Mine Is the Night (29 page)

When he heard light footsteps approaching, Jack spun round to greet her and instead found a russet-haired maidservant with a lighted candle hurrying into the room.

Her eyes widened. “Milord!” She curtsied, taking care not to tip the candle. “I didna think to find ye here this morn.”

“Sorry I frightened you. Sally, isn’t it?”

She blushed, then bobbed her head. “Aye.”

With a sweep of his arm, he stepped aside. “Come, light the fire for Mrs. Kerr, for it is cooler down here than it is out of doors.” He looked round, wondering what the small, low-ceilinged room would feel like in the dead of winter with only a few hours of frozen light filtering through the single high window.

“Good day to you, Lord Buchanan.”

He turned at the sound of Elisabeth’s voice. “And to you, Mrs. Kerr.” He bowed, while Sally made a furtive exit, then said to Elisabeth, “No new mourning gown?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I finished my mother-in-law’s last eve. She was so eager to wear it she awakened at four o’ the clock, when I did, just so I might dress her. You have blessed us both more than we can say.”

How like her, Jack realized, to sew her mother-in-law’s gown first. “Then you’ll begin making your gown this eve?”

“In a few days,” she said, poking at the sluggish fire. “My hands are quite cramped of late. An evening or two of reading, instead of holding my scissors, should take care of it.”

“Might I offer something from my library?” By the lift of her brows, it seemed he’d struck the right note. “Feel free to visit my study and choose what you like.”

“If ’twill not be an inconvenience.”

“Not at all.” He drew a steady breath. Now that he had her attention,
there were far more important things to say. “I must apologize, Mrs. Kerr. For ending our conversation so abruptly on Monday last. And then avoiding your company.”

She turned to look at his cat, perched on a chair. Or did she simply not wish to look at him? “So that was intentional,” she finally said. “I’d feared as much.”

“ ’Tis common knowledge that my mother was French and that I spent my childhood in France. You breached no trust.”

He was relieved when she turned toward him once more. “Lord Buchanan, ours is an unusual relationship. ’Tis a temporary engagement, not a permanent position. We also travel in very different social circles. I do not wish to make assumptions or speak more freely than I ought.”

“I appreciate your candor. Still …” He exhaled, uncertain, having not charted his course in advance. “Can we not be friends, madam, at least at Bell Hill?” He picked up two wooden chairs, which looked desperately uncomfortable, and placed them close to the hearth. “Come, Mrs. Kerr. Surely you have a few minutes to spare before you begin sewing.”

She quietly took a seat. “I am at your bidding, milord.”

“If we’re to be friends, you must call me Lord Jack.” He sat as well, inching closer. “Only in private, of course.”

“ ’Twill take some getting used to,” she admitted. “Is your real name John?”

“My real name is Jacques.” He paused, realizing he’d not confessed as much in years, then shrugged, making light of it. “But ‘Jack’ seemed better suited to a British naval officer.” He leaned against his chair and found the straight wooden back even more ill fitting than the seat. If they were going to meet with any regularity, something would need to be done about the chairs.

“Mrs. Kerr, ’tis only fair you know a bit of my history.” Jack pressed his hands on his knees, gathering his thoughts, preparing to show her a canvas of his life. Certain details would be omitted, but there would be enough for a sketch, if not an oil painting. “I was born in Le Havre. My French mother raised me, while my Scottish father sailed the seas with the Royal Navy. I soon followed in his footsteps.”

“Were his boots the size of yours?” she asked, glancing down at them.

“Bigger,” he confessed, “for I am quite certain I never filled them. I began my life at sea when I was four-and-ten, as a midshipman.”

Elisabeth gasped, as he knew she would.

“Some lads were even younger,” he admitted. “The army requires its budding officers to purchase a commission. But in the navy, a first post usually comes about because of family connections.”

She tipped her head. “Then you’ve been at sea for …”

“Six-and-twenty years.” He seldom said the number aloud, finding it rather disheartening, as if he’d wasted the better part of his life. But he’d had no choice. Once his mother succumbed to fever, he had to sail. “I was five-and-thirty,” he continued, “when I joined Admiral Anson aboard the
Centurion
, the flagship among six fighting ships. Some four years later we returned to London, bringing home as our prize a Spanish treasure worth eight hundred thousand British pounds.”

He let the number sink in—not to impress her, but simply to help her understand his situation. “The officers shared the bulk of the prize, and several were promoted to the admiralty. But we lost more than half the men who sailed with us and all the vessels but one. Not a good bargain, I’d say.”

“Nae,” she agreed. After a quiet moment she posed the question he’d been asking himself for two years. “What are your plans now?”

Jack exhaled. “I’ve had enough of life at sea.” He did not confess the rest. That he was tired of being alone, of having no family, no wife, no children. “Within a fortnight I shall officially retire from the navy—”

“Retire?”
She looked at him aghast. “And lose your pension?”

He shrugged, almost ashamed. “I’ve no need of it, Mrs. Kerr.”

“Oh. I see.”

When Charbon jumped down, Elisabeth stood. Weary of their conversation, no doubt, or appalled at the thought of someone throwing away a perfectly good pension when she had so little money of her own.

“Forgive me, but I must attend to my work,” Elisabeth told him.

He was on his feet at once, chastising himself for not rising the moment
she did. Had his manners escaped him completely? “Mrs. Kerr, will you be attending the Common Riding on Friday?”

She nodded. “Apparently all of Selkirk turns out for it. And you?”

“As a landowner I’ll be inspecting the marches.” He tried to sound blasé, but, in truth, the prospect of riding over the hills astride Janvier appealed to him.

