Mine Is the Night A Novel

Sixty-Five

Those move easiest

who have learn’d to dance.

ALEXANDER POPE



is better if you do not count aloud, milord.”

Jack shot the dancing master a murderous look. “Would you prefer I stepped on the lady’s toes?”

“I would not,” Mr. Fowles agreed, “though women are rather accustomed to it. But counting aloud will mark you as unrefined, and we cannot have that, milord.”

Jack grumbled under his breath, keeping the numbers to himself. One and two and three. Four and five and six. At least he’d sworn the dancing master to secrecy. No one but Dickson knew of his thrice-weekly visits to a drawing room in Galashiels where Mr. Fowles, a small man with a large, beaklike nose, offered private instruction on the country dances most Scotsmen were taught as lads.

However old he might be, Jack was determined to learn the steps in time for Michaelmas. A fortnight remained. And still he was counting. One and two and three.

A lone fiddler perched in the corner of the sparsely furnished room, and the thin carpet was rolled back to reveal an unpolished wooden floor. While the fiddler sawed away, Mr. Fowles served as Jack’s partner, mirroring each step. It would be challenging enough to dance longwise, with men on either side of him, but to cross to the women’s side and then progress down the row behind them—well, boarding a Spanish vessel with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other was child’s play compared to this.

“Bow, if you please, then step forward,” Mr. Fowles intoned. “Take your partner’s hand and circle round. That’s it, milord. Now switch hands and circle the other direction.”

Jack followed his commands to the letter, resisting the urge to gloat. Pride goeth before destruction, he reminded himself, silently counting in time to the music. Four and five and six.

Mr. Fowles continued, “Process to her side of the line as she returns the favor, then walk behind the woman who was standing next to her.”

The woman in question was a wooden chair. Perhaps that was for the best.

“Meet your partner again in the center,” the dancing master said, “then circle round her, this time without taking her hand.”

“But what am I supposed to do instead?” Jack demanded.

“Nothing, sir. Let your hands hang loosely by your side. Now step to the center, lift up on the balls of your feet, and step back.”

One moment Jack was dancing with another man’s partner, circumnavigating the stiff-backed chair. Then he was promenading his own partner, the diminutive Mr. Fowles, as they walked between two imaginary lines of dancers, who were surely laughing up their sleeves. Jack could almost hear them. Or was that the fiddler?

Mercy finally prevailed, and their hourlong lesson ended.

Mr. Fowles was in a generous mood. “You are improving, milord. A few more sessions, and you’ll be the talk of the ball.”

Jack snorted. “I fear that is certain to be the case.” He paid the man, then reached for his hat. “Wednesday noon?”

Mr. Fowles nodded, a twinkle in his eye. “I shall have a surprise for you.”


Jack did not care for surprises. Well, except for the ones he sprang on others.

When he found a half-dozen maidservants waiting for him in Mr. Fowles’s drawing room on Wednesday, he was more than surprised. He was mortified.

Jack drew the dancing master aside. “I am not ready,” he insisted. “Furthermore, I thought our lessons were to be a secret.”

Mr. Fowles glanced at the bevy of wide-eyed lasses across the room. “You’re not known in this parish, milord. I told them you were a Frenchman who spoke no English. As long as you do not count aloud, they’ll be none the wiser.”

Jack had no choice but to join them in forming two lines and let the music begin. After each awkward misstep, each wrong turn, he thought of Elisabeth and tried harder. The maidservants were kind to him, guiding him through the precise movements of each dance, until by hour’s end he felt a flush of confidence. Might he manage it after all?

He rode the five miles home in record time, relishing the bright September weather. If Michaelmas were half so fair, the evening would be a success. Might you throw convention to the wind and dance with me, Bess? He could hardly wait to see her face. Of course, that was true on any occasion.


At three o’ the clock Jack found her workroom vacant. A finished gown hung on the wall, but there was no sign of Elisabeth. Even Charbon wasn’t curled up in his usual spot by the hearth.

Jack strode through the house, glancing here and there, not truly concerned. If Elisabeth was on his property, she was safe. Had he not made it clear to the entire household, and the menservants in particular, what he required of them?

“As a widow and a Highlander, Mrs. Kerr is particularly vulnerable,” he’d told them, then outlined the measures he wished them to take. Keep an eye on her by day. Bolt the exterior doors at night. Question any strangers who wander onto the property. Note who bothers her at kirk and at market. Listen for ill news on the wind. “She is never to feel imprisoned here, but I do wish her to feel secure.”

