike her?”

  “Nae,” Rob said firmly.

  “Never noticed any marks on her? Bruises, gashes?”

  This response came more slowly. “She once told me she bruised easily.”

  Before Rob averted his gaze, Jack saw the truth in his eyes.

  He turned on his heels and began pacing the room, sorting out his options, which were few. Sir John Murray had already informed him that the Sheriff of Aberdeen would not likely get involved. “Not for a few bruises,” Sir John had said. Would no one come to this woman’s rescue until she was bloodied and beaten? Or would her death alone bring the law to her cottage door?

  Rob spoke up. “If ye’re finished here, milord, I’ve wark to do.”

  “Work, is it?” He jerked round and felt the coins in his pocket shift. “Was it work that brought you to Bell Hill? Or was it Elisabeth Kerr?”

  When Rob did not respond quickly enough to suit him, Jack took a step closer. “As your employer, I’ve a right to know.” Well, he did, didn’t he?

  “I told ye why I came.” Rob sat down and reached for the fabric with its many sharp pins. “Mrs. Cromar kenned ye needed a tailor and wanted a man she could trust round her daughter.”

  Jack stared at him. But does her daughter trust you? Only Elisabeth could answer that question. “We’ll finish this discussion another time, Mr. MacPherson.”

  Vexed, Jack headed for the workroom on the opposite side of the ground floor, hoping his ire might cool as he strode through the servants’ halls. He’d not spoken with Elisabeth on Monday and felt her absence keenly. Perhaps they might go riding together in the afternoon if the weather held.

  Jack rounded the corner and found her busy with her chalk. “Mrs. Kerr.” He felt better at once, just seeing her. “Might I have a word?”

  “Aye.” She was quieter than usual, though glad enough for his company, it seemed. “You’re here on a mission,” she said, perceptive as ever.

  Only then did he notice the slates scattered round the room. “What’s this?”

  “Measurements for the remaining gow
ns.”

  So few. An ache spread across his chest. “Are you in a hurry to leave Bell Hill?”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Not at all, milord. The lasses are eager for their gowns, so I spent most of yesterday measuring each one.”

  Jack told her the truth to see where it might lead. “I hoped you were avoiding Rob MacPherson.”

  “Aye, that too.” She pressed her lips together as if reluctant to say more on the subject.

  He took a seat. “I spoke with Mr. MacPherson just now. We discussed your mother.”

  Her hands stilled. “And?”

  Jack related their conversation, withholding nothing, though it pained him to see Elisabeth’s skin grow pale and her eyes fill with sorrow. “This is not the end of it,” he promised her. “I cannot by law remove a woman from her husband’s home. But I can send a trustworthy man north to watch over her.”

  “You would do that?”

  He nodded, wishing he might clasp her hand or touch her cheek. Anything to comfort her. “What good is money if it cannot be spent on a worthy cause?”

  “But you give so freely,” she said, shaking her head as if confused.

  “I’ll not be thought of as generous, Bess.” He leaned forward, determined to make himself understood. “Just as I said on the day we met, anything you receive from me is God’s blessing, not mine.”

  She wasn’t quite satisfied. “It still passes through your hands.”

  “Then I have only to leave them open so the Almighty may do as he pleases.” Jack held out his hands, palms up, meaning only to illustrate his point.

  But Elisabeth slowly placed her hands in his.

  He dared not move or breathe or speak, lest he frighten her away.

  When she bowed her head, he did the same, closing his eyes, reveling in her gentle touch.

  “Almighty God,” she whispered, “protect and provide for those I love. Whatever is to come, Lord, I know ’twill come from you.”

  Jack longed to draw her closer, to hold her in his embrace. Instead, he lifted his head and honored the One who’d brought her into his life. “Trust him, Bess.”

  “Always,” she promised, her hands still resting in his.