Mine Is the Night (31 page)

Conversation ensued when their forks were put aside. Michael Dalgliesh, Jack decided, was a clever raconteur posing as a tailor, who regaled the family
and guests with amusing stories. The elder Widow Kerr spoke little but, by her speech and manners, was clearly a gentlewoman. He would see what he could learn of her history and Elisabeth’s as well.

When it was his turn, Jack shared his adventures aboard the
Centurion
, including visiting exotic ports of call in Brazil, Argentina, China, and the Philippines. Elisabeth and Anne quietly cleared the table, then drew their chairs closer. Wide-eyed Peter sat at his feet until his father invited the boy onto his lap, all the better to listen.

Jack was seldom jealous of any man, but for a moment the sharp pain of envy cut like a knife. However enthralling his years at sea, they had cost him a son like Peter.

When the dinner party finally stood, well sated with food and words, the kirk bell tolled the hour. “It cannot be six o’ the clock.” Jack consulted his pocket watch, shocked to learn how swiftly the afternoon had passed. “I must find my stable lad before he sells Janvier and sails for the Continent.”

“Walk me to the manse first,” Reverend Brown said. “I’ve asked Gibson to tarry here and be of service.”

“Well done, sir.” Jack looked round the house, still as mean a hovel as ever. But the women certainly ate well. Perhaps they preferred to spend money on food rather than furnishings.

Jack found his hat, expressed his sincere thanks, then took his leave and followed the minister down the stair and into the marketplace, where revelers were dancing in rounds, their feet lifting high above the cobblestones. He escorted the minister home without attempting any conversation over the spirited fiddlers.

A few minutes later the two men stood in the minister’s parlor, the sounds of merrymaking held at bay by his solid entrance door.

“Lord Buchanan,” the minister began, “how oft do you imagine the Kerr ladies enjoy such a fine table?”

The question caught Jack off guard. “I … cannot say, sir.”

“I can,” he said gruffly. “On the morrow they’ll break their fast eating
porridge from wooden bowls. Dinner will be a single course from a single pot and supper no more than cheese and bread and whatever they can afford to pluck from Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.”

Jack felt the rich meal inside him begin to churn. “Then however did they afford …”

“The young Widow Kerr invested a fortnight’s wages in that meal. Anne, who earns a pittance teaching lace making, scrubbed her wee house from fore to aft. And the elder Mrs. Kerr spent all week planning and preparing each course.”

Jack stared at him, appalled. “For one meal?”

“Nae,” the reverend said sharply. “For one man.”

“Surely …” Jack tried again. “Surely this was not all for
my
sake?”

The minister scowled. “According to Gibson, who heard this from Marjory Kerr, who knows her daughter-in-law better than anyone, Elisabeth Kerr meant to express her gratitude for all you’ve done for her.”

“I see.” Jack’s mind was racing. Had he missed something? Had she told him that?

“Yet there you sat, dining like a prince, then offering them nothing in return beyond what a dressmaker is paid for her efforts.”

Stung by his accusation, Jack protested, “But I provided fabric for new gowns—”

“Aye,” Reverend Brown growled, “so Elisabeth Kerr wouldn’t sully the appearance of your household. Meanwhile, she walks four miles a day, labors from dawn until dusk, and has no assurance of any position beyond Saint Andrew’s Day.”

Jack had not been spoken to so harshly since he was a green midshipman. He did not enjoy it then. He enjoyed it less now. But he heard something behind the minister’s tongue-lashing: the truth. “What would you have me do, sir?”

Reverend Brown responded without hesitation, “Treat the Kerr widows as peers.”

Jack stared at him, confused. “But, sir, they are … poor.”

“Now, aye, but ’twas not always thus. Lord John Kerr of Tweedsford was a wealthy and respected resident of Selkirk in his day. His son, the late Lord Donald, inherited his father’s fortune, title, and lands. Make no mistake, the Kerrs are gentlewomen.”

Jack dropped into the nearest seat, the wind knocked out of him. “The young Widow Kerr told me none of this.”

