Mine Is the Night A Novel

Thirty-Six

There are some occasions when a man must

tell half his secret, in order to conceal the rest.

PHILIP STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD



harbon was stretched out on a sunny patch of carpet, tail twitching, while Jack drank his third cup of tea and gazed out his study window. ’Tis almost eight o’ the clock, Mrs. Kerr. Will I not see you this morn?

He’d managed to keep his distance for a full week—avoiding her in the house, on the grounds, wherever they might run into each other—convincing himself it was the wisest course of action. Your mother was French. Your father was Scottish. Innocent comments, nothing more. What was he afraid of? That she might not think well of his heritage?

Be honest with yourself, man. You’re afraid she might not think well of you.

When Elisabeth appeared in his sunlit gardens a moment later, Jack watched her bend toward a cluster of blooming roses, then smile, perhaps breathing in their sweet fragrance.

A moment later she looked up and met his gaze. And held it.

Run, lad.

In a trice he was halfway down the corridor, then darted into the narrow turret stair, startling a maidservant. “Beg pardon,” he murmured when the curly-haired lass made way for him and nearly dropped her armful of linens as Charbon streaked past. Jack strode down the servants’ hall, nodding at the maids who sank into curtsies the moment they saw him.

He followed his cat, thinking Charbon might lead him straight to Elisabeth. When he found himself in a vacant workroom near the back entrance, Jack had no doubt it was her domain. Folds of fabric and pen-and-ink drawings were neatly stacked beside a tidy sewing basket, a reminder that she was a tradeswoman, not a gentlewoman like Rosalind Murray.

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.”