Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,164

those ‘few simple gowns’ of mine be ready?”

He smiled. “You’ll find six of them hanging in your new dressing room when you return.”

“Six?”

“The women had only a fortnight,” he apologized.

“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” she hastened to say. “I’m amazed. Having worn the same gown from September last ’til June, the thought of six new gowns at once is … well, ’tis remarkable.” Then she eyed him more closely. “However did they manage without taking my measurements?”

“I confess, I had an accomplice. Your mother-in-law employed your measuring tape one night while you were sleeping.”

Very canny of you, Marjory. Elisabeth would have to think of some way to repay the woman for being so secretive. Put salt in her sugar bowl, perhaps, or stitch her pockets shut. Or she could thank her profusely when next she saw her. Aye, that seemed best.

“Milord?” A footman came forward bearing a thick letter.

Jack accepted it, then broke the seal at once, though his expression showed some misgivings. “ ’Tis from Archie Gordon, the man I sent to Castleton.” When he unfolded the letter, another one fell into his hands. He palmed it for a moment, quickly reading through the first letter, then sighed. “This one is for you.” He held the second out to her. “From your mother.”

Seeing his face, Elisabeth unfolded the letter with misgivings of her own. Had something else happened to her mother, some further tragedy? Please let her be in good health, Lord. Then she read the few Gaelic lines and understood.

My beloved Bess,

I received a letter from Lord Buchanan and was pleased to learn of your wedding plans. He is a man of honor and will be a good husband to you.

Elisabeth nodded as if her mother were standing there in the garden. I believe he will be, Mother. Just as your first husband, my father, was to you.

Lord Buchanan offered to bring me to Selkirk so I might make my home with you. And a very fine home it is, I am sure.

Oh my dear Jack. Elisabeth gripped the letter, overcome by his kindness. Alas, she knew her mother well. Fiona would never leave the Highlands.

My place is here, Bess, among the friends and neighbors I have known all my life. You can be sure they will take care of me to the end of my days.

A great sadness welled up inside her. I wish I could see you, Mother. I wish I could tell you about the Almighty and all he has done for me. Would she never have the chance?

I shall look forward to your letters now that I am certain to receive them. I promise to write as oft as I can.

Elisabeth’s sorrow began to ease. She would write her mother every week. Nae, twice a week. All was not lost.

I will anticipate with great joy the news of your first child.

Your loving mother

My first child. Seeing it written in her mother’s familiar hand stirred hope anew in Elisabeth’s heart. Though she’d not borne a child for Donald, might the Lord still bless her womb? Please, Father. For Jack’s sake. Aye, and for her own. A braw wee lad. A bonny daughter.

Elisabeth slowly folded the letter, then looked up. “You are so generous, Jack. Offering my mother a place in your home.”

“Our home,” he reminded her.

“Just to be able to write her and know she is willing to write back.” She sighed, then drank in the fresh breeze, scented with dried leaves and ripe apples. “ ’Tis a beginning.”

“This day is all about beginnings.” He drew her to his side as they walked along the garden bed, Charbon leading the way, twitching his gray tail. “Our guests will not arrive until noontide,” Jack reminded her. “What say we enjoy this fine weather and discuss our plans for the future. Have you any improvements in mind for the household?”

Her smile returned. “I do.”

Eighty-One

In all the wedding cake,

hope is the sweetest of plums.

DOUGLAS JERROLD

ate afternoon sunshine poured through the freshly scrubbed windows of Bell Hill as Jack strode through the halls, stopping only to confer with the musicians, making very certain all was in readiness. Reverend Brown was waiting by the fireplace, and the two newest brides in the parish, Anne Dalgliesh and Marjory Gibson, were seated in the front row with their husbands. Now if he just had his own bride, the ceremony might begin.

He’d not spied Elisabeth since Sally had spirited her away. “Ye’ll see her in the drawing room at four o’ the clock but