Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,143

stature, he was surprisingly graceful, like a skilled fencer or an expert horseman. As it happened, his lordship was both.

“I did this for Michaelmas,” he’d insisted.

Elisabeth knew better. You did this for me, dear Jack. She’d complimented him profusely and thanked him at the end of each set, urging him to choose other partners, though he never did. Rosalind Murray had shot daggers at her whenever she swept past. Elisabeth almost felt sorry for the young woman. Find another, she wanted to say. This one is mine.

Now the clocks were creeping toward midnight, and a hush had fallen over Bell Hill. Lord Buchanan had retired to his study after the last guest had departed. Eyelids drooping, his smile still in place, he’d entrusted her to Marjory and Gibson, then murmured in parting, “I shall see you on the morrow, Bess.”

“You shall indeed, milord,” she’d answered. Sooner than you know.

Breathless, she darted into the workroom. Her satin gown was precisely where she’d left it, hanging on the back of the door with a bedsheet draped over the pale, shimmering fabric. Marjory had promised to join her in a half hour but presently remained in the servants’ hall to guard the door while Elisabeth bathed her body and brushed her hair. Aye, and prayed.

She closed the door, then lit a few candles, brightening the room. Hot water simmered on the hearth—Marjory’s doing. Elisabeth quickly undressed, dipped a clean linen cloth in the water, then rubbed it with her mother-in-law’s fragrant soap. Would his lordship even notice the scent? She bathed in haste, grateful for the warm fire, then pulled on her chemise and laced her stays as tightly as she could. Marjory’s silk stockings felt like feathers against her skin, and her brocade shoes, dyed to match the gown, slipped on her feet as if she’d worn them every day.

Standing near the fire to keep from shivering, she groomed her hair with slow, even strokes, waiting for Marjory to tap at her door. Let me not be afraid, Lord. Let me speak from my heart. Let him not be dismayed. A moment later Elisabeth ushered her mother-in-law into the workroom, then bolted the door once more. “What news from upstairs?”

“Everyone has retired for the night,” Marjory informed her in a low voice, “including Mrs. Pringle and Roberts. I overheard Dickson saying he’d left Lord Buchanan nodding over a book in his study. All is in readiness for you.” Marjory smoothed a hand down Elisabeth’s hair. “ ‘I will even make a way in the wilderness.’ So the Almighty promised, and so he has done for you this night.”

“You are certain this is his will and not ours?”

Marjory did not hesitate. “Have we not prayed for his leading? Have you not searched the Scriptures and your heart, seeking an answer? I have no doubt Lord Buchanan is the husband God intends for you.”

Buoyed by her mother-in-law’s faith, Elisabeth swept her hair onto the crown of her head, then let Marjory add the silver comb where it might best be seen.

Last of all, her gown. When the lavender satin brushed against her shoulders, Elisabeth reveled in the cool feel of the fabric against her skin. She touched the bodice, with its tiny gold sequins, and the sleeves, trimmed in fine Belgian lace. “Your son was very generous with me,” she said softly.

“You were far more generous with him,” Marjory reminded her, slipping the matching satin reticule over her wrist. “Now go, my bonny Bess.” She kissed her brow. “Gibson is waiting in the entrance hall to walk me home. I’ll trust his lordship to see you safely to town or provide a bedchamber for you here if the hour grows too late. My prayers are with you, dear girl.”

Moving on tiptoe lest her heels clatter against the flagstone floor, Elisabeth navigated the long servants’ hall, then the turnpike stair, lifting her gown to keep from stepping on the hem. So far she’d not seen or heard a soul. More to the point, no one had seen her. The first-floor hall was bathed in shadows with a single sconce to light the way. As she neared Lord Jack’s study, she lifted up a silent prayer of thanks. No footman stood at the entrance. And the door was slightly ajar.

Please be with me, Lord. Guide my steps. Guard my words. Keep my thoughts and actions pure.

She knew not what else to pray and so took a deep breath to calm her nerves, then approached the door,