Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [133]
Prodded by his conscience, Jack knew what needed to be done. It would cost him his pride, but what better way to spend it than procuring Elisabeth’s undivided attention? He couldn’t put things in motion this night. But he would do so come Monday.
The candles were burning low and the dessert plates already cleared when Jack stood, drawing every eye in his direction. “You are invited to retire to the drawing room,” he announced. “Our musicians await us for a night of dancing.”
With a gleeful cry the entire household was on its collective feet and bound for the hallway, any sense of decorum left in their wake. Linen napkins were tossed about at whim and chairs left higgledy-piggledy round the room. General Lord Mark Kerr might not approve, but Jack found their abandon refreshing.
“Mrs. Kerr?” He offered his arm, noting with perverse satisfaction Rob MacPherson glowering at him from the doorway. “May I escort you to the drawing room?”
Elisabeth rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, then followed him through the gilded doors, down the hallway, and into the candlelit drawing room, where the carpet was rolled back and a small band of musicians gathered in a circle, tuning their instruments. Amid much giggling and blushing, partners were found and lines were formed in anticipation of the first note.
“How I’d love to dance,” Elisabeth said on a sigh. “Just as well I’m not yet permitted to do so since you do not care for dancing. Isn’t that so, milord?”
“Quite right, madam.”
Not care for dancing? He loathed it. Too many years at sea without any good reason to acquire that particular social skill had left him with no knowledge of the necessary steps and little confidence in learning them. One hardly engaged a dancing master at forty years of age. Unless, of course, one wished to dance with a certain young woman.
When a lively reel filled the air, the polished oak floor almost disappeared beneath swirling skirts and dancing feet. Elisabeth stood, her toe tapping in time to the music, her shoulders faintly swaying as couples moved forward, backward, and round, following the intricate patterns of a country dance.
Jack watched their feet, discouraged at the thought of trying to keep up with them. Was it step to the right, then turn? Or turn to the right, then step? His only consolation was that Rob MacPherson wasn’t dancing either, though the tailor had a valid reason.
Standing as close as propriety allowed, Jack remained by Elisabeth’s side all evening. She described each dance to him as if she were privy to his musings on the subject, applauded the musicians whenever appropriate, and smiled each time an opportunity presented itself. Elisabeth was, in truth, the perfect companion.
Even if she was once a Jacobite rebel?
Aye, even then.
Of this Jack was certain: any expression of affection would have to wait. Through Michaelmas and Hallowmas, through Martinmas and Christmas, until the seventeenth of January, when all of society, and Marjory Kerr especially, would permit his deep regard for Elisabeth to take its natural course.
Five months was a very long time, even for a patient man.
Jack was not a patient man. Nor, he feared, was Rob MacPherson.
“She’ll make a lovely bride, milord,” Roberts said, nodding at Anne Kerr, who tarried outside the open kirk door, awaiting her cue.
“Indeed she will,” Jack agreed, all the while gazing at Elisabeth.
The kirk was nearly full, only a few parishioners having departed at the end of the morning service, the Murrays of Philiphaugh among them. Jack had spoken briefly to Rosalind and her family beforehand, if only to be polite, then was relieved to see them make a hasty exit. Sabbath weddings were more subdued than most since the kirk frowned on any sort of merrymaking. But curiosity alone had kept most folk in their pews, eager to see two neighbors joined in marriage.
When a fiddler in the kirkyard struck up a familiar tune, Anne stepped through the door, a bouquet of Michaelmas daises in hand. Jack had to admit she made a bonny bride