Mine Is the Night A Novel

Thirty-One

And last of all an Admiral came.

ROBERT SOUTHEY



lmost home, milord.”

Jack Buchanan fixed his gaze on Bell Hill, less than a mile away. He’d resided there but a fortnight, and half of that he’d spent elsewhere. Could even so grand a house as this one finally tether him to land? In all his forty years he’d not stepped foot in his father’s native Scotland. Yet here he was, looking at a hilly green landscape purchased with Spanish gold.

Home? That remained to be seen.

Jack urged his horse forward, calling over his shoulder, “See to your mount, Dickson, or my dinner will be served cold.”

“I think not, milord,” his valet replied. A decent horseman, Christopher Dickson closed the gap between them as the horses lengthened their strides into a full gallop.

Jack eased his weight forward, lifting slightly off the saddle, holding himself in balance, while his horse thundered toward the stables. He reveled in the fresh wind against his face and the sheer power of the magnificent animal beneath him. After endless years of riding nothing but waves, Jack valued the gray thoroughbred above all his earthly possessions.

The lofty branches of mature oaks, maples, and elms arched above him as he neared the property and slowed the horse with a quick take-and-give on the reins. Moments later horse and rider reached the stables, and Jack reluctantly surrendered the reins to his head coachman.

“Janvier has earned his oats and hay,” Jack told dark-haired Timothy Hyslop.

A taciturn man in his thirties, the coachman had few words for two-legged creatures. He led the horse into the cool interior of the stables, murmuring endearments into Janvier’s velvety ear, while Dickson dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms.

As the two men walked toward the house, Dickson reminded him, “Roberts and Mrs. Pringle will have their new staffs waiting at the front door to greet you.”

Jack slowed his gait, giving the shorter man a fair go at keeping up with him. “You mean we cannot slip through the servants’ entrance and see to my grooming first?”

Dickson chuckled. “I am afraid not, milord.” Having circled the globe in his service, the valet well knew his master cared little about appearances.

Jack put up with Dickson’s fussing only on those occasions when attire truly mattered. On this last day of May he was simply a gentleman returning home from business in Edinburgh. The king’s business, to be sure, but nothing that called for velvet or silk.

When Jack rounded the corner, he found his butler, George Roberts, standing at attention near the entrance with servants lining either side of the paved walk. Along with Dickson and Hyslop, Mrs. Pringle and Mrs. Tudhope, Roberts had traveled from London at Jack’s bidding. He trusted each one without reservation and had left Bell Hill in their capable hands over Whitsuntide, allowing them to hire the servants they deemed best.

Within the hour he’d know how well the five of them had managed.

The moment Jack stepped onto the paving stones, Roberts announced him. “Lord Jack Buchanan, Admiral of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and Master of Bell Hill.”

Jack was accustomed to being saluted by his men aboard ship, but two long rows of people bowing and curtsying was almost more than he could bear. None but the Almighty deserved such obeisance. Jack lifted his hat and said blithely, “May the good Lord be with you.”

A bright-eyed maidservant took a cautious step forward. “God bliss ye, sir.”

When Jack nodded in her direction, pleased at her response, the rest of his servants swiftly followed her example, their hearty blessings wafting through the air like hawthorn petals on May Day.

Amid their greetings Roberts came forward, a tall man of five-and-fifty years, with a full head of light brown hair and a most efficient manner. “Welcome home, sir. If I may introduce your new menservants.”

“Very well.” It seemed dinner would have to wait.

Roberts presented more than a dozen men of varying ages chosen to serve as footmen, coachmen, and grooms. Jack had protested when Roberts suggested he employ a page. “Too pretentious,” he’d told the butler.

Once the menservants were dispatched to their duties, it was the housekeeper’s turn. Upon hiring Mary Pringle two years ago, Jack had decided the woman could easily command any quarterdeck in the fleet.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pringle,” he said, noticing her new gown. “Is that the cloth we brought from London?”

“ ’Tis, sir.” She curtsied, a spot of color in each cheek. “Come and meet your new maidservants.” Mrs. Pringle had penned a list, giving not only their full names in turn but also whence they came and what experience they brought with them. A tedious business, yet each lass seemed grateful to be duly recognized.

When they finished, the maidservants scattered—to the kitchen or the dining hall, Jack hoped. Only then did he notice another woman just inside the doorway. Her tattered black gown spoke of a widow without means, yet she was not included on Mrs. Pringle’s list.

The stranger’s face was shadowed by the broad open door, but he clearly saw Charbon curled at her feet. Jack could almost hear the cat purring from where he stood.

“Roberts?”

His butler was beside him at once. “Aye, sir.”

“Who’s the widow by the door?”

“She’s a Highlander. Came from Edinburgh with her mother-in-law, a Mrs. Kerr.”

Jack frowned. “Kerr is hardly a Highland name.” By squinting just so, he caught a glimpse of brown hair, almost the color of his own, a slender neck, and pale skin, though he could not make out her features. “How old would you say she is?”

The butler cleared his throat. “One cannot be certain without asking, but five-and-twenty would be my guess.”

Young, then. But wasn’t everyone when a man reached forty? As Jack watched, she disappeared into the recesses of the house, Charbon in close pursuit. “Perhaps Mrs. Pringle knows something of her story.”

“I believe she does, sir. You may speak with her at any time, of course, but you might prefer to wait ’til after you’ve enjoyed your dinner.”

“Aye,” Jack agreed, striding toward the door. “Dinner.”


Jack was miserable. On the Centurion he’d dined with other officers round the captain’s table, always a convivial group. In London he’d taken his meals at the better inns or public houses with a lively gathering of gentlemen, both friends and strangers. But to sit alone at a long table laden with food enough to feed ten hungry souls while Dickson stood behind him, two footmen tarried at the door, and maidservants came and went with eyes averted—well, it might be proper, but it would not do.

He summoned Roberts. “I wonder if you and Hyslop might join me at table now and again. I realize it flies in the face of convention.”

The color drained from his face. “Sir … we could not possibly …”

Jack narrowed his gaze. “Not even if I commanded it?”

“Oh! Well … of course, sir, but … the others …” Roberts spread out his hands, then folded them together: a servant’s equivalent of a polite shrug.

Seeing how uncomfortable Roberts was with the notion, Jack offered something less daring. “Reverend Brown provided a list of the gentry in Selkirkshire. Might dinner invitations be extended? Two or three a week perhaps?”

Roberts brightened. “I’ll see to it at once.”

It was a start, in any case. Jack surveyed his dining table, toying with another idea. “How many people will she seat?”

“Thirty,” Roberts said, “though the furniture maker still has a dozen chairs to finish.”

“See that he delivers them by the end of June.” Jack looked across the empty room, an image forming in his mind. “On the last of each month, I shall invite the entire household to sup at my table.” He turned to Roberts. “What say you to that?”

His voice was noticeably weaker. “If it pleases your lordship.”

“It does,” Jack assured him, already anticipating the evening.

“I must caution you, sir, their table manners—”

“Will be sufficient to move their food from plate to mouth, aye?” Jack smiled at the man charged with overseeing Bell Hill. Roberts was ever prudent and had his best interests at heart but could also be persuaded to do things his way. “The last day of June, then. I shall look forward to it.”

Roberts bowed. “Might there be anything else, milord?”

Jack pushed back his chair and stretched his legs. “Kindly fetch Mrs. Pringle. And that Kerr woman.”