Sixty
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark …
Let no such man be trusted.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
lisabeth woke at dawn on Wednesday morning, having slept poorly. All through the night she’d shifted about in her chair, seeking a more comfortable position, trying to escape her troubling dreams. Rob MacPherson appeared in most of them: a brooding figure wearing shapeless attire and a permanent scowl.
“Is he still convinced you’ll marry him someday?” Marjory inquired over their bowls of porridge. “He may be a dozen years younger than Lord Buchanan, but I fear Rob has nothing else to recommend him.”
Elisabeth winced at her mother-in-law’s heartless assessment. “Mr. MacPherson was a good friend to us in Edinburgh.”
“Michael Dalgliesh has befriended the Kerr family as well,” Marjory said, “but ’tis not why Anne married the man.”
After finishing the last spoonful of porridge, Elisabeth gulped down her tea, mindful of the hour. The sun rose a little later each day, yet she was still expected at eight o’ the clock. “Anne is joining us for supper, aye? I should be home earlier than usual since Lord Buchanan has invited guests to share his table, and so will not likely detain me. Sir John and Lady Murray are bringing their daughters.”
Marjory made a slight face. “I suppose the sheriff is hoping Lord Buchanan will offer for Rosalind, even though she’s half his age.”
“You were eight-and-ten when you married,” Elisabeth reminded her gently. “And Lord John was more than twenty years older than you.” She leaned across the table and clasped Marjory’s hand. “Of course, Gibson is far younger than that. Handsome, too, if you’ll not mind my saying so.”
A smile found its way to Marjory’s face. “He is fine looking. And kind. And attentive.”
Elisabeth wished she too might speak of the man who’d captured her heart. But Lord Jack was not a manservant; he was a peer of the realm, who deserved someone like Rosalind Murray. Even though he seldom mentioned her, Elisabeth had watched Lady Murray’s relentless campaign unfold all summer. What gentleman with eyes in his head could resist such a prize?
After the breakfast dishes were cleared Elisabeth left for Bell Hill and stopped by Walter Halliwell’s shop to deliver a plate of fresh ginger biscuits. “Mrs. Kerr made an extra dozen,” she told their landlord, “thinking you might enjoy them.”
“Most kind,” the wigmaker said, popping a small biscuit into his mouth. A moment later, still chewing, he asked, “Are ye bound for Bell Hill? Might I trouble ye to deliver a wig to his lordship?”
When he handed her a gentleman’s peruke wrapped in a cloth bag, Elisabeth had little choice but to take it. She had no objection to the errand, only to the rather personal nature of the item. Bidding the wigmaker farewell, she stepped out of his tidy shop and into the close that bore his name, hoping she might deliver the peruke to Roberts or Dickson and so avoid any embarrassment.
But it was not to be.
As she reached the gates leading to the mansion, Lord Jack trotted up on Janvier. Taking his morning ride, it seemed, without coat or hat, the full sleeves of his shirt ruffling in the breeze. “What have you there?” he asked, his gaze resting on her round bundle. “Balls of yarn to amuse my cat?”
“Nae, ’tis something for you,” she said, holding it up. “From Mr. Halliwell.”
“Ah.” He claimed the bag at once. “Shame on Walter for turning my talented dressmaker into an errand boy.” As Janvier pawed at the ground, clearly eager to stretch his legs, his lordship surprised her with an invitation. “Might you join me for dinner at two o’ the clock?”
“If it pleases you,” she said, thinking of someone who would not be at all pleased.
Even without a watch like Mrs. Pringle’s in her apron pocket, Elisabeth knew the dinner hour was approaching. The nearby kitchen was in a frenzy, with Mrs. Tudhope at the center of it.
’Tis time, Bess. She bathed her hands, prayed for a calm spirit, and started toward the stair, greeting everyone she passed, hoping to dispel any rumors.
It was not a sin to share a meal with her employer, she told herself. Footmen and maidservants would be in and out of the dining room from one course to the next. The two would never be alone. In an hour dinner would be over, and she could return to her sewing, her only regret a too-full stomach.
