Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fifty-Three

O woman! thou knowest the hour

when the goodman of the house will return.

WASHINGTON IRVING



lisabeth had just stitched in place the last hook on a maidservant’s gown when Mrs. Pringle tapped on the open workroom door. “A post for you, Mrs. Kerr.”

“Delivered here? How very odd.” Elisabeth put aside her finished gown, then studied the postmark with some trepidation. Edinburgh. Who in the capital knew she was employed at Bell Hill?

The moment she saw the signature, her fears vanished. “ ’Tis from the admiral,” she said, smiling down at his bold hand.

To Mrs. Elisabeth Kerr

Bell Hill, Selkirkshire

Wednesday, 20 August 1746

My dear Mrs. Kerr,

She paused at the word dear, wondering what it might signify, then pressed on, convincing herself the salutation was nothing more than a polite gesture. His lordship might just as easily have written “My dear Mrs. Pringle.”

Your Highlands were quite as beautiful as you described them, the stark contours of the landscape softened by occasional wooded areas of Scotch pine. The weather was exceedingly fine, except for two days of rain, and our host made us warmly welcome. Nonetheless, our hunting party will be returning to Selkirk sooner than expected, at my request.

Elisabeth’s breath caught. Are you ill, milord? Or simply restless? She dared not entertain the thought that he missed her company, though she certainly longed to see him.

Look for us to arrive late in the afternoon on Saturday the twenty-third, if all goes according to plan. I am posting this from Edinburgh, hoping it might arrive ahead of us, lest we catch the household unprepared.

“He is to arrive in a few hours,” Elisabeth declared, trying not to let her anticipation show.

Mrs. Pringle hastened to the door, calling over her shoulder, “I must tell Roberts and Mrs. Tudhope at once.”

Left alone, Elisabeth traced his signature with her fingertip. Three times the size of the other lines of text, with a decidedly forward slant, each letter was clearly drawn rather than a violent slash of ink across the page. Here was a man with nothing to hide.

Below it a brief postscript left her even more anxious for his return.

I delivered the letter to your mother as requested. She sent me home with one for you as well. I will have much to share when we see each other.

Whatever he had found in Braemar, she would know by day’s end. Some comfort, that.

Elisabeth read his letter again, tucked it in her sewing basket, then gazed down at Charbon curled up at her feet. “Your master will soon appear,” she told the cat, scratching him behind the ears as she looked toward the window, left open to welcome the cool morning air.

Hurry home, milord.


One hour dragged by, then two, then four. Her dinner tray came and went, untouched. Focusing instead on her work, she’d begun measuring Kate, the stillroom maid, glad for the distraction the charming lass provided.

“I’ve niver had a new gown,” Kate confided, keeping her posture straight even as her gaze lighted on the sleeping cat, the wool rug, the new chairs. “Clever bit o’ business, that,” she said, nodding at the candle-stool. “Ye’ve a richt cozy place, Mrs. Kerr. Leuks like his lordship has taken a fancy to ye.”

Elisabeth pretended not to hear her as she busily stretched the measuring tape from waist to hem, then recorded the figure with chalk and slate. When Kate moved on to another topic—all the lads she’d danced with at the Saint Lawrence Fair—Elisabeth finished her task without further questions. Had the whole household come to the same conclusion regarding Lord Buchanan?

When Sally appeared with her afternoon tea tray, her countenance beamed like the sun. “His lordship is hame!” She put down the tray with a noisy clatter, then took off with Kate close on her heels.

Elisabeth watched them go, uncertain of what was expected of her. Would the household line up at the door to formally greet him, as they had when he last returned from a journey? And if so, would she be expected to join them? “Better done than not,” she told Charbon, then quickly attended to face, hands, and hair before hurrying out the door and up the stair, the gray cat darting ahead.

Admit it, Bess. You cannot wait to see him.

The truth of it made her heart quicken and her steps along with it.

Bell Hill’s staff was indeed standing on either side of the front door, Dickson having ridden ahead to announce his lordship’s arrival. All were red cheeked and damp with sweat beneath the hot August sun as Lord Buchanan dismounted, then passed the reins to a stable lad.

“May the good Lord be with you,” he called out, as was his custom.

“And with you!” was his household’s enthusiastic reply.

Elisabeth watched him greet each one by name and receive a swift bow or curtsy in response. For a moment she thought he’d glanced her way, but perhaps she’d only wished it so. In due time he reached his front door, where she stood beside Mrs. Pringle.

“Your chamber is ready for you, milord, and your hot bath as well,” the older woman assured him, then dispatched the household to their duties.

“No man could hope for a better housekeeper. Or a finer dressmaker,” he added, nodding at the maidservants as they passed by. More than half of them wore Elisabeth’s creations now. “I see you’ve been busy while I was away, Mrs. Kerr.”

Elisabeth felt the warmth of his gaze. “Aye, milord.”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “Perhaps I should leave my country estate more often, as some landowners do. Spend six months in London. Take the grand tour.”

