“She’s here, milord.”
Jack turned with a grateful nod, then strode past the footman, hoping he might have a moment alone with her in the drawing room. He’d not seen her since yesterday morning at kirk, when she’d promised him a Michaelmas surprise. Of course, his own surprise for her would come when the musicians struck the first note.
Jack swept through the open doors with a jaunty step. One and two and three.
When he entered the drawing room, Elisabeth turned before he said her name. “There you are, Lord Jack.” She smiled, curtsied, and stole his heart, all in a trice. “The Dalglieshes will be along shortly.”
Even now he did not have Elisabeth to himself. Marjory and Gibson were standing with her, the women neatly if soberly attired in black, and Gibson wearing a proper coat and waistcoat. Borrowed from his employer perhaps. “You look very well, Gibson,” Jack told him, though Marjory was the one who beamed at the compliment.
Elisabeth appeared to be hiding something behind her back. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak briefly with Mrs. Pringle,” she said, then swept round him such that he could not see what she held in her hands. “I’ll not be a moment, milord.”
How very mysterious. Though he did not care for surprises, this one held some promise.
“Will you have your monthly supper tomorrow eve?” Marjory inquired. “Or shall your Michaelmas celebration suffice for September?”
“Mrs. Tudhope would serve my head on a platter if I required large banquets two nights in a row,” he admitted, “though I shall make it up to the household at Yuletide.”
When Elisabeth returned, her cheeks were flush with color. “You are wanted in the entrance hall, milord. The Chisholms of Broadmeadows have arrived.”
Jack offered his arm, hoping she might join him. “As Bell Hill has no mistress, I’d be honored if you would stand beside me to greet my guests.”
Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law, then boldly took his arm. “If you wish it, milord. After all, it is a special night.”
If any visitors were shocked to see Elisabeth by his side, they hid their disapproval, smiling and bobbing and fluttering their fans. But he steeled himself when the Murrays of Philiphaugh stepped through his door.
Last week Sir John had reminded him of the generous dowry that would accompany Rosalind’s hand in marriage. “Even you, Admiral, must admit ’tis a worthy sum.” Jack had agreed that it was, then quickly changed the subject. His heart was not for sale at any price. Did the Murrays think of nothing but wealth, property, and advancement?
They stood before him now, dressed like peacocks, right down to the feathery plumes in Rosalind’s hair. “Admiral,” she said demurely, then sank into a deep curtsy. Yet for all their fine manners, none of the Murrays acknowledged Elisabeth. And when Charbon made an unexpected appearance, Rosalind lifted her hem with a look of dismay, then gave the cat a none-too-gentle nudge with her foot and hissed, “Be gone.”
Jack felt Elisabeth stiffen, even as he clenched his teeth, lest he say the same to Rosalind Murray. Be gone, madam. Only when she followed her parents into the drawing room did Jack relax enough to greet his next visitors, the Currors of Whitmuir Hall, who not only spoke warmly to Elisabeth, but also reached down to pet Charbon.
“They may stay,” Jack murmured, bringing a smile to Elisabeth’s face.
Not every woman needed a dowry to make her appealing.
The sky was black and the candles blazing when the supper hour arrived. Jack escorted Elisabeth into the dining room with some three dozen friends and neighbors following in their wake. Laughter and conviviality filled the air as they found their seats up and down the long table, the place cards neatly lettered in Mrs. Pringle’s hand.
When he reached the head of the table, Jack glanced down at his plate, then looked again. A carrot? Gibson had a large forked one. Michael Dalgliesh had one too. All three were tied with red ribbons. A swift perusal of the table provided no clue, for none of the other plates were so decorated.
Very odd.
Still, solving the carrot question would have to wait.
Jack stood before his guests, arms open. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we might join in giving thanks.” He prayed earnestly for the hours ahead, for the meal and the music and the dancing, keeping his eyes closed lest he catch sight of the enormous carrot and laugh aloud.
The moment he took his seat, Elisabeth leaned across the table. “ ’Tis a gift for Michaelmas,” she said softly. “I plucked it for you from Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.”
