Here Burns My Candle (14 page)

He was not always right—was often terribly wrong, in fact—but his wife’s praise was a balm to his soul nonetheless. If she believed him to be a good man, perhaps he might yet become one.

They bade the men farewell and started for home. As Donald guided his wife round the north side of the palace, every soldier in the prince’s army appeared ready to cut him in twain and claim Elisabeth for himself. “You’ve caused quite a stir,” Donald observed, glaring at each man who dared catch her eye. “If you intend to visit Simon while the men are camped here, you’ll not do so alone.”

She paused, as if considering something, then said, “We’re to meet at White Horse Close. I’ll have Gibson escort me. No need to trouble you with such a task when you’ve more important duties.”

Donald could think of no duty more pleasurable than spending time with his wife. Had he told her so of late? Or was he too busy leering
at innocent maidservants and slipping through a widow’s door in Halkerston’s Wynd?

A jolt of pain moved through him. Not a physical ache, though it felt real enough.

Elisabeth looked at him askance. “Lord Kerr, are you quite all right?”

He banished the lie that rose to his lips and spoke the truth instead. “Nae, madam. But I am improving.”

Not all battles are waged on grassy fields, he reminded himself, and not every skirmish requires bloodshed. To overcome his base desires, to do away with guilt and shame would be a worthy victory.

They made their way across the uneven cobblestones, navigating through a steady stream of townsfolk heading downhill toward the palace: pie sellers advertising the day’s aromatic offerings; fishwives with baskets strapped to their backs and colorful handkerchiefs tied round their heads; lodging-house keepers wearing dingy aprons full of jangling keys. And everywhere they turned, Highlanders in kilted plaids, looking very pleased with themselves.

Donald nodded toward the sign painted on the wall. “Have we time for coffee at the Netherbow?”

“Aye,” she quickly agreed. “I could do with a cup.”

He ducked his head beneath the crooked lintel of the Netherbow coffeehouse, ushering Elisabeth withindoors. Low ceilinged and dimly lit, the crowded room smelled of strong coffee, bitter ale, and savory meat pies.

The affable Mr. Smeiton led the couple to a small table, where they were served almost before they settled onto wooden benches. “I’ve been here a’ the morn lang,” the proprietor told them while they stirred their hot drinks. His snug waistcoat was tailored with a thinner man’s figure in mind, and his shirt sleeve bore evidence of the rich gravy in his pies. “What news from Holyroodhouse, Lord Kerr?”

While Donald described all they’d seen, Mr. Smeiton listened intently, punctuating each sentence with a nod. “Aye,” he finally said, “Charlie’s a braw lad.
Meikle
ado at the mercat cross this noontide as weel. Did ye hear the pipers?” He laughed and flapped his hand. “Och, how could ye not? They say Mistress Murray o’ Broughton is sitting on
her horse handing oot white cockades.” The proprietor winked. “In case ye need such a thing for yer bonnet.”

Donald merely lifted his coffee cup, a prudent response on a day when political sympathies were shifting like the September breeze, blowing one direction, then the other. As Mr. Smeiton quit their table to welcome the next patron, Donald met Elisabeth’s gaze across her steaming cup. “Your brother’s a bright lad. Unwavering in his opinions.”

She smiled at that. “Simon has always known what he believed and why. Tom Barrie as well. Such men can be very persuasive.”

“Indeed they can.” When Donald laid his hand on the table, palm up, she responded to his unspoken invitation and placed her hand in his. “Bess, I would know your thoughts on this Jacobite business.”

His wife’s blue eyes shone with conviction. “If you’re asking do I believe James Stuart has a rightful claim to the throne, then I do.”

Her answer did not surprise him, only her fervor. Did she fully grasp what a change in monarchy would cost them? Titles, lands, wealth? Those things had never mattered to Elisabeth in the way they mattered to his mother.

Before he could respond, Elisabeth pushed aside her saucer. “What of
your
heart, Lord Kerr? Have you any sympathy for our cause?”

Her question took him aback.
Well, man? Do you?
He’d seldom given much thought to politics. But he could not discount what he had seen in Simon and Tom. Their honor, their bravery struck a chord inside him, one he’d not heard before.

