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 skin, though he could not make out her features. “How old would you say she is?”
The butler cleared his throat. “One cannot be certain without asking, but five-and-twenty would be my guess.”
Young, then. But wasn’t everyone when a man reached forty? As Jack watched, she disappeared into the recesses of the house, Charbon in close pursuit. “Perhaps Mrs. Pringle knows something of her story.”
“I believe she does, sir. You may speak with her at any time, of course, but you might prefer to wait ’til after you’ve enjoyed your dinner.”
“Aye,” Jack agreed, striding toward the door. “Dinner.”
Jack was miserable. On the Centurion he’d dined with other officers round the captain’s table, always a convivial group. In London he’d taken his meals at the better inns or public houses with a lively gathering of gentlemen, both friends and strangers. But to sit alone at a long table laden with food enough to feed ten hungry souls while Dickson stood behind him, two footmen tarried at the door, and maidservants came and went with eyes averted—well, it might be proper, but it would not do.
He summoned Roberts. “I wonder if you and Hyslop might join me at table now and again. I realize it flies in the face of convention.”
The color drained from his face. “Sir … we could not possibly …”
Jack narrowed his gaze. “Not even if I commanded it?”
“Oh! Well … of course, sir, but … the others …” Roberts spread out his hands, then folded them together: a servant’s equivalent of a polite shrug.
Seeing how uncomfortable Roberts was with the notion, Jack offered something less daring. “Reverend Brown provided a list of the gentry in Selkirkshire. Might dinner invitations be extended? Two or three a week perhaps?”
Roberts brightened. “I’ll see to it at once.”
It was a start, in any case. Jack surveyed his dining table, toying with another idea. “How many people will she seat?”
“Thirty,” Roberts said, “though the furniture maker still has a dozen chairs to finish.”
“See that he delivers them by the end of June.” Jack looked across the empty room, an image forming in his mind. “On the last of each month, I shall invite the entire household to sup at my table.” He turned to Roberts. “What say you to that?”
His voice was noticeably weaker. “If it pleases your lordship.”
“It does,” Jack assured him, already anticipating the evening.
“I must caution you, sir, their table manners—”
“Will be sufficient to move their food from plate to mouth, aye?” Jack smiled at the man charged with overseeing Bell Hill. Roberts was ever prudent and had his best interests at heart but could also be persuaded to do things his way. “The last day of June, then. I shall look forward to it.”
Roberts bowed. “Might there be anything else, milord?”
Jack pushed back his chair and stretched his legs. “Kindly fetch Mrs. Pringle. And that Kerr woman.”
Thirty-Two
Let honesty be
as the breath of thy soul.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
as his lordship pleased?” Elisabeth asked, her needle darting in and out of the broadcloth. She’d sent the housekeeper upstairs in such haste that the last few inches of Mrs. Pringle’s hem were merely pinned in place. “I pray he didn’t notice the tiny glint of steel along the hemline.”
The housekeeper looked down at her. “You can be sure of it. And though he did not compliment the gown, his expression was praise enough.”
Elisabeth had seen that expression. Brows lifted, eyes alight, mouth curved in a faint suggestion of a smile. He was even taller than she’d imagined and broader in the shoulders, his skin weathered by the sun, the jut of his chin hardened from years of being in command.
She recalled Sally Craig’s opinion of the admiral. Not verra handsome. But Sally was young.
“Mrs. Pringle?” Roberts stood by the open door to the workroom, his gaze shifting from one woman to the other. “His lordship would have a word with you. And bring Mrs. Kerr.”
Elisabeth gripped the fabric to keep her hands from trembling, then looked up at the housekeeper. “What will he want to know?”
“The truth,” Mrs. Pringle said firmly. “He is not a gentleman to be trifled with. If he asks about your Highland family, you must speak honestly.”
“I must speak?”
The housekeeper nodded. “I will meet with him first while you wait outside the door.” Mrs. Pringle leaned down and lowered her voice. “That is to say, listen outside the door.”
Elisabeth swallowed. “Is that not … dishonorable?”
“Nae, ’tis prudent,” the housekeeper insisted. “You’ll hear what his lordship and I discuss and will know what else must be said. Come, finish your stitches, for he does not like to be kept waiting.”
Elisabeth sewed in haste, her thoughts whirling. Speak honestly. How could she rightly do otherwise? Let the words of my mouth be acceptable in thy sight. Aye, that would be her prayer while she tarried in the hall. If Gibson was correct and Lord Buchanan was a man who sought to please God, then she would honor them both with the truth.
