Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [124]
“Join me, milord,” the sheriff said, raising his glass.
Jack shook his head, his thoughts already halfway to Selkirk. “I wonder if we might head south a bit sooner.” He couldn’t explain his growing uneasiness, nor could he deny it.
Sir John frowned. “Will Thursday next not suit you?”
Jack groaned inwardly. Five more days. “I confess I’ve enough grouse to fill ten of Mrs. Tudhope’s roasting pans. Would you object if we departed Monday?” Even that was a sacrifice. Jack was prepared to leave at once, the letter in his pocket adding to his sense of urgency.
His host downed his whisky, then sighed. “ ’Twould seem your mind is set, Lord Jack. No doubt you are missing my Rosalind, for I can assure you, she’s grieved by your absence.” He waved at their menservants playing cards by the window. “I daresay Dickson and Grahame will be glad to sleep in their own beds.”
“As will I,” Jack agreed, tamping down his impatience. Rosalind Murray? He’d barely thought of the lady since leaving Selkirk. Nae, another woman had occupied his mind from dawn until dusk and into his dreams.
Soon, Bess. Saturday next, Lord willing.
Fifty-Three
O woman! thou knowest the hour
when the goodman of the house will return.
WASHINGTON IRVING
lisabeth had just stitched in place the last hook on a maidservant’s gown when Mrs. Pringle tapped on the open workroom door. “A post for you, Mrs. Kerr.”
“Delivered here? How very odd.” Elisabeth put aside her finished gown, then studied the postmark with some trepidation. Edinburgh. Who in the capital knew she was employed at Bell Hill?
The moment she saw the signature, her fears vanished. “ ’Tis from the admiral,” she said, smiling down at his bold hand.
To Mrs. Elisabeth Kerr
Bell Hill, Selkirkshire
Wednesday, 20 August 1746
My dear Mrs. Kerr,
She paused at the word dear, wondering what it might signify, then pressed on, convincing herself the salutation was nothing more than a polite gesture. His lordship might just as easily have written “My dear Mrs. Pringle.”
Your Highlands were quite as beautiful as you described them, the stark contours of the landscape softened by occasional wooded areas of Scotch pine. The weather was exceedingly fine, except for two days of rain, and our host made us warmly welcome. Nonetheless, our hunting party will be returning to Selkirk sooner than expected, at my request.
Elisabeth’s breath caught. Are you ill, milord? Or simply restless? She dared not entertain the thought that he missed her company, though she certainly longed to see him.
Look for us to arrive late in the afternoon on Saturday the twenty-third, if all goes according to plan. I am posting this from Edinburgh, hoping it might arrive ahead of us, lest we catch the household unprepared.
“He is to arrive in a few hours,” Elisabeth declared, trying not to let her anticipation show.
Mrs. Pringle hastened to the door, calling over her shoulder, “I must tell Roberts and Mrs. Tudhope at once.”
Left alone, Elisabeth traced his signature with her fingertip. Three times the size of the other lines of text, with a decidedly forward slant, each letter was clearly drawn rather than a violent slash of ink across the page. Here was a man with nothing to hide.
Below it a brief postscript left her even more anxious for his return.
I delivered the letter to your mother as requested. She sent me home with one for you as well. I will have much to share when we see each other.
Whatever he had found in Braemar, she would know by day’s end. Some comfort, that.
Elisabeth read his letter again, tucked it in her sewing basket, then gazed down at Charbon curled up at her feet. “Your master will soon appear,” she told the cat, scratching him behind the ears as she looked toward the window, left open to welcome the cool morning air.
Hurry home, milord.
One hour dragged by, then two, then four. Her dinner tray came and went, untouched. Focusing instead on her work, she’d begun measuring Kate,