Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fifty-Two

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

ROBERT BURNS



ack stared at the small Highland cottage with its thatched roof, crooked chimney, and unglazed windows. The battered wooden shutters, meant to keep out the elements, sagged on their hinges. A few hens pecked their way across the garden, and a pot of dead violets sat by the door. “You are certain this was Elisabeth Kerr’s home?”

Rose MacKindlay looked up at him with eyes as green as the grass on the hillocks. “She was a Ferguson then, but, aye, this was whaur Bess lived and whaur her mither lives noo.” An elderly woman, Mrs. MacKindlay shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wincing as she did. “Her man is oot just noo, but I ken for a fact Fiona is at hame. She’ll be glad to have a letter from Bess.”

Jack had come to Braemar parish solely to shoot grouse, or so he’d told himself. But from the hour he’d reached the Mar estate, his thoughts had circled round nearby Castleton, the hamlet where Bess had spent her first eighteen years. Consisting of a ruinous castle and a knot of stone cottages nestled amid a remote mountain fastness, Castleton of Braemar was as far from Edinburgh’s high society as Persia was from Paris. Why had Bess left, and how? And who was this woman who’d raised her?

He was curious, no denying it. The letter in his pocket would open a door he very much wished to walk through.

The fine, springlike weather had kept him on the heather moorlands with Sir John for a full week—enough hunting to last Jack many a season. “Male grouse are a randy sort,” the gamekeeper had informed them, “with many partners. And they play nae part in raising their young.” That alone was sufficient motive for Jack to take deadly aim with his fowling piece.

But on this cool, rainy Saturday, Sir John was content to sip whisky by the fire while Jack explored the parish. He’d come straight to Castleton, sought out a friendly face, and found himself in the company of Mrs. MacKindlay, the parish midwife.

“If you’ll not mind an introduction,” he told her, “I would be honored to meet Mrs. Cromar.” He tethered Janvier to a trough, where the horse might drink his fill, then joined Mrs. MacKindlay on the muddy slate by the door.

“Fiona!” she sang out. “Ye’ve a visitor. And a braw lad he is.”

Jack had heard the phrase before, a favorite among his maidservants, though usually directed at far younger men.

The door was pulled open. A dark-haired woman of forty-odd years stood before him. Not so tall as Bess, nor so bonny, but unmistakably her mother. She eyed him closely. “Wha is this ye’ve brought to my door, Rose?”

“Lord Jack Buchanan,” Mrs. MacKindlay answered, emphasizing his title. “He’s acquainted with yer Bess. Even brought ye a letter from the lass.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a fact?”

“Indeed, madam.” He doffed his hat and bowed, then presented her with the sealed missive. “Your daughter is employed as a dressmaker at my estate in the Borderland.”

“Ye must come in, then,” she said, stepping back, holding the letter to her heart.

As the midwife took her leave, Fiona Cromar hurried to the inglenook, where a peat fire burned with a pungent aroma. “Ye’ll be wanting tea, I ken.”

While she was busy with her preparations, Jack surveyed the candlelit interior. Bare stone walls with clay and straw for mortar. Thick wooden beams, not far above his head. And a dirt floor, hard packed yet newly swept. However humble, the cottage was tidy, with a fine woolen plaid across the bed. A handful of books were given pride of place on a shelf above the hearth. No doubt Bess had read every one a dozen times.

Fiona seated him at a square pine table, unfinished but well scrubbed. Tea was served in a pottery cup, accompanied by a plate of round sugar biscuits. Fiona joined him, lifting her teacup almost as gracefully as Bess did. She had her daughter’s full lips as well as her striking dark brows. But Fiona’s eyes did not sparkle, and the skin beneath them looked bruised, as if she’d not slept in a long time.

“I owe you an apology, Mrs. Cromar, for my unexpected visit.”

“Not at a’,” she insisted. “In the Hielands we’re glad for outlanders wha bring us news, as lang as they’ve naught to do with King Geordie doon in London toun.” She lowered her cup and leaned a bit closer. “Afore I read her letter, what have ye to say about my Bess? For I’ve not seen the lass in ever so lang.”

