Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [157]
He stared at the root vegetable, scrubbed clean but uncooked. “Am I meant to eat it?”
“You are meant to keep it. For good luck.” She blushed when she said it, then hastily reached for her napkin, putting an end to the discussion.
If this was her surprise, Jack was not about to disappoint her. He dutifully placed the carrot to the side, then signaled to his footmen to commence serving the first course.
Carrot soup, as it turned out. Seasoned with coriander.
The evening’s feast was a great success, with a dozen tantalizing aromas competing for their attention—among them, pan-baked trout, stewed lamb with mushrooms, and baked apples stuffed with currants. The Michaelmas goose was given pride of place at the center of the table, surrounded by smaller fowl, necessary to feed so many mouths.
“Do you know the saying, milord?” Elisabeth asked him when the poultry course was served. “Eat a goose on Michaelmas Day; want not for money all the year.”
“Is that so?” He noted the small serving on Elisabeth’s plate, the substantial one on Marjory’s. “You don’t believe in such things, do you?”
Elisabeth smiled. “Of course not, milord. Every blessing comes from the Almighty. But then, so do carrots.”
By the time plates of rich almond cake were served, the Michaelmas feast was declared a success. Jack stood, eager to get on with things. “If you will kindly repair to the drawing room, you’ll find our musicians waiting for us.”
As the guests rose and headed for the door, Jack offered Elisabeth his arm.
“Milord,” she said, leaning close to him, “perhaps you might prefer to retire to your study.”
He arched his brows. “And miss the pleasure of dancing?”
Her shocked expression was worth every painful hour with Mr. Fowles.
“You, milord?”
Jack merely smiled as he guided her into the drawing room, where two lines were already forming. Since the young Widow Kerr was not permitted to dance, he needed her mother-in-law’s approval and so sought out Marjory.
“Mrs. Kerr,” he said respectfully, “I wonder if I might request a very great favor. In honor of Michaelmas, would you allow your daughter-in-law, just this eve, to—”
“Aye!” Marjory said, grinning at him.
Had the woman sipped too much claret? “You’ll not mind, then, if we—”
“Nae!” Marjory assured him, standing opposite Gibson, waiting for the opening notes.
Elisabeth blinked at him, clearly astonished. “Am I to understand you wish to dance with me?”
“If you’ll have me, madam,” he said with a bow.
She took her place at once. “Depend upon it, milord.”
Sixty-Nine
Night was drawing and closing her curtain
up above the world, and down beneath it.
JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH RICHTER
lisabeth hastened down the empty servants’ hall, the candle in her hand flickering wildly. Her heart too was doing a merry dance, though not nearly so merry as Lord Buchanan’s clever footwork on display earlier that evening.
“I engaged a dancing master,” he’d said blithely as they’d spun round the polished floor. His invited guests were unaware of his newfound talent, but his household staff had watched him in astonishment.
How the admiral had looked at her as they’d moved in tandem! His brown eyes gleaming, his mouth curled into a permanent smile. Elisabeth had heard him counting his steps now and again, but that only made his efforts all the more endearing. Not once had he landed on her instep or swept her into another dancer’s path. For a man of his stature, he was surprisingly graceful, like a skilled fencer or an expert horseman. As it happened, his lordship was both.
“I did this for Michaelmas,” he’d insisted.
Elisabeth knew better. You did this for me, dear Jack. She’d complimented him profusely and thanked him at the end of each set, urging him to choose other partners, though he never did. Rosalind Murray had shot daggers at her whenever she swept past. Elisabeth almost felt sorry for the young woman. Find another, she wanted to say. This one is mine.
Now the clocks were creeping toward midnight,