Here Burns My Candle (10 page)

“I shan’t wonder. ’Tis a very crowded place,” Marjory replied, nettled by the impudent smile tugging at the corners of the woman’s mouth. Charlotte Ruthven was little more than a gossip, albeit a titled one, dragging her manservant about town in search of the latest scandal.

Before anything more could be said, the butler of the house made an abrupt appearance. “News from Saint Giles, mem.”

“Let us hear it.” Lady Woodhall put aside her teacup and sat up straighter. “Go on, Stevenson.”

“A letter was delivered to the Lord Provost from the enemy camp.” He paused, seeming reluctant to continue. “Signed by Charles, Prince Regent.”

“Such presumption!” Lady Woodhall fumed. “What did this traitorous letter say?”

“If
onie
opposition be made,” Stevenson reported, “the prince willna answer for the consequences.”

Dread washed over Marjory like a chilling autumn rain. Surrender was certain now.

“What else?” Lady Woodhall prompted him.

Stevenson shifted his weight. “If onie in the toun are found in arms against the prince, they’ll not be treated as prisoners o’ war.”

“Meaning… what?” Lady Ruthven sputtered.

His face was stony. “Meaning the prince’s army will cut doon onie man caught with a
wappen
in his hands. ’Tis why the Gentlemen Volunteers returned their muskets to the castle.”

The four women exchanged nervous glances before Lady Ruthven broke the silence. “If the prince takes the throne on behalf of his father, what then?”

“Why, we’ll stitch white cockades and pin them to our gowns,” Lady Woodhall answered coolly, arching her silvery brows. “It seems the Jacobites have claimed the little white rose of Scotland as their badge. No doubt your daughters-in-law could fashion a bit of silk into rosettes for us all, Lady Kerr.”

“No doubt.” Marjory heard the disdain in her friend’s voice. Highlanders were barely tolerated in her social circle and Jacobites not at all.

A moment later a solemn Gibson was ushered into the drawing room. “Sorry to be early, mem. Ye’re wanted at hame.”

Marjory felt a slight constriction in her chest. Having turned her back on the world beyond the window, now she had to face it squarely and sooner than she’d hoped.

Gibson offered his free arm, holding aloft the lantern with the other. “This way, mem.”

The wavering candlelight cast ghostly patterns on the walls of the turnpike stair as the two made their descent, hastened by the chilly night air. Gibson, seldom forthcoming, was even quieter than usual, leaving Marjory to imagine the worst.
Wanted at home
. Was one of her sons ill or injured? Had distressing news arrived from Tweedsford? Would she find Highlanders ransacking her bedchamber?

“Come, Gibson.” She tugged his arm midway across the darkened courtyard, where men huddled in groups of two or three, backs to the wind, conversing in low voices. Some bore firearms, and the smell of fear hung round them. “You must give me some inkling of what’s afoot.”

He looked down at her, his gray eyebrows nearly touching, so fierce was his scowl. “’Tis best if Peg tells ye herself.”

Peg?
Marjory leaned on Gibson’s arm as they started up the stair toward the fifth floor. Had her maid broken a treasured goblet? Lost a favorite brooch? In a month of service, Peg Cargill had done little to
annoy her. In fact the lass had proven quite useful. Elisabeth’s copious hair looked more presentable, thanks to Peg’s agile comb, and the table silver didn’t have a speck of tarnish.

The moment they stepped withindoors, Marjory called out the maidservant’s name, then tarried in the entrance hall, cape unbuttoned, waiting to hear Peg’s leather shoes scuffle across the kitchen floor. “Peg?” she tried again. The stillness in the house was unnerving.

Only one candle burned in the vacant drawing room. Had her family retired at so early an hour? “Donald?” She pretended not to notice the tension creeping into her voice. “Andrew?”

Gibson lifted the cape from her shoulders. “Beg pardon, mem, but Lord and Leddy Kerr have yet to return from the mercat cross.”

“Mrs. Edgar, then. She’ll know something.”

He gestured toward the empty kitchen. “’Tis Mrs. Edgar’s day aff. She’ll not be hame for a wee bit.”

Marjory almost stamped her foot so great was her frustration. “Then where is Peg, or has she quit the place as well?”

A small voice behind her said, “Here I am, Leddy Kerr.”

Marjory turned to find her maidservant dressed in the same brown rags she’d worn the day she entered into service. “Have you ruined your blue gown? ’Tis but a fortnight old.”

