Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,135
Lord Jack frowned at her. “Do you mean they pick them up?”
“I mean they steal them,” Elisabeth said matter-of-factly. “ ’Tis an ancient privilege but lasts only ’til the afternoon of Michaelmas itself, when the horses are returned unharmed.”
“You are certain about that part?”
“Have no fear, milord,” she assured him. “This is the Borderland. If the old rituals ever took root here, they’ve long been forgotten.” A sad truth, she realized, suddenly missing home. Would her mother ride round the kirkyard on Michaelmas with Ben Cromar’s thick arms holding her tightly to his chest? Would they give each other gifts according to the custom? And sing the Song of Michael?
As they neared the foot of Bell Hill, Elisabeth recited the words she knew so well. “Jewel of my heart, God’s shepherd thou art.”
“Beg pardon?” Lord Jack’s question brought her back to the present.
“ ’Tis a song for Michaelmas,” she hastened to explain. “Offered as folk proceed on horseback round the kirkyard, following the course of the sun.”
“Shall we revive all the old traditions for our Michaelmas celebration, then?”
“Not all, milord,” she said, trying very hard not to blush. The Night of Michael was known not only for its dance and song but also for its merrymaking and lovemaking. Elisabeth intended to keep such scandalous details to herself. “I know you do not care for dancing, but I hope you’ll not mind a lively night of music.”
“On the contrary,” Lord Jack replied, smiling rather broadly. “I am counting on it.”
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