Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,71

“Lord Buchanan, if I may be so presumptuous as to introduce a friend and neighbor of our family, Mr. Michael Dalgliesh, a tailor, and his son, Peter.”

Michael bowed, a rather clumsy effort, but Peter made a fine show of it, bending straight from his waist, one foot to the front.

“What fine manners you have, lad,” Lord Buchanan told him.

Marjory saw the softening of his lordship’s expression and heard the tenderness in his voice. How odd the man had not married by now and had children of his own. Too many years at sea, she imagined, and no home for a bride. He’d solved both those problems with his move to Selkirkshire. Was a wife next on his list?

“Lord Buchanan, I thank ye for yer custom,” Michael Dalgliesh was saying.

The admiral cocked one brow. “My custom?”

“Mr. Hyslop, sir,” the tailor explained, his ruddy skin growing more so. “He came by the shop last eve, leuking to buy fabric with yer silver.”

“Ah.” The admiral leaned forward and said in a stage whisper, “Suppose we keep that purchase just between us, aye?”

Michael ducked his head. “Whatsomever ye say, milord.”

Marjory found their little exchange most interesting. Elisabeth seemed intrigued as well. If fabric was being purchased, would her daughter-in-law be expected to create something with it?

Straightening, Lord Buchanan caught his valet’s eye. “We must away,” he said, “or Mrs. Tudhope will be most vexed. She worked hard late last eve preparing my Sabbath dinner and is determined to have it on my table at precisely two o’ the clock.” A faint smile creased his swarthy countenance. “The fact that it is served cold apparently does not signify.”

When the admiral turned to her, Marjory was struck again by his size. Taller even than Donald and broader by far. His unpowdered wig, with its long queue curling down his back, matched his dark brown eyes.

“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kerr,” he said. “And you as well, Miss Kerr.” He bowed to Marjory and Anne, then turned to Elisabeth. “As for you, madam, I shall see you early in the morn.”

“Not too early, milord,” Elisabeth responded. “With summer upon us, the sun is peeking over the horizon soon after three.”

His scowl seemed largely a pretense. “I’ll not have you storming my front door at six bells in the middle watch,” he told her. “Eight o’ the clock will suffice.”

Elisabeth nodded. “Very good, milord.”

Only then did Marjory notice the Murrays of Philiphaugh sailing toward them like a British warship, Sir John at the helm with a smiling young lady on each arm.

“Admiral!” he said jovially. “Sir John Murray at your service.” The gentlemen exchanged bows before Sir John continued, “If I might introduce my lovely wife and daughters.”

Marjory had never felt so invisible. Neither Sir John nor Lady Eleanora even looked at her, giving the admiral their undivided attention.

Rosalind and Clara curtsied as gracefully as they could in a crowded kirk aisle. Clara was still the shy, rather plain girl Marjory remembered from years past. But her older sister had blossomed into a hothouse flower, fragrant and exotic, with sleek black hair and eyes the color of Scottish bluebells.

“Lord Buchanan,” Rosalind said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “Your fine reputation is introduction enough.”

Marjory watched the Murrays fawn over the admiral, their intentions embarrassingly clear: Sir John and Lady Eleanora wanted his lordship for their son-in-law. Marjory could hardly fault them. Had she not once sought a titled, wealthy bride for Andrew? Still, she hoped she’d not been this obvious, offering up Rosalind like a juicy pheasant on a silver platter. Lord Buchanan was provided neither bib nor fork, but the Murrays did their best to whet his appetite, praising Rosalind’s many accomplishments.

Only when the Murrays took their leave did Lord Buchanan turn to bid the Kerrs a hasty farewell. “I fear Mrs. Tudhope will not soon forgive my tardiness. Until we meet again.”

His bow was brief but polite, Marjory noted, and aimed solely at Elisabeth.

Thirty-Four

Few men have been admired

by their own households.

MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE

ack smoothed his hand along Janvier’s neck. “You’ve brushed him thoroughly, have you, lad? And picked out his feet? Before you sponge him with water, let me use the wisp.”

The young groom quickly produced the tightly woven knot of rope meant to massage the horse’s muscles and stimulate the skin. Freshly dampened, the hay wisp fit neatly in Jack’s grip. Wherever Janvier’s muscles were firm and flat, Jack vigorously applied the wisp, following the lay of the