He stared at the root vegetable, scrubbed clean but uncooked. “Am I meant to eat it?”
“You are meant to keep it. For good luck.” She blushed when she said it, then hastily reached for her napkin, putting an end to the discussion.
If this was her surprise, Jack was not about to disappoint her. He dutifully placed the carrot to the side, then signaled to his footmen to commence serving the first course.
Carrot soup, as it turned out. Seasoned with coriander.
The evening’s feast was a great success, with a dozen tantalizing aromas competing for their attention—among them, pan-baked trout, stewed lamb with mushrooms, and baked apples stuffed with currants. The Michaelmas goose was given pride of place at the center of the table, surrounded by smaller fowl, necessary to feed so many mouths.
“Do you know the saying, milord?” Elisabeth asked him when the poultry course was served. “Eat a goose on Michaelmas Day; want not for money all the year.”
“Is that so?” He noted the small serving on Elisabeth’s plate, the substantial one on Marjory’s. “You don’t believe in such things, do you?”
Elisabeth smiled. “Of course not, milord. Every blessing comes from the Almighty. But then, so do carrots.”
By the time plates of rich almond cake were served, the Michaelmas feast was declared a success. Jack stood, eager to get on with things. “If you will kindly repair to the drawing room, you’ll find our musicians waiting for us.”
As the guests rose and headed for the door, Jack offered Elisabeth his arm.
“Milord,” she said, leaning close to him, “perhaps you might prefer to retire to your study.”
He arched his brows. “And miss the pleasure of dancing?”
Her shocked expression was worth every painful hour with Mr. Fowles.
“You, milord?”
Jack merely smiled as he guided her into the drawing room, where two lines were already forming. Since the young Widow Kerr was not permitted to dance, he needed her mother-in-law’s approval and so sought out Marjory.
“Mrs. Kerr,” he said respectfully, “I wonder if I might request a very great favor. In honor of Michaelmas, would you allow your daughter-in-law, just this eve, to—”
“Aye!” Marjory said, grinning at him.
Had the woman sipped too much claret? “You’ll not mind, then, if we—”
“Nae!” Marjory assured him, standing opposite Gibson, waiting for the opening notes.
Elisabeth blinked at him, clearly astonished. “Am I to understand you wish to dance with me?”
“If you’ll have me, madam,” he said with a bow.
She took her place at once. “Depend upon it, milord.”
Sixty-Nine
Night was drawing and closing her curtain
up above the world, and down beneath it.
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER
lisabeth hastened down the empty servants’ hall, the candle in her hand flickering wildly. Her heart too was doing a merry dance, though not nearly so merry as Lord Buchanan’s clever footwork on display earlier that evening.
“I engaged a dancing master,” he’d said blithely as they’d spun round the polished floor. His invited guests were unaware of his newfound talent, but his household staff had watched him in astonishment.
How the admiral had looked at her as they’d moved in tandem! His brown eyes gleaming, his mouth curled into a permanent smile. Elisabeth had heard him coun
ting his steps now and again, but that only made his efforts all the more endearing. Not once had he landed on her instep or swept her into another dancer’s path. For a man of his stature, he was surprisingly graceful, like a skilled fencer or an expert horseman. As it happened, his lordship was both.
“I did this for Michaelmas,” he’d insisted.
Elisabeth knew better. You did this for me, dear Jack. She’d complimented him profusely and thanked him at the end of each set, urging him to choose other partners, though he never did. Rosalind Murray had shot daggers at her whenever she swept past. Elisabeth almost felt sorry for the young woman. Find another, she wanted to say. This one is mine.
Now the clocks were creeping toward midnight, and a hush had fallen over Bell Hill. Lord Buchanan had retired to his study after the last guest had departed. Eyelids drooping, his smile still in place, he’d entrusted her to Marjory and Gibson, then murmured in parting, “I shall see you on the morrow, Bess.”
“You shall indeed, milord,” she’d answered. Sooner than you know.
