Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [156]
When he entered the drawing room, Elisabeth turned before he said her name. “There you are, Lord Jack.” She smiled, curtsied, and stole his heart, all in a trice. “The Dalglieshes will be along shortly.”
Even now he did not have Elisabeth to himself. Marjory and Gibson were standing with her, the women neatly if soberly attired in black, and Gibson wearing a proper coat and waistcoat. Borrowed from his employer perhaps. “You look very well, Gibson,” Jack told him, though Marjory was the one who beamed at the compliment.
Elisabeth appeared to be hiding something behind her back. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak briefly with Mrs. Pringle,” she said, then swept round him such that he could not see what she held in her hands. “I’ll not be a moment, milord.”
How very mysterious. Though he did not care for surprises, this one held some promise.
“Will you have your monthly supper tomorrow eve?” Marjory inquired. “Or shall your Michaelmas celebration suffice for September?”
“Mrs. Tudhope would serve my head on a platter if I required large banquets two nights in a row,” he admitted, “though I shall make it up to the household at Yuletide.”
When Elisabeth returned, her cheeks were flush with color. “You are wanted in the entrance hall, milord. The Chisholms of Broadmeadows have arrived.”
Jack offered his arm, hoping she might join him. “As Bell Hill has no mistress, I’d be honored if you would stand beside me to greet my guests.”
Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law, then boldly took his arm. “If you wish it, milord. After all, it is a special night.”
If any visitors were shocked to see Elisabeth by his side, they hid their disapproval, smiling and bobbing and fluttering their fans. But he steeled himself when the Murrays of Philiphaugh stepped through his door.
Last week Sir John had reminded him of the generous dowry that would accompany Rosalind’s hand in marriage. “Even you, Admiral, must admit ’tis a worthy sum.” Jack had agreed that it was, then quickly changed the subject. His heart was not for sale at any price. Did the Murrays think of nothing but wealth, property, and advancement?
They stood before him now, dressed like peacocks, right down to the feathery plumes in Rosalind’s hair. “Admiral,” she said demurely, then sank into a deep curtsy. Yet for all their fine manners, none of the Murrays acknowledged Elisabeth. And when Charbon made an unexpected appearance, Rosalind lifted her hem with a look of dismay, then gave the cat a none-too-gentle nudge with her foot and hissed, “Be gone.”
Jack felt Elisabeth stiffen, even as he clenched his teeth, lest he say the same to Rosalind Murray. Be gone, madam. Only when she followed her parents into the drawing room did Jack relax enough to greet his next visitors, the Currors of Whitmuir Hall, who not only spoke warmly to Elisabeth, but also reached down to pet Charbon.
“They may stay,” Jack murmured, bringing a smile to Elisabeth’s face.
Not every woman needed a dowry to make her appealing.
The sky was black and the candles blazing when the supper hour arrived. Jack escorted Elisabeth into the dining room with some three dozen friends and neighbors following in their wake. Laughter and conviviality filled the air as they found their seats up and down the long table, the place cards neatly lettered in Mrs. Pringle’s hand.
When he reached the head of the table, Jack glanced down at his plate, then looked again. A carrot? Gibson had a large forked one. Michael Dalgliesh had one too. All three were tied with red ribbons. A swift perusal of the table provided no clue, for none of the other plates were so decorated.
Very odd.
Still, solving the carrot question would have to wait.
Jack stood before his guests, arms open. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we might join in giving thanks.” He prayed earnestly for the hours ahead, for the meal and the music and the dancing, keeping his eyes closed lest he catch sight of the enormous carrot and laugh aloud.
The moment he took his seat, Elisabeth leaned across the table.