Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Elisabeth looked up at the window, a golden yellow square spilling light into the room. Is Lord Buchanan that man, Father? Silence was all she heard, though deep inside she knew the answer: Wait, my daughter. Wait.

  She pressed on with her sewing, grateful to have work that occupied her hands if not always her thoughts. At least in her quiet workroom she was free to abandon the too-large bonnet, on loan from Mrs. Tait. In another day or two the unsightly mark on her cheek would disappear. Certainly by the Sabbath, or she’d be forced to wear the borrowed bonnet all day.

  “Och!” Sally flung open the door unannounced, eyes and mouth gaping. “He did harm ye! That scoonrel.”

  Elisabeth rose to her feet even as her heart sank. If Sally knew, so did the entire household.

  Still catching her breath, Sally blurted out, “His lordship called us a’ into the dining hall. Told us ye’d been accosted by a man on the road hame and that we were to watch for strangers.” The maidservant drew closer, studying Elisabeth’s cheek. “Comfrey leaves,” she said. “Mr. Richardson can pluck ye some.”

  “Such a remedy would be most welcome.” Elisabeth sat once more, then tugged on Sally’s apron, drawing the lass into the chair next to hers. “Did Lord Buchanan tell you anything else?”

  Sally nodded vigorously. “Said we were to treat ye with respect. And to leuk oot for ye. Which I’m happy to do.”

  “Bless you,” Elisabeth murmured. He’d not mentioned Rob’s name, then.

  Sally went on, “The men o’ the hoose were vexed whan they heard what happened. A’ the lads have sworn to protect ye and keep ye safe.” She sighed dramatically. “I wouldna mind if Johnnie Hume did the same for me.”

  Elisabeth pictured the young blacksmith on Water Row, his muscular arms wielding sledgehammers with ease. “Perhaps you’ll have your wish someday, lass.”

  “Aye.” Sally winked at her, then jumped up from the chair and quit the room as swiftly as she’d arrived.

  Elisabeth watched her go, then resumed her sewing, wondering if other visitors might come by to assess the damage. However embarrassing to have the household see her thus, Elisabeth was grateful they knew of her injury. Better to have such things discussed openly than whispered behind doors.

  The path to her workroom was soon well trod. Mrs. Pringle brought a large flatiron. “A fine weapon, should the lout make another appearance.” Mr. Richardson did indeed find comfrey growing in a shady spot not far from the gardens and produced an abundance of fresh leaves to press against her wound. Mrs. Tudhope came in for a brief commiseration, leaving one of Elisabeth’s favorite apple tarts in her wake. And late in the afternoon, Hyslop stopped in to assure her that Belda would be saddled and ready promptly at five o’ the clock.

  “Five?” Elisabeth asked, wrinkling her brow. “Not six?”

  “His lordship’s orders,” the head coachman said.

  When the hour came, Lord Jack himself arrived to escort her to the stables. He was freshly shaved and dressed in his black riding clothes, which fit his long legs and broad shoulders to perfection. Sewn by a tailor in London, she supposed. Or Paris. How easy it was to forget that Lord Jack had traveled the world.

  “You’ll be home well before sunset,” he assured her, leading her across the grassy expanse north of the house. Though the air was clear and dry, the ground beneath their feet was still spongy from two days’ rain. “I’ve arranged for the mare to be boarded each night in Mr. Riddell’s stables on Kirk Wynd.”

  “You’re most kind.” She looked up at him as they walked, his rugged face framed by the rosy orange sky. “The household has been quite … understanding.”

  He slowed his steps, his gaze locked with hers. “You did not mind, then? Perhaps I should have asked your permission first.”

  “ ’Tis best they heard the truth from you,” she told him, longing to say more. Because you are trustworthy. And because you are respected by all who know you.

  A stone’s throw from the stables, Lord Jack stopped altogether, then turned toward her. “I think you’ll find the men of Bell Hill eager to guard your safety, Bess.”

  She’d already witnessed their loyalty in action. “I cannot step into the servants’ hall without a footman watching over me,” she admitted, lifting her face, no longer caring if he saw her wound. “However can I thank you, milord?”

