Mine Is the Night A Novel

Thirty-Eight

Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!

COLLEY CIBBER



here are you, lass?

Jack knew Elisabeth Kerr was here in the marketplace. He could feel it in his bones, had almost sensed her gaze pinned on him as he’d ridden into town, though he’d not spied her lovely face.

By necessity he faced forward in the saddle, keeping a firm control over Janvier, having had a bit of trouble earlier. The strange surroundings, the jostling onlookers, the trumpet blasts, all tested the horse’s mettle. “Easy, lad,” Jack told him, keeping his grip on the reins supple but sure. Though he longed to turn round and look over his shoulder, Janvier would then follow his lead and disrupt the parade marching up Water Row.

Sir John Murray rode up on his right. “Mind if I join you, Admiral?”

Their horses fell into step as the two men lifted their voices above the melee, discussing the route. Jack was only now realizing how valuable the common lands were to the burgh. Though he didn’t require peat for fuel or turf for building, the cottagers of Selkirk certainly did.

“We’ll be riding the marches of the North Common this morn,” Sir John explained.

Jack nodded, having studied a crude map to learn where the neighboring lairds resided. Some of them were old enough to remember his grandfather Buchanan and so had bidden him a warm welcome.

When the riders passed through the East Port, they left behind the townsfolk, who sent them off with loud cheers and well wishes. For the riding party a light breeze and abundant sunshine promised a grand outing. Thirty strong, they started downhill and were soon fording the Ettrick Water, ignoring a perfectly good bridge in the process.

When Jack frowned, perplexed, Sir John was quick to say, “Tradition, milord. You’ll hear that many times this day.”

They cantered on to Linglie Glen, where the men paused to check their horses’ girths and enjoy a wee drink of water or a sip of whisky or both—the first stop of many, Jack soon discovered. The ancient northern route covered fourteen miles with only a series of natural markers to indicate the perimeter of the North Common. Crests of hills, lines of hedges, clumps of woods, meandering streams, even solitary trees served the purpose along with the occasional march stone planted amid the wild, open country. With so many riders, Jack had only to fall in step while he took in the splendid scenery his father had once described.

They were climbing now, a long pull toward a summit where three immense cairns stood guard over the Borderland. “The Three Brethren,” Sir John told him. “ ’Tis tradition to add a stone to each pile.”

From this vantage point Jack could see for miles in every direction. The Eildon Hills, a cluster of three peaks, overlooked the Tweed Valley, with the Moorfoots to the north and the Lammermuirs to the northeast. When his father, who’d never lost his Scottish burr, had spoken the names aloud, they’d rolled off his tongue like music.

“There’s Philiphaugh.” Sir John pointed southward. “On the other side of Harehead Hill.”

Jack nodded, having been to the Murray estate on several occasions. During his first visit Lady Murray had insisted, “You must hear Rosalind play the pianoforte.” Then on his second the young lady was urged to converse in French, German, and Italian, all of which she managed easily. By the third visit Sir John was dropping hints of a sizable dowry. “But only for a gentleman truly worthy of her.”

Jack had not lived forty years without learning something of the world. They wanted his title, they wanted his money, and they wanted their daughter in his marriage bed.

His needs were more modest: a wife and children. Still, Rosalind Murray would make a bonny bride, and her mother had borne six children, which boded well.

Sir John turned to him now, smiling broadly, the light in his eyes more avarice than affection. “Rosalind hoped you would dine with us after the Riding.”

Jack said nothing, recalling another invitation. Might you join us for dinner? He’d made no promises to Elisabeth Kerr, and they’d not spoken of it all week. No one would fault him for preferring a fine meal at a wealthy man’s table.

When thou makest a feast, call the poor. Not merely his conscience, but the Lord’s own words prodded him.

Jack finally said, “I may have … other plans, Sir John.”

The sheriff frowned. “Lady Murray will be sorely vexed if I do not bring you home with me.”

