Mine Is the Night_ A Novel - Liz Curtis Higgs [80]
Straightening, Lord Buchanan caught his valet’s eye. “We must away,” he said, “or Mrs. Tudhope will be most vexed. She worked hard late last eve preparing my Sabbath dinner and is determined to have it on my table at precisely two o’ the clock.” A faint smile creased his swarthy countenance. “The fact that it is served cold apparently does not signify.”
When the admiral turned to her, Marjory was struck again by his size. Taller even than Donald and broader by far. His unpowdered wig, with its long queue curling down his back, matched his dark brown eyes.
“It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Kerr,” he said. “And you as well, Miss Kerr.” He bowed to Marjory and Anne, then turned to Elisabeth. “As for you, madam, I shall see you early in the morn.”
“Not too early, milord,” Elisabeth responded. “With summer upon us, the sun is peeking over the horizon soon after three.”
His scowl seemed largely a pretense. “I’ll not have you storming my front door at six bells in the middle watch,” he told her. “Eight o’ the clock will suffice.”
Elisabeth nodded. “Very good, milord.”
Only then did Marjory notice the Murrays of Philiphaugh sailing toward them like a British warship, Sir John at the helm with a smiling young lady on each arm.
“Admiral!” he said jovially. “Sir John Murray at your service.” The gentlemen exchanged bows before Sir John continued, “If I might introduce my lovely wife and daughters.”
Marjory had never felt so invisible. Neither Sir John nor Lady Eleanora even looked at her, giving the admiral their undivided attention.
Rosalind and Clara curtsied as gracefully as they could in a crowded kirk aisle. Clara was still the shy, rather plain girl Marjory remembered from years past. But her older sister had blossomed into a hothouse flower, fragrant and exotic, with sleek black hair and eyes the color of Scottish bluebells.
“Lord Buchanan,” Rosalind said, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. “Your fine reputation is introduction enough.”
Marjory watched the Murrays fawn over the admiral, their intentions embarrassingly clear: Sir John and Lady Eleanora wanted his lordship for their son-in-law. Marjory could hardly fault them. Had she not once sought a titled, wealthy bride for Andrew? Still, she hoped she’d not been this obvious, offering up Rosalind like a juicy pheasant on a silver platter. Lord Buchanan was provided neither bib nor fork, but the Murrays did their best to whet his appetite, praising Rosalind’s many accomplishments.
Only when the Murrays took their leave did Lord Buchanan turn to bid the Kerrs a hasty farewell. “I fear Mrs. Tudhope will not soon forgive my tardiness. Until we meet again.”
His bow was brief but polite, Marjory noted, and aimed solely at Elisabeth.
Thirty-Four
Few men have been admired
by their own households.
MICHEL EYQUEM DE MONTAIGNE
ack smoothed his hand along Janvier’s neck. “You’ve brushed him thoroughly, have you, lad? And picked out his feet? Before you sponge him with water, let me use the wisp.”
The young groom quickly produced the tightly woven knot of rope meant to massage the horse’s muscles and stimulate the skin. Freshly dampened, the hay wisp fit neatly in Jack’s grip. Wherever Janvier’s muscles were firm and flat, Jack vigorously applied the wisp, following the lay of the coat, feeling his own muscles straining.
When he finished, he stood back and rubbed a bare forearm across his damp brow. “Sponge him, lad, and see to his saddle. I’ll be taking a long ride this morning.”
Jack stepped into the coolness of the stables and bathed his face and hands in a clean bucket of water, then ran his wet fingers through his close-cropped hair before dropping his peruke back in place. Some days he missed the sea but not on a summer day like this. Before long he was astride Janvier heading for the orchards at an easy trot. Judging by the slant of the sun, the hour was no later than seven o’ the clock.
He kept to the edge of the orchard,