“Bess?” A whisper, nothing more.
She turned at the foot of the stair and discovered Rob moving toward her. “What is it?” she asked, certain he meant to speak of his letter, of his plans for the Americas.
His voice was low, yet his tone harsh, strident. “D’ye not ken what they’re saying, Bess? From one end o’ the hoose to the ither?”
“Please, Mr.—”
“They’re calling ye his leddy. D’ye ken my meaning?”
His mistress. She swallowed. “I do understand, but ’tis not true.”
He inched closer. “Can ye say there is naught atween ye? Nae luve at a’?”
Elisabeth straightened, meeting his gaze without apology. “Whatever may be in our hearts, you can be very sure our behavior has been utterly chaste. Lord Buchanan honors the Lord at all times, and I hope I do as well.” She took her skirts in hand, her thoughts halfway up the turnpike stair. “You must forgive me, but his lordship is expecting me this very moment.”
“We’ll speak o’ this again, Bess,” he said, more warning than assurance.
She fled up the steps, praying she was being honest with herself and with the Almighty. My thoughts are honorable, Lord, yet I do care for Lord Jack. Very much.
By the time Elisabeth reached the dining room, she was breathless, not from exertion, but from anticipation. “Milord,” she said, offering him a low curtsy, if only to calm herself. She was soon seated facing a window overlooking Bell Hill’s gardens, then was served a glass of claret, which she politely declined.
“None for me either,” Lord Jack told the footman, then settled into his chair at the head of the table, the carved wooden back arching above him at a regal height. “ ’Tis the middle of the day, and I would have my wits about me.”
“As would I,” she agreed.
They smiled at each other across the table while dishes came and went in a steady flow. He told her stories of his years on the Centurion. Of tumultuous seas and fearsome storms. Of torn sails and lost trade winds.
“Were you ever frightened, milord?”
He paused, his water glass halfway to his lips. “If I say nae, I’ll appear proud. If I say yes, a coward.” Lord Jack took a long sip, then admitted, “Aye, there was a moment when I feared our ship might founder on the shoals near Tinion. But God is faithful and came to our rescue with a stout wind that pushed us out to sea.” He put down his empty water glass, swiftly replenished by a silent footman. “What frightens you, Mrs. Kerr? Not poverty, it seems. Nor hard work.”
“Nae.” She dabbed at her mouth, unable to eat another bite. “As the Buik says, I have learned to be content.”
He nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “You’ve too many friends to ever fear loneliness.”
“Friends, aye,” she said softly.
“What of Mr. MacPherson?”
His question caught her off guard. “Milord?”
“Is he a trustworthy man, this Highland tailor? For I must say, if there is anyone or anything you seem afraid of, ’tis him.”
Afraid of Rob? She shook her head. “He would never hurt me. As for trusting him.” She paused, not wishing to cast doubt unfairly. “In all our dealings in Edinburgh, he always honored his promises.”
By the look on his face, Lord Jack saw through her careful wording, but he did not press the matter. “Are you quite sated?” he asked, eying her dessert plate, where only a smudge of lemon cream remained.
She smiled. “I’ll not need supper, if that’s what you mean.”
“Nor will I,” he admitted, “though it seems I’ll have guests at my table th
is eve.”
Elisabeth waited, hoping he might say something about Rosalind Murray. That he abhorred her, that he adored her—anything to put the subject to rest. On second thought, Elisabeth did not want to hear the latter. Nae, she did not.
When she started to rise, the admiral quickly did the same. “A fine meal, milord,” she told him.
He offered her a courtly bow. “With even finer company.”
Only then did she happen to gaze out the window and notice an abrupt change in the weather. Low, gray clouds were scuttling across the heavens, and a sharp wind lashed the tree branches against the outer walls of the house.
“We’ll have rain before nightfall,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Let me have the carriage brought round for you at six o’ the clock.”
Elisabeth hesitated, tempted by his generosity, yet not wanting to give the household more fodder for their gossip. “Nae,” she said at last, “for ’tis an easy walk and all downhill.”
“You are certain, Mrs. Kerr?”