“I’ll know by the time we reach the marketplace,” Jack told him, stalling for time as he started back downhill, following the others. With the sun well overhead, Jack wished for a lighter coat. And no hat. And no periwig. But the other men had also dressed for the occasion, so at least he had company.

At Dunsdale, not far north of town, the Common Riding party was met by young men on horseback eager to race their steeds, with a goodly number of spectators prepared to do their part. Jack let his horse graze in the rich pasture while he watched men half his age race for nothing more than a kiss from a blushing lass. Why had he not married when he was a young lieutenant, when life was less complicated and a lady’s hand easily won?

An hour later, when they’d had their fill of racing, both walkers and riders headed for the mercat cross for the Casting of Colors. “ ’Tis the highlight of the event,” Sir John assured him as the townsfolk greeted the riding party at the East Port.

Stable lads at the edge of the crowd took the horses so the riders could move to the very center of things, where a broad wooden platform had been erected. A hush fell over the gathering as, one by one, craft guild members stepped onto the stage with their enormous flags, then swept them round at waist level, forming a figure eight.

Sir John said in a low voice, “The tradition goes back two centuries. Selkirk sent eighty well-armed men to the battle of Flodden Field. A lone survivor returned, bearing a captured English banner. He was so overcome with grief he could only swing the flag round like a scythe.” Sir John nodded toward the platform as a weaver performed the same motion. “ ’Twas his way of showing the townsfolk that all their lads had been cut down.”

Sobered by the story, Jack listened as a song of remembrance rose from the crowd while tears were wiped away and heads were bowed. In that quiet moment he glanced toward Halliwell’s Close and saw Elisabeth standing beside her cousin and the red-headed tailor.

Jack waited until the last note rang out, then bade Sir John a hasty farewell. “My apologies to Lady Murray, but I must honor a previous engagement,” he said, certain he was committing some grave social faux pas.

The townsfolk parted at his approach, ending any pretense of a chance encounter. Elisabeth would see him coming from twenty ells away. By the time he reached her, a small clearing had encircled them. Their eyes met briefly before he bowed and Elisabeth curtsied, then he moved forward, nodding at the crowd, hoping they might go about their business and let him converse with her in private.

A foolish expectation. Every eye and every ear was fixed on the drama at hand.

The admiral from the sea. The dressmaker from the town.

Had someone sold tickets, he’d have made a handsome profit.

“Safe oot and safe in,” she offered him in greeting. “ ’Tis what the cottagers cried when they sent out the riders.”

Jack lifted his brows. “So that’s what they were saying.”

“Now the feasting begins,” her cousin told him. “Each guild has its own fete. The town council also serves food and drink for all, with music and dancing ’til the wee hours of the morn.” Her pale blue eyes looked up at him. “But you’ll be joining us for dinner, aye, milord?”





Thirty-Nine

Penniless amid great plenty.

HORACE



ye.” Jack smiled at Elisabeth, certain he’d made the right choice.

“A plate of food with the Kerrs would suit me very well.”

“Reverend Brown has agreed to join us,” Elisabeth said, “along with Mr. Dalgliesh and his son. You remember young Peter.”

Jack looked down at the lad, who did not hide behind his father, as most boys would, but stood proudly in front of him. Imagine having such a son! “The Almighty has been most kind to you, Mr. Dalgliesh.”

The tailor smiled broadly, planting his hand on Peter’s head. “Indeed he has, milord.”

“Come, sir!” Peter cried, tugging on Jack’s coat.

“Our house is modest, but our welcome is sure.” Elisabeth led him down the shadowy close with the others trailing behind, their lively voices echoing against the dank stone walls.

Jack took careful note of his surroundings, troubled by the thought of Elisabeth facing this grim view every day of her life. Only when they reached the door did he remember Janvier. “I’ve left my horse with one of the stable lads from Bell Hill. He’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

Mr. Dalgliesh chuckled. “Is he a Selkirk lad?” When Jack assured him that he was, the tailor said, “Then ye’ve nae need to worry, for he’ll be sitting with the ither lads in a shady spot, watching yer mount and drinking punch for hours. He kens ye’ll find him whan ye’re done.”