“Nae, mem. I left it hanging in the kitchen with my apron.”

“I see.” Marjory did not bother to hide her displeasure. “Am I to assume you, too, have elected to make this your day off?”

“In a manner o’ speaking, mem.” Peg lowered her gaze, her freckled cheeks scarlet. “I’m bound for Coldingham, whaur my sister lives. And I’ll not be coming back.”

“What?” Marjory cried.
The ungrateful chit!
“You’ve been here only a month.”

“Aye,” Peg said softly, then lifted her chin. “Forgive me, Leddy Kerr, but I canna stay. Not with…” Her voice faltered. “Not with the Hielanders at
oor
door.”

A handful of arguments rose to Marjory’s lips and fell just as quickly. Hadn’t one of Lady Falconer’s servants abruptly left that morning? Like rats leaping from a sinking ship, peasantry and gentry alike.

“I’ll not provide a written character,” Marjory cautioned. Her only weapon, yet one with a dull blade. Any servant could account for an idle month between positions. With some reluctance she pulled a silver coin from her hanging pocket. “As to your wages, I’ll give you the one shilling you’re due and not a penny more.”

“I canna blame ye, mem.” Peg curtsied longer than necessary, then stood, clutching the single coin and a small bundle of goods to her chest. “’Tis
thankrif
I am, Leddy Kerr. Ye were kind to take me into yer hame.”

The maid’s meek demeanor pricked Marjory’s conscience, softening her tongue. “Away with you, then, since I cannot force you to stay.”

Peg nodded, already inching toward the door. “’Tis a
lang
road to the sea.”

“Aye, it is.” Marjory turned, hiding her disappointment. “Gibson will send you with supper.”

Marjory waited until the two servants slipped into the kitchen, then sought her bedchamber. A dull, relentless pain throbbed beneath her temples. Too much tea and far too much gossip. And now this.

She paused by the window and stared into the inky expanse below. Torches and lanterns danced about as if borne on the wind.
Wars and rumours of wars
. How long until she heard the cadence of rebel soldiers marching down the High Street? The sound alone might stir Andrew’s patriotic fervor beyond recanting. Was he enlisting even now, signing his life away and dragging Donald into battle with him?

As she massaged her aching brow with her fingertips, Marjory glanced at the door to the adjoining bedchamber. Might she find some hint of their whereabouts? Curiosity drew her over the threshold, candle in hand. She was greeted by the distinctive scent of musty paper mingled with the richness of leather. Even shrouded in darkness, Donald’s room revealed his bookish nature. He was a scholar, not a soldier. His place was here, surrounded by great minds and lofty thoughts.

From the corner of her eye, she spied a small volume on Elisabeth’s dressing table.
The Ladies’ Diary: For the Year of our Lord 1745
. One of Donald’s many gifts to his wife. Marjory opened the cover and was surprised to find the almanac well used. Notations in Elisabeth’s hand filled the narrow margins.

Marjory squinted, holding her candle closer. On each page the new moon was marked and another date circled:
27 January. 26 April. 24 July
. Keeping track of her courses, perhaps? The next one fell four days hence:
20 September
. Marjory would say nothing, merely be mindful of Elisabeth’s changing moods come Friday.

She’d almost closed the book when she found a line of verse handwritten inside the front cover.
Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth!
Milton? Or was it Dryden? Marjory gazed at the poet’s words, wondering what they signified for her dark-haired daughter-in-law.
The moon. The truth
. A keeper of secrets, that one.

Marjory’s attention drifted toward the entrance hall. Were those footsteps on the stair? And familiar voices? She abruptly shut the book and quit the room, her headache forgotten. Gibson had already thrown open the door by the time she reached his side. In a trice the hall was filled with people, all talking at once.

“We were almost home,” Andrew began, “when the Deputy of Magistracy sent out a coach.”

“Bound for Gray’s Mill.” Donald handed his cape and gloves to Gibson. “The deputies are meeting with Prince Charlie.”

Marjory’s breath caught. Gray’s Mill was but two miles away. Were the rebels so near?

“’Tis not all we’ve learned.” Andrew’s eyes shone, and his skin was flush with excitement. “Sir John Cope and his troops have been spotted off the coast of Dunbar. In a day or two they’ll be marching toward Edinburgh.”

“Isn’t it thrilling?” Janet slipped her arm round Marjory’s waist. “Oh, the things we’ve seen and heard today! However shall I sleep?”