“I cannot blame her for hiding her husband’s foolishness, for he did not inherit his father’s common sense. Lord Donald Kerr threw his life away on the Jacobite cause, sentencing his mother and wife to a life of poverty.”

Jack grasped the situation at last. “When her husband died at Falkirk, he fought for Prince Charlie, not King George.”

The minister’s expression softened. “Now you see the way of it. General Lord Mark Kerr himself penned the letter that sealed the family’s fate. Attainted for treason, they lost everything.”

Treason
. Jack shuddered at the very sound of the word. He’d known more than one navy man who’d paid for his disloyalty to the king with his life. “And the Kerr women … they supported Prince Charlie as well?”

Reverend Brown’s gray head slowly bobbed up and down. “To their shame, they did. But above all, they supported the men they loved, for which I cannot blame them. Now you’ll find them honoring the king, if only because ’tis prudent. Of their faith in the Almighty, however, there can be no doubt. In that realm we are all peers.”

Jack stood again, needing to pace. “Why have I not learned of this treason before now?”

“No one wanted to tell you, milord, lest it cost Elisabeth Kerr her position. She could have returned home to the Highlands but instead chose to stay with her mother-in-law and care for her. ’Tis a sacrifice not all would make, milord.”

Jack fixed his gaze on a stack of books on the library table, struggling to collect his thoughts. “I must ask you again, Reverend, what would you have me do?”

The minister’s answer was swift. “Find ways to provide for their household that won’t cause them shame or require some gift in return.”

He groaned. “Like today’s feast, you mean.”

“Just so.”

Jack nodded, an idea forming in his mind and heart. “Silver is a cold offering, easily measured. But I have other ways of supplying their needs.” He consulted his pocket watch again, then started toward the door. “I must away, sir. Your admonition has not gone unheard.”

“I can see that.” Reverend Brown, who seldom smiled, made a valiant effort. “Thou shalt open thine hand wide unto thy brother,” he reminded Jack, “to thy poor, and to thy needy, in thy land.”

“Aye, sir.” Jack tipped his hat and was gone, bound for the edge of town where a stable lad and a well-fed thoroughbred waited for their master.

Less than an hour later he was striding through the corridors of Bell Hill in search of Roberts and Mrs. Pringle. His house was emptier than usual, the servants having been given the day off for the Riding. That also meant fewer ears listening in the halls—a blessing, considering what he had planned.

When the two appeared at his study door, Jack beckoned them within.

“What is troubling you, milord?” Roberts inquired. “For I can see you are anxious.”

“
Eager
would be closer to the mark.” Jack was standing in front of his desk, rather than sitting behind it. All the better to engage their cooperation. And their silence.

The two waited, hands behind their backs, attentive as ever.

“First,” Jack said somewhat sternly, “one or both of you owe me an explanation. Did you know that Mrs. Elisabeth Kerr was once married to a Jacobite who fell at Falkirk and was later charged with treason?”

Roberts was clearly shocked. “Indeed not, milord!”

Mrs. Pringle pursed her lips. “I confess, Lord Buchanan, I was well aware of it. Mrs. Kerr told me within a half hour of her arrival here.”

“And still you made her welcome in my household.” Jack kept his voice
even. “You gave her food. Allowed me to clothe her. Made certain I engaged her.”

Mrs. Pringle replied without apology, “I did, milord.”

He nodded, barely hiding his pleasure. “Well done.”

“Sir?” Roberts exclaimed.

Jack clapped a hand on his butler’s shoulder. “We are charged to care for the widows in our parish, and that is what Mrs. Pringle wisely arranged. But there is more to be done. Promise me, both of you, that my intentions shall never be discussed outside this room.”

When not only their spoken assurances but also their honest gazes convinced him of their fealty, Jack rubbed his hands together like a shipwright preparing to grip his ax. “Now, then. Here is what I have in mind.”

lasping a linen bundle in one hand and her sewing basket in the other, Elisabeth started downhill toward home, drawn by the toll of the kirk bell floating on the early evening breeze.

