Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [103]
Forty-Four
What say you to such a supper
with such a woman?
GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON
ack could not remember when he’d last sat down. On his dawn ride, perhaps. Even breakfast had been consumed on the run. He’d tasted a summer pear while inspecting the orchards. Then gulped down a cup of tea while discussing last-minute details with Roberts and finally sampled a yeast roll while reviewing Mrs. Tudhope’s menu.
He simply did not have time for lolling about. Bell Hill’s first household supper was only seven hours hence, and Jack wanted everything to be perfect.
“Your lordship?” Mrs. Pringle appeared at his study door. “Will you be having dinner at two o’ the clock, as usual?”
“Dinner?” Hearing the sharp tone in his voice, he swiftly apologized. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Pringle. At the moment I’m afraid I have no appetite and even less patience.”
“I quite understand,” she said kindly. “The house is at sixes and sevens with maidservants colliding into one another in the hall and menservants tripping over their own feet in their haste to have everything ready.”
Jack sighed. “Perhaps my plan was too ambitious.”
“Nae, milord.” Mrs. Pringle stepped farther into the room. “We are proud to be part of that plan. To gather at one table and sup with our master as if he were our friend.” She looked away for a moment. “I only hope we meet your expectations. Roberts and I have done our best to teach them proper table manners. We will none of us embarrass you this night.”
“What a shame,” Jack said, hoping to put her at ease. “I was counting on at least two dropped plates, numerous overturned glasses, and a host of rolls being tossed from one end of the dining room to the other.”
Mrs. Pringle gave him a grateful smile. “I’ll see what can be arranged, milord.”
The supper hour was drawing near when Roberts came looking for him. “Your …, eh, staff for this eve has arrived. Shall I bring them in, sir?”
Jack moved to the front of his desk, prepared to greet them. “By all means.”
He would never have asked the five of them to serve him in any capacity, least of all juggling plates of food and glasses of claret. But on the Sabbath at kirk, when he’d confessed needing several people to serve the meal, they’d all volunteered.
“I’d be honored to help,” Marjory Kerr had said. “It is the least I can do after all you’ve done for my family.”
“I’m a servant, milord,” Gibson had insisted, “and richt guid at it.”
Anne Kerr had also agreed to join them, then recruited Michael and Peter Dalgliesh. A press gang could not have been more persuasive. “We’ll serve you well,” Anne had vowed.
Jack had protested, of course. Offered to pay them handsomely for their efforts. The elder Widow Kerr in particular was offended. “I cannot be bought, milord. You must accept my service as a gift of thanks. I believe I speak for all of us.”
Now here they were, filing into his study, reporting for duty.
Marjory and Anne wore freshly starched aprons and white, round-eared caps. Gibson had on his usual livery, and Michael had stitched up two black waistcoats for the occasion, one of them perfectly fitted to a seven-year-old boy.
“What a fine-looking group,” Jack told them. “Gibson will rightly serve as butler and put the rest of you through your paces. If you’ll report to Mrs. Tudhope, I’m certain she’ll be greatly relieved to see you.” He could not resist asking young Peter, “And how will you be of service?”
The lad held out his hands, pretending to hold a dish between them. “I’m to carry the food,” he said, standing very tall, “but I’m not to go like this.” Peter tipped his hands forward, sending imaginary vegetables spilling onto the floor.
“What will you do if that happens?” Jack wanted to know.
Peter stood on tiptoe, waving Jack closer so he might whisper in his ear. “I will cry,” Peter said softly. “Then Annie will feel sorry for me and help me clean things up.”
“Excellent plan,” Jack assured him. He thanked them one by one, then sent them off to the kitchen. Such friends were more precious than rubies.
No sooner had they