“Come, you must tell me everything,” Marjory insisted. “And I’ve news to share as well. Our Peg Cargill has deserted us. Frightened off by the Highlanders.”

Donald’s eyebrows lifted. “Truly? She said that?”

“What a shame,” Elisabeth commented, the only one among them who seemed genuinely saddened by Peg’s departure.

“A maidservant is easily replaced,” Marjory assured her. “A monarch, however, is not. With a rebel prince at our gates, none of us may sleep tonight.”

Thirteen

’Tis morn. Behold the kingly day now leaps
The eastern wall of earth with sword in hand.

JOAQUIN MILLER

S
lowly, quietly Elisabeth eased her legs over the edge of the bed. Something had awakened her, like the sharp cry of a wounded animal. Or had she dreamed that? All was silent now. Beside her, Donald slept undisturbed. She could only guess the hour. Four o’ the clock perhaps. Their bedchamber was bathed in darkness, the coals having long since turned to ash.

She’d tossed to and fro most of the night, troubled by Rob MacPherson’s whispered news at Parliament Close. “Yer brither has come oot for Prince Charlie.”

“Simon?” Her heart had leaped to her throat. “Are you certain?”

“Make nae mistake, Leddy Kerr. He declared his
lealty
and stands ready to fight,
whatsomever
patch o’ God’s green grass lies beneath his feet.”

Simon was barely eighteen, yet a more loyal Jacobite could not be found in Castleton of Braemar nor in the hills and glens round it. All through his youth he’d recited the failings of the foreign Hanoverians and sung the praises of the royal Stuarts—sentiments learned at their father’s table. When James Ferguson died, his son’s zeal only grew stronger.

Elisabeth knew this day would come, when Simon would fight for the Stuarts. She was proud of him, aye. But she was frightened for him as well.

Rob had also whispered, “Come to the shop afore daybreak, and dinna tell a soul.”

She glanced at the inky windows facing the High Street. Did the MacPhersons know her brother’s whereabouts? Was that why they’d summoned her to their shop? If so, she might be reunited with Simon that very hour, before the sun gilded the rooftops.

Hurry, lass!

Elisabeth found her way across the darkened bedchamber all the while listening for Donald’s steady breathing. Guilt tightened her stomach. But had she told him of her errand, her husband might have forbidden her to go and that would never do.

Still, if the town guards stopped her en route, if they thrust out their long wooden poles and snapped the metal hasp round her neck…

Nae
. Elisabeth yanked hard on her stays, refusing to consider such a dire turn of events. She would come and go with the utmost haste, speak to no one except the MacPhersons, and return home before the household lifted their sleepy heads.

A simple costume was in order. She donned a plain drugget gown, the sort a servant might wear, without hoops or excessive petticoats to encumber her. Her low-heeled shoes were leather, not brocade, and a hooded cape in heathery gray wool concealed her unbound hair and much of her face.

Having properly disguised herself, she faced another challenge: walking through a slumbering household undetected. Janet and Andrew’s bedchamber came first. Elisabeth tiptoed past the sleeping couple, averting her gaze, grateful for the thick carpet.

In the kitchen the lingering aroma of lamb stew hung in the air. Mrs. Edgar did not stir when Elisabeth passed by the housekeeper’s makeshift bed beneath the wooden dresser nor when she took a lighted candle from the mantel over the hearth.

Nor did she wake Gibson, snoring in his folding bed in the gloomy entrance hall. Elisabeth waited until he drew a loud, rumbling breath before she moved the heavy bolt. When he snored again, she pulled open the door and slipped out, then started down the stair, feeling rather than seeing each step.

The morning damp crept through the folds of her wool cape. She shivered, though not from the cold. Every noise round her was magnified. When a door creaked somewhere below, she nearly lost her footing, so loudly did the hinges complain. A dog barking in the distance sounded near enough to bite her ankles. When at last she reached the deserted square, she cupped the flickering candle with her hand and hastened across the plainstanes.

Daybreak would not be long in coming. Already the rectangle of sky above her was changing from deepest blue to dark, smoky gray. Gulls sailed over the sleeping town, their cries muted by the moist air. Few folk were abroad at that early hour, and none met her gaze. Such solitude would not last. In another hour merchants would throw open their shutters, taverns would welcome their first patrons, and Edinburgh would greet the day with fear and trembling.