Her feet knew the path well by now. In four weeks she’d finished as many gowns, the latest for Sally’s mother, Mrs. Craig, the head laundress. For her own entertainment Elisabeth made one small alteration in each gown’s design. An extra set of pleats here, an embroidered buttonhole there, a deeper placket to hide the fastenings—nothing Lord Jack would notice or care about.

She’d seen little of him the past week, though he’d sent a thoughtful note on Saturday’s dinner tray, thanking the Kerrs for their hospitality. After reading the note to Marjory and Anne, Elisabeth had tucked it into her apron pocket. Later, when no one was looking, she read it again, smoothing her thumb across Lord Jack’s signature.

But his spoken words were hidden in her heart.
Can we not be friends, madam, at least at Bell Hill?
What did that mean? That he’d prefer not to be seen with her in public? Or that he was lonely and wished to enjoy her company while she labored beneath his roof?

Of this she was certain: small gifts had begun to appear at her workroom door. Squares of toffee, which quickly appeased Anne’s sweet tooth. Two pints of berries. A basketful of roses snipped from the garden. Then today’s fresh wheaten rolls, a specialty of the cook. “Mrs. Tudhope baked more than were needed for dinner,” Mrs. Pringle had told her earlier, leaving the linen bundle on the mantel, where Charbon couldn’t poke at them with his nose.

Elisabeth suspected Lord Buchanan was behind such blessings, meant to look merely like perishables given away rather than thrown away. Whatever the source, whatever the reason, the Kerr women were grateful.

She was walking down the steepest part of the hill when the clip-clop of approaching horses caught her ear. Elisabeth slowed her steps so the riders could pass by.

Instead the horses drew to a stop. “Afternoon, madam.”

Elisabeth turned to find Lord Jack gazing down at her, his face framed in blue sky. He was dressed in a black riding coat and breeches, but without a neckcloth or waistcoat—rather scandalous attire for an admiral. She arched her brows. “You are not bound for town, I see.”

“Nae, madam. I’m off in search of ancient ruins. Care to join me?” He nodded at the horse beside him, led by one of Bell Hill’s grooms. “Belda should suit you. She’s well mannered yet with spirit.”

Elisabeth eyed the golden mare, with its cream-colored mane and rich leather sidesaddle. “She
is
lovely,” Elisabeth confessed, though she’d not ridden in many seasons. Dare she try it?

“Davie will carry your things home for you.” He nodded at the groom, who handed the reins to his master, then came round and relieved Elisabeth of her bundle and basket. “Davie, kindly tell Mrs. Kerr in Halliwell’s Close that her daughter-in-law will arrive home by sunset, having had her supper.”

“Aye, sir.” The groom took off at a sprint.

Elisabeth stared after him. “Lord Buchanan, I am … not certain …”

“You are to call me Lord Jack,” he reminded her, dismounting in one graceful move.

“This outing you are suggesting.” She turned to look at him. “Is it quite proper for us to travel unescorted?”

“You mean because I’m an old bachelor and you are a young widow?” He cleared his throat. “Madam, I have been closely watched from the moment I entered this parish. I suspect you have been as well. Such scrutiny tends to keep people on their best behavior. I have no plans to misbehave. Do you?”

She laughed. “I do not.”

“Good.” He offered his hand. “Let me help you mount her, for ’tis not easily managed in a gown.”

She stood beside the mare, smoothing a gloved hand along the horse’s sleek, warm neck. “Be gentle with me, lass,” Elisabeth murmured, taking long, slow breaths to calm her nerves. “The last woman I saw riding sidesaddle was Lady Margaret Murray of Broughton.”

“A Jacobite, I believe,” he said evenly.

Elisabeth gritted her teeth. Why had she mentioned such a thing? Probably because she was nervous. Was it riding the mare that frightened her? Or riding with the admiral?

Without ceremony, Lord Buchanan fitted his hands round her waist and lifted her onto the saddle with ease, then politely lowered his gaze as she hooked her right knee round the pommel and arranged her skirts.

Firmly seated, Elisabeth took the reins and exhaled the last of her fears. “I’d forgotten how wonderful the world looks from the back of a horse.”