Elisabeth studied Jack more intently. “Would you prefer we sent someone to tell him of your whereabouts?”

“Nae,” Jack said, trusting the tailor’s assessment. “After our brief exchange in the marketplace, Mrs. Kerr, a hundred folk could tell him where I’ve gone.” He stood back. “Now, if someone might unlock the door.”

Soft laughter rippled through the group.

“ ’Tis an outside door and has no lock,” Elisabeth explained, pushing it open. A musty smell wafted out. “This isn’t London, milord. We’ve no need for lock and key here.”

A moment later he understood why. There was nothing to steal.

Jack had visited many lodging houses in his time. Never had he seen one so small or so sparsely furnished. He counted only one bed and two fabric-covered chairs, badly worn. And the oval table would hardly seat four, let alone eight. Yet here they were, these amiable companions, making themselves at home in a dwelling not much larger than Elisabeth’s workroom.

“Will you sit here by the window?” Elisabeth asked him, patting the high back of an upholstered chair. “Dinner will not be long. We lack only plates, linens, and cutlery, and those will be arriving shortly.”

Busy at the hearth, Mrs. Kerr was wearing her new black dress. Elisabeth, alas, was still dressed in her dreary old gown. Had she not begun sewing a new one? Or had Hyslop not purchased sufficient fabric? Jack dared not ask Elisabeth and risk embarrassing her. Nor could he praise the elder Mrs. Kerr’s mourning gown without drawing attention to her loss. Sometimes proper manners were a decided nuisance when one needed the truth on a matter.

Reverend Brown and his manservant, Gibson, came knocking a moment later, arms laden with pewter plates, linen napkins, and sterling forks and spoons. “Here we are, ladies,” the minister said, depositing his offering on the table. “My late wife would be glad to know these things were put to good use.”

With Gibson’s help Anne quickly laid the table for four, then stacked the rest of the settings by the hearth. Jack could not imagine how dinner would be served. Would they take turnabout at table? Stand to eat? Dine two to a plate?

His conscience quickly nudged him. They have given you the best chair and will feed you shortly. Be grateful. Be humble. Be silent.

Thoroughly chastised, Jack sat quietly in his chair and surveyed the dinner preparations. Though Elisabeth stood at the ready, her mother-in-law evidently had things well in hand. The air was filled with tantalizing aromas. Jack thought of his mother, who’d kept two cooks yet still insisted on doing all her own baking.

While Anne entertained Peter with a chapbook, Reverend Brown settled into the seat next to him and struck up a conversation. “For a man who’s circled the globe, riding the marches of our North Common must have seemed a dull journey.”

“Not at all, Reverend.” Jack related in detail his experiences that morning, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the sagging beams, the bare floor, and the shabby trunks by the box bed.

A half hour later Elisabeth escorted him to table. “If you might take the chair at the head, milord.” She also seated Reverend Brown, Mr. Dalgliesh, and her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Kerr eyed her dishes with concern. “I do hope everything is seasoned to your liking, milord.”

However small the table, Jack could not deny that the food looked promising. “Rest assured, madam, I will eat every bite.”

The question of where the others would sit was soon answered. Anne and Elisabeth took the upholstered chairs, neatly balancing plates in their hands, while Gibson and Peter served as footmen, bringing each course to table. “We ate earlier,” Peter announced, the flour on his nose suggesting he’d enjoyed a roll or two.

To Jack’s amazement Mrs. Kerr had prepared not only the obligatory courses offish, flesh, and fowl but vegetables dishes as well. Potted eel was followed by savory veal pie, then stewed chicken with mace. Warm rolls, fragrant with ale yeast, were served next, then pickled beetroot and asparagus with butter. Strawberries and soft cheese arrived as the final course.

Jack would never inform Mrs. Tudhope, but he’d met her equal.

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.”