Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,125
mother.”
Her hands stilled. “And?”
Jack related their conversation, withholding nothing, though it pained him to see Elisabeth’s skin grow pale and her eyes fill with sorrow. “This is not the end of it,” he promised her. “I cannot by law remove a woman from her husband’s home. But I can send a trustworthy man north to watch over her.”
“You would do that?”
He nodded, wishing he might clasp her hand or touch her cheek. Anything to comfort her. “What good is money if it cannot be spent on a worthy cause?”
“But you give so freely,” she said, shaking her head as if confused.
“I’ll not be thought of as generous, Bess.” He leaned forward, determined to make himself understood. “Just as I said on the day we met, anything you receive from me is God’s blessing, not mine.”
She wasn’t quite satisfied. “It still passes through your hands.”
“Then I have only to leave them open so the Almighty may do as he pleases.” Jack held out his hands, palms up, meaning only to illustrate his point.
But Elisabeth slowly placed her hands in his.
He dared not move or breathe or speak, lest he frighten her away.
When she bowed her head, he did the same, closing his eyes, reveling in her gentle touch.
“Almighty God,” she whispered, “protect and provide for those I love. Whatever is to come, Lord, I know ’twill come from you.”
Jack longed to draw her closer, to hold her in his embrace. Instead, he lifted his head and honored the One who’d brought her into his life. “Trust him, Bess.”
“Always,” she promised, her hands still resting in his.
Sixty
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections dark …
Let no such man be trusted.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
lisabeth woke at dawn on Wednesday morning, having slept poorly. All through the night she’d shifted about in her chair, seeking a more comfortable position, trying to escape her troubling dreams. Rob MacPherson appeared in most of them: a brooding figure wearing shapeless attire and a permanent scowl.
“Is he still convinced you’ll marry him someday?” Marjory inquired over their bowls of porridge. “He may be a dozen years younger than Lord Buchanan, but I fear Rob has nothing else to recommend him.”
Elisabeth winced at her mother-in-law’s heartless assessment. “Mr. MacPherson was a good friend to us in Edinburgh.”
“Michael Dalgliesh has befriended the Kerr family as well,” Marjory said, “but ’tis not why Anne married the man.”
After finishing the last spoonful of porridge, Elisabeth gulped down her tea, mindful of the hour. The sun rose a little later each day, yet she was still expected at eight o’ the clock. “Anne is joining us for supper, aye? I should be home earlier than usual since Lord Buchanan has invited guests to share his table, and so will not likely detain me. Sir John and Lady Murray are bringing their daughters.”
Marjory made a slight face. “I suppose the sheriff is hoping Lord Buchanan will offer for Rosalind, even though she’s half his age.”
“You were eight-and-ten when you married,” Elisabeth reminded her gently. “And Lord John was more than twenty years older than you.” She leaned across the table and clasped Marjory’s hand. “Of course, Gibson is far younger than that. Handsome, too, if you’ll not mind my saying so.”
A smile found its way to Marjory’s face. “He is fine looking. And kind. And attentive.”
Elisabeth wished she too might speak of the man who’d captured her heart. But Lord Jack was not a manservant; he was a peer of the realm, who deserved someone like Rosalind Murray. Even though he seldom mentioned her, Elisabeth had watched Lady Murray’s relentless campaign unfold all summer. What gentleman with eyes in his head could resist such a prize?
After the breakfast dishes were cleared Elisabeth left for Bell Hill and stopped by Walter Halliwell’s shop to deliver a plate of fresh ginger biscuits. “Mrs. Kerr made an extra dozen,” she told their landlord, “thinking you might enjoy them.”
“Most kind,” the wigmaker said, popping a small biscuit into his mouth. A moment later, still chewing, he asked, “Are ye bound for Bell Hill? Might I trouble ye to deliver a wig to his lordship?”
When he handed her a gentleman’s peruke wrapped in a cloth bag, Elisabeth had little choice but to take it. She had no objection to the errand, only to the rather personal nature of the item. Bidding the wigmaker farewell, she stepped out of his tidy shop and into the close that bore his name, hoping she might deliver the peruke to Roberts