Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Four

What say you to such a supper

with such a woman?

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON



ack could not remember when he’d last sat down. On his dawn ride, perhaps. Even breakfast had been consumed on the run. He’d tasted a summer pear while inspecting the orchards. Then gulped down a cup of tea while discussing last-minute details with Roberts and finally sampled a yeast roll while reviewing Mrs. Tudhope’s menu.

He simply did not have time for lolling about. Bell Hill’s first household supper was only seven hours hence, and Jack wanted everything to be perfect.

“Your lordship?” Mrs. Pringle appeared at his study door. “Will you be having dinner at two o’ the clock, as usual?”

“Dinner?” Hearing the sharp tone in his voice, he swiftly apologized. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pringle. At the moment I’m afraid I have no appetite and even less patience.”

“I quite understand,” she said kindly. “The house is at sixes and sevens with maidservants colliding into one another in the hall and menservants tripping over their own feet in their haste to have everything ready.”

Jack sighed. “Perhaps my plan was too ambitious.”

“Nae, milord.” Mrs. Pringle stepped farther into the room. “We are proud to be part of that plan. To gather at one table and sup with our master as if he were our friend.” She looked away for a moment. “I only hope we meet your expectations. Roberts and I have done our best to teach them proper table manners. We will none of us embarrass you this night.”

“What a shame,” Jack said, hoping to put her at ease. “I was counting on at least two dropped plates, numerous overturned glasses, and a host of rolls being tossed from one end of the dining room to the other.”

Mrs. Pringle gave him a grateful smile. “I’ll see what can be arranged, milord.”


The supper hour was drawing near when Roberts came looking for him. “Your …, eh, staff for this eve has arrived. Shall I bring them in, sir?”

Jack moved to the front of his desk, prepared to greet them. “By all means.”

He would never have asked the five of them to serve him in any capacity, least of all juggling plates of food and glasses of claret. But on the Sabbath at kirk, when he’d confessed needing several people to serve the meal, they’d all volunteered.

“I’d be honored to help,” Marjory Kerr had said. “It is the least I can do after all you’ve done for my family.”

“I’m a servant, milord,” Gibson had insisted, “and richt guid at it.”

Anne Kerr had also agreed to join them, then recruited Michael and Peter Dalgliesh. A press gang could not have been more persuasive. “We’ll serve you well,” Anne had vowed.

Jack had protested, of course. Offered to pay them handsomely for their efforts. The elder Widow Kerr in particular was offended. “I cannot be bought, milord. You must accept my service as a gift of thanks. I believe I speak for all of us.”

Now here they were, filing into his study, reporting for duty.

Marjory and Anne wore freshly starched aprons and white, round-eared caps. Gibson had on his usual livery, and Michael had stitched up two black waistcoats for the occasion, one of them perfectly fitted to a seven-year-old boy.

“What a fine-looking group,” Jack told them. “Gibson will rightly serve as butler and put the rest of you through your paces. If you’ll report to Mrs. Tudhope, I’m certain she’ll be greatly relieved to see you.” He could not resist asking young Peter, “And how will you be of service?”

The lad held out his hands, pretending to hold a dish between them. “I’m to carry the food,” he said, standing very tall, “but I’m not to go like this.” Peter tipped his hands forward, sending imaginary vegetables spilling onto the floor.

“What will you do if that happens?” Jack wanted to know.

Peter stood on tiptoe, waving Jack closer so he might whisper in his ear. “I will cry,” Peter said softly. “Then Annie will feel sorry for me and help me clean things up.”

“Excellent plan,” Jack assured him. He thanked them one by one, then sent them off to the kitchen. Such friends were more precious than rubies.

No sooner had they left than Mrs. Pringle entered his study, looking quite agitated. “You have a visitor, sir. General Lord Mark Kerr of Tweedsford.”

One thought was foremost in his mind. Bess.

Jack was halfway to the door. “Escort my guest to the drawing room and serve him tea. I shall join him shortly,” he said, then bolted into the hall and down the stair. He’d avoided the man for more than a week. Why had he come today of all days?

The moment he crossed the threshold into Elisabeth’s workroom, Jack blurted out, “Lord Mark Kerr is here.”

She quickly put aside her sewing. “Have you spoken with him yet?”

“Nae.” Jack began to walk the perimeter of the room, his fists clenched. “How can I possibly drink tea with a man who so wronged your family?”

“With decorum, milord.” Elisabeth stood, her hands clasped behind her back.

Only then did he notice she was wearing her new black gown. “You look wonderful, by the way. That is to say, your gown—”

“I’m glad you are pleased.” She moved closer. “I’ve been saving it for your supper.” Elisabeth touched his arm so slightly he might have imagined it. “Do not let Lord Mark ruin the hours to come.”

“Indeed I will not,” he assured her. “I intend to find out why he is here, tell him nothing, and bid him leave.”