  His answer was swift. “By riding home without delay.” Then he leaned closer, capturing her hands. “And by letting me take care of you, as I should have from the first.”

  Elisabeth paused, her skin warming beneath his gaze. “I’ve always felt safe here,” she finally said. “Though I am not a woman who needs looking after. Truly, I can fend for myself—”

  “Can you?” His voice was low, but she heard the faint edge of frustration. “Had I insisted you ride home in my carriage on Wednesday eve, you’d not be hiding behind this ugly bonnet.” He released her hand long enough to pull open the ribbon and lift the bonnet from her head. Then he examined her cheek, the touch of his gloved finger exceptionally tender.

  “Would that I might remove his mark as easily as I dispensed with your hat,” he murmured. “Time and the Lord’s hand will manage what I cannot.”

  Oh, Lord Jack. With him standing so near, his clean, masculine scent overwhelmed her.

  “Come, Bess,” he said softly, “or we’ll lose our light.”

  She moved forward, following his lead. “You are riding with me?”

  “I am.” He was already waving over the stable lad, who had Janvier in hand. Hyslop was not far behind him, bringing Belda. Lord Jack lifted Elisabeth into the sidesaddle with ease, then mounted Janvier in a single sweeping motion. “Shall we?”

  They trotted side by side along the tree-lined drive, a warm breeze moving through the branches, fluttering the leaves overhead. In another month the elms and maples would exchange their green garments for yellow ones, the oaks for bright reddish brown. Summer would truly be at an end. But not yet.

  As they neared the road to Selkirk and the massive boulder loomed ahead, Bess gripped the pommel more firmly, aware of Lord Jack watching her. Without a word he moved slightly ahead of her, blocking her view until the road straightened again and the boulder, with all its grim memories, was well behind them.

  She rode on, feeling her heart ease its frantic pace and her breathing return to normal. You’re not alone, Bess. The worst is over.

  Lord Jack waited until she was beside him again, then asked amiably, “What can you tell me of Michaelmas? For we paid scant attention to such festivals aboard ship.”

  She offered him a shaky smile, releasing the last of her fears. “Michael is the patron saint of the sea and of horses as well, yet you’ve never paid him homage?”

  “Nae, madam. Though for the sake of Janvier and Belda, I might reconsider. What rituals must I endure?”

  “I cannot say what the good folk of Selkirk may do, but Highland women gather carrots on the Sunday afternoon before Michaelmas.”

  “Laboring on the Sabbath?” he said dryly. “Won’t Reverend Brown be pleased to hear that?”

  “Since Michaelmas Eve falls on Sunday this year, the hearth will be put to use too,” she informed him. “While the women are baking into the wee hours of the night, the men are lifting horses from their neighbors.”

  “Lifting?” Lord Jack frowned at her. “Do you mean they pick them up?”

  “I mean they steal them,” Elisabeth said matter-of-factly. “ ’Tis an ancient privilege but lasts only ’til the afternoon of Michaelmas itself, when the horses are returned unharmed.”

  “You are certain about that part?”

  “Have no fear, milord,” she assured him. “This is the Borderland. If the old rituals ever took root here, they’ve long been forgotten.” A sad truth, she realized, suddenly missing home. Would her mother ride round the kirkyard on Michaelmas with Ben Cromar’s thick arms holding her tightly to his chest? Would they give each other gifts according to the custom? And sing the Song of
Michael?

  As they neared the foot of Bell Hill, Elisabeth recited the words she knew so well. “Jewel of my heart, God’s shepherd thou art.”

  “Beg pardon?” Lord Jack’s question brought her back to the present.

  “ ’Tis a song for Michaelmas,” she hastened to explain. “Offered as folk proceed on horseback round the kirkyard, following the course of the sun.”

  “Shall we revive all the old traditions for our Michaelmas celebration, then?”

  “Not all, milord,” she said, trying very hard not to blush. The Night of Michael was known not only for its dance and song but also for its merrymaking and lovemaking. Elisabeth intended to keep such scandalous details to herself. “I know you do not care for dancing, but I hope you’ll not mind a lively night of music.”

