Mine Is the Night A Novel

Seventy-Six

Gifts come from above

in their own peculiar forms.

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE



ill you be finishing that, milord?” Dickson eyed the large cut of beef that sat untouched on his master’s plate.

Jack pushed the remains of his dinner across the table. “I thought you left such poor manners aboard ship.”

“Oh, I did, mostly.” Dickson cut into the meat with relish. “But I brought my appetite with me. And ’tis a shame to waste good meat.”

Jack gazed out the inn’s small-paned windows into the Grassmarket, eager to quit the capital and start for home. But when they’d returned to the inn to change into riding clothes and claim their belongings, Dickson had reminded him he’d eaten little for breakfast that morning, and they’d be some hours riding to Middleton. “We’d best dine now,” Dickson had said. So here they sat on hard wooden chairs while the clock ticked round.

When Dickson had consumed everything on both their plates and began gazing longingly at a stranger’s meal, Jack pushed back from the table. “Time we were off.”

“Lord Buchanan!” a voice called from the entrance. “Can it be ye?”

Jack turned to find Archie Gordon, the bearded Scotsman charged with looking after Fiona Cromar’s welfare, lumbering toward the table. Jack had chosen the man not only for his honesty but also for his size. Even the fiercest Highlanders might think again before they’d take on Archie Gordon.

The man lowered his bulk onto a tottery chair and planted his elbows on the table. “Are ye lodging here?” he asked.

“We were,” Jack told him, “but are now bound for Bell Hill.”

“Weel, that’s whaur I was headed.” Archie wagged his head, his thick red hair tied back with a bit of leather. “A coincidence, aye?”

“I prefer to think of it as divine providence,” Jack told him. “You must have news of some import, Archie, to bring it to my door rather than post a letter.”

The man’s jovial expression faded. “Aye, milord.”

Jack’s stomach knotted. “Good news or ill?”

“I’ll let ye be the judge o’ that.” Archie rubbed his hand over his beard, then waved over the innkeeper and ordered a pint of ale and a kidney pie before finally relaying the news. “Ben Cromar is deid.”

Jack stared at him. “Dead?”

“Aye,” Archie said, frowning. “Got into a brawl with a neighbor after they both had too much whisky. Cromar fell and hit his head on a rock sticking up from the ground. Folk were there as witnesses. ’Twas an accident and naught else.”

Jack sank back in his chair. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

“Is that a fact?” Archie looked at him in amazement. “I thocht ye micht be pleased, cruel as the man was.”

“Relieved,” Jack admitted, “but not pleased, not at another man’s death.”

“Aye, weel.” Archie took his first sip of ale and sighed. “To be sure, Fiona Cromar is alone noo, with none to provide for her.”

Jack stood. “That I can remedy.” He sought out the innkeeper, then returned to the table shortly thereafter with quill, ink, paper, and wax. “In a moment I’ll have a letter ready for Mrs. Cromar. When you return to Bell Hill with her answer, I’ll reward you for your labors. Will that suit?”

“Aye, milord. If ye’ll not mind, I’ll have my dinner while ye write.”

Jack nodded, his pen already moving across the paper. He did not know Elisabeth’s mother well enough to guess how she would respond. But he knew Elisabeth. Say you will, Fiona. For your daughter’s sake. Jack added a few pieces of gold, then sealed the letter well.

Dickson looked at him askance, then said in a low voice, “Are you certain about that, milord?”

“Aye.” Jack had no qualms entrusting Archie with his gold. Unlike the young messenger tarrying round the punch bowl, Archie Gordon was not prone to drink and had shown himself to be an honest and honorable man.

Archie dropped the sealed letter in his coat pocket with a nod of assurance. The delivery was as good as done. “Sorry to bring ye bad news, Lord Buchanan. Ye leuked quite happy whan I first saw ye.”

“Indeed I am, for I’m to marry this month.” Just saying the words made his heart leap.

“Weel, then,” Archie said, “ye’re in the richt city. Walk up to the Luckenbooths in the High Street and find a silver brooch for yer bride. ’Tis an auld Scottish custom.”

Jack was not keen on delaying their journey any longer. But if it meant taking home a gift for Elisabeth, something that might have a special meaning to her, he’d make time for it. “Come, Dickson. It seems we’re going brooch hunting.”

The two men climbed the West Bow, a steep, winding street that carried them up to the main thoroughfare where the Luckenbooths, a series of market stalls kept locked at night, sat in front of the High Kirk of Saint Giles. Weaving his way through the jostling crowd, Jack headed for a shop with a promising sign painted above the lintel: Patrick Cowie, Merchant, Jewelry and Silver Bought and Sold. Surely this Mr. Cowie would have a silver brooch or two to choose from.

Jack and Dickson ducked inside the small, dimly lit shop and were greeted by Mr. Cowie himself. “Guid day to ye, gentlemen,” he said, waving them toward a glass case brimming with jewelry. “Whatsomever might ye be leuking for?”

Jack began, “I am to marry this month—”

“Then I’ve just the thing.” The merchant quickly produced a small silver pin with two hearts intertwined. “Ilka bride in Edinburgh langs for such a praisent.”

When Jack saw several more brooches like it, the item lost its appeal. Elisabeth deserved a unique gift, meant for her alone. “Perhaps something else,” he said, studying the other jewelry on display. “Might I see that one?” He pointed to a large, oval-shaped cameo bearing a woman’s likeness.

“Verra guid, sir.” Mr. Cowie lifted out the wooden box and placed it in his hands. “Carved in Paris for a leddy in toun.”

Jack touched the peach-and-ivory shell, the delicate silhouette done in relief. “I know ’twill sound odd, but this woman is the very image of my bride.”

Dickson looked round his shoulder. “You are right, milord.”

Jack was already reaching for his leather coin purse, certain he’d chosen well.

Once the merchant had money in hand, he admitted, “Bit of a sad story with that one. But it’s aff to a guid hame and will nae doubt come to a blithe end.”

Dickson stayed Jack’s hand. “Do you mean to say this pin is unlucky?”

“Weel …” The flustered merchant waved his hands about. “I wouldna say that …”

“I don’t believe in luck,” Jack assured him, “so it matters not.” He tucked the wooden box in his waistcoat pocket and turned toward the street. “Come, Dickson. However fine this cameo, I’d rather gaze at the woman herself than study a likeness carved in shell.”

“We’ve two days’ ride ahead of us,” his valet reminded him, hurrying to keep up.

Jack was already striding toward West Bow, his mind fixed on the stables in the Grassmarket below, where Janvier waited to carry him home.

To Bell Hill. To his bride.