Minutes later Jack strode into his drawing room, not bothering to button his coat, his sheathed sword slapping against his boot. “General,” he said with a nod.

“Admiral,” he replied, nodding back. A man of perhaps sixty, the governor was tall, but not broad, and impeccably dressed. “Forgive me if my visit is poorly timed.”

“I am afraid it is.” Jack joined him at the spacious round table where an elaborate tea had been laid, with sweets and savories enough to feed ten military officers. He could trust Mrs. Pringle to see a thing well done. “Our visit must be brief,” Jack informed his unwelcome guest. “This eve I am hosting a supper for thirty.”

Lord Mark nearly choked on his tea. “Thirty people of rank? You must have imported them, sir, for you’ll not find more than a half-dozen peers in Selkirkshire.”

Jack held his tongue, remembering his own vow. Tell him nothing. “What brings you to Bell Hill, sir?”

“I wish only to make your acquaintance. As you know, I was awarded Tweedsford for my success in defeating the Jacobites.”

The man’s arrogance was contemptible. “I was not aware you single-handedly routed Prince Charlie and his men,” Jack said evenly.

Lord Mark stiffened. “I suppose a navy man cannot be expected to comprehend the dangers of close combat.”

“Oh, I’ve bested enough Spanish steel to understand very well.”

Lord Mark smoothed his narrow mustache. “May I trust you also will show no mercy to any Jacobite rebels who cross your path? You’ll find them to be cowards, easily dispatched.”

Jack shot to his feet, wanting to put an end to things before he thrust his sword through the man’s gullet. “Forgive me, but we’ll need to resume our discussion some other time. When Roberts escorts you to the door, inform him of a day that might suit you.”

Lord Mark abruptly stood. “I’ve no intention of remaining in Selkirkshire beyond the week. The house is drafty and ill furnished, and the gardens are in shambles. With due respect for His Majesty, Tweedsford is a poor prize. I’ve other estates, you know, and the Governor’s House at Edinburgh Castle is but four years old. I hardly need another residence.”

“So Tweedsford will sit empty?”

“I may return now and again.” Lord Mark shrugged. “The house has been vacant for a decade. Another ten years would hardly matter.”

The men bade each other farewell without crossing swords—a miracle, to Jack’s way of thinking. If he never spoke with General Lord Mark Kerr again, so much the better.


Jack walked into his dining room at precisely eight o’ the clock and found his household staff standing quietly round the table as the candles shimmered and the sterling silver gleamed. Thirty well-scrubbed faces turned to greet him: thirty souls, entrusted to his care, who daily served him with gladness.

Jack swallowed until the tightness in his throat eased. “ ’Tis an honor to have you at my table. Grace be unto you, and peace.” He bowed his head, gave thanks for the meal, then invited them to sit, which they did in haste, their eyes as round as the china saucers beneath their teacups.

At the far end of the table sat Elisabeth Kerr, lovely as ever. The candlelight brought out the reddish gold strands in her hair and made her eyes shine like stars.

Jack leaned toward Mrs. Pringle on his left and asked in a low voice, “Why is Mrs. Kerr seated at such a distance?”

The housekeeper was quick to explain, “Because she is at Bell Hill by special appointment, milord, and not a servant. I thought it most appropriate she be seated at the foot of the table, usually reserved for the lady of the house.”

“Well done.” He gazed past the long row of candles. You are not mine, Bess. But you are indeed a lady.

Roberts, seated at his right hand, and Mrs. Pringle each looked down their sides of the table, then lifted their linen napkins and placed them across their laps, their movements slow and deliberate. Much elbowing and whispering ensued until all the servants had done the same.

Meanwhile, Gibson tarried at the door, anticipating his signal. When Jack nodded at him, his volunteer force went into action. Tureens of soup sailed through the door in the hands of people who’d never in their lives served at table. Not a drop was spilled, not a spoon forgotten. Jack was so engrossed he forgot to eat Mrs. Tudhope’s flavorful broth until his housekeeper shot him a stern look, and he swiftly emptied his plate.

The second course, a richly seasoned salmon, came and went smoothly, as did the third, an asparagus ragout, followed by a pig in jelly. Though the laughter was a bit loud and the conversation of a common nature, Jack was pleased to see all his guests enjoying themselves, and his unpaid staff even more so. Marjory Kerr was positively glowing, like a grand hostess in a Paris salon. No wonder Gibson never took his eyes off her. The Dalgliesh men moved rather slowly down the table but only because they were busily entertaining folk. Anne Kerr looked the prettiest he’d ever seen her, and the happiest as well, keeping a close eye on young Peter. And on his father.

Jack tasted everything so he might compliment the cook with all sincerity. But his attention was repeatedly drawn to the opposite end of the table. Elisabeth Kerr was simply too far away. Dessert was almost upon them. How might he bid her to come closer?

Ah. He smiled to himself. Just the thing.