Mine Is the Night A Novel

Sixty-Seven

’Tis expectation makes a blessing dear.

SIR JOHN SUCKLING



lisabeth stared at her mother-in-law, trying to grasp what she was suggesting. “You want me to propose to Lord Buchanan?”

“At the very least, present yourself to him,” Marjory said, her hazel eyes aglow. “Let him know of your willingness to end your time of mourning. He will not move forward until you do.”

Move forward. Elisabeth looked down at her plain black dress. Was she ready to drape herself in blues and greens, reds and purples, telling the world she no longer mourned the man she’d once loved with all her heart?

Oh, my Donald, if only I might ask you.

But her husband was gone. Her heart alone held the answer.

Elisabeth met Marjory’s gaze and prayed for the right words to say. “You must know how I cherish the memory of your son,” she told her, wanting to dispel any doubt in her mother-in-law’s mind.

Marjory touched her cheek. “I do, Bess.”

“And yet you are willing to let me go?”

“How can I not? You’ve been so very faithful. To Donald and to me.” Marjory’s lower lip began to tremble. “I cannot imagine the last year without you by my side.”

“Nor can I.” Elisabeth leaned forward and gathered her mother-in-law in her arms. “Whatever happens, I will see you well cared for, dear Marjory.”

“I know, I know …” The rest of her words were muffled against Elisabeth’s shoulder.

After a quiet, tender moment, they eased apart. “There’s something I’ve not told you,” Marjory confessed. “It is about Lord Buchanan.”

Elisabeth’s heart skipped a beat. “Oh?”

“According to Reverend Brown, his lordship is a distant relative on Lord John’s side of the family.”

Elisabeth let the words sink in. “Lord Buchanan is our kinsman?”

“Not by blood,” Marjory assured her, “but certainly by marriage, however long ago. Because of that slender tie, Reverend Brown thought we might prevail upon his lordship to provide a small income for us. But I’d hoped for more than mere silver.” She stood and moved to the hearth. “I asked the reverend to keep this discovery to himself. Even Lord Buchanan may not yet be aware of it.”

Elisabeth watched her measure the tea leaves, then pour hot water into a crockery pot. “You’ve had your eye on him from the first, haven’t you?”

Marjory smiled. “Not for myself, of course. My heart has been engaged elsewhere for some time. But for you, aye.” She rejoined her at the oval table, bearing a wooden tray with cups and spoons, honey and milk, and the steaming pot with its fragrant brew. “I’ve given this some thought, Bess, and have decided the very best time to approach his lordship is tomorrow night after the Michaelmas feast at Bell Hill.”

Overcome, Elisabeth sank back against her chair. “So soon?”

“Remember the words of Shakespeare,” Marjory cautioned her. “Delays have dangerous ends.” She stirred honey into her tea, frowning. “What if Rob MacPherson leaped from the ship before it sailed and is even now bound for Selkirk? Or what if Lord Buchanan decides Rosalind Murray would make a fine wife, especially since she is free to marry him at once?”

Elisabeth didn’t like the sound of either one of them, the second especially. “What have you in mind, Marjory?”

Her mother-in-law’s response was swift and decisive. “When the festivities are drawing to a close, slip down the stair to your workroom and bathe from head to toe, using my lavender soap. Brush your hair until it shines and place Annie’s silver comb where it will show to best advantage. Then dress in the lavender gown my son bought for you—”

Elisabeth gasped. “Marjory, I couldn’t!”

“Aye, you could,” she insisted. “Lord Buchanan has never seen you wearing anything but black. ’Tis time he viewed you as a beautiful and marriageable young lady. Not as a poor widow who sews dresses for his servants.”

Elisabeth glanced toward her leather trunk, picturing the folded gown inside. “ ’Twill need to be aired and ironed …”

“Easily managed,” Marjory promised. “Gibson and I will wrap your gown in a sheet, lay it out in a cart, and deliver it to your workroom tomorrow, such that none will be the wiser.”

In spite of her qualms, Elisabeth smiled. “You really have thought of everything.”

“The hour matters most of all,” Marjory told her. “Long after supper, when his lordship is well sated and his guests have departed for home, you must speak with him in private.”