Donald clasped her hand more firmly. “I am”—he searched for the right word—“intrigued. More than that I cannot promise. But if you’ve noble arguments to offer, I’m obliged to consider them.”

She leaned toward him, her countenance glowing. “No cause could be nobler than supporting the descendants of Mary, Queen of Scots. If James Stuart is restored to his rightful throne, he’ll let his people worship whom and how they please.” She squeezed his hand. “’Twill be a happy day for Scotland when our king comes o’er the water.”

Her ardor was undeniable—nae, irresistible.

By the time they left the coffeehouse and started uphill toward
home, she’d filled his head with brave tales from past Jacobite Risings and the heroes who’d championed the cause. Caught up in the moment, Donald squared his shoulders, imagining he marched beside Simon and Tom, a plaid kilted round his legs and one of his brother’s French muskets in hand.

Elisabeth matched her gait to his. “Methinks you hear the drums, Lord Kerr.”

“Ah…well…” He varied his steps at once, embarrassed. “Bagpipes at least.”

Was Elisabeth laughing at him? A quick glance put that concern to rest. It was not amusement he saw on her face but pride. Clearly his support of the Jacobites would please Elisabeth more than any lace-trimmed gown or conch-shell cameo.

The dowager, of course, would be inconsolable.

As they walked up the High Street, the skirl of the pipes grew louder. So did the crowd. The formal ceremonies at the mercat cross apparently had ended, with King James VIII of Scotland, England, and Ireland duly proclaimed. As the bells of Saint Giles rang out, many in the crowd sported white cockades or streamers over their shoulders.

Not every face was jubilant. Donald saw fear, anger, even hatred reflected in the eyes of some who trudged past. Prince Charlie occupied the town, but he’d not yet conquered all her people.

Elisabeth lifted her straw brim to see ahead. “Ah! Margaret Murray of Broughton. Come, Lord Kerr, for I hear she’s a sight to behold.”

At the mouth of Carruber’s Close, they met up with the renowned Jacobite woman, surrounded by admirers. Tall in stature, with milky skin and a dark mass of hair, the wife to the prince’s secretary cut an elegant figure on horseback. She wore a fur-trimmed coat and a blue bonnet with a long feather. Her drawn sword was longer still. White ribbon cockades fluttered from her bridle: a bold invitation to all willing to support the cause.

“Would you have a cockade?” Donald inquired, certain of Elisabeth’s answer. He led the way, weaving through the crowd until the couple reached the woman’s side.

Though the two were strangers, Mistress Murray gazed down at Elisabeth like an old friend. “I know a Jacobite rose when I see one,” the gentlewoman said, her voice as regal as her posture.

Elisabeth accepted the offered cockade, expressing her thanks, then stepped aside to give others room. Only when the Kerrs reached the edge of the crowd did she open her hands to reveal not one cockade, but two.

“For Janet?” Donald guessed.

“You know better than that,” Elisabeth admonished him. “My sister-in-law may be a Highlander, but she’s no Jacobite. Nae, I had someone else in mind.”

As she gazed at him, Donald saw the truth in her eyes. “’Tis for me.”

She tucked the silk flower deep inside his waistcoat pocket. “When the time is right.”

“If
’tis right,” he said sternly. His faint protest was unconvincing, even to himself.

Elisabeth used a hairpin to fasten the silk flower inside her sleeve, which belled from her elbow. “I fear your mother would ne’er recover if I strolled through the door with a Jacobite rose pinned to my bodice.”

He tugged on the lace edging. “So you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve instead?”

Elisabeth’s smile was bittersweet. “Aye.” She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and pointed him in the direction of Milne Square, stealing an occasional glance at the silken folds of the little white rose of Scotland brushing against her forearm.

By the time they crossed the threshold of the Kerr apartments, his mother was already seated at table, a look of impatience on her face. “We were about to start dinner without you.”

“And now we’re home,” Donald informed her, feeling more headstrong than usual. He
was
Lord Kerr, was he not? He repaired with Elisabeth to their bedchamber long enough to visit the washbowl, then they joined his brother and mother at table.

