Mine Is the Night

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Milord,” Dickson murmured, “ ’tis your lady.”

  Jack looked up just as Elisabeth started down the stair. Even with her wide hoops and full skirts, she moved effortlessly from one step to the next. Her dark hair was a crown, piled high on top of her head and studded with pearls. But it was her smile that captured him, pinning him in place until she reached his side.

  “Lord Buchanan,” she said with a tilt of her chin, “I wonder if you might escort me to the drawing room.”

  He smiled down at her. “With pleasure.”

  Jack immediately noticed the scent of lavender wafting from her gown and the quickness of her step. “Madam is in a hurry,” he murmured.

  Blushing, she tugged him closer. “I’ll not deny it.”

  “I shall be waiting for you,” he assured her when they reached the door. Then he slipped into the drawing room and took his place by Reverend Brown.

  “Treat her well,” the minister said gruffly, “or you shall answer to me.”

  “We are of the same mind,” Jack assured him, never taking his eyes off the massive wooden door, slightly ajar.

  When the fiddler struck his first note, Elisabeth entered with a dramatic sweep of satin. Her smile grew with each step until at last she reached his side. My love, my Bess.

  Reverend Brown offered a word of greeting and a few solemn thoughts on marriage. Jack had heard them yesterday at the Gibsons’ wedding yet listened intently.

  Then the minister lifted his head and asked, “Is there any impediment to this marriage?”

  “None,” Jack said firmly, producing the marriage agreement. “By order of His Majesty.”

  Whispers swept through the room as Reverend Brown examined the paper. “Very well, then,” he said, putting it aside. “Do you, Lord Jacques Buchanan, take this woman, Elisabeth Ferguson Kerr, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

  Jack clasped her hands, never more certain of anything in his forty years. “Even so,” he said in a clear, strong voice, wishing his words might carry to all the corners of the globe he’d traveled. “I take her before God and in the presence of his people.”

  He looked down at her, hoping his eyes said the rest. Oh, sweet Bess, with all my heart do I take you and gladly. You are the one I waited for. You are the one the Almighty chose for me. You are the one I love.

  The minister continued, “And do you, Elisabeth Ferguson Kerr, take this man, Lord Jacques Buchanan, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  “I do,” she said, gazing up at him. “Even so, I take him before God and in the presence of his people.” In her eyes he saw the rest. I trust you, Jack. And I love you completely.

  Reverend Brown finished with conviction, “What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.”

  Jack’s throat tightened. Not even a king. Then he kissed her, sealing their vows, pledging his heart. No one but you, Bess. Now and always.

  Voices circled round them as the wedding psalm began.

  Thy wife shall be a fruitful vine

  By thy house sides be found

  Thy children like to olive plants

  About thy table round.

  Amid the joyous clamor, Elisabeth stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “I do hope I might give you a son, dear husband. Beginning this very night.”

  Her breath warmed his skin; her words warmed everything else. “I will be delighted to do all that is necessary to ensure that happy outcome.” He winked at her, then offered his arm. “In the meantime, Lady Buchanan, shall we dance?”

  Eighty-Two

  What joy is welcomed like

  a newborn child?

  LADY CAROLINE NORTON

  Bell Hill

  Ten months later

  lisabeth had never heard a sweeter sound.

  Not a soft whimper, but a lusty, ear-piercing cry.

  She fell back against her pillow, drenched in sweat from the August heat and the hours of effort. “Water,” she moaned, and a cup appeared, offered by the women who’d surrounded her birthing bed: Marjory and Anne, Sally Craig and Mrs. Pringle, Elspeth Cranston and Katherine Shaw.

  Tradition had brought them to her door. A woman never gave birth without other women present to give counsel and advice and to pray for mother and child. Though at the moment it was the child’s father Elisabeth longed to see.

  “Jack,” she called out, sounding rather pathetic.

  The women laughed. Katherine Shaw, who’d borne four daughters, said, “D’ye plan to gowf the man for putting ye through a’ this? Or shall we take care o’ that for ye?”

  Elisabeth mustered a faint smile. “Nae, don’t slap my dear husband. He’s suffered enough, walking the halls of Bell Hill for a day.”