Elisabeth’s eyes widened. “You cannot mean in his bedchamber?”

Marjory paused, as if considering it, then agreed, “Nae, ’twould not be proper. But you must approach him in a secluded spot where you are not likely to be interrupted.”

Elisabeth knew the very place. “His study,” she said. “Sally once told me Lord Buchanan often ends his evenings seated by the fire.”

Marjory sipped her tea in silence. “Aye,” she finally said. “Once you’re certain he’s alone, quietly enter the room and present yourself to him. A deep curtsy and your lovely gown will speak volumes. Once he understands you are no longer in mourning, he will surely propose marriage in short order.”

Can it be as simple as that? Elisabeth pressed a hand to her fluttery stomach, imagining what she might say, what he might do, how things would end.

Do I want this? ’Twas the greater question. Better a peaceful widow than a heartbroken wife. Yet Lord Jack was surely different than Donald or Rob. He’d never gazed at other women in her presence, let alone seduced them. Nor had he raised his voice against her, let alone his hand.

If he welcomed her proposal, they might soon be married. But if he misunderstood her, if he refused her, if he preferred Rosalind Murray, with her title and her wealth.

Elisabeth’s courage began to falter. “Oh, Marjory, are you certain?”

“I am,” she answered without hesitation. “With Rosalind in the wings, we cannot wait until January.”

Elisabeth nodded, finally convinced as well. “I shall follow your instructions to the letter.”

“And may God bless you for it.” Marjory glanced at the window, hearing voices on the street below. “Until then, not a word to anyone, Bess.”





Sixty-Eight

Oh, thou art fairer than the evening air,

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.

CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE



ack stood at the edge of his rose garden, smiling up at the twilit sky, waiting.

Behind him in the dining room, Mrs. Pringle was giving orders. He could hear her firm, steady voice floating through the open windows, putting everyone and everything in its place. By the time his first guests appeared in the entrance hall, Bell Hill would be ready to welcome them.

“She’s here, milord.”

Jack turned with a grateful nod, then strode past the footman, hoping he might have a moment alone with her in the drawing room. He’d not seen her since yesterday morning at kirk, when she’d promised him a Michaelmas surprise. Of course, his own surprise for her would come when the musicians struck the first note.

Jack swept through the open doors with a jaunty step. One and two and three.

When he entered the drawing room, Elisabeth turned before he said her name. “There you are, Lord Jack.” She smiled, curtsied, and stole his heart, all in a trice. “The Dalglieshes will be along shortly.”

Even now he did not have Elisabeth to himself. Marjory and Gibson were standing with her, the women neatly if soberly attired in black, and Gibson wearing a proper coat and waistcoat. Borrowed from his employer perhaps. “You look very well, Gibson,” Jack told him, though Marjory was the one who beamed at the compliment.

Elisabeth appeared to be hiding something behind her back. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak briefly with Mrs. Pringle,” she said, then swept round him such that he could not see what she held in her hands. “I’ll not be a moment, milord.”

How very mysterious. Though he did not care for surprises, this one held some promise.

“Will you have your monthly supper tomorrow eve?” Marjory inquired. “Or shall your Michaelmas celebration suffice for September?”

“Mrs. Tudhope would serve my head on a platter if I required large banquets two nights in a row,” he admitted, “though I shall make it up to the household at Yuletide.”

When Elisabeth returned, her cheeks were flush with color. “You are wanted in the entrance hall, milord. The Chisholms of Broadmeadows have arrived.”

Jack offered his arm, hoping she might join him. “As Bell Hill has no mistress, I’d be honored if you would stand beside me to greet my guests.”

Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law, then boldly took his arm. “If you wish it, milord. After all, it is a special night.”

If any visitors were shocked to see Elisabeth by his side, they hid their disapproval, smiling and bobbing and fluttering their fans. But he steeled himself when the Murrays of Philiphaugh stepped through his door.

Last week Sir John had reminded him of the generous dowry that would accompany Rosalind’s hand in marriage. “Even you, Admiral, must admit ’tis a worthy sum.” Jack had agreed that it was, then quickly changed the subject. His heart was not for sale at any price. Did the Murrays think of nothing but wealth, property, and advancement?