Breathless, she darted into the workroom. Her satin gown was precisely where she’d left it, hanging on the back of the door with a bedsheet draped over the pale, shimmering fabric. Marjory had promised to join her in a half hour but presently remained in the servants’ hall to guard the door while Elisabeth bathed her body and brushed her hair. Aye, and prayed.
She closed the door, then lit a few candles, brightening the room. Hot water simmered on the hearth—Marjory’s doing. Elisabeth quickly undressed, dipped a clean linen cloth in the water, then rubbed it with her mother-in-law’s fragrant soap. Would his lordship even notice the scent? She bathed in haste, grateful for the warm fire, then pulled on her chemise and laced her stays as tightly as she could. Marjory’s silk stockings felt like feathers against her skin, and her brocade shoes, dyed to match the gown, slipped on her feet as if she’d worn them every day.
Standing near the fire to keep from shivering, she groomed her hair with slow, even strokes, waiting for Marjory to tap at her door. Let me not be afraid, Lord. Let me speak from my heart. Let him not be dismayed. A moment later Elisabeth ushered her mother-in-law into the workroom, then bolted the door once more. “What news from upstairs?”
“Everyone has retired for the night,” Marjory informed her in a low voice, “including Mrs. Pringle and Roberts. I overheard Dickson saying he’d left Lord Buchanan nodding over a book in his study. All is in readiness for you.” Marjory smoothed a hand down Elisabeth’s hair. “ ‘I will even make a way in the wilderness.’ So the Almighty promised, and so he has done for you this night.”
“You are certain this is his will and not ours?”
Marjory did not hesitate. “Have we not prayed for his leading? Have you not searched the Scriptures and your heart, seeking an answer? I have no doubt Lord Buchanan is the husband God intends for you.”
Buoyed by her mother-in-law’s faith, Elisabeth swept her hair onto the crown of her head, then let Marjory add the silver comb where it might best be seen.
Last of all, her gown. When the lavender satin brushed against her shoulders, Elisabeth reveled in the cool feel of the fabric against her skin. She touched the bodice, with its tiny gold sequins, and the sleeves, trimmed in fine Belgian lace. “Your son was very generous with me,” she said softly.
“You were far more generous with him,” Marjory reminded her, slipping the matching satin reticule over her wrist. “Now go, my bonny Bess.” She kissed her brow. “Gibson is waiting in the entrance hall to walk me home. I’ll trust his lordship to see you safely to town or provide a bedchamber for you here if the hour grows too late. My prayers are with you, dear girl.”
Moving on tiptoe lest her heels clatter against the flagstone floor, Elisabeth navigated the long servants’ hall, then the turnpike stair, lifting her gown to keep from stepping on the hem. So far she’d not seen or heard a soul. More to the point, no one had seen her. The first-floor hall was bathed in shadows with a single sconce to light the way. As she neared Lord Jack’s study, she lifted up a silent prayer of thanks. No footman stood at the entrance. And the door was slightly ajar.
Please be with me, Lord. Guide my steps. Guard my words. Keep my thoughts and actions pure.
She knew not what else to pray and so took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then approached the door, prepared to tap on it, announcing her presence. But when she peered into the room, she discovered Lord Jack was sound asleep. Seated in his favorite chair by the fire, he’d propped his feet on a cushioned footstool with a plaid draped across his long legs. She waited while her eyes adjusted to the meager firelight, then moved across the study, grateful for thick carpet to muffle her steps.
Then she heard a loud purring. Charbon jumped down from Lord Jack’s chair and padded toward her, greeting her with a plaintive meow.
“Hush,” she whispered, scratching his head, which only made him purr louder. She scooped him up and held him close, hoping he’d not give her away until she’d done as her mother-in-law had instructed. Present yourself to him. She carried Charbon into the hallway and, with a whispered apology, left him there, quietly shutting the door behind her.
