Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,114
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.”
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.