  Marjory pressed a cool cloth to her brow. “Lord Buchanan only suffered when you did, Bess. Now, let Mrs. Scott finish her duties, and we’ll tuck your babe in your arms.”

  Elisabeth glanced down at the sturdy midwife from Back Row, whose kind demeanor and gentle hands had seen her through the long and painful hours. “Bless you, Mrs. Scott,” she murmured.

  “Ye ken what the auld wives say,” the woman answered softly. “There’s mirth among the kin when the howdie cries, ‘A son!’ ”

  A son. Elisabeth would have gladly cradled a lad or a lass with equal affection. But Jack would be pleased to know his heir was born. And when she delivered a daughter into his arms someday, her stalwart husband would surely weep with joy.

  When Mrs. Scott was satisfied the lad was fit to be seen, she brought him to Elisabeth, his wee body tightly wrapped in clean white linen, with only his pink features showing.

  Elisabeth started to reach for him, then saw the look on Marjory’s face. “Let Mrs. Gibson hold him first.”

  “Nae, Bess,” Marjory protested, “he’s your son.”

  “Have you forgotten the promise I made? That any babe I ever bore would be nestled in your arms?” Elisabeth motioned to Mrs. Scott, who honored her wishes.

  Marjory received the child with a look of wonder, touching his tiny nose with her fingertip. “The Lord is faithful,” she whispered. “And so are you, dear Bess.”

  Elspeth Cranston looked on with pride in her eyes. “It does me good, Marjory, to see you with a son in your arms. ’Tis like you are one-and-twenty again, holding Donald.”

  “I remember,” Marjory said, her voice thin.

  “I do too,” Anne said on a sigh, “though I was a wee lass myself.”

  The others gathered round, admiring the child, declaring him the most handsome baby boy in Christendom.

  “I did not know your sons,” Mrs. Pringle confessed, “but I do know Lady Buchanan. She has surely been better to you than any mother-in-law could hope for.”

  Marjory gingerly placed the newborn babe in Elisabeth’s waiting embrace. “No one will ever know all that my Bess has done for me.” Marjory bent down and pressed a kiss to her brow, her lips wet with tears. “The Lord bless you, dear girl.”

  A sudden knock made them all jump. “Lady Elisabeth?”

  Her heart quickened at the sound of her husband’s voice. “Come in, milord.”

  Jack was through the door before Sally had time to dry her mistress’s face or comb her hair, though he did not seem to notice. “How beautiful you are,” he said, fervently kissing her on the lips, dry and cracked as they surely were. When he finally looked down, his strong chin began to wobble. “And who is this fine lad?”

  Elisabeth held him up with trembling arms. “Your son.”

  Jack cradled him in his hands, studying him like a nautical chart, interested in every detail. “I had no idea he would be so small.”

  Elisabeth laughed. “I confess, I am glad for it. But he will grow, milord. Wait and see.”

  When the lad began to wriggle, Jack quickly deposited him in Marjory’s waiting arms for safekeeping.

  “The lad will have his faither’s name, o’ course,” Katherine said.

  “Another Jack?” he protested lightly. “Nae, I think
not. ’Tis a plain name and too short, like a bark. I hoped we might choose something more royal sounding.”

  “George?” Elisabeth teased him.

  His scowl was answer enough.

  “Kenneth,” one of them put forth, and the rest quickly voiced their approval.

  “He was the first King of the Scots,” Mrs. Pringle explained. “You’ll not find a name more royal than that.” One by one, the women eased away from Elisabeth’s bed, allowing the new parents a moment of privacy.

  Jack eyed her closely. “What say you to ‘Kenneth,’ milady?”

  “A fine name,” Elisabeth agreed, wanting to honor the women who’d supported her. “Though at the moment I have another in mind.”

  “Oh?” He leaned closer. “And what name might that be?”

  She smiled, then whispered in his ear, “Yours.”

  THE AULD KIRK

  Author Notes

  Tears are the softening showers

  which cause the seed of heaven

  to spring up in the human heart.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  eaders often ask if I cry while I’m writing my novels. Oo aye! Whenever my characters grow teary, you can be sure I leaked first. With Here Burns My Candle, I shed tears of sorrow, and with Mine Is the Night, tears of joy. As the Psalmist wrote, “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5). Just as Marjory and Elisabeth Kerr deserved a happy ending, I thought you, my dear, were due one as well.