She knotted her thread with a decisive tug, then stood, shaking the loose clippings from her skirt. “Might I have a moment to freshen up?”
> “Be quick,” the housekeeper cautioned her.
Elisabeth hurried to the water pitcher, washed her hands and face, then smoothed her hair, wishing she had a brush. Anne’s looking glass, pulled from her sewing basket, confirmed Elisabeth’s fears: her skin was becoming freckled from her morning walks, the circles beneath her eyes hinted at too little sleep, and her hair was a mass of wisps and curls brought on by the summer’s heat.
“You look presentable enough,” Mrs. Pringle told her with a note of impatience. “Come, we must away.”
Moments later Elisabeth was seated outside the dining room on a chair that Roberts placed very close to the door. He bade her farewell with a solemn wink, then took his leave.
“I will summon you shortly,” Mrs. Pringle murmured before sweeping into the room and greeting the admiral. “How may I be of service to you, milord?”
Clasping her hands in her lap, Elisabeth listened, hardly moving, barely breathing.
The admiral’s voice floated into the hallway. “I noticed a young woman standing just inside the entrance earlier today when I arrived, yet you did not introduce her.”
“Do forgive me,” Mrs. Pringle said at once. “Since we’ve not spoken of engaging a dressmaker, Mrs. Kerr is not yet in your employ. It seemed unwise to include her with the others.”
“I see. She is a dressmaker, you say? I can only assume she made your new gown.”
“She did, milord.”
Elisabeth could not ignore their conversation even if she tried. The chair was too close, their voices too clear. Above all, her livelihood depended upon the questions asked, the answers given, and the mercy his lordship might extend. She would not likely find work elsewhere in Selkirk. Though Michael Dalgliesh had made use of her talents, the other tailors in the parish seemed less inclined to do so.
“I know little about women’s clothing,” Lord Buchanan was saying, “though I do recognize quality when I see it. When and how did Mrs. Kerr present herself?”
As Elisabeth strained to hear, Mrs. Pringle described her arrival on Whitsun Monday. “She finished an entire basket of mending that very day, working from morn ’til eve, taking her dinner in the workroom, then continuing to labor.”
“She is not afraid of hard work, then.”
“On the contrary,” the housekeeper said emphatically, “she embraces it.”
Elisabeth heard him shift in his chair.
“What else does Mrs. Kerr embrace, pray tell? Is she prone to drink? To gossip? To dally with menservants? To steal the silver from the cabinets? Or is she a devout woman?”
“Oh, very devout,” Mrs. Pringle said. “Sally Craig informs me that Mrs. Kerr prays before taking so much as a sip of tea or a bite of meat. More than once in our discussions she has quoted from the psalms, yet I do not think she does so to impress me.”
The housekeeper’s words gave Elisabeth pause. Is that true? Or do I secretly wish to gain the approval of others? At the moment she desperately needed Lord Buchanan’s approval. But if she was anything less than genuine, he would surely see through her.
Mrs. Pringle was saying, “It might be best if you spoke with the young woman yourself, milord.”
Elisabeth stood, wanting to be sure her knees would support her. ’Twould not do to stumble into his presence. When Mrs. Pringle appeared, not a word was exchanged as together they entered the sumptuously decorated room with its lofty ceilings, enormous glass chandelier, long windows facing south, and a massive mahogany dining table.
Once Elisabeth settled her gaze on Lord Jack Buchanan, the décor ceased to hold much interest. Though she’d glimpsed him earlier from a distance, now she could assess him properly. His brow was lined with a lifetime of experience, and his brown eyes shone with intelligence.
“Milord,” she said, then curtsied.
“Mrs. Kerr,” he said with a polite nod. “Roberts informs me you are a Highlander.” He quit there as if waiting for her to elaborate.
“I was born in Castleton of Braemar in Aberdeenshire,” she began, “the only daughter of Fiona and James Ferguson, a weaver.”
“And what of your Highland family now?”
“My father is dead, and so is my brother, Simon. My mother has … remarried.” Elisabeth hoped he would not require further details. Even speaking of Ben Cromar made her ill.
Instead, his lordship changed the subject. “Roberts said you came to Selkirk from Edinburgh.”
“From the age of eight-and-ten I was educated in the capital and worked as a seamstress for a tailor in the Lawnmarket.”
Lord Buchanan leaned back in his chair. “Might he provide a character for you?”
“Angus MacPherson is dead, milord. And so, I fear, is his son.” She looked down for a moment, composing herself.
“You buried your husband as well,” the admiral said.
“Alas, I never saw his grave. He was killed in battle. At Falkirk in January.”
