Mine Is the Night A Novel

Forty-Seven

My lord a-hunting he is gane,

But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane.

ROBERT BURNS



or you, milord.” Roberts placed a slender letter in his hands.

Jack broke the thick seal, curious about the contents. “Do we know who it’s from?” He’d received little correspondence during his months in Selkirkshire. Once a navy man came ashore, his shipmates soon forgot him. Even the king had been quiet of late, though that sleeping giant could rouse at any moment.

Roberts opened the study curtains farther, bathing Jack’s desk in late afternoon sunlight. “Sir John Murray of Philiphaugh,” he informed him.

“Aye, here’s his signature.” Jack smoothed out the creases. “Remind me who is dining with us this eve?”

“The Chisholms of Broadmeadows, milord, with their daughter, Miss Susan Chisholm. If you care to review the menu—”

“I prefer to be surprised,” Jack said, already engrossed in reading. “But thank you, Roberts.” As the butler quietly departed, Jack settled back in his chair with Sir John’s brief letter.

To Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan

Bell Hill, Selkirkshire

Saturday, 2 August 1746

Lord Jack:

Might you care to join me for a fortnight of hunting in the Highlands? August is a fine month for deer stalking and grouse shooting. I can promise heather moorlands and waterfalls, golden eagles and peregrine falcons, and at our dinner table, venison, salmon, and pheasant.

Jack’s brows lifted. Well, sir. You have my attention. He scanned the rest of the letter, noting the details, all to his liking. A fine hunting lodge. Magnificent scenery. A gamekeeper to guide them. Hours of amiable conversation.

Had he not grown restless on occasion? Longing for the sea, missing his London companions? Having traveled no farther north in Scotland than Edinburgh, Jack knew at once how he’d respond to the man’s generous invitation. He dashed off a letter and put it in his butler’s hands a quarter hour later. “Have one of the stable lads deliver this for me,” he told Roberts, then headed for the turnpike stair leading down to the servants’ hall, Sir John’s letter in hand.

Jack paused halfway down the steps, a question nagging at him. When he had good or bad news to report, why was Elisabeth Kerr the first person who came to mind? The answer was patently obvious: she was always the first person who came to mind, from the moment he lifted his head each morning until his last waking thought at night.

A moment later Jack strolled through the door of her workroom, waving his letter like an eager schoolboy on his first outing. “I am soon bound for Braemar,” he told her. “With any luck I’ll bring home a brace of red grouse.”

She looked up, Charbon curled at her feet. “Is that so, milord?”

Jack saw at once she was troubled, though by what he could not imagine. He claimed the empty chair beside her, drawing it as near as he dared. “What is it, Bess?”

“No doubt you’ve forgotten, but Braemar is my home.”

He frowned. “I thought it was Castleton …” Well done, Jack. As if Scotland had only one castle town.

“Castleton of Braemar,” she said. “I wonder if you might …” She paused. “If you might deliver a letter to my mother. Unless ’tis an inconvenience. I write her almost every month and know the cost of my posts must be a burden to her.”

“ ’Twill be my pleasure,” he said, glad for any chance to serve her.

“I do wonder if ’tis wise to travel north,” she said, “with the Duke of Cumberland still menacing the Highlands.”

“The king’s son has no quarrel with me,” Jack assured her. “In any case, I will have a gun in hand and Dickson by my side. We are to lodge with Sir John and his manservant at the Mar estate, owned by a Mr. Duff.”

“William Duff.” She sighed pensively. “I suppose you’ll be safe enough there.”

Any thoughts of red grouse or fresh salmon vanished when he realized she was concerned for his welfare. Emboldened, he took her hand. “You can be sure I’ll return in one piece.”

“One can never be certain of such things,” she said. “I thought my husband would return from war, and he did not.”

Lord Donald Kerr. In all their many discussions, they’d shared few words about the man who’d loved her, married her, then left her a widow. Did she love him still? Would she mourn him always? Is there hope for me? That was the question Jack most wanted to ask but could not.

“What might you tell me about Lord Donald?” he inquired at last, letting her decide how much, or how little, to reveal about her marriage.

She did not withdraw her hand, though her tone grew cooler. “My husband was everything a gentleman should be. Well read, well traveled, well educated, well mannered. He was also one thing a gentleman should never be.”

Jack waited, his heart thudding in his chest. What is it, Bess? He sorted through his memories of their conversations. Perhaps she’d hinted at this before. Was Donald Kerr a drunkard? A gambler? A liar? A coward? Thinking to put her at ease, Jack assured her, “Whatever his weakness, I will not think less of the man. Nor of you for marrying him.”

She turned her head away as her limp hand slipped from his grasp. “My husband was unfaithful to me. Repeatedly.”

Jack stared at her, certain he’d misunderstood. “You do not mean he—”

“Aye.”

He shook his head, trying to make sense of it. “It is not possible,” he finally said. “No gentleman with you by his side would ever look anywhere else.”

“Nonetheless, he did, milord.” Elisabeth rose, casting aside her sewing. “He confessed as much to me, both in person and on paper. And I met one of his … women. I can assure you, ’tis more than possible.” She moved to the hearth, then stood with her back to him, her shoulders bent from the weight of her burden.

Go to her, Jack. Do something, say something.

He was on his feet and walking toward her before he had time to think of what he might say or do. He wanted to kill the man, but Donald Kerr was already dead. He wanted to take Elisabeth in his arms, though for all the wrong reasons. He wanted to—

“Forgive me, milord.” She turned round just as he reached her, then, startled, lost her balance and began falling backward toward the fire.

“Bess!” He caught her in his embrace, meaning only to spare her. For an instant he felt her heart beating against his chest and her warm breath on his cheek.

“Pardon me,” she murmured, quickly pulling free. “I did not realize you were so close.”

Jack looked down at the floor, at his boots, at Charbon. Anything to clear his mind. The last thing Elisabeth Kerr needed was a gentleman making advances toward her, however unintentionally. “Your husband’s behavior was unconscionable,” he said in a low voice, fighting to control his emotions. “Not all men are unfaithful.”

After a long silence she said, “At least my father honored his vows to my mother.”

Jack nodded, his anger and frustration beginning to abate. “I would have expected no less from the man who fathered you.”

She reclaimed her chair and began sewing again, her needle moving in and out of the fabric. The steady rhythm seemed to calm her. Perhaps his fortnight in the Highlands would be a blessing for Elisabeth. A relief simply to sew and not have a retired admiral seeking her company at every turn.

Watching her, Jack tallied her labors thus far. Nine gowns were finished. Nine gowns remained. And then what, Lord? Shall I find her more work come Saint Andrew’s Day? Or must I bid her farewell?

No decision was required at the moment. He would go a-hunting in Braemar and perhaps learn something of her family. “I shall depart two days hence,” Jack told her, trying to gauge her reaction, “and will return long before month’s end.”

Elisabeth’s hands stilled. “Then you’ll not be here for Saint Lawrence Fair.”

“I’m afraid not. But with the marketplace below your window, you and your family won’t miss a moment.”

“Nae, I suppose not.” Her needle began moving again. “But we will miss you, milord.”