“Your lordship has already sailed the world,” Elisabeth reminded him. “And I do believe the grand tour is meant for … well …”

“Young gentlemen half my age,” the admiral finished for her. “I suppose you’re right. If you’ll kindly find my cane, I’ll hobble off to my study, where I may gum my supper in peace.”

Elisabeth smiled. “You’re speaking of a gentleman twice your age, milord. You are hardly old and infirm.”

“I’m glad you think so, madam.”

The two of them were left standing alone on the threshold. Only Charbon tarried behind, curling round their legs.

Lord Jack stepped closer, the earthy scent of horse and rider filling her nostrils. Any sense of levity vanished from his countenance. “I’ve a letter from your mother.” He produced it at once and pressed it into her hands. “Meet me at five o’ the clock in my study, and I shall tell you more of what I found at Castleton.”


Elisabeth had already broken the seal and unfolded the letter before she reached her workroom. She’d not had news from home since September last, delivered by her brother. My dear Simon.

Her throat tightened when she saw the familiar handwriting in Gaelic, the few words scrawled across the page as if written in haste.

Saturday, 16 August 1746

My beloved Bess,

You were right, and I was so very wrong. Please, please forgive me. Lord Buchanan will tell you what I cannot say here.

I will love you always.



Your mother

The words began to swim. What has happened, Mother? She touched the paper, taking care not to let a tear fall on the ink and wash away Fiona’s words.

Lord Buchanan will tell you. Elisabeth looked at the sunlight pouring through her window, judging the hour by the slant of the rays. Might it be five o’ the clock soon? She started to drink the lukewarm tea Sally had left for her earlier, tried to mark the fabric for Kate’s gown, but concentrating proved difficult. Finally Elisabeth abandoned her tailor’s chalk and climbed the servants’ stair, unable to wait a moment longer.

Lord Jack was seated at his desk when she arrived. He waved her in at once and sent the footman on an errand. “Leave the door open,” he told the young man.

“Aye, milord,” he said and was gone.

Elisabeth sat across from the admiral, hands folded in her lap, her heart in her throat. “What did you find in Castleton?”

He’d never looked more serious. “Your mother is frightened, and for good reason.”

“Ben Cromar,” she whispered. Oh my sweet mother. When Lord Jack related their discussion, Elisabeth heard her mother’s voice. I should have listened. I should have heeded. I didna ken. “Is there nothing that can be done?”

“With your permission, I shall speak with Sir John. As sheriff, he surely has a counterpart in Aberdeenshire who might intervene. Though beneath a man’s own roof …” Lord Jack shook his head. “The law favors the husband in such matters.”

Elisabeth knew the Braemar parish minister would offer no assistance. Her mother had kept her distance from the kirk, worshiping the moon instead. “What else did she say?”

“She was very grateful for your letter,” Lord Jack assured her. “Said it was the first she’d had since marrying Mr. Cromar.”

“But—”

“I know. You wrote her monthly. But your letters were either intercepted by the government en route—”

“Or opened by Cromar.” Elisabeth stared at the floor, sickened at the thought of him reading her posts. “How could he be so cruel?”

The admiral stood, walked to the window, and gazed out onto the sunlit gardens. “Some men have no kindness left in them.”

She lifted her head. “And some have an abundance.”

After a lengthy silence, he turned back and shifted to another subject. “Your mother voiced a strong objection to having you sew livery for my footmen, so I promised her I’d hire a tailor.”

“But …” Elisabeth shared a concern of her own. “I’ll not have enough work to last until Saint Andrew’s Day.”

He looked down at her. “Bess, we had an agreement, which I intend to honor. Even if that means you’ll be tarrying about the house, talking to Charbon for hours on end while a tailor dresses my menservants.” When she started to protest, he cut her short. “Michael Dalgliesh. I thought he might be the man for the task.”

“He is a fine tailor,” Elisabeth agreed, “and would no doubt welcome the business. But Mr. Dalgliesh is already quite … engaged at the moment.”

“Engaged? By whom?”

“Betrothed, if you will. To my cousin Anne. They intend to wed on the last of August.”

His eyebrows rose. “Truly? Then you are quite right. The man can hardly sew for me while preparing to begin a new life with Miss Kerr.” He reclaimed his chair, then tossed down a cup of lukewarm tea. “I’ll seek some solution come Monday. There must be other tailors in Selkirk.”

“There are,” she said, though she’d not recommend narrow-minded Mr. Smail.

“Speaking of weddings,” Jack continued, “your mother asked about a silver ring she thought you might still be wearing. Something handed down from your grandmother.”

“And my great-grandmother Nessa before her.” Elisabeth glanced at her right hand, where an engraved silver band had lived for many years. Measure the moon, circle the silver. A sacred symbol of the pagan rituals she’d once embraced, then discarded for a greater, truer Love.

“I no longer have it,” she confessed, recalling how she’d deposited the silver ring, and her wedding ring as well, into Mr. Dewar’s waiting hand to pay for her carriage ride south. “I do hope my mother will forgive me.”

His steady gaze met hers. “A ring can be replaced, Bess. A daughter cannot.”