Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,148
the sun still a half hour below the horizon.
Jack looked at her beneath the velvety blue sky, riding as close as he dared. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your employment, Mrs. Kerr. I’m afraid I must dismiss you as my dressmaker.”
She pretended to be greatly offended. “Lord Buchanan! Is this how you repay my many hours of service?”
“Even worse, madam, I insist you marry me within the month.”
Elisabeth laughed softly. “I believe I was the one who proposed marriage.”
“So you did, my dear.”
The night was drawing to a close by the time they reached Mr. Riddell’s stables. Jack tarried some distance away while Elisabeth turned over the reins to a sleepy lad with hay sticking out of his hair. Once the groom tottered off with Belda, Jack joined Elisabeth once more, letting Janvier poke his nose in a bucket of water, while the two of them stood in the deserted street.
Elisabeth looked up at him, finding it hard to bid him good night. Or was it good morning? “How long will you be in Edinburgh?” she finally asked.
“If all goes well, I shall be home Saturday afternoon.”
“And if it does not go well?”
His response was long in coming, and his gaze did not quite meet hers. “Bess, I need to know that you trust me.”
“Trust you? Jack, surely—”
“Listen to me.” His voice was low and rough with emotion. “You’ve trusted men before who threatened you and frightened you, who betrayed you and lied to you, who bruised you and tried to violate you.” When he looked at her, the intensity of his gaze stole her breath. “I am not like those men, Bess. I could never hurt you. And want only what is best for you.”
“I know.” She touched the strong line of his jaw, felt the faint stubble of his beard. “That is why I trust you completely. Did I not lie at your feet through a long, dark night?”
“Indeed you did.” He placed his hand on hers, holding it against his cheek. “Though I wonder if you actually slept.”
“Not a wink,” she confessed.
Seventy-Two
Uncertainty and expectation
are joys of life.
WILLIAM CONGREVE
arjory clutched the letter in her hand, having read it so many times the creases were beginning to wear. But what else was there to do when she could not sleep? The box bed felt very strange indeed, large and solid compared to the narrow hurlie bed she’d known for months. And the house was entirely too empty without her cousin or daughter-in-law to keep her company.
Anne was happily settled in her new home.
As for Elisabeth, Marjory was beside herself with worry.
You must speak with him in private. She’d not given her daughter-in-law much choice in the matter. Had she asked too much of Elisabeth? Too much of his lordship? Their warm regard for each other was clear. Never more so than in the drawing room last evening when they’d danced together for hours. With Elisabeth’s mourning ended, however prematurely, Marjory felt certain Lord Buchanan would make her his wife.
Please, Admiral. ’Tis God’s will, I am certain of it.
With a sigh Marjory unfolded Neil’s letter once more, if only to cheer her. He’d pressed it into her hand at last evening’s Michaelmas feast. “Dinna read it ’til ye’re hame,” he’d insisted.
Amid the excitement of helping Elisabeth dress, Marjory had all but forgotten his missive until Neil had delivered her to Halliwell’s Close sometime after midnight and reminded her of the letter in the pocket of her gown. “I vowed to surprise ye with a praisent at Michaelmas, aye?”
“You did,” she’d agreed, pulling out the letter, suddenly curious.
“Not ’til I’m gane,” he’d cautioned her, kissing her cheek. Well, both cheeks. Her brow too. Each one felt like a promise of things to come. And the words Neil had spoken! “I will aye want ye by my side,” after the first gentle kiss. “I will aye need ye in my life,” after the second. Then, “I will aye luve ye, Leddy Kerr.”
Naturally, she’d returned the favor. With her own kisses. And her own words.
The memory of their parting made her sigh even now, hours later. Lingering at the door like two young lovers. Whispering endearments old as time yet fresh as spring water in their mouths. Holding hands in the quiet sanctuary of her wee house.
Marjory read his letter once more, though she already knew every word by heart.
To Lady Marjory Kerr
Halliwell’s Close, Selkirkshire
Monday, 29 September 1746
My Beloved Marjory:
She swallowed, hard. Beloved. Lord John had never addressed her so