  “On the contrary,” Lord Jack replied, smiling rather broadly. “I am counting on it.”

  Sixty-Five

  Those move easiest

  who have learn’d to dance.

  ALEXANDER POPE

  is better if you do not count aloud, milord.”

  Jack shot the dancing master a murderous look. “Would you prefer I stepped on the lady’s toes?”

  “I would not,” Mr. Fowles agreed, “though women are rather accustomed to it. But counting aloud will mark you as unrefined, and we cannot have that, milord.”

  Jack grumbled under his breath, keeping the numbers to himself. One and two and three. Four and five and six. At least he’d sworn the dancing master to secrecy. No one but Dickson knew of his thrice-weekly visits to a drawing room in Galashiels where Mr. Fowles, a small man with a large, beaklike nose, offered private instruction on the country dances most Scotsmen were taught as lads.

  However old he might be, Jack was determined to learn the steps in time for Michaelmas. A fortnight remained. And still he was counting. One and two and three.

  A lone fiddler perched in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, and the thin carpet was rolled back to reveal an unpolished wooden floor. While the fiddler sawed away, Mr. Fowles served as Jack’s partner, mirroring each step. It would be challenging enough to dance longwise, with men on either side of him, but to cross to the women’s side and then progress down the row behind them—well, boarding a Spanish vessel with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other was child’s play compared to this.

  “Bow, if you please, then step forward,” Mr. Fowles intoned. “Take your partner’s hand and circle round. That’s it, milord. Now switch hands and circle the other direction.”

  Jack followed his commands to the letter, resisting the urge to gloat. Pride goeth before destruction, he reminded himself, silently counting in time to the music. Four and five and six.

  Mr. Fowles continued, “Process to her side of the line as she returns the favor, then walk behind the woman who was standing next to her.”

  The woman in question was a wooden chair. Perhaps that was for the best.

  “Meet your partner again in the center,” the dancing master said, “then circle round her, this time without taking her hand.”

  “But what am I supposed to do instead?” Jack demanded.

  “Nothing, sir. Let your hands hang loosely by your side. Now step to the center, lift up on the balls of your feet, and step back.”

  One moment Jack was dancing with another man’s partner, circumnavigating the stiff-backed chair. Then he was promenading his own partner, the diminutive Mr. Fowles, as they walked between two imaginary lines of dancers, who were surely laughing up their sleeves. Jack could almost hear them. Or was that the fiddler?

  Mercy finally prevailed, and their hourlong lesson ended.

  Mr. Fowles was in a generous mood. “You are improving, milord. A few more sessions, and you’ll be the talk of the ball.”

  Jack snorted. “I fear that is certain to be the case.” He paid the man, then reached for his hat. “Wednesday noon?”

  Mr. Fowles nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “I shall have a surprise for you.”

  Jack did not care for surprises. Well, except for the ones he sprang on others.

  When he found a half-dozen maidservants waiting for him in Mr. Fowles’s drawing room on Wednesday, he was more than surprised. He was mortified.

  Jack drew the dancing master aside. “I am not ready,” he insisted. “Furthermore, I thought our lessons were to be a secret.”

  Mr. Fowles glanced at the bevy of wide-eyed lasses across the room. “You’re not known in this parish, milord. I told them you were a Frenchman who spoke no English. As long as you do not count aloud, they’ll be none the wiser.”

  Jack had no choice but to join them in forming two lines and let the music begin. After each awkward misstep, each wrong turn, he thought of Elisabeth and tried harder. The maidservants were kind to him, guiding him through the precise movements of each dance, until by hour’s end he felt a flush of confidence. Might he manage it after all?

  He rode the five miles home in record time, relishing the bright September weather. If Michaelmas were half so fair, the evening would be a success. Might you throw convention to the wind and dance with me, Bess? He could hardly wait to see her face. Of course, that was true on any occasion.

  At three o’ the clock Jack found her workroom vacant. A finished gown hung on the wall, but there was no sign of Elisabeth. Even Charbon wasn’t curled up in his usual spot by the hearth.

