Mine Is the Night (30 page)

Jack knew Elisabeth Kerr was here in the marketplace. He could feel it in his bones, had almost sensed her gaze pinned on him as he’d ridden into town, though he’d not spied her lovely face.

By necessity he faced forward in the saddle, keeping a firm control over Janvier, having had a bit of trouble earlier. The strange surroundings, the jostling onlookers, the trumpet blasts, all tested the horse’s mettle. “Easy, lad,” Jack told him, keeping his grip on the reins supple but sure. Though he longed to turn round and look over his shoulder, Janvier would then follow his lead and disrupt the parade marching up Water Row.

Sir John Murray rode up on his right. “Mind if I join you, Admiral?”

Their horses fell into step as the two men lifted their voices above the melee, discussing the route. Jack was only now realizing how valuable the common lands were to the burgh. Though he didn’t require peat for fuel or turf for building, the cottagers of Selkirk certainly did.

“We’ll be riding the marches of the North Common this morn,” Sir John explained.

Jack nodded, having studied a crude map to learn where the neighboring lairds resided. Some of them were old enough to remember his grandfather Buchanan and so had bidden him a warm welcome.

When the riders passed through the East Port, they left behind the townsfolk, who sent them off with loud cheers and well wishes. For the riding party a light breeze and abundant sunshine promised a grand outing. Thirty strong,
they started downhill and were soon fording the Ettrick Water, ignoring a perfectly good bridge in the process.

When Jack frowned, perplexed, Sir John was quick to say, “Tradition, milord. You’ll hear that many times this day.”

They cantered on to Linglie Glen, where the men paused to check their horses’ girths and enjoy a wee drink of water or a sip of whisky or both—the first stop of many, Jack soon discovered. The ancient northern route covered fourteen miles with only a series of natural markers to indicate the perimeter of the North Common. Crests of hills, lines of hedges, clumps of woods, meandering streams, even solitary trees served the purpose along with the occasional march stone planted amid the wild, open country. With so many riders, Jack had only to fall in step while he took in the splendid scenery his father had once described.

They were climbing now, a long pull toward a summit where three immense cairns stood guard over the Borderland. “The Three Brethren,” Sir John told him. “ ’Tis tradition to add a stone to each pile.”

From this vantage point Jack could see for miles in every direction. The Eildon Hills, a cluster of three peaks, overlooked the Tweed Valley, with the Moorfoots to the north and the Lammermuirs to the northeast. When his father, who’d never lost his Scottish burr, had spoken the names aloud, they’d rolled off his tongue like music.

“There’s Philiphaugh.” Sir John pointed southward. “On the other side of Harehead Hill.”

Jack nodded, having been to the Murray estate on several occasions. During his first visit Lady Murray had insisted, “You
must
hear Rosalind play the pianoforte.” Then on his second the young lady was urged to converse in French, German, and Italian, all of which she managed easily. By the third visit Sir John was dropping hints of a sizable dowry. “But only for a gentleman truly worthy of her.”

Jack had not lived forty years without learning something of the world. They wanted his title, they wanted his money, and they wanted their daughter in his marriage bed.

His needs were more modest: a wife and children. Still, Rosalind Murray would make a bonny bride, and her mother had borne six children, which boded well.

Sir John turned to him now, smiling broadly, the light in his eyes more avarice than affection. “Rosalind hoped you would dine with us after the Riding.”

Jack said nothing, recalling another invitation.
Might you join us for dinner?
He’d made no promises to Elisabeth Kerr, and they’d not spoken of it all week. No one would fault him for preferring a fine meal at a wealthy man’s table.

When thou makest a feast, call the poor
. Not merely his conscience, but the Lord’s own words prodded him.

Jack finally said, “I may have … other plans, Sir John.”

The sheriff frowned. “Lady Murray will be sorely vexed if I do not bring you home with me.”