Janet slipped into the drawing room a moment later, her hair in place, her gown freshly brushed. “I am here,” she said, as if giving the household permission to begin.

Smoked salmon, veal collops, and roasted grouse—fish, flesh, fowl,
in true Scots fashion—appeared on Donald’s plate and was consumed just as swiftly. The last course, a generous serving of flummery, hot from the fire and aromatic with rose water and nutmeg, arrived in tandem with a loud and untimely knock at the stair door.

Gibson nodded at the dowager, then hurried to answer the summons.

While they waited round the table, a spark flew out of the candle nearest Elisabeth and landed beside her plate.

“Expecting a letter, are you?” Donald asked, eying the black speck. According to the old custom, such a spark meant news on the wing.

Gibson reappeared, bearing a sealed note. “For ye, Leddy Kerr,” the manservant said with a bow, giving it to Elisabeth. When the last plate was cleared, she slipped away to their bedchamber, breaking the wax seal as she went.

Donald tarried by the fire, reading Mondays edition of the
Evening Courant
, while the others congregated beside a window, discussing the activities below. When Elisabeth did not emerge after several minutes, he could bear the suspense no longer. Donald tossed aside the newspaper and tapped on their chamber door. “Lady Kerr?”

Elisabeth pulled him into the room, her eyes bright with concern. “’Tis well I did not open this at table.” She held up the letter. “Angus MacPherson has invited me to meet the prince this very night at Holyroodhouse. It seems they’ve arranged a reception.”

Donald shook his head in disbelief. Hadn’t the Highlanders stormed the Netherbow Port only that morning? “They waste no time, these Jacobites.” Though he spoke begrudgingly, he could not deny being impressed. After the government’s bumbling efforts to defend the town, it was heartening to see what men of action could accomplish.

“The prince is determined to win every heart in Edinburgh,” Elisabeth said.

He grimaced. “Aye, and every purse.” Rebel armies seldom had full coffers. “Who else is on the guestlist?”

“According to Angus, relatives of those bearing arms for the prince. Mothers, wives, daughters. And in particular the prince wishes to include”—Elisabeth consulted the letter, then read aloud—“a great many ladies of fashion.”

None were more fashionable than his bonny wife. Donald studied her, uncertain of her intentions. “Do you wish to attend?”

“I would dearly love to, but…” Her lengthy sigh was laden with regret. “Donald, I cannot go without you.”

“Nae, you cannot,” he said firmly. The mere notion tied his stomach in a knot.

“But if you escort me, your family will think I’ve poisoned you, turned you against them.” She stepped closer, imploring him with her eyes. “Have I done so, my love?”

He breathed in her potent scent and drew her into his embrace. “Bess, you’ve done nothing more than honor your family’s convictions.”

“But
you
are my family.”

He swallowed, caught off guard by her tender words. Had he ever thought of her as his family, equal to his mother and brother?
Nae
. The bald truth shamed him to the core.

“’Tis you who matter most to me,” he said at last, for his benefit as well as hers. “If the Jacobite cause is dear to your heart, then I suppose it must become so to mine.”

Her eyes glistened like stars. “Donald, are you certain?”

He kissed her, hoping his ardor might suffice for an answer. “We’ve others to persuade as well,” he reminded her. “To that end, tonight’s reception must come and go without us.”

“There’ll be another,” Elisabeth assured him.

Donald glanced at the letter in her hand. “For now, ’tis our secret, aye?”

“Aye.” She smiled, touching the silk cockade hidden within her sleeve.

Nineteen

The secret known to two is no longer a secret.

ANNE L’ENCLOS

T
is a folk can
blether
about.” Mrs. Edgar laced Elisabeth’s stays as if she were trussing a partridge for roasting. “They say the candles at the palace blazed
bricht
on Tuesday eve. And
ilka
leddy curtsied to the prince in turn.” The housekeeper lowered her voice, meeting Elisabeth’s gaze in the looking glass. “Not a’ the lords and leddies o’ the toun were invited