She stole another glance out the window. “Aye.”
Sixty-One
My day is closed!
the gloom of night is come!
JOANNA BAILLIE
efore the kirk bell tolled the hour of six, Elisabeth flew out the servants’ entrance, anxious to reach home. The skies were black with clouds, the sun had all but disappeared below the horizon, and the temperature had plummeted since she’d left Halliwell’s Close that morning. A storm was coming hard and fast from the west.
Why had she refused his lordship’s kind offer of a coach? Too late now, for she did not care to interrupt him with the Murrays expected. Rain was merely water, she reminded herself.
Elisabeth hastened across the lawn, clutching her hat in one hand and her sewing basket in the other. She’d promised to alter one of Anne’s gowns that evening after supper and would not disappoint her. Then she looked down and realized her scissors weren’t dangling round her neck. Nae!
She spun about, thinking to return to her workroom, until she remembered Anne’s small lace making scissors. Aye, those would do. Elisabeth started for home once more, practically running by the time she reached the road leading west toward town.
Dark, dark. And in the distance a roll of thunder.
Though she had no lantern, the lights of Selkirk beckoned her forward. Elisabeth well knew the steep, narrow track, having traveled it twice daily throughout the long summer. She started downhill, hair blowing in her face, her steps cautious. She could see her outstretched hand, but no farther. The air had a hollow sound as more thunder rumbled overhead.
At the first broad curve rested an enormous boulder the size of his lordship’s carriage. She’d nearly reached the other side of it when a large man stepped into her path.
“Oh!” She exhaled, bending forward as if she’d been punched. “Goodness, Rob, you startled me.”
The tailor took her arm rather firmly and led her round the boulder to a small patch of grass where clumps of spiny gorse stood guard and Rob’s small traveling bundle lay waiting. “I couldna speak with ye at the hoose, so I thocht to do so here.”
“Here?” She stared at Rob, his eyes blacker than the sky. “But the storm—”
“Sit with me, Bess,” he said, almost as if he’d not heard her.
Elisabeth was not afraid, but she was confused as she gingerly sat on the cool ground. Rob joined her, grunting slightly. Whether on purpose or by accident, he sat on her gown, pinning her in place.
When he spoke again, he looked straight ahead, his voice low but sharp. “Whatsomever were ye thinking dining with his lordship?”
Is that what this is about? “Rob, it was a meal. We were surrounded by servants—”
“I see the way he leuks at ye. I ken what’s on his mind.”
“You misjudge him,” she insisted. “Lord Buchanan is a good man, a righteous man—”
“Then ye mean to marry him.”
“Marry? Have you forgotten I’m in mourning?”
“Nae.” He turned to her. “But ye have.” His hand circled her forearm, drawing her closer. “I’ve waited a lang time for ye, Bess. I’ll not lose ye to anither.”
When she saw the hardness in his features, the darkness in his eyes, fear began seeping into her heart as surely as the cold had begun seeping through her skirts. Yet she clung to her resolve. “If I’m to marry again, the Almighty will choose my husband.”
“Micht he not choose me?”
“I’ve never seen you in kirk,” she reminded him even as he tightened his grip on her. “Not on all the Sundays we lived in Edinburgh.”
He snorted. “This from a lass wha hails the moon.”
“Not anymore,” she said fervently. “I belong to God.”
“Nae, Bess.” He pulled her against his chest and held her there. “Ye belong to me.”
She tried to wriggle free from his rough embrace. “Rob, please …”
But he was too strong for her. He pushed her back against the ground, the weight of his body almost more than she could bear. She could not move. She could not breathe.
“Stop it, Rob!” she cried, her voice thin, pinched.
Then his mouth was on hers, demanding a response.
Help me, Lord! Please, please. With great effort she finally escaped Rob’s brutal kiss, her skin burning as her cheek scraped against the stubble of his beard.
But Rob did not relent. With his breath warming her ear, he made clear his intentions. “Ye’ll not deny me, Bess. I’ve luved ye too lang and kenned ye too weel.” He kissed the curve of her neck, hard, without tenderness or affection, then reached for her skirts.