“I’ll know by the time we reach the marketplace,” Jack told him, stalling for time as he started back downhill, following the others. With the sun well overhead, Jack wished for a lighter coat. And no hat. And no periwig. But the other men had also dressed for the occasion, so at least he had company.

At Dunsdale, not far north of town, the Common Riding party was met by young men on horseback eager to race their steeds, with a goodly number of spectators prepared to do their part. Jack let his horse graze in the rich pasture while he watched men half his age race for nothing more than a kiss from a blushing lass. Why had he not married when he was a young lieutenant, when life was less complicated and a lady’s hand easily won?

An hour later, when they’d had their fill of racing, both walkers and riders headed for the mercat cross for the Casting of Colors. “ ’Tis the highlight of the event,” Sir John assured him as the townsfolk greeted the riding party at the East Port.

Stable lads at the edge of the crowd took the horses so the riders could move to the very center of things, where a broad wooden platform had been erected. A hush fell over the gathering as, one by one, craft guild members
stepped onto the stage with their enormous flags, then swept them round at waist level, forming a figure eight.

Sir John said in a low voice, “The tradition goes back two centuries. Selkirk sent eighty well-armed men to the battle of Flodden Field. A lone survivor returned, bearing a captured English banner. He was so overcome with grief he could only swing the flag round like a scythe.” Sir John nodded toward the platform as a weaver performed the same motion. “ ’Twas his way of showing the townsfolk that all their lads had been cut down.”

Sobered by the story, Jack listened as a song of remembrance rose from the crowd while tears were wiped away and heads were bowed. In that quiet moment he glanced toward Halliwell’s Close and saw Elisabeth standing beside her cousin and the red-headed tailor.

Jack waited until the last note rang out, then bade Sir John a hasty farewell. “My apologies to Lady Murray, but I must honor a previous engagement,” he said, certain he was committing some grave social faux pas.

The townsfolk parted at his approach, ending any pretense of a chance encounter. Elisabeth would see him coming from twenty ells away. By the time he reached her, a small clearing had encircled them. Their eyes met briefly before he bowed and Elisabeth curtsied, then he moved forward, nodding at the crowd, hoping they might go about their business and let him converse with her in private.

A foolish expectation. Every eye and every ear was fixed on the drama at hand.

The admiral from the sea. The dressmaker from the town
.

Had someone sold tickets, he’d have made a handsome profit.

“Safe oot and safe in,” she offered him in greeting. “ ’Tis what the cottagers cried when they sent out the riders.”

Jack lifted his brows. “So that’s what they were saying.”

“Now the feasting begins,” her cousin told him. “Each guild has its own fete. The town council also serves food and drink for all, with music and dancing ’til the wee hours of the morn.” Her pale blue eyes looked up at him. “But you’ll be joining us for dinner, aye, milord?”

ye.” Jack smiled at Elisabeth, certain he’d made the right choice.

“A plate of food with the Kerrs would suit me very well.”

“Reverend Brown has agreed to join us,” Elisabeth said, “along with Mr. Dalgliesh and his son. You remember young Peter.”

Jack looked down at the lad, who did not hide behind his father, as most boys would, but stood proudly in front of him. Imagine having such a son! “The Almighty has been most kind to you, Mr. Dalgliesh.”

The tailor smiled broadly, planting his hand on Peter’s head. “Indeed he has, milord.”

“Come, sir!” Peter cried, tugging on Jack’s coat.

“Our house is modest, but our welcome is sure.” Elisabeth led him down the shadowy close with the others trailing behind, their lively voices echoing against the dank stone walls.

Jack took careful note of his surroundings, troubled by the thought of Elisabeth facing this grim view every day of her life. Only when they reached the door did he remember Janvier. “I’ve left my horse with one of the stable lads from Bell Hill. He’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

Mr. Dalgliesh chuckled. “Is he a Selkirk lad?” When Jack assured him that he was, the tailor said, “Then ye’ve nae need to worry, for he’ll be sitting with the ither lads in a shady spot, watching yer mount and drinking punch for hours. He kens ye’ll find him whan ye’re done.”

