Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,65
his face and the sheer power of the magnificent animal beneath him. After endless years of riding nothing but waves, Jack valued the gray thoroughbred above all his earthly possessions.
The lofty branches of mature oaks, maples, and elms arched above him as he neared the property and slowed the horse with a quick take-and-give on the reins. Moments later horse and rider reached the stables, and Jack reluctantly surrendered the reins to his head coachman.
“Janvier has earned his oats and hay,” Jack told dark-haired Timothy Hyslop.
A taciturn man in his thirties, the coachman had few words for two-legged creatures. He led the horse into the cool interior of the stables, murmuring endearments into Janvier’s velvety ear, while Dickson dismounted and handed the reins to one of the grooms.
As the two men walked toward the house, Dickson reminded him, “Roberts and Mrs. Pringle will have their new staffs waiting at the front door to greet you.”
Jack slowed his gait, giving the shorter man a fair go at keeping up with him. “You mean we cannot slip through the servants’ entrance and see to my grooming first?”
Dickson chuckled. “I am afraid not, milord.” Having circled the globe in his service, the valet well knew his master cared little about appearances.
Jack put up with Dickson’s fussing only on those occasions when attire truly mattered. On this last day of May he was simply a gentleman returning home from business in Edinburgh. The king’s business, to be sure, but nothing that called for velvet or silk.
When Jack rounded the corner, he found his butler, George Roberts, standing at attention near the entrance with servants lining either side of the paved walk. Along with Dickson and Hyslop, Mrs. Pringle and Mrs. Tudhope, Roberts had traveled from London at Jack’s bidding. He trusted each one without reservation and had left Bell Hill in their capable hands over Whitsuntide, allowing them to hire the servants they deemed best.
Within the hour he’d know how well the five of them had managed.
The moment Jack stepped onto the paving stones, Roberts announced him. “Lord Jack Buchanan, Admiral of His Majesty’s Royal Navy and Master of Bell Hill.”
Jack was accustomed to being saluted by his men aboard ship, but two long rows of people bowing and curtsying was almost more than he could bear. None but the Almighty deserved such obeisance. Jack lifted his hat and said blithely, “May the good Lord be with you.”
A bright-eyed maidservant took a cautious step forward. “God bliss ye, sir.”
When Jack nodded in her direction, pleased at her response, the rest of his servants swiftly followed her example, their hearty blessings wafting through the air like hawthorn petals on May Day.
Amid their greetings Roberts came forward, a tall man of five-and-fifty years, with a full head of light brown hair and a most efficient manner. “Welcome home, sir. If I may introduce your new menservants.”
“Very well.” It seemed dinner would have to wait.
Roberts presented more than a dozen men of varying ages chosen to serve as footmen, coachmen, and grooms. Jack had protested when Roberts suggested he employ a page. “Too pretentious,” he’d told the butler.
Once the menservants were dispatched to their duties, it was the housekeeper’s turn. Upon hiring Mary Pringle two years ago, Jack had decided the woman could easily command any quarterdeck in the fleet.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pringle,” he said, noticing her new gown. “Is that the cloth we brought from London?”
“ ’Tis, sir.” She curtsied, a spot of color in each cheek. “Come and meet your new maidservants.” Mrs. Pringle had penned a list, giving not only their full names in turn but also whence they came and what experience they brought with them. A tedious business, yet each lass seemed grateful to be duly recognized.
When they finished, the maidservants scattered—to the kitchen or the dining hall, Jack hoped. Only then did he notice another woman just inside the doorway. Her tattered black gown spoke of a widow without means, yet she was not included on Mrs. Pringle’s list.
The stranger’s face was shadowed by the broad open door, but he clearly saw Charbon curled at her feet. Jack could almost hear the cat purring from where he stood.
“Roberts?”
His butler was beside him at once. “Aye, sir.”
“Who’s the widow by the door?”
“She’s a Highlander. Came from Edinburgh with her mother-in-law, a Mrs. Kerr.”
Jack frowned. “Kerr is hardly a Highland name.” By squinting just so, he caught a glimpse of brown hair, almost the color of his own, a slender neck, and pale