Mine Is the Night A Novel

Fifty-Four

We often give our enemies

the means for our own destruction.

AESOP



ack strode through the quiet halls of Bell Hill, glad to be home. Not sailing the high seas, not calling at foreign ports, not climbing the rugged Highland hills. Home.

Even the rainy Sabbath afternoon could not dampen his mood. He’d been welcomed back by many at kirk that morning and had rubbed shoulders with Michael Dalgliesh, assured of much luck in love. A foolish custom, aye, but harmless.

Sitting beside Elisabeth, he’d almost rubbed shoulders with her too, so crowded was the pew. Mrs. Kerr and Gibson did little to hide their regard for each other, all but holding hands throughout the service. An odd pairing, Jack thought, but who was he to say where love might lead? As for Elisabeth, she was equally kind to all who crossed her path, which both pleased and disappointed him. Might she not shower a bit more attention on him?

Selfish, Jack. And thoughtless. She is a widow in mourning, remember?

Jack paused at the door to his dining room, with its long windows facing the garden, then he squinted, peering through the rain. Was someone approaching the house? Jack could barely make out the shape of a man dressed in dark colors, head bent against the blustery storm. The fellow was limping, Jack realized. He started toward the front door, intending to greet him. Was the man injured perhaps? Or merely seeking shelter from the elements?

Upon reaching the entrance hall, Jack pulled the bell cord, summoning Roberts from his private quarters. His butler appeared moments later, straightening his coat.

“Sorry, milord. Taking a wee Sunday nap …”

“No matter. We’ve a stranger about to knock on our door,” Jack told him. “See to his needs. Dry clothes, warm food, and a chair by the fire.”

“Very good, sir.” Roberts pulled open the great oak door, startling their visitor in the process.

“Lord Buchanan?” the man asked, looking over the butler’s shoulder.

“Indeed, sir.” Jack stepped forward, making a quick assessment. Thirty years of age perhaps, the dark-haired, dark-eyed man was not quite so tall or broad as he but a sizable figure nonetheless. His club foot explained the limp. The bundle under his arm was a mystery.

“Come, come,” Jack urged him, beckoning his visitor inside. “ ’Tis miserable to be out of doors in such weather.”

The younger man walked across the marble floor, trying in vain to hide his deformity. Jack could hardly blame him. Would he not do the same?

“I thank ye for yer kindness,” the stranger began. For a large man, he was uncommonly soft spoken, though the Highland lilt in his voice was easily detected. “I was sent here by Fiona Ferguson …, eh, Cromar.”

“Mrs. Cromar?” Jack echoed, staring at the man. “From Castleton of Braemar?”

“Aye, milord. The verra same.” He unbuttoned the dripping wool cape round his thick neck, then removed it with a gallant sweep. “Micht this be hung by the hearth for a wee bit?”

Roberts claimed the garment at once, then led the two men into the drawing room, where a crackling wood fire held the damp air at bay.

By now Mrs. Pringle had been alerted and stood in the doorway, awaiting orders.

“Will hot tea do?” Jack asked his guest. “Or is whisky more to your liking?”

“Tea,” the man said firmly, though he eyed the glass decanters, their amber contents sparkling in the firelight.

Jack nodded at his housekeeper, then directed his guest to a leather chair well suited for wet clothing. “You say Mrs. Cromar sent you?”

“In a manner o’ speaking.” The man untied his bundle, wrapped in calfskin, and produced a card advertising a tailoring shop in Edinburgh. “This is whaur I warked,” he explained, “and these are some o’ the garments I stitched.”

Jack barely looked at the neat stack of clothing. “Am I to understand you are … a tailor?”

“Aye, milord.” He smiled, though it did not soften his features. “Mrs. Cromar told me ye had need o’ my services.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “But all I require is livery for a few footmen. A month’s work at most. You cannot have traveled all the way from Braemar for so temporary a position.”

“A month o’ wark will suit me verra weel,” the younger man said. “I was already bound for London toun and thocht I might earn a bit o’ silver on my way.”

Still shaking his head, Jack began examining the offered garments. He saw at once the man was quite skilled with a needle and told him so.

“I learned a’ I ken from my faither,” he said proudly. “O’ course, he’s gane noo, and so is my mither.”

Jack studied the card from the shop on Edinburgh’s High Street. It appeared to be a worthy establishment. “You could lodge here at Bell Hill,” Jack said, thinking aloud, “then be on your way to London by Michaelmas.”

“Aye, so I could, milord.”

Jack would be pleased to have his footmen newly attired in time for the household supper at next month’s end. And Elisabeth’s mother surely trusted this young man, or she’d never have recommended him.

“Sir, your timing is … providential,” Jack told him. The truth was, he felt sorry for the younger man with no steady work and both parents gone. Elisabeth might appreciate having another Highlander in the house, and a friend of her mother’s at that.

“I can pay you a guinea for each suit of clothing,” Jack told him. “If we’re agreed, you may start on the morrow. We’ve a vacant workroom on the men’s side of the servant hall that should suit.”

That grim smile again. “Aye, ’twill do.”

Jack consulted the card once more. “Your name is MacPherson.”

“ ’Tis, milord.” He eyed the steaming cup of tea Mrs. Pringle had just poured for him. “Robert is my proper Christian name, though my freens a’ call me Rob.”

“I hope you’ll soon be among friends here as well.” Jack shook the man’s hand, taken aback at the strength of his grip. “Rob MacPherson, welcome to Bell Hill.”