“She is in fine health,” he assured her, “and in good spirits, considering all she has been through. You already know, I am sure, how she came to live in the Borderland after Prince Charlie’s defeat … after Culloden …” He paused when she looked away, her distress evident. Better not to dwell on the subject. “Your daughter accompanied her mother-in-law to Selkirk, where they reside with a distant cousin, Anne Kerr.”

When Fiona turned to look at him, her eyes were filled with pain. “I didna ken whaur the lass went. For I’ve not had a letter from Bess syne I married nigh a twelvemonth ago.”

Jack stared at her, confused. “How can that be? I was told she wrote you regularly.”

She slowly shook her head. “I’ve had nae letters. But then I didna expect them. Not after what I did with the last one she sent me the day afore my wedding.” Fiona could not meet his gaze. “She begged me not to marry Ben Cromar. Said she’d left Castleton because he … because he frightened her.”

Frightened? The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Was it something he said, Bess? Or something he did? Jack nodded at the letter beside her teacup. “Feel free to read it at once, Mrs. Cromar, so you might put your mind at ease.”

Jack’s own mind was racing down very dark paths. A frightening man. A lass barely old enough to marry, fleeing from her mother’s house. Letters posted but never received. Aye, something was amiss. Jack had no intention of leaving Castleton until he uncovered the truth.

Her mother, in the meantime, was engrossed, her lips moving as she read silently, her eyes awash with tears. “She luves me still. My sweet, sweet Bess!” She clutched the paper with trembling hands. “September last, when I didna like what she wrote about Mr. Cromar, I tossed her letter in the fire.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But I should have listened to her. I should have heeded what she said. I didna ken! I didna ken—”

When the door to the cottage flew open, Fiona leaped to her feet, stuffing the letter in her apron pocket. “Ben! Come … come meet oor guest from … from …”

Ben Cromar swaggered across the threshold, then shut the door with a thunderous bang. “Weel, sir. D’ye make a practice o’ visiting ither men’s wives while their husbands are hard at wark?”

Jack stood, refusing to acknowledge the coarse remark. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the man. “I am Lord Jack Buchanan of Bell Hill in the Borderland.”

“Is that so?” Cromar moved forward, his footsteps muffled by the dirt floor. No older than forty, he had the stocky build of a blacksmith, with thick arms and massive thighs and shoulders broad enough to wield a sledgehammer. “What business d’ye have in my hame?”

Jack avoided any mention of the letter hidden in Fiona’s pocket. “Your stepdaughter is in my employ. Since I was shooting grouse on the Mar estate, a visit to her mother seemed in order.”

“In yer … employ?” Cromar muttered. “Is that what gentlemen call it noo?”

“Sir, you do her a great disservice.” Jack clenched his fists, struggling to keep his temper in check. “Elisabeth Kerr is a virtuous woman and a fine dressmaker.”

Fiona found her voice at last. “She was aye guid with a needle.”

“Indeed.” Jack stood his ground, waiting for Cromar to move one step closer, make one more untoward comment. However muscular, Cromar was decidedly shorter. A half foot, Jack wagered. Though he took no pleasure in fighting a man, if they came to blows, Jack would not hesitate to defend Elisabeth’s honor or to protect Fiona from her brute of a husband.

As if sensing his resolve, Ben Cromar edged away from him. “Have ye finished here, then?”

“Not quite,” Jack said. Not even close. “Mrs. Cromar tells me she’s not received a letter from her daughter the whole of your marriage, though they’ve certainly been written and posted. Might you know anything about that?”

His skin turned a mottled red. “I dinna ken o’ such letters.”

Jack knew a lie when he heard one. He could easily imagine Cromar intercepting the posts out of sheer cruelty. But without solid proof, he could hardly press the matter.

“Letters dinna aye reach a Jacobite’s hoose,” Fiona was quick to say.

Whether she spoke the truth or was protecting her husband, Jack could not be certain. He tried another tack. “Perhaps I might carry a letter to Elisabeth on your behalf, Mrs. Cromar?”

“Oo aye!” A moment later she was seated at the pine table, her quill scratching across a thin sheet of paper. She bent over her words, shielding them from view.

Jack watched her even as he kept a wary eye on her husband. Speak the truth, madam. Your letter is safe with me.