“Might you join us for dinner at noontide?” Elisabeth asked. “Our house is a stone’s throw from the mercat cross, where the festivities end.”

He knew where she lived. Not the sort of place a gentleman of rank was oft seen, but he cared little for social conventions. “I cannot be certain of my duties for the day,” he said cautiously, “but I will look for you on Friday. And join you for dinner if I can.”

ave you ever seen such excitement?” Marjory felt like clapping her hands or spinning round where she stood or throwing her arms in the air. A mature woman did none of those things, of course. But she could
feel
such urges and no one be the wiser.

She had a right to be merry: Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan was dining at their house this day. She could hardly believe their good fortune. Though they’d spent time and coins they could not spare, their efforts would be rewarded by having the most influential man in Selkirk at their table. Elisabeth had insisted she merely wanted to express her gratitude to the admiral, but Marjory hoped to accomplish more than that. An entrée into society for all the Kerr women. A chance to begin anew.

Her heart light, she surveyed the crowded marketplace. Folk had begun gathering just after the midsummer dawn, bedecked in their brightest and best, reserved for weddings and fairs. Colored ribbons streamed from their hats, and the large cockades worn on their coats declared their allegiance to one of the trades. Anne stood on one side of her and Elisabeth on the other, both happy to be free of their needles and pins for the occasion. Only innkeepers and ale sellers were hard at work this day. The rest of Selkirk left their cares behind, prepared to observe the Common Riding.

Though the air was cool, the June sun would warm them soon enough. So would the press of bodies. Marjory reached for the nosegay of roses tucked
in her bodice and breathed in their fresh scent—gifts from Lord Buchanan’s garden, provided for each of the Kerr women. Such a generous man. And to think she’d once dreaded his move to Selkirk! By noontide he would be dining at their table. She’d left everything simmering, baking, and stewing and so needed to return home shortly. For a few minutes at least, she could enjoy the day.

“Look, ’tis Molly Easton.” Elisabeth nodded toward a lass dressed in a sunny yellow gown. “She once told me June was her favorite month because of the Riding.”

“Mine too,” Marjory confessed. “A shame she didn’t find work at Bell Hill.”

“Whitmuir Hall needed a parlormaid, so she’s well placed.” Elisabeth shifted her attention, looking up Kirk Wynd. “When shall we see the riders?”

“Soon,” Anne promised.

Marjory heard the drummers growing restless and the fiddlers tuning their strings. Not much longer now. What began centuries ago with the town burgesses riding the marches—seeing that property boundaries were observed and common lands were not encroached upon—had become an annual summer rite, complete with flags and banners, parades and song.

“There’s the reverend,” Anne said, nodding toward the corner where Kirk Wynd and Cross Gait met.

Marjory followed her gaze, knowing why Anne had pointed out the minister: Gibson was standing beside him. Although not so tall as his employer, Gibson nonetheless had better posture and a far more pleasing countenance. While the reverend’s attention was drawn elsewhere, Gibson lifted his hand in greeting.

I care mair than ye ken
. Marjory shivered, recalling his words, not entirely certain of his meaning. He was no longer her manservant, but he was still in service.

And what are you, Marjory Kerr?
She well knew the answer: an ill-trained, unpaid cook. That a brave and honest man the likes of Neil Gibson might harbor some affection for her was a blessing and nothing short of it.

“ ’Tis the admiral!” Elisabeth cried, standing on tiptoe.

Dozens of heads turned in the same direction, including Marjory’s. Gibson’s too, she noticed.

Coming down Kirk Wynd on a handsome gray thoroughbred, Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan cut a dashing figure. His elegant powdered wig suited his rank, and his tricorne fit like a crown. The dark blue coat flared round his knees, eclipsed only by the rich scarlet waistcoat beneath it. Anne was no doubt enraptured by the froth of lace round his neck and sleeves, but it was the braided trim that stole Marjory’s breath. Every pocket, every buttonhole, and every hem was edged in thick gold braid.

Someone shouted over the crowd, making the admiral’s horse grow skittish, forcing his lordship to calm the animal. When he rode by without so much as a glance in their direction. Marjory was more than a little miffed. Might the admiral not at least have
looked
toward Halliwell’s Close?

“Here come the hammer men to start the parade,” Anne said.

Marjory’s irritation quickly gave way as she watched the burgesses and landowners convene on horseback while the freemen, journeymen, and apprentices of the trade guilds mustered in a designated order, swords held high, flags proudly displayed. Since each guild had its own song, the music was deafening, with drums, pipes, trumpets, flutes, and a host of fiddlers.

The men who worked with hammers—masons, blacksmiths, coopers, and wrights—marched off first. Then came the pride of Selkirk—the souters—a loud and boisterous company of shoemakers. When the weavers marched by, plaids draped over their shoulders and kilted round their waists, Elisabeth sighed. “How my father would have loved this.”

Among the tailors, Michael and Peter Dalgliesh were easy to spot with their crimson heads and bright smiles. Anne gave everyone round them a start, loudly calling out to Peter, who waved back with bright-eyed enthusiasm. At last came the fleshers, bearing the sharp-edged tools of their trade and signaling the town to follow them.

“You two walk while I cook,” Marjory told them as the crowd moved
forward: hundreds of folk cheering, shouting, waving, and singing as they escorted the riders to the edge of town.

Marjory added her voice to the throng, tears filling her eyes, as she remembered the years she’d stood with her husband and sons in their place of honor by the mercat cross.

I am here, dear lads. I am home
.

here are you, lass?