Mine Is the Night (42 page)

Her throat tightened when she saw the familiar handwriting in Gaelic, the few words scrawled across the page as if written in haste.

The words began to swim.
What has happened, Mother?
She touched the paper, taking care not to let a tear fall on the ink and wash away Fiona’s words.

Lord Buchanan will tell you
. Elisabeth looked at the sunlight pouring through her window, judging the hour by the slant of the rays. Might it be five o’ the clock soon? She started to drink the lukewarm tea Sally had left for her earlier, tried to mark the fabric for Kate’s gown, but concentrating proved difficult. Finally Elisabeth abandoned her tailor’s chalk and climbed the servants’ stair, unable to wait a moment longer.

Lord Jack was seated at his desk when she arrived. He waved her in at once and sent the footman on an errand. “Leave the door open,” he told the young man.

“Aye, milord,” he said and was gone.

Elisabeth sat across from the admiral, hands folded in her lap, her heart in her throat. “What did you find in Castleton?”

He’d never looked more serious. “Your mother is frightened, and for good reason.”

“Ben Cromar,” she whispered.
Oh my sweet mother
. When Lord Jack related their discussion, Elisabeth heard her mother’s voice.
I should have listened. I should have heeded. I didna ken
. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“With your permission, I shall speak with Sir John. As sheriff, he surely has a counterpart in Aberdeenshire who might intervene. Though beneath a man’s own roof …” Lord Jack shook his head. “The law favors the husband in such matters.”

Elisabeth knew the Braemar parish minister would offer no assistance. Her mother had kept her distance from the kirk, worshiping the moon instead. “What else did she say?”

“She was very grateful for your letter,” Lord Jack assured her. “Said it was the first she’d had since marrying Mr. Cromar.”

“But—”

“I know. You wrote her monthly. But your letters were either intercepted by the government en route—”

“Or opened by Cromar.” Elisabeth stared at the floor, sickened at the thought of him reading her posts. “How could he be so cruel?”

The admiral stood, walked to the window, and gazed out onto the sunlit gardens. “Some men have no kindness left in them.”

She lifted her head. “And some have an abundance.”

After a lengthy silence, he turned back and shifted to another subject. “Your mother voiced a strong objection to having you sew livery for my footmen, so I promised her I’d hire a tailor.”

“But …” Elisabeth shared a concern of her own. “I’ll not have enough work to last until Saint Andrew’s Day.”

He looked down at her. “Bess, we had an agreement, which I intend to
honor. Even if that means you’ll be tarrying about the house, talking to Charbon for hours on end while a tailor dresses my menservants.” When she started to protest, he cut her short. “Michael Dalgliesh. I thought he might be the man for the task.”

“He is a fine tailor,” Elisabeth agreed, “and would no doubt welcome the business. But Mr. Dalgliesh is already quite … engaged at the moment.”

“Engaged? By whom?”

“Betrothed, if you will. To my cousin Anne. They intend to wed on the last of August.”

His eyebrows rose. “Truly? Then you are quite right. The man can hardly sew for me while preparing to begin a new life with Miss Kerr.” He reclaimed his chair, then tossed down a cup of lukewarm tea. “I’ll seek some solution come Monday. There must be other tailors in Selkirk.”

“There are,” she said, though she’d not recommend narrow-minded Mr. Smail.

“Speaking of weddings,” Jack continued, “your mother asked about a silver ring she thought you might still be wearing. Something handed down from your grandmother.”

“And my great-grandmother Nessa before her.” Elisabeth glanced at her right hand, where an engraved silver band had lived for many years.
Measure the moon, circle the silver
. A sacred symbol of the pagan rituals she’d once embraced, then discarded for a greater, truer Love.

“I no longer have it,” she confessed, recalling how she’d deposited the silver ring, and her wedding ring as well, into Mr. Dewar’s waiting hand to pay for her carriage ride south. “I do hope my mother will forgive me.”

His steady gaze met hers. “A ring can be replaced, Bess. A daughter cannot.”

ack strode through the quiet halls of Bell Hill, glad to be home. Not sailing the high seas, not calling at foreign ports, not climbing the rugged Highland hills.
Home
.

Even the rainy Sabbath afternoon could not dampen his mood. He’d been welcomed back by many at kirk that morning and had rubbed shoulders with Michael Dalgliesh, assured of much luck in love. A foolish custom, aye, but harmless.

Sitting beside Elisabeth, he’d almost rubbed shoulders with her too, so crowded was the pew. Mrs. Kerr and Gibson did little to hide their regard for each other, all but holding hands throughout the service. An odd pairing, Jack thought, but who was he to say where love might lead? As for Elisabeth, she was equally kind to all who crossed her path, which both pleased and disappointed him. Might she not shower a bit more attention on him?

Selfish, Jack. And thoughtless. She is a widow in mourning, remember?

Jack paused at the door to his dining room, with its long windows facing the garden, then he squinted, peering through the rain. Was someone approaching the house? Jack could barely make out the shape of a man dressed in dark colors, head bent against the blustery storm. The fellow was limping, Jack realized. He started toward the front door, intending to greet him. Was the man injured perhaps? Or merely seeking shelter from the elements?

Upon reaching the entrance hall, Jack pulled the bell cord, summoning Roberts from his private quarters. His butler appeared moments later, straightening his coat.