They stood before him now, dressed like peacocks, right down to the feathery plumes in Rosalind’s hair. “Admiral,” she said demurely, then sank into a deep curtsy. Yet for all their fine manners, none of the Murrays acknowledged Elisabeth. And when Charbon made an unexpected appearance, Rosalind lifted her hem with a look of dismay, then gave the cat a none-too-gentle nudge with her foot and hissed, “Be gone.”

Jack felt Elisabeth stiffen, even as he clenched his teeth, lest he say the same to Rosalind Murray. Be gone, madam. Only when she followed her parents into the drawing room did Jack relax enough to greet his next visitors, the Currors of Whitmuir Hall, who not only spoke warmly to Elisabeth, but also reached down to pet Charbon.

“They may stay,” Jack murmured, bringing a smile to Elisabeth’s face.

Not every woman needed a dowry to make her appealing.


The sky was black and the candles blazing when the supper hour arrived. Jack escorted Elisabeth into the dining room with some three dozen friends and neighbors following in their wake. Laughter and conviviality filled the air as they found their seats up and down the long table, the place cards neatly lettered in Mrs. Pringle’s hand.

When he reached the head of the table, Jack glanced down at his plate, then looked again. A carrot? Gibson had a large forked one. Michael Dalgliesh had one too. All three were tied with red ribbons. A swift perusal of the table provided no clue, for none of the other plates were so decorated.

Very odd.

Still, solving the carrot question would have to wait.

Jack stood before his guests, arms open. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we might join in giving thanks.” He prayed earnestly for the hours ahead, for the meal and the music and the dancing, keeping his eyes closed lest he catch sight of the enormous carrot and laugh aloud.

The moment he took his seat, Elisabeth leaned across the table. “ ’Tis a gift for Michaelmas,” she said softly. “I plucked it for you from Mrs. Thorburn’s garden.”

He stared at the root vegetable, scrubbed clean but uncooked. “Am I meant to eat it?”

“You are meant to keep it. For good luck.” She blushed when she said it, then hastily reached for her napkin, putting an end to the discussion.

If this was her surprise, Jack was not about to disappoint her. He dutifully placed the carrot to the side, then signaled to his footmen to commence serving the first course.

Carrot soup, as it turned out. Seasoned with coriander.

The evening’s feast was a great success, with a dozen tantalizing aromas competing for their attention—among them, pan-baked trout, stewed lamb with mushrooms, and baked apples stuffed with currants. The Michaelmas goose was given pride of place at the center of the table, surrounded by smaller fowl, necessary to feed so many mouths.

“Do you know the saying, milord?” Elisabeth asked him when the poultry course was served. “Eat a goose on Michaelmas Day; want not for money all the year.”

“Is that so?” He noted the small serving on Elisabeth’s plate, the substantial one on Marjory’s. “You don’t believe in such things, do you?”

Elisabeth smiled. “Of course not, milord. Every blessing comes from the Almighty. But then, so do carrots.”

By the time plates of rich almond cake were served, the Michaelmas feast was declared a success. Jack stood, eager to get on with things. “If you will kindly repair to the drawing room, you’ll find our musicians waiting for us.”

As the guests rose and headed for the door, Jack offered Elisabeth his arm.

“Milord,” she said, leaning close to him, “perhaps you might prefer to retire to your study.”

He arched his brows. “And miss the pleasure of dancing?”

Her shocked expression was worth every painful hour with Mr. Fowles.

“You, milord?”

Jack merely smiled as he guided her into the drawing room, where two lines were already forming. Since the young Widow Kerr was not permitted to dance, he needed her mother-in-law’s approval and so sought out Marjory.

“Mrs. Kerr,” he said respectfully, “I wonder if I might request a very great favor. In honor of Michaelmas, would you allow your daughter-in-law, just this eve, to—”

“Aye!” Marjory said, grinning at him.

Had the woman sipped too much claret? “You’ll not mind, then, if we—”

“Nae!” Marjory assured him, standing opposite Gibson, waiting for the opening notes.

Elisabeth blinked at him, clearly astonished. “Am I to understand you wish to dance with me?”

“If you’ll have me, madam,” he said with a bow.

She took her place at once. “Depend upon it, milord.”