Elisabeth studied Jack more intently. “Would you prefer we sent someone to tell him of your whereabouts?”

“Nae,” Jack said, trusting the tailor’s assessment. “After our brief exchange
in the marketplace, Mrs. Kerr, a hundred folk could tell him where I’ve gone.” He stood back. “Now, if someone might unlock the door.”

Soft laughter rippled through the group.

“ ’Tis an outside door and has no lock,” Elisabeth explained, pushing it open. A musty smell wafted out. “This isn’t London, milord. We’ve no need for lock and key here.”

A moment later he understood why. There was nothing to steal.

Jack had visited many lodging houses in his time. Never had he seen one so small or so sparsely furnished. He counted only one bed and two fabric-covered chairs, badly worn. And the oval table would hardly seat four, let alone eight. Yet here they were, these amiable companions, making themselves at home in a dwelling not much larger than Elisabeth’s workroom.

“Will you sit here by the window?” Elisabeth asked him, patting the high back of an upholstered chair. “Dinner will not be long. We lack only plates, linens, and cutlery, and those will be arriving shortly.”

Busy at the hearth, Mrs. Kerr was wearing her new black dress. Elisabeth, alas, was still dressed in her dreary old gown. Had she not begun sewing a new one? Or had Hyslop not purchased sufficient fabric? Jack dared not ask Elisabeth and risk embarrassing her. Nor could he praise the elder Mrs. Kerr’s mourning gown without drawing attention to her loss. Sometimes proper manners were a decided nuisance when one needed the truth on a matter.

Reverend Brown and his manservant, Gibson, came knocking a moment later, arms laden with pewter plates, linen napkins, and sterling forks and spoons. “Here we are, ladies,” the minister said, depositing his offering on the table. “My late wife would be glad to know these things were put to good use.”

With Gibson’s help Anne quickly laid the table for four, then stacked the rest of the settings by the hearth. Jack could not imagine how dinner would be served. Would they take turnabout at table? Stand to eat? Dine two to a plate?

His conscience quickly nudged him.
They have given you the best chair and will feed you shortly. Be grateful. Be humble. Be silent
.

Thoroughly chastised, Jack sat quietly in his chair and surveyed the dinner
preparations. Though Elisabeth stood at the ready, her mother-in-law evidently had things well in hand. The air was filled with tantalizing aromas. Jack thought of his mother, who’d kept two cooks yet still insisted on doing all her own baking.

While Anne entertained Peter with a chapbook, Reverend Brown settled into the seat next to him and struck up a conversation. “For a man who’s circled the globe, riding the marches of our North Common must have seemed a dull journey.”

“Not at all, Reverend.” Jack related in detail his experiences that morning, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the sagging beams, the bare floor, and the shabby trunks by the box bed.

A half hour later Elisabeth escorted him to table. “If you might take the chair at the head, milord.” She also seated Reverend Brown, Mr. Dalgliesh, and her mother-in-law.

Mrs. Kerr eyed her dishes with concern. “I do hope everything is seasoned to your liking, milord.”

However small the table, Jack could not deny that the food looked promising. “Rest assured, madam, I will eat every bite.”

The question of where the others would sit was soon answered. Anne and Elisabeth took the upholstered chairs, neatly balancing plates in their hands, while Gibson and Peter served as footmen, bringing each course to table. “We ate earlier,” Peter announced, the flour on his nose suggesting he’d enjoyed a roll or two.

To Jack’s amazement Mrs. Kerr had prepared not only the obligatory courses offish, flesh, and fowl but vegetables dishes as well. Potted eel was followed by savory veal pie, then stewed chicken with mace. Warm rolls, fragrant with ale yeast, were served next, then pickled beetroot and asparagus with butter. Strawberries and soft cheese arrived as the final course.

Jack would never inform Mrs. Tudhope, but he’d met her equal.