Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Five

A good dinner sharpens wit,

while it softens the heart.

JOHN DORAN



s Elisabeth watched, Lord Buchanan rose from his chair, saying nothing yet commanding every eye. His servants put down their forks at once and turned in his direction. Did he see the admiration reflected on their faces, their genuine affection for him?

“I trust you’re enjoying the evening,” his lordship began. “While our plates are cleared by our able volunteers, I would invite our dressmaker, Mrs. Kerr, to join me at the head of the table.”

A smattering of applause brought Elisabeth to her feet. Uncertain of his intentions, Elisabeth moved past the long row of servants, exchanging glances with Mrs. Pringle. Did she know what her master had in mind? Apparently not, for the housekeeper shook her head. Elisabeth turned to Marjory and Anne, thinking her family might have some clue what was afoot, but their hands were full of plates, and their wide-eyed expressions offered no answers.

When Elisabeth reached the admiral’s side, he lifted his glass of claret and invited those gathered round his table to do likewise. She pressed her hands to her waist, if only to keep her stomach from fluttering. Whatever is this about, milord?

Still holding his glass aloft, the admiral explained, “In the clubs I once frequented in London, when a gentleman appeared in a new suit of clothing, he would stand before his friends and say, ‘Look how well my garments sit upon me.’ You know, from The Tempest.”

His servants eyed one another, confusion written upon their features.

Elisabeth blinked at him. “Surely, milord, you are not asking me to do the same? To praise my own work?”

“Oh.” He lowered his glass. “I suppose that would be immodest.” He paused, as if seeking some graceful exit. “Am I to understand that ladies do not have such a custom when they appear in a new gown?”

“We do not, milord,” she said as the maidservants laughed behind their hands. “But I’m grateful you noticed. I believe we all saw quite enough of my old gown.”

“Hear, hear,” Roberts said, standing, then raising his goblet higher. “To Mrs. Kerr and her fine garment.”

Chairs were hastily pushed back as the whole assembly followed suit. “To Mrs. Kerr.”

Elisabeth was quite certain her skin matched the deep red claret—hairline to neckline—but she couldn’t look away and risk hurting their feelings. Instead she smiled as they took polite sips, dutifully noted her new garment, then sat down again.

Before she could do the same, Lord Buchanan lightly captured her by the wrist. “Come, sit with me, madam. Mrs. Pringle will be glad to take your place at the foot of the table.”

The housekeeper vacated her chair at once, leaving Elisabeth no choice but to sit at his left hand, which still encircled hers.

“You must have one of Mrs. Tudhope’s orange tarts,” he said, leaning closer, his thumb rubbing against the inside of her wrist. “Though she’ll never confess it, her tarts require a fortnight to make. Something to do with soaking the fruit. And her puff paste is the finest I’ve ever tasted.”

Elisabeth had not felt a man’s touch in so long that even his lordship’s innocent caress made her lightheaded. “Did you eat such rich fare on the Centurion?” she managed to ask.

He laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Our diet consisted of salted pork, salted beef, and, on Tuesdays and Fridays, salted fish.” His lordship gently released her as Anne placed a flaky tart before each of them. He added, “I vowed that when I retired, I would eat well and eat often.”

“And so you do,” Elisabeth said, looking at her plate, relieved for somewhere else to cast her gaze for a moment.

Anne bent down and whispered in her ear, “I shall expect a full report on the walk home, Bess.”

While the fiddlers tuned their instruments, Lord Jack consumed his tart in three or four bites, as did most folk seated at his table. Elisabeth barely tasted hers, still thinking about his touch. Did he, like Donald, find sport in toying with a woman’s affections? Or did the admiral not realize what his actions implied?

Without preamble, the fiddlers began a tender air, their two instruments seamlessly blending melody and harmony. Elisabeth’s throat tightened as the familiar Highland tune swept her away to Castleton of Braemar. She imagined her father at his loom. Her mother at the hearth. Simon with his whetstone, sharpening his dirk. And in the inglenook, a neighbor with fiddle or flute playing a tune they all loved, “My Love’s Bonny When She Smiles on Me.”

Just when Elisabeth thought she could not bear it another moment, she felt a woman’s hand on her shoulder. Marjory. She alone would understand why the music affected her so. By song’s end Elisabeth saw several round the room using their linen napkins as handkerchiefs. The fiddlers played a slow waltz next, equally moving.

When a minor-key lament followed, threatening to drown the room in sorrow, Elisabeth motioned Lord Jack closer. “I wonder if you might you ask them to play a jig or a reel. Something more cheerful.”

In a low voice the admiral confessed, “Michael Dalgliesh found the lads for me. Old friends from school, apparently. They play only at funerals.”

“Oh.” Elisabeth leaned back in her seat and tried not to laugh. Or cry.


The tall case clock in Lord Buchanan’s study was chiming the hour of ten when the musicians took their final bow. However melancholy their tunes, their playing was superb, and the household’s applause enthusiastic.

“Your first supper was a great success, milord,” Elisabeth assured him.

He seemed pleased as he bade his servants good night, sending them to their lodgings on the ground floor off the servants’ hall. The women resided on the east end of the mansion, the men on the west, with the kitchen and laundry rooms between them. Mrs. Tudhope and Mrs. Craig remained ever vigilant for midnight trysts.

Only one servant among those hired on Whitsun Monday had been dismissed: Tibbie Cranshaw, who’d flirted shamelessly with the head footman and spoken out of turn on too many occasions. Elisabeth had seldom crossed paths with Tibbie, yet was not sorry to see her go.

Once the dining room was empty, Marjory and the others made quick work of clearing the last of the dessert plates. When Elisabeth joined them, gathering the silverware, a frown crossed Lord Buchanan’s face.

“ ’Tis not beneath me,” Elisabeth said gently. “Not if my mother-in-law is willing to do such work.”

“As a gift,” Marjory reminded him, sallying out with an empty plate in each hand.

With an exasperated sigh, the admiral picked up two wine goblets and followed the others through the hall and down the stair, then deposited the glasses in the hands of a startled young maid. While the rest of the household slept, the scullery maids would be scrubbing the night’s dishes, with a promise they could sleep until the forenoon.

Lord Jack escorted his guests down the candlelit servants’ hall and through the rear entrance, then started across the grassy expanse, lantern in hand.

“Milord?” Elisabeth hurried to keep up with his long stride, the others trailing close behind. “ ’Twould be better if we went round the other direction. This is hardly the way home.”

“Nae, but it is the way to the stables. The hour is too late for traveling by foot, and the waning quarter moon will not light your path. I’ve asked Hyslop to take you home by coach.”

“Och!” Michael Dalgliesh scoffed. “ ’Tis but two miles, milord, and a’ doon hill. We’ll be hame afore lang.”

“He’s richt,” Gibson chimed in. “We’ll take guid care o’ the leddies. Won’t we, Peter?”

“Aye.” The lad rubbed his eyes, his bedtime long past.

But the admiral would not be dissuaded. “I do not hear the ladies protesting. You’ve all worked hard this day and deserve a bit of comfort.”

When they reached the stables, they found the horses already harnessed and Timothy Hyslop and a footman waiting for them. The weary party was settled in their seats before another complaint, however feeble, might be raised.

Elisabeth was the last to climb in. When she turned to lean out the open window and thank their host, he was standing in a pool of lantern light. His size and strength, his dark coloring and prominent features might be daunting, even alarming to someone who didn’t know him. But Lord Jack did not frighten her.

“I shall see you on the morrow, milord.”

“Depend upon it,” he said with a steady gaze, then stepped back, signaling the driver. “Carry on.”