At the moment Jack simply wished to find her.

When he heard her voice floating down the stair from the upper hall, he took the steps two at a time. Rather noisily, it seemed, for she was looking his direction when he emerged into the hallway.

“Mrs. Kerr,” he said with a gallant bow. “And Mrs. Pringle. I can only assume you two are making plans for Michaelmas.”

“We are, milord.” Elisabeth held out a rough sketch of the drawing room. “With so many guests coming, I’m afraid your furniture will need to be relocated. I know you are not partial to dancing—”

“Oh, but there must be dancing,” he protested. “Isn’t that what Michaelmas Night is known for?”

Elisabeth smiled. “Among other things, milord.”


Friday’s dancing lesson was a revelation: Jack forgot to count yet still remembered all the steps. The following Monday he almost enjoyed himself. Almost. And on Wednesday next, Mr. Fowles broke into spontaneous applause.

“You are ready, milord. And with five days to spare.”

Jack paid the man his due and bade him farewell. Ready or not, Michaelmas was nigh upon them.

He returned home from Galashiels to find Bell Hill all but dismantled. The drawing room was reduced to long rows of seats and a vast expanse of bare floor. The dining room had more chairs than he could number at a cursory glance, with freshly polished silver displayed up and down the long table. Every maidservant had a dusting cloth in hand and every manservant a broom as they worked their way from room to room, cleaning a house that was already spotless.

“They mean to bless you,” Mrs. Pringle explained, a look of satisfaction on her face. Then she nodded toward his desk. “Two letters arrived in your absence, milord.”

He had only to look at the handwriting to know the correspondents. “Have Mrs. Kerr come to my study in a quarter hour.”

“Very good, sir.” His housekeeper almost smiled. “Aren’t you pleased I brought her to your study last May?”

“Aye, Mrs. Pringle.” Very pleased.

He was downing a cup of tea when Elisabeth appeared. She glanced over her shoulder, perhaps to make certain the door was ajar, then sat in front of his desk and folded her hands in her lap. “What is it, Lord Jack? You’ve a rather serious look on your face.”

“I’ve news you’ll want to hear,” he confessed, reaching for the two letters sent by men well paid to do his bidding. “You ordered Mr. MacPherson to leave Scotland, aye? You’ll be glad to know he did precisely that. On Monday last he boarded a ship in Liverpool bound for the Americas.”

When a flicker of surprise did not cross her features, Jack wondered if Elisabeth already knew of Rob’s destination. “He told you his plans?”

“He did,” she confessed.

“And he expected you to join him?”

She lowered her gaze. “Aye.”

Jack longed to reach across his desk and touch her cheek, now fully healed. “I thank God you refused him, Bess.” For your sake. And for mine.

“I could never have done otherwise,” she said softly, then lifted her head. “Does the second letter concern me as well?”

“It does.” He glanced at the correspondence in his hands. “According to Archie Gordon, the fellow I dispatched to the Highlands, Ben Cromar has not harmed your mother in any visible way since I last saw her. Furthermore, the Sheriff of Aberdeen has been alerted, and a few of your old neighbors, Mrs. MacKindlay, the midwife, among them, have been discreetly charged to watch over her and guard her safety.”

“For which, no doubt, they’ve been generously compensated.”

“Indeed, they have.” Jack studied her for a moment, uncertain of her meaning. “Does my wealth offend you, Bess?”

“Nae, it astounds me.” Her expression was sincere, her words more so. “You are more generous than any gentleman I have ever known.”

Then marry me, Bess. The words were on the tip of his tongue. Say it, Jack. Go on.

Youth and beauty were easily found among the gentlewomen of the land but to also find godliness and charity? Wisdom and purity? Strength and humility? He would gladly wait for such a woman. Though the new year did seem a very long way off.

Jack walked round his desk, eying her mourning gown, thinking to test the waters. “When the seventeenth of January comes and you are free to wear any color you like, I am curious what you’ll choose.”

She rose, the soft contours of her face glowing in the afternoon light. “I’m rather partial to lavender.”

He stood as close as he dared. “Both the scent and the shade?” When she nodded, he tucked away the information for future reference. “A feminine color, signifying devotion. I shall look forward to seeing you wear it.”

A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Shall you indeed, milord?” At the sound of footsteps in the hall, she stepped back. “Then I hope you are a patient man.”

“Oh, very patient,” he assured her, mentally counting the time that remained.

Three months and twenty-four days, Bess. And then, if you’ll have me, if God wills it, you’ll be mine.