Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,76

grounds, wherever they might run into each other—convincing himself it was the wisest course of action. Your mother was French. Your father was Scottish. Innocent comments, nothing more. What was he afraid of? That she might not think well of his heritage?

Be honest with yourself, man. You’re afraid she might not think well of you.

When Elisabeth appeared in his sunlit gardens a moment later, Jack watched her bend toward a cluster of blooming roses, then smile, perhaps breathing in their sweet fragrance.

A moment later she looked up and met his gaze. And held it.

Run, lad.

In a trice he was halfway down the corridor, then darted into the narrow turret stair, startling a maidservant. “Beg pardon,” he murmured when the curly-haired lass made way for him and nearly dropped her armful of linens as Charbon streaked past. Jack strode down the servants’ hall, nodding at the maids who sank into curtsies the moment they saw him.

He followed his cat, thinking Charbon might lead him straight to Elisabeth. When he found himself in a vacant workroom near the back entrance, Jack had no doubt it was her domain. Folds of fabric and pen-and-ink drawings were neatly stacked beside a tidy sewing basket, a reminder that she was a tradeswoman, not a gentlewoman like Rosalind Murray.

When he heard light footsteps approaching, Jack spun round to greet her and instead found a russet-haired maidservant with a lighted candle hurrying into the room.

Her eyes widened. “Milord!” She curtsied, taking care not to tip the candle. “I didna think to find ye here this morn.”

“Sorry I frightened you. Sally, isn’t it?”

She blushed, then bobbed her head. “Aye.”

With a sweep of his arm, he stepped aside. “Come, light the fire for Mrs. Kerr, for it is cooler down here than it is out of doors.” He looked round, wondering what the small, low-ceilinged room would feel like in the dead of winter with only a few hours of frozen light filtering through the single high window.

“Good day to you, Lord Buchanan.”

He turned at the sound of Elisabeth’s voice. “And to you, Mrs. Kerr.” He bowed, while Sally made a furtive exit, then said to Elisabeth, “No new mourning gown?”

“Not yet,” she said. “But I finished my mother-in-law’s last eve. She was so eager to wear it she awakened at four o’ the clock, when I did, just so I might dress her. You have blessed us both more than we can say.”

How like her, Jack realized, to sew her mother-in-law’s gown first. “Then you’ll begin making your gown this eve?”

“In a few days,” she said, poking at the sluggish fire. “My hands are quite cramped of late. An evening or two of reading, instead of holding my scissors, should take care of it.”

“Might I offer something from my library?” By the lift of her brows, it seemed he’d struck the right note. “Feel free to visit my study and choose what you like.”

“If ’twill not be an inconvenience.”

“Not at all.” He drew a steady breath. Now that he had her attention, there were far more important things to say. “I must apologize, Mrs. Kerr. For ending our conversation so abruptly on Monday last. And then avoiding your company.”

She turned to look at his cat, perched on a chair. Or did she simply not wish to look at him? “So that was intentional,” she finally said. “I’d feared as much.”

“ ’Tis common knowledge that my mother was French and that I spent my childhood in France. You breached no trust.”

He was relieved when she turned toward him once more. “Lord Buchanan, ours is an unusual relationship. ’Tis a temporary engagement, not a permanent position. We also travel in very different social circles. I do not wish to make assumptions or speak more freely than I ought.”

“I appreciate your candor. Still …” He exhaled, uncertain, having not charted his course in advance. “Can we not be friends, madam, at least at Bell Hill?” He picked up two wooden chairs, which looked desperately uncomfortable, and placed them close to the hearth. “Come, Mrs. Kerr. Surely you have a few minutes to spare before you begin sewing.”

She quietly took a seat. “I am at your bidding, milord.”

“If we’re to be friends, you must call me Lord Jack.” He sat as well, inching closer. “Only in private, of course.”

“ ’Twill take some getting used to,” she admitted. “Is your real name John?”

“My real name is Jacques.” He paused, realizing he’d not confessed as much in years, then shrugged, making light of it.