Mine Is the Night (50 page)

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.”

Then marry me, Bess
. The words were on the tip of his tongue.
Say it, Jack. Go on
.

Youth and beauty were easily found among the gentlewomen of the land but to also find godliness and charity? Wisdom and purity? Strength and humility? He would gladly wait for such a woman. Though the new year did seem a very long way off.

Jack walked round his desk, eying her mourning gown, thinking to test the waters. “When the seventeenth of January comes and you are free to wear any color you like, I am curious what you’ll choose.”

She rose, the soft contours of her face glowing in the afternoon light. “I’m rather partial to lavender.”

He stood as close as he dared. “Both the scent and the shade?” When she nodded, he tucked away the information for future reference. “A feminine color, signifying devotion. I shall look forward to seeing you wear it.”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Shall you indeed, milord?” At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she stepped back. “Then I hope you are a patient man.”

“Oh, very patient,” he assured her, mentally counting the time that remained.

Three months and twenty-four days, Bess. And then, if you’ll have me, if God wills it, you’ll be mine
.

arjory blinked at Elisabeth. “We’re to pick
carrots
? On the Sabbath?”

Her daughter-in-law laughed, slipping on a pair of tattered gloves suitable only for gardening. “If Mrs. Thorburn will not mind.”

“And if Reverend Brown will not notice,” Marjory added rather sternly.

Once Elisabeth convinced her the Michaelmas Eve tradition was embraced by Highland ministers of old and would in no way dishonor the Lord, Marjory gave in. “But have not all the root vegetables been harvested by now?”

“There’s always a stray or two among the weeds, waiting to be yanked free.” Clasping Marjory by the hand, Elisabeth pulled her out of the upholstered chair.

“Now
I
feel like a carrot,” Marjory chided her. Since they had no proper spade for digging, she dropped a wooden fork into her apron pocket, then led the way down the stair, feeling rather ridiculous. Still, if it pleased Elisabeth, what harm was there?

The afternoon sky was pale gray with a thin layer of clouds stretched from east to west. Marjory did not sense rain in the air, though it felt cooler than when they’d hurried off to kirk that morning. She’d thrown a cape over her shoulders for their outing and was grateful for it now as they headed for Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.

“Not much here, I’m afraid.” Marjory treaded gently round the vegetable beds, looking for the telltale foliage: a frothy burst of tiny green leaves.

“Ah.” Elisabeth crouched down, then began tugging at a neglected carrot, grasping it with both hands. “ ’Tis a custom meant to assure a woman will have children,” she said, then smiled as an enormous carrot was unearthed. “See? Chubby as a wee bairn.”

Marjory eyed her lumpy harvest. “Is such a thing ill luck or good?”

“Very good,” Elisabeth assured her, “although children are a gift of the Lord and not of the garden.”

Now that she understood the purpose, Marjory ceased her digging. “Bess, I’m far too old to bear a child.”

“But the perfect age to help raise one someday,” her daughter-in-law insisted. “Come, see what your bit of foliage yields.”

Wanting to be agreeable, Marjory dug and yanked and dug some more until a forked root with not one but two sturdy carrots broke through the soil. They could represent Donald and Andrew, Marjory supposed. Or would she hold Elisabeth’s children when the time came?

She glanced at her daughter-in-law, bursting with health and vigor. Aye, if Elisabeth were to remarry, she might well bear a child or two, though she’d not conceived during the years she was married to Donald. Still, Marjory could not find fault with Elisabeth. Not after all the lass had done to care for her, provide for her. Nor could she blame the Almighty, who knew best in such things—nae, in all things.

Michaelmas carrots in hand, including one for Anne to present to Michael, Elisabeth planted pennies in the soil for Mrs. Thorburn’s children to discover, then walked Marjory home, chanting a rhyme that made them both laugh.

“I daresay Lord Buchanan would gladly claim your carrot,” Marjory observed.

“Unless Rosalind Murray offers him one first.” Elisabeth placed their harvest on the dining room table, her smile fading. “The Murrays are on his lordship’s guest list for tomorrow night’s Michaelmas feast. I can only imagine the gown Rosalind will wear. And the jewels. And the fine perfume.”

Marjory heard the resignation in her daughter-in-law’s voice and hastened to assure her, “Lord Buchanan is not a gentleman whose head is turned by pretty clothes.”

Elisabeth lifted her cape from her shoulders. “But Rosalind is quite clever and has traveled the Continent.”

“Elisabeth Kerr,” Marjory chided her, “I’ve never met a lass more clever than you. Now suppose we get on with Michaelmas Eve and leave Michaelmas Night in God’s hands, aye?”

“Very well.” Elisabeth tied on an apron. “To our bannock, then.”

She moistened ground oatmeal with ewe’s milk, then added berries, seeds, and wild honey, and formed it into a circle. “For eternity,” she explained before beginning work on two smaller bannocks. “These are to honor the loved ones we’ve lost since Michaelmas last. Come, Marjory, and help me prepare the dough as we say their names.”

Marjory pressed her hands into the mealy mixture. “Donald,” she whispered, kneading the dough as she remembered the babe, the lad, the young man, the gentleman whom she’d loved almost more than her own husband. Her throat tightened further as she named aloud her second son. “Andrew,” she said, thinking of her little soldier marching about the nursery, then round Tweedsford’s gardens, then up and down the streets of Edinburgh, and finally across the battlefield at Falkirk. Elisabeth spoke their names with her, kneaded the dough beside her, and helped her give them each a unique shape.

“I am not sure I can eat them,” Marjory confessed.

“Not to worry,” Elisabeth said, brushing the flour from her hands. “They’re meant to be given to the poor who have no bread of their own.”

While the bannocks browned on the hearth, Marjory prepared a rich mutton broth for supper, eying their fat carrots. When she asked Elisabeth if the vegetables might be added to her soup pot, the answer was swift and sure.

“Nae!” Elisabeth pretended to be shocked. “ ’Tis a Michaelmas gift for your beloved.”

A carrot?
Marjory hid her smile.
Won’t Gibson be delighted?

Under Elisabeth’s watchful eye, Marjory coated their Michaelmas bannock with a caudle of flour and cream, eggs and sugar. “Three times,” Elisabeth said, “for Father, Son, and Spirit.”

After the bannock was placed back on the fire to finish baking, Elisabeth washed her hands, then slipped on her cape. “I am off to Mr. Riddell’s stables to be certain Belda is safe.”

“Safe?” Marjory echoed. “Why would you worry about a mare?”

“ ’Tis Michaelmas Eve,” Elisabeth reminded her. “Anything might happen, especially where horses are concerned.”

She was gone before Marjory could offer any objection. Not that she would have. The stables were a two-minute walk up Kirk Wynd. If Elisabeth would sleep better knowing Lord Buchanan’s mare was secure, Marjory was happy for her to go.

But the house was suddenly very quiet, and she was left with nothing but her thoughts.

Marjory walked from one corner to the other, as she had on the night they’d arrived, when she’d measured Anne’s small house and fretted over their living arrangements.
We shall all live in one room
. Aye, so they had.