“Nae, Rob!” She bucked against him, lifting her shoulders, trying to throw him off balance. “You do not … mean … this …”
“Aye, but I do,” he growled, holding her down by the sheer bulk of him. “If I canna marry ye, then I’ll have ye just the same.”
“Please, Rob,” she begged him, beginning to weep as he forced her knees apart. “Please … don’t …”
He was no longer listening. He no longer cared.
But God was listening and cared very much. “Father!” she cried. “Father, don’t let him hurt me …”
Rob cut her off. “Yer faither is deid.”
She drew a ragged breath. “But my heavenly Father is not.”
Neither of them moved, though the wind roared and the thunder bore down on them.
Then, with his head turned, Rob finally released her and rose to his knees and then to his feet, while she hastily rearranged her gown, her hands trembling.
Rob stood with his back to her now. His rage appeared to be spent. Even in the darkness she could see the sloped line of his shoulders.
Standing, Elisabeth touched her face, her neck, certain she would find bruises in the morning. But she was not badly injured. She was not defiled. Thank you, Father.
Suddenly her knees felt weak, and her limbs began to shake. Fresh tears slipped down her cheeks as she slowly backed away from Rob, her emotions spinning. Fear, relief, anger were all jumbled inside her.
For a moment she thought she might faint or be sick. More than anything she wanted to run, to put as much distance between them as she could. But her legs would not carry her yet. And there were things she had to say.
“You must leave at once,” she told him, her voice raw with pain. “Not only Bell Hill. Not only Selkirk. You must leave Scotland and never return.”
She heard nothing but the wind, whipping the grass round their feet.
Then he spoke. His words were low, broken, and filled with remorse. “I niver meant for it to happen, Bess. I niver meant to hurt ye.”
She believed him. But it changed nothing.
“Listen to me, Rob.” She lifted her head, feeling a bit stronger. “I’ll not tell Lord Buchanan until you are well away. But I will tell him. And he will hunt you down unless you are beyond his reach.”
Rob slowly turned, his face haggard. “Why, Bess? Wh
y would ye spare me?”
“Because you were my friend once. And because the Lord spared me when I foolishly worshiped another.”
The rain began at last. A few large drops, then more. In another minute they would both be soaked through.
“Go,” she urged him, raising her voice above the steadily increasing patter. “Go to the Americas just as you planned. Start a new life.”
He shook his head, not meeting her gaze. “I canna live without ye.”
“But you must, Rob.” She collected her hat and basket, her thoughts fixed on Halliwell’s Close, on home. “You’ll not be alone. The Lord will be with you.”
He looked at her at last. “Are ye sure, Bess?”
“I am.” She lifted her face to the heavens, letting the rain wash away her tears.
Sixty-Two
Cling to thy home! If there the meanest shed
Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head.
LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM
arjory had never cared for thunder. Lord John had often found it soothing, especially at night when a low rumble traveled across the hills, lulling him to sleep. But a hard rain had followed this evening’s thunder, and Elisabeth was not yet home.
Glancing toward the window, Marjory fretted, “She should leave earlier now that September is here.”
“Aye, and start later in the morn,” Anne agreed, never looking up from the lace work she’d brought with her.
Though Marjory did not have a candle-stool to offer her, she mimicked the effect with clear glasses of water on either side of a tallow candle, allowing the women to work into the evening hours. The glasses belonged to Jane Nicoll, who resided in one of the better houses on Back Row. A widow without issue, Jane had many more glasses on her sideboard and assured the Kerrs that two would never be missed.
Marjory had accepted them as graciously as she could, still learning how to receive instead of give. At first, feelings of resentment and shame had welled up inside her. But she was beginning to understand that those with plenty found joy in giving to those in need. And so she welcomed their generosity and reminded herself that every good gift came from the Lord. Had she not begged the Almighty to provide for her loved ones? To guard them and keep them safe? Well, here was Anne, newly married to a prosperous tailor. And Elisabeth with her eye on a wealthy admiral. And herself with the stalwart love of a good man.
Mine Is the Night Page 33
