Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [144]
“Where he is bound, a return trip would be difficult.” Elisabeth rose, her tea having grown cold. “Just now sleep might be best.”
Marjory was on her feet at once, shaking out the sheet on the hurlie bed. She smoothed it in place, then plumped up the thin feather pillow. “Come to bed, dearest.”
When Elisabeth stretched out on the small bed, her long legs did not fit until she drew them up, knees to chin. Marjory draped first one plaid, then another across her daughter-in-law’s bruised body and gently tucked her in like a child. And she was a child—her child—whom she loved with all her heart. “Sleep well, dear Bess.”
“I will,” she murmured and closed her eyes.
Marjory tiptoed away, motioning Anne to follow her. Their supper was brief, their exchanges mere whispers, and they parted company earlier than expected.
Standing at the door, Anne confessed, “I wish I could be there when Bess tells his lordship.”
Marjory shuddered. “Not I. Whatever Bess may think, Lord Buchanan will not rest until justice is done.”
Sixty-Three
He who tries to protect himself from deception
is often cheated, even when most on his guard.
PLAUTUS
ack paced the length of his drawing room, staring out at the gray, wet morning. Rain had fallen through the night and showed no signs of abating. Last evening Elisabeth had said, “ ’Tis an easy walk.” But now she was climbing uphill in the rain. However accustomed she might be to traveling about in any weather, her discomfort weighed on him. Should he send the carriage for her? Or would she fuss at him for worrying too much?
When he heard a brief knock at the doorway, Jack turned, hoping to find Elisabeth standing there. Instead it was Roberts.
“Lord Buchanan, I’ve some rather unfortunate news for you. Unexpected as well.”
Jack heard the tension in his voice. “Go on.”
“I’m afraid our tailor has quit Bell Hill. Without a word.”
“Mr. MacPherson is … gone?” Jack frowned, uncertain whether to be concerned or grateful. “I trust he has not taken anything.”
“Only what he brought with him, milord.”
“Which was very little.” Jack recalled Rob MacPherson arriving at his front door less than a fortnight ago with only a small bundle in his hands.
“He left his workroom tidy and his bed made,” Roberts informed him. “The unfinished garment he was sewing is draped over a chair.”
Jack exhaled, not knowing what to make of it. “Strange business, aye? I suppose I must see to another tailor. Someone from town.” When the weather cleared, he would dispatch a letter to Michael Dalgliesh and seek a recommendation. For all his talents with a needle, Rob MacPherson was easily replaced.
His conscience prodded him. Admit it, Jack. You’re glad he’s gone. If it meant Mr. MacPherson would no longer pursue Elisabeth, then aye. He was very glad.
Jack arranged to have breakfast in his study, then started for the hall. “And do let me know the moment Mrs. Kerr arrives.”
Breakfast came and went. His mantel clock chimed eight times, then nine, then ten. Still no sign of Elisabeth. Jack tossed aside his household ledger with its rows of dull numbers and strode into the hall, thinking she’d arrived some time ago and Roberts had simply forgotten his request.
“Mrs. Pringle,” he called out, catching sight of her at the far end of the corridor. “Kindly send Mrs. Kerr to my study.”
The housekeeper hastened toward him, her expression troubled. “She’s not here, milord.”
“Not here?” He couldn’t hide his dismay. “Do you imagine the ill weather has delayed her?”
“I cannot say, milord, though Mrs. Kerr has walked to and from Bell Hill on many a rainy day.”
“You will let me know the minute—nae, the very second—she appears?”
Mrs. Pringle offered a nervous sort of nod, bobbing her head many times before she hurried off to her tasks.
Jack returned to his household accounts, only to abandon them a short time later, his powers of concentration