“Sorry, milord. Taking a wee Sunday nap …”

“No matter. We’ve a stranger about to knock on our door,” Jack told him. “See to his needs. Dry clothes, warm food, and a chair by the fire.”

“Very good, sir.” Roberts pulled open the great oak door, startling their visitor in the process.

“Lord Buchanan?” the man asked, looking over the butler’s shoulder.

“Indeed, sir.” Jack stepped forward, making a quick assessment. Thirty years of age perhaps, the dark-haired, dark-eyed man was not quite so tall or broad as he but a sizable figure nonetheless. His club foot explained the limp. The bundle under his arm was a mystery.

“Come, come,” Jack urged him, beckoning his visitor inside. “ ’Tis miserable to be out of doors in such weather.”

The younger man walked across the marble floor, trying in vain to hide his deformity. Jack could hardly blame him. Would he not do the same?

“I thank ye for yer kindness,” the stranger began. For a large man, he was uncommonly soft spoken, though the Highland lilt in his voice was easily detected. “I was sent here by Fiona Ferguson …, eh, Cromar.”

“Mrs. Cromar?” Jack echoed, staring at the man. “From Castleton of Braemar?”

“Aye, milord. The verra same.” He unbuttoned the dripping wool cape round his thick neck, then removed it with a gallant sweep. “Micht this be hung by the hearth for a wee bit?”

Roberts claimed the garment at once, then led the two men into the drawing room, where a crackling wood fire held the damp air at bay.

By now Mrs. Pringle had been alerted and stood in the doorway, awaiting orders.

“Will hot tea do?” Jack asked his guest. “Or is whisky more to your liking?”

“Tea,” the man said firmly, though he eyed the glass decanters, their amber contents sparkling in the firelight.

Jack nodded at his housekeeper, then directed his guest to a leather chair well suited for wet clothing. “You say Mrs. Cromar sent you?”

“In a manner o’ speaking.” The man untied his bundle, wrapped in
calfskin, and produced a card advertising a tailoring shop in Edinburgh. “This is whaur I warked,” he explained, “and these are some o’ the garments I stitched.”

Jack barely looked at the neat stack of clothing. “Am I to understand you are … a tailor?”

“Aye, milord.” He smiled, though it did not soften his features. “Mrs. Cromar told me ye had need o’ my services.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “But all I require is livery for a few footmen. A month’s work at most. You cannot have traveled all the way from Braemar for so temporary a position.”

“A month o’ wark will suit me verra weel,” the younger man said. “I was already bound for London toun and thocht I might earn a bit o’ silver on my way.”

Still shaking his head, Jack began examining the offered garments. He saw at once the man was quite skilled with a needle and told him so.

“I learned a’ I ken from my faither,” he said proudly. “O’ course, he’s gane noo, and so is my mither.”

Jack studied the card from the shop on Edinburgh’s High Street. It appeared to be a worthy establishment. “You could lodge here at Bell Hill,” Jack said, thinking aloud, “then be on your way to London by Michaelmas.”

“Aye, so I could, milord.”

Jack would be pleased to have his footmen newly attired in time for the household supper at next month’s end. And Elisabeth’s mother surely trusted this young man, or she’d never have recommended him.

“Sir, your timing is … providential,” Jack told him. The truth was, he felt sorry for the younger man with no steady work and both parents gone. Elisabeth might appreciate having another Highlander in the house, and a friend of her mother’s at that.

“I can pay you a guinea for each suit of clothing,” Jack told him. “If we’re agreed, you may start on the morrow. We’ve a vacant workroom on the men’s side of the servant hall that should suit.”

That grim smile again. “Aye, ’twill do.”

Jack consulted the card once more. “Your name is MacPherson.”

“ ’Tis, milord.” He eyed the steaming cup of tea Mrs. Pringle had just poured for him. “Robert is my proper Christian name, though my freens a’ call me Rob.”

“I hope you’ll soon be among friends here as well.” Jack shook the man’s hand, taken aback at the strength of his grip. “Rob MacPherson, welcome to Bell Hill.”

lisabeth flew across the stable yard, her gaze fixed on the servants’ entrance. Had the clock in the drawing room already struck eight? She’d slept later than she’d intended, then spilled tea on her white linen chemise. After soaking the fabric in hot water, she’d scrubbed the stain with lemon and salt. “I’ll dry it in the sun for you,” Anne had promised, sending Elisabeth on her way. A poor use for an expensive lemon, but it could not be helped.

She slipped into her workroom at Bell Hill unnoticed, then paused by the window, letting her heart ease its pace. Kate was due for her fitting later that morning. But Elisabeth had yet to finish chalking the fabric, let alone cutting and pinning it. If she started at once, she might be ready for the lass by eleven o’ the clock, provided she had no interruptions.

“Mrs. Kerr?”

When she turned to find Mrs. Pringle walking through the door, pocket watch in hand, Elisabeth apologized at once. “Do forgive my late arrival.”

The housekeeper smiled. “I’ve come not to scold you but to summon you. His lordship has hired a tailor to sew for the menservants and thought you’d want to meet him.”

“But …” Elisabeth tried to fathom how Lord Jack had found a man so quickly. “His lordship made no mention of him at kirk yesterday morn.”

Mrs. Pringle stepped farther into the room, glancing over her shoulder. “According to Roberts, the tradesman arrived yesterday afternoon, drenched from head to toe, and was hired within the hour. Come, his lordship is waiting.”