Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [107]
Only one servant among those hired on Whitsun Monday had been dismissed: Tibbie Cranshaw, who’d flirted shamelessly with the head footman and spoken out of turn on too many occasions. Elisabeth had seldom crossed paths with Tibbie, yet was not sorry to see her go.
Once the dining room was empty, Marjory and the others made quick work of clearing the last of the dessert plates. When Elisabeth joined them, gathering the silverware, a frown crossed Lord Buchanan’s face.
“ ’Tis not beneath me,” Elisabeth said gently. “Not if my mother-in-law is willing to do such work.”
“As a gift,” Marjory reminded him, sallying out with an empty plate in each hand.
With an exasperated sigh, the admiral picked up two wine goblets and followed the others through the hall and down the stair, then deposited the glasses in the hands of a startled young maid. While the rest of the household slept, the scullery maids would be scrubbing the night’s dishes, with a promise they could sleep until the forenoon.
Lord Jack escorted his guests down the candlelit servants’ hall and through the rear entrance, then started across the grassy expanse, lantern in hand.
“Milord?” Elisabeth hurried to keep up with his long stride, the others trailing close behind. “ ’Twould be better if we went round the other direction. This is hardly the way home.”
“Nae, but it is the way to the stables. The hour is too late for traveling by foot, and the waning quarter moon will not light your path. I’ve asked Hyslop to take you home by coach.”
“Och!” Michael Dalgliesh scoffed. “ ’Tis but two miles, milord, and a’ doon hill. We’ll be hame afore lang.”
“He’s richt,” Gibson chimed in. “We’ll take guid care o’ the leddies. Won’t we, Peter?”
“Aye.” The lad rubbed his eyes, his bedtime long past.
But the admiral would not be dissuaded. “I do not hear the ladies protesting. You’ve all worked hard this day and deserve a bit of comfort.”
When they reached the stables, they found the horses already harnessed and Timothy Hyslop and a footman waiting for them. The weary party was settled in their seats before another complaint, however feeble, might be raised.
Elisabeth was the last to climb in. When she turned to lean out the open window and thank their host, he was standing in a pool of lantern light. His size and strength, his dark coloring and prominent features might be daunting, even alarming to someone who didn’t know him. But Lord Jack did not frighten her.
“I shall see you on the morrow, milord.”
“Depend upon it,” he said with a steady gaze, then stepped back, signaling the driver. “Carry on.”
Forty-Six
The showers of God’s grace fall
into lowly hearts and humble souls.
JOHN WORTHINGTON
arjory did not see Lord Buchanan again until the following Sabbath at kirk. Despite the soggy, rainy weather, the admiral was dressed in a striking burgundy coat and waistcoat with nary a splash of mud on his boots. He greeted each Kerr woman individually before claiming the vacant seat next to Elisabeth.
Marjory could hardly object in so public and sacred a place. Nor could she blame her daughter-in-law for brightening when his lordship appeared. Did not her own heart lift each time they met?
She was turning to address Anne when her cousin suddenly rose. “Come and sit with us, Gibson.”
“Aye, please do.” Marjory patted the seat next to her. “My cousin won’t mind making room.”
Gibson bowed as neatly as any gentleman. “Reverend Brown gave me leave to sit with ye.” Then he added in a low voice, “I think ’twas the ginger biscuits ye sent on Thursday last.”
Marjory smiled. Her plan had worked.
After he settled next to her on the pew, Gibson did a shocking thing: he quietly captured her hand, safely out of view beneath the folds of her skirt. When she didn’t pull away, his strong fingers, rough from years of work, tightened round hers.
Oh my dear Gibson.
Marjory could no