Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [106]
“Oh.” He lowered his glass. “I suppose that would be immodest.” He paused, as if seeking some graceful exit. “Am I to understand that ladies do not have such a custom when they appear in a new gown?”
“We do not, milord,” she said as the maidservants laughed behind their hands. “But I’m grateful you noticed. I believe we all saw quite enough of my old gown.”
“Hear, hear,” Roberts said, standing, then raising his goblet higher. “To Mrs. Kerr and her fine garment.”
Chairs were hastily pushed back as the whole assembly followed suit. “To Mrs. Kerr.”
Elisabeth was quite certain her skin matched the deep red claret—hairline to neckline—but she couldn’t look away and risk hurting their feelings. Instead she smiled as they took polite sips, dutifully noted her new garment, then sat down again.
Before she could do the same, Lord Buchanan lightly captured her by the wrist. “Come, sit with me, madam. Mrs. Pringle will be glad to take your place at the foot of the table.”
The housekeeper vacated her chair at once, leaving Elisabeth no choice but to sit at his left hand, which still encircled hers.
“You must have one of Mrs. Tudhope’s orange tarts,” he said, leaning closer, his thumb rubbing against the inside of her wrist. “Though she’ll never confess it, her tarts require a fortnight to make. Something to do with soaking the fruit. And her puff paste is the finest I’ve ever tasted.”
Elisabeth had not felt a man’s touch in so long that even his lordship’s innocent caress made her lightheaded. “Did you eat such rich fare on the Centurion?” she managed to ask.
He laughed, a rich, warm sound. “Our diet consisted of salted pork, salted beef, and, on Tuesdays and Fridays, salted fish.” His lordship gently released her as Anne placed a flaky tart before each of them. He added, “I vowed that when I retired, I would eat well and eat often.”
“And so you do,” Elisabeth said, looking at her plate, relieved for somewhere else to cast her gaze for a moment.
Anne bent down and whispered in her ear, “I shall expect a full report on the walk home, Bess.”
While the fiddlers tuned their instruments, Lord Jack consumed his tart in three or four bites, as did most folk seated at his table. Elisabeth barely tasted hers, still thinking about his touch. Did he, like Donald, find sport in toying with a woman’s affections? Or did the admiral not realize what his actions implied?
Without preamble, the fiddlers began a tender air, their two instruments seamlessly blending melody and harmony. Elisabeth’s throat tightened as the familiar Highland tune swept her away to Castleton of Braemar. She imagined her father at his loom. Her mother at the hearth. Simon with his whetstone, sharpening his dirk. And in the inglenook, a neighbor with fiddle or flute playing a tune they all loved, “My Love’s Bonny When She Smiles on Me.”
Just when Elisabeth thought she could not bear it another moment, she felt a woman’s hand on her shoulder. Marjory. She alone would understand why the music affected her so. By song’s end Elisabeth saw several round the room using their linen napkins as handkerchiefs. The fiddlers played a slow waltz next, equally moving.
When a minor-key lament followed, threatening to drown the room in sorrow, Elisabeth motioned Lord Jack closer. “I wonder if you might you ask them to play a jig or a reel. Something more cheerful.”
In a low voice the admiral confessed, “Michael Dalgliesh found the lads for me. Old friends from school, apparently. They play only at funerals.”
“Oh.” Elisabeth leaned back in her seat and tried not to laugh. Or cry.
The tall case clock in Lord Buchanan’s study was chiming the hour of ten when the musicians took their final bow. However melancholy their tunes, their playing was superb, and the household’s applause enthusiastic.
“Your first supper was a great success, milord,” Elisabeth assured him.
He seemed pleased as he bade his servants good night, sending them to their lodgings on the ground floor off the servants