  Before I began my Scottish research, I spent months immersed in Scripture, studying the biblical account in a dozen translations. Then I dove into stacks of Bible commentaries to help me understand what God might be trying to teach us through the lives of his people. Now that you’ve read this eighteenth-century interpretation, I do hope you’ll take a moment to read the real story in Ruth 1–4. God’s faithfulness and loving-kindness shine all over the ancient account of Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz. As I wrote, I prayed we might also catch a glimpse of his goodness in the lives of Marjory, Elisabeth, and Lord Jack Buchanan.

  Where better to turn for an epigraph than to the words of Sir Walter Scott? He was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire in 1799, drew from the ballads of the Borderland for his poems and novels, and was buried in Dryburgh Abbey, where Lord Jack escorted Elisabeth on horseback. Lovely, secluded Dryburgh is my favorite of the four Borderland abbeys, the others being Melrose, Kelso, and Jedburgh. The towns are so close together you can visit all four abbeys in one day and still have time for tea and scones.

  In the twelfth century Selkirk had its own abbey until David I moved it to Kelso. A royal castle also came and went amid the fine hunting grounds of the Selkirk Forest, and James V confirmed the town’s royal burgh status in 1535. For those reasons and more, Selkirk seemed a fine setting for a novel based on the biblical story of Ruth, the great-grandmother of King David, royal ancestor to the King of kings.

  Selkirk is a delicious town, not only because of its famous bannocks, stuffed with sweet currants, but also because of its quaint appearance. All the streets are narrow, hilly, and delightfully crooked, with bits of history tucked here and there. Halliwell’s Close boasts a fine regional museum, a plaque marks the spot where the Forest Inn once welcomed lodgers, and the old well still stands in the marketplace.

  Stroll up Kirk Wynd, and you’ll find the remains of the old parish church on a rise where William Wallace—aye, Braveheart—was proclaimed Guardian of Scotland in 1298. My descriptions of the ruinous state of this auld kirk were not exaggerated. After several stones fell into the pews in 1747, the “venerable pile was leveled to the ground,” as one historian phrased it. The Selkirk congregation met at the nearby Grammar School while another church was erected on the same site in 1748. Our closing sketch by Scottish artist Simon Dawdry captures what remains of that church—the entrance gate and bell tower—plus a fine view of the surrounding hills.

  Two maps of our triangular town plan guided me as I wrote: Walter Elliot’s recent map re-creating “The Royal Burgh of Selkirk 1714” and John Wood’s “Plan of the Town of Selkirk,” first printed in 1823. When I finished writing the novel, Benny Gillies of Kirkpatrick Durham in Galloway created our 1746 map. If you love books about Scotland as much as I do, visit www.BennyGillies.co.uk for a peek at the shelves of this fine man’s bookshop. That’s where I found Flower of the Forest—Selkirk: A New History, edited by John M. Gilbert, an invaluable resource that Benny insists is now “rare as hen’s teeth,” though it was published in 1985.

  The Scottish Borders Council Archive Service at the Heritage Hub in Hawick also provided answers to questions about Reverend David Brown, a historical figure. Despite their best efforts we couldn’t pinpoint a location for the manse, so I placed it across from the church, a likely spot.

  While doing on-site research I slept and dined at various spots round Selkirk, but the Garden House at Whitmuir near Bell Hill holds a special place in my heart. That is where I wrote the last dozen chapters of Mine Is the Night, nestled in a cozy room overlooking the garden. Robert made fresh porridge for me each morning, and Hilary delivered suppers to my room, helping me stay on task with my writing. I can still taste her mincemeat tarts, warm and fresh from the oven. Mmm. Heartfelt thanks to the Dunlops for their exceptional hospitality.

  I am blessed to have given birth to an artist and seamstress, Lilly Higgs, who helped me understand the dressmaking process and created Elisabeth’s drawing of Mrs. Pringle’s gown, shown above. I have zero artistic ability yet am dependent on visuals to stoke my creative fire, so I have decorated my desk with a pewter plate, horn spoon, paper knife, magnifying glass, and photos of my characters. Ciarán Hinds from the 1995 BBC production of Persuasion was my inspiration for Lord Jack. Oh baby.