When she finished, she waved the paper about, drying the ink, then folded it and carefully sealed it with candle wax. “I mean nae offense, using the wax,” she said, handing her letter to Jack. “Ye seem a trustworthy gentleman …”

“You are wise to use a seal,” Jack told her, aiming his remarks at Ben Cromar, who loomed over her, arms folded across his chest. “The only person who should break it open is the one to whom the letter is addressed, aye?” Like an angler with a fly lying on the surface of the water, Jack baited the man, seeing if he might bite.

But Cromar merely glared at him beneath a flat brow.

In the stony silence Fiona scurried about the cottage, pouring tea for her husband, righting a toppled book, smoothing the bedcovers. Keeping out of Cromar’s way, by the look of it. “I wonder, Lord Buchanan …,” she finally said. “My daughter had a bonny silver ring. Might she still be wearing it? ’Twas mine once and my mither’s afore me.”

Jack couldn’t recall seeing it and confessed as much. “Perhaps because of her sewing, your daughter finds rings uncomfortable.”

“Mebbe,” Fiona said softly. “ ’Tis not important.” Her crestfallen expression said otherwise. “She is making dresses for yer household, then?”

He nodded. “Gowns for my maidservants. And soon, livery for the menservants.”

Consternation filled her eyes. “My bonny Bess? Measuring and fitting men’s garments?”

Cromar grunted. “I thocht ye prized the leddy’s virtue.”

“You can be sure I do.” Jack looked at them both. Elisabeth had worked in a tailor’s shop. Had he erred in assuming she might sew for Roberts and his footmen? It seemed her mother thought so. “I shall remedy the situation the moment I return,” Jack promised her. “There are several competent tailors in Selkirk. One in particular I have in mind.”

Fiona’s expression lightened at once. “Weel done, milord.”

“He’s done naught but spin wirds,” her husband said darkly. “Onie can do that.”

Jack had had his fill of Ben Cromar. He moved closer, if only to look down at the man. “As a retired admiral of the Royal Navy, I assure you, my word can be trusted.”

The color drained from Ben’s face.

“Then ye’re …” Fiona’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Ye’re leal to … King Geordie?”

Before Jack could answer her, Cromar backed away. “ ’Tis a trap, woman. He has ithers waiting outside. Waiting to burn doon oor hoose and us with it.”

“Nae.” Jack strode toward the door, blocking the man’s escape. “I’ve come alone and not on behalf of the king.” He sought Fiona’s gaze, wanting to assure her. “Your daughter is my only concern here.”

Fiona barely touched her husband’s sleeve. “Lord Buchanan willna hurt us. He’s a guid man.”

Jack clearly saw Elisabeth in her mother now. The tender words, the gentle touch. Yet both women had married men who mistreated them. He could not save Fiona, not in a brief morning visit. But he could see to her daughter’s future. Aye, he could.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” Jack said with a slight bow, “and bid you both farewell.”

“Leuk after my sweet Bess,” Fiona pleaded with him. “She’s a’ I have.”

“Depend upon it, madam.” He quit the cottage and was astride Janvier moments later, riding hard for the Mar estate with rain pelting his face and Fiona’s last words beating in his heart.

He found Sir John where he’d left him by the fire, his feet propped on a leather footstool, a dram of whisky in hand.

“Join me, milord,” the sheriff said, raising his glass.

Jack shook his head, his thoughts already halfway to Selkirk. “I wonder if we might head south a bit sooner.” He couldn’t explain his growing uneasiness, nor could he deny it.

Sir John frowned. “Will Thursday next not suit you?”

Jack groaned inwardly. Five more days. “I confess I’ve enough grouse to fill ten of Mrs. Tudhope’s roasting pans. Would you object if we departed Monday?” Even that was a sacrifice. Jack was prepared to leave at once, the letter in his pocket adding to his sense of urgency.

His host downed his whisky, then sighed. “ ’Twould seem your mind is set, Lord Jack. No doubt you are missing my Rosalind, for I can assure you, she’s grieved by your absence.” He waved at their menservants playing cards by the window. “I daresay Dickson and Grahame will be glad to sleep in their own beds.”

“As will I,” Jack agreed, tamping down his impatience. Rosalind Murray? He’d barely thought of the lady since leaving Selkirk. Nae, another woman had occupied his mind from dawn until dusk and into his dreams.

Soon, Bess. Saturday next, Lord willing.