Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,64

fitting was to be at three o’ the clock. ’Twill need to be promptly at eleven instead, for I wish to wear it today. You’ll be ready for me?”

Elisabeth gulped. “Aye.”

“Off you go, then,” the housekeeper said and fled in the opposite direction.

Her heart beating at a breathless pace, Elisabeth aimed for the workroom, looking neither left nor right, lest she be distracted. Her list of remaining tasks lengthened with each step. She’d not sewn pockets in the lining yet, meant for fragrant herbs. Nor had she stitched linen patches inside each cuff for the small weights that held the sleeves in place. And the buttonholes required finishing. And the gown needed a row of hooks and eyes.

A children’s rhyme skipped through her head as she hastened down the lower hall. Jack, be nimble! Jack, be quick! At least her candlestick was already burning and the log in the hearth as well. She was almost relieved no one had left a breakfast tray for her. How could they be bothered when every pair of hands was readying the house for Admiral Lord Jack Buchanan’s return?

Elisabeth was convinced of his arrival now. Nothing else could explain such a whirlwind of activity. Time you joined them, Bess.

Forcing herself to breathe, to think, to plan, she started with the final touches that mattered most and worked her way through her mental list. Charbon must have sensed her urgency, for he curled up in the chair opposite hers, demanding nothing more than her presence.

As each hour passed, the noise level in the servants’ hall rose another notch, while excitement and hysteria danced a jig round the doors. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen, and cooking aromas filled the air. Mrs. Tudhope was serving fish, flesh, fowl, and any number of other courses, all undoubtedly chosen to bless their master.

When Mrs. Pringle came rushing in, her face as bright as her hair, Elisabeth begged her to sit for a moment. “Your gown is ready,” she assured her, “but the fabric will stick to your skin unless you take a moment to calm yourself.” She pressed a cool, wet cloth against the housekeeper’s forehead and offered her a saucer of lukewarm tea, which Mrs. Pringle gulped down like an elixir.

After closing the door, Elisabeth helped the housekeeper into her new gown, praying as she did so. May it be a perfect fit, Lord. May she be satisfied with my work. Elisabeth adjusted the bodice, then fastened the hooks and eyes as if she were a lady’s maid dressing her mistress.

“How does the gown feel to you?” she asked, though Elisabeth could see how neatly it followed the natural curves of her body.

Mrs. Pringle ran her hands over the gown, inspecting each critical seam round her bodice and waist. “The fabric is very fine.”

But what of my sewing? What of the gown itself? Elisabeth held her tongue, remembering Marjory’s words. Faith is what pleases the Lord.

From her sewing basket Elisabeth pulled Anne’s looking glass, borrowed for the day. “See what you think,” she urged the housekeeper. “I believe you’ll find the color and style very becoming.”

Mrs. Pringle held the glass as far away as she could, peering at her reflection. In the soft candlelight the lines and creases in her face disappeared except the few that framed her smile. “My, won’t he be pleased?”

It was all Elisabeth needed to hear.

“Now, then.” The housekeeper handed Elisabeth the glass and straightened her shoulders. “You must stitch the hem at once, Mrs. Kerr, for we’ve no time left. Lord Buchanan is expected at any moment.”

Thirty-One

And last of all an Admiral came.

ROBERT SOUTHEY

lmost home, milord.”

Jack Buchanan fixed his gaze on Bell Hill, less than a mile away. He’d resided there but a fortnight, and half of that he’d spent elsewhere. Could even so grand a house as this one finally tether him to land? In all his forty years he’d not stepped foot in his father’s native Scotland. Yet here he was, looking at a hilly green landscape purchased with Spanish gold.

Home? That remained to be seen.

Jack urged his horse forward, calling over his shoulder, “See to your mount, Dickson, or my dinner will be served cold.”

“I think not, milord,” his valet replied. A decent horseman, Christopher Dickson closed the gap between them as the horses lengthened their strides into a full gallop.

Jack eased his weight forward, lifting slightly off the saddle, holding himself in balance, while his horse thundered toward the stables. He reveled in the fresh wind against