With the curtains closed, not even the waning moon shed its light on the scene before her as she tiptoed to his lordship’s side. Surely he would hear the loud beating of her heart or catch a whiff of her perfumed soap or feel the warmth of her presence and so awaken. But his breathing was steady, and his rugged features relaxed. She smiled down at him, secretly glad she’d found him sleeping. Even in repose, his physical strength was evident.
Elisabeth eased to the floor, spreading her elegant gown round her in a circle of silk, then rested her head on the large footstool. She’d wait until he roused. Surely it would not be much longer. Whatever the hour, and no matter the consequences, she was determined to speak the truth.
Seventy
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,
As of the one I love.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
ack vaguely heard the first chime of the mantel clock, as if from a distance. Two. Three. His limbs were too heavy to lift, and so he remained in his chair, not stirring, still counting. Five. Six. What had he been reading that he’d drifted off so quickly? Eight. Nine. Perhaps his need for sleep had more to do with the feasting. And the dancing. Eleven. Twelve.
Midnight, then. Later than he’d expected.
In the darkened study he felt the weight of something beside his feet. Charbon, no doubt, curled up on his footstool. Jack lifted his head to see the creature, then froze.
A woman. At his feet. Not moving, not speaking.
His heart began to thud in his chest. Who was she? Not Elisabeth, for this woman’s gown was pale, colorless. And Elisabeth had never worn so flowery a scent.
“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice rough from sleep. Or from fear.
“ ’Tis Bess, milord.”
He abruptly sat up, exhaling in relief. “Madam! What sort of mischief are you up to, sneaking into my study at night?” To think, he’d supposed her some shameless lass among his Michaelmas guests come to tempt him at this gloomy hour.
Instead it was his own dear Elisabeth, seeking his company.
“Do forgive me for startling you,” she said softly. “I wished to speak with you. Alone.” When she rose to her knees, he could see her gown more clearly, as bits of gold caught the firelight. An exquisite costume, the sort only someone of means could afford.
Jack cast aside his plaid blanket and stood, lifting her up as well. “Come, let me have a look at you.” He turned her toward the fire, then lit a candle, holding it aloft. His plainly garbed dressmaker was gone. In her place stood a vision in lavender. “Is it yours, this fine gown?”
“Aye.” She glanced down, smoothing the wrinkles from her skirts. “Since I’ve not worn it in a twelvemonth, I was afraid it might no longer fit.”
Oh, it fits, dear lady. To perfection. He averted his gaze, yanking his waywa
rd thoughts in line. “Forgive me for asking, Bess, but … what has become of your mourning clothes?”
She lifted her chin. “I am no longer in mourning for my late husband. That is what I came to tell you.”
Only then did he notice the door to the hallway was closed. “What of your mother-in-law?” he asked, feeling a certain uneasiness. “Does she know about this …, eh, decision of yours?”
A slight smile. “ ’Twas her idea.”
He let that rather astounding fact take root. “So Mrs. Kerr will not mind if you enter into …, well, a courtship with someone? With … me?”
“Nae, she’ll not mind,” Bess assured him. “Reverend Brown has recently learned that you are a distant relative of Marjory’s late husband. Which means you are a kinsman of ours.”
Jack nodded, the picture growing clearer with each waking moment. “No doubt the minister thinks I should provide for the two of you. And I should. Nae, I will. Gladly.”
Bess took his hands in hers. The warmth of her skin surprised him.
“I am grateful for anything you might do for Marjory,” she admitted. “But provision is not what I seek from you, milord.”
He drew her closer, longing for an honest answer. “My dear Bess, what do you seek?”
“A future.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes hiding nothing. “Lord Buchanan, if your feelings for me compare in any measure to the fond affection I have for you, then I believe the Almighty intends for us to be together.”
Jack couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You wish … to marry me?”
She lifted his hands and gently kissed them. “I do.”
“Lord bless you,” he whispered, swiftly pulling her into his embrace. “You might have chosen a younger man, Bess. A richer man—”
“Nae, there is only one man for me.” Elisabeth nestled her head in the hollow of his neck as if she belonged there. And she did belong there. By the grace of God and no other.
Mine Is the Night Page 37