  Jack strode through the house, glancing here and there, not truly concerned. If Elisabeth was on his property, she was safe. Had he not made it clear to the entire household, and the menservants in particular, what he required of them?

  “As a widow and a Highlander, Mrs. Kerr is particularly vulnerable,” he’d told them, then outlined the measures he wished them to take. Keep an eye on her by day. Bolt the exterior doors at night. Question any strangers who wander onto the property. Note who bothers her at kirk and at market. Listen for ill news on the wind. “She is never to feel imprisoned here, but I do wish her to feel secure.”

  At the moment Jack simply wished to find her.

  When he heard her voice floating down the stair from the upper hall, he took the steps two at a time. Rather noisily, it seemed, for she was looking his direction when he emerged into the hallway.

  “Mrs. Kerr,” he said with a gallant bow. “And Mrs. Pringle. I can only assume you two are making plans for Michaelmas.”

  “We are, milord.” Elisabeth held out a rough sketch of the drawing room. “With so many guests coming, I’m afraid your furniture will need to be relocated. I know you are not partial to dancing—”

  “Oh, but there must be dancing,” he protested. “Isn’t that what Michaelmas Night is known for?”

  Elisabeth smiled. “Among other things, milord.”

  Friday’s dancing lesson was a revelation: Jack forgot to count yet still remembered all the steps. The following Monday he almost enjoyed himself. Almost. And on Wednesday next, Mr. Fowles broke into spontaneous applause.

  “You are ready, milord. And with five days to spare.”

  Jack paid the man his due and bade him farewell. Ready or not, Michaelmas was nigh upon them.

  He returned home from Galashiels to find Bell Hill all but dismantled. The drawing room was reduced to long rows of seats and a vast expanse of bare floor. The dining room had more chairs than he could number at a cursory glance, with freshly polished silver displayed up and down the long table. Every maidservant had a dusting cloth in hand and every manservant a broom as they worked their way from room to room, cleaning a house that was already spotless.

  “They mean to bless you,” Mrs. Pringle explained, a look of satisfaction on her face. Then she nodded toward his desk. “Two letters arrived in your absence, milord.”

  He had only to look at the handwriting to know the correspondents. “Have Mrs. Kerr come to my study in a quarter hour.”

  “Very good, sir.” His housekeeper almost smiled. “Aren’t you pleased I brought her to your study last May?”

  “Aye
, Mrs. Pringle.” Very pleased.

  He was downing a cup of tea when Elisabeth appeared. She glanced over her shoulder, perhaps to make certain the door was ajar, then sat in front of his desk and folded her hands in her lap. “What is it, Lord Jack? You’ve a rather serious look on your face.”

  “I’ve news you’ll want to hear,” he confessed, reaching for the two letters sent by men well paid to do his bidding. “You ordered Mr. MacPherson to leave Scotland, aye? You’ll be glad to know he did precisely that. On Monday last he boarded a ship in Liverpool bound for the Americas.”

  When a flicker of surprise did not cross her features, Jack wondered if Elisabeth already knew of Rob’s destination. “He told you his plans?”

  “He did,” she confessed.

  “And he expected you to join him?”

  She lowered her gaze. “Aye.”

  Jack longed to reach across his desk and touch her cheek, now fully healed. “I thank God you refused him, Bess.” For your sake. And for mine.

  “I could never have done otherwise,” she said softly, then lifted her head. “Does the second letter concern me as well?”

  “It does.” He glanced at the correspondence in his hands. “According to Archie Gordon, the fellow I dispatched to the Highlands, Ben Cromar has not harmed your mother in any visible way since I last saw her. Furthermore, the Sheriff of Aberdeen has been alerted, and a few of your old neighbors, Mrs. MacKindlay, the midwife, among them, have been discreetly charged to watch over her and guard her safety.”

  “For which, no doubt, they’ve been generously compensated.”

  “Indeed, they have.” Jack studied her for a moment, uncertain of her meaning. “Does my wealth offend you, Bess?”

  “Nae, it astounds me.” Her expression was sincere, her words more so. “You are more generous than any gentleman I have ever known.”