Lord Buchanan straightened, his expression more alert. “Your husband was a soldier? And a Highlander as well?”
Elisabeth hesitated but only for a moment. Speak honestly. “He was a soldier, aye. But a Lowlander. ’Tis why my mother-in-law returned home to Selkirk.”
He gazed at her more intently. “And you came with her even though the Borderland is not your home?”
“She is the only family I have now.” Elisabeth spread her hands, searching for the right words. “As it happens, we share more than our name. We both trust the same God.”
He slowly rose, never taking his eyes off her. “Madam, everything else you have told me cannot hold a candle to that.”
Elisabeth looked up to meet his gaze. “Should you wish to read them, I have written characters from Michael Dalgliesh, a tailor in Selkirk, and from Reverend Brown.”
“Leave them with Mrs. Pringle if you like, though I’ve no need to see them.”
Elisabeth’s heart sank. Was he not interested in her services after all? “Milord, I truly need this position,” she pleaded.
His gaze did not waver. “And I need a dressmaker.”
Does he mean … Elisabeth moistened her lips, suddenly gone dry. Am I to be …
“Heaven knows,” he continued, “I brought enough cloth from London to dress half the county. At the moment I’d be satisfied to have all my maidservants arrayed as finely as my housekeeper.” When Mrs. Pringle bristled, he quickly amended his words. “Well, not quite so finely. Perhaps a simpler design might be best for the others. Shall we say … eighteen gowns in all, Mrs. Pringle?”
“That will do,” the housekeeper replied, looking smug.
Elisabeth eyed both of them, wanting to be very sure she understood. “Then … I am … engaged?”
“Most certainly,” Lord Buchanan said. “What say you to six months in my employ? From now ’til Saint Andrew’s Day?”
The thirtieth of November. She nodded, uncertain if she could speak. God bless this man. Her future, as well as Marjory’s, was secure—at least for the balance of the year. “However can I thank you?”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he protested, “for you’ll be working very hard.” He began to pace before the massive mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back. “Tell me, is it a long distance for you to travel each day?”
“Not so far. Two miles on foot.”
He spun round. “You walk to Bell Hill?” When she assured him she did, he suggested, “Perhaps you might prefer to take up residence here.”
Elisabeth balked. She could not entertain the idea, not even for a moment. “Forgive me, milord, but I’ve promised not only to provide for my mother-in-law but also to care for her. I cannot leave her side, nor would I choose to.”
“Admirable,” he said, though something did not appear to sit well with him.
Elisabeth exchanged glances with Mrs. Pringle. Might she know what was on his mind?
Finally he said, “If you insist on walking here from Selkirk, then I would ask you to be cautious, traveling only by the light of day and
with other women whenever possible. Even here at Bell Hill, see that you remain in the company of my maidservants.”
Elisabeth agreed, if only to appease him. “Is there something in particular that concerns you?”
He rubbed his chin, where a shadow of a beard was starting to show. “Although Roberts and Hyslop have chosen their men with virtue in mind, you are a widow, a Highlander, and a beauty. Some men might view such attributes as license to., eh, overstep their bounds, since you have no male relatives to defend your honor.”
Her cheeks warmed at the bluntness of his language. “As you wish, milord.”
“I will speak to the men myself and make certain you are not ill treated or taken advantage of.” He seemed most adamant on that point.
Mrs. Pringle piped up. “You can be sure I will see to Mrs. Kerr’s safety.”
“Aye, and to her daily meat and drink as well,” he added. “As to payment for your labors, rather than holding your wages until Martinmas, Mrs. Pringle will pay you for each gown when it’s finished. Shall we say … one guinea each?”
Elisabeth swallowed. A guinea? ’Tis twenty-one shillings!
Mrs. Pringle said faintly, “But that …”
He held up his hand. “Am I not permitted to spend my money as I see fit?”
“Aye, milord.” The housekeeper bowed her head, as meek as Elisabeth had ever seen her. “Forgive me.”
“You are merely being mindful of my household accounts, Mrs. Pringle, as well you should be. I shall add sufficient guineas to your ledger such that we needn’t give up sugar, aye?”
She lifted her coppery head and smiled. “Very good, milord.”
Elisabeth simply looked at the man, awed by a generosity she’d seldom known. “Shall I begin on Monday, then?”
“You shall,” he agreed, “though, in truth, you’ve labored all week.” The admiral produced a hefty calfskin purse from which he drew a gold coin. “For Mrs. Pringle’s gown. The first of many.”
Mine Is the Night Page 18