  As for Charbon, I’d no sooner decided the admiral needed a cat than a charcoal gray kitty appeared at our door, desperate for a new home. He found one. Naturally we named him Jack. His fur is like velvet, his purr is prodigious, and Jack the Cat has stolen my heart more thoroughly than any hero ever could. (Cat lovers will find photos on my Web site.)

  I am ever grateful for the fine editors who guided me through the long process of bringing this novel to the printed page: Laura Barker, Carol Bartley, Danelle McCafferty, and Sara Fortenberry, you are precious beyond words. I’m also grateful for my dear husband, Bill Higgs, who combed the last draft for grammar glitches and stray typos, and for our talented son, Matt Higgs, who put his B.A. in psychology to fine use, analyzing the words, actions, and motivations of my characters.

  Of course, I could never do what I do without readers like you! I’d love to send you my free e-newsletter, O Gentle Reader! e-mailed twice a year. To sign up, just pop on my Web site: www.LizCurtisHiggs.com. And if you’d like free autographed bookplates for any of my novels, simply contact me through my Web site or by mail:

  Liz Curtis Higgs

  P.O. Box 43577

  Louisville, KY 40253-0577

  I hope you’ll also visit my Facebook page or follow me on Twitter—two more fun ways to stay connected.

  How I’ve loved roaming the hills and glens of Scotland with you: first in Galloway with Thorn in My Heart, Fair Is the Rose, and Whence Came a Prince; then on the Isle of Arran with Grace in Thine Eyes; next in Edinburgh with Here Burns My Candle; and finally in the Borderland with Mine Is the Night.

  I so look forward to our next grand adventure together. Until then, you truly are a blissin!

  Readers Guide

  A woman’s whole life

  is a history of the affections.

  The heart is her world.

  WASHINGTON IRVING

  Marjory and Elisabeth Kerr begin their new life in Selkirk as penniless widows, but they don’t arrive empty-handed. What practical skills, emotional strengths, and spiritual gifts does each woman bring with her? Even so equipped they still have a great deal more to learn about life and love. How does Marjory’s character grow from first page to last? And Elisabeth’s? Of the two women, which is
your favorite, and why?

  Anne Kerr is less than happy to find two long-lost relatives at her door requiring food and lodging. How would you handle the situation if you were Cousin Anne? It appears she has lived alone most of her adult life. In what ways might that have shaped her character? Elisabeth observes, “One moment Anne seemed content to be unwed, and the next she was miserable.” If you are, or have been, a single adult, what’s your take on the joys and challenges of singleness?

  Knowing that Here Burns My Candle and Mine Is the Night are based on the biblical story of Ruth, readers have been eager to meet our Scottish counterpart for the heroic Boaz. Yet this novel has at least three heroes, including Michael Dalgliesh, Neil Gibson, and Lord Jack Buchanan. What heroic qualities do these good men possess? Wealth and title aside, which of the three do you find the most appealing, and why?

  When Marjory presents Lord John’s magnifying glass to Anne, their relationship takes a significant step forward. What unexpected gift have you given or received that deepened your relationship with someone? Marjory is able to share with Elisabeth the chapbook that once belonged to Donald, yet she cannot part with Andrew’s toy soldier. How would you explain the difference from Marjory’s viewpoint? What possession could you never part with under any circumstances, and why?

  Novelists add children and animals to a story with care, knowing how quickly they can take over a scene. What does young Peter Dalgliesh bring to the novel? In what ways does he remind you of a child in your life or of yourself as a child? Four-legged creatures usually reveal something about their owners. What do Charbon and Janvier tell us about Lord Jack? If Marjory were to have a pet, what would it be, and why? And what sort of pet might you choose for Anne Kerr? Reverend Brown? General Lord Mark Kerr?

  The epigraphs, or opening quotes, for each chapter were chosen to reflect the action that follows. The quote from Robert Southey—“And last of all an Admiral came”—suited chapter 31 since Lord Jack Buchanan was the last of our major characters to be introduced. What was gained by delaying the admiral’s appearance? How did your view of the admiral change from your first impression to the final scene? As to the other eighty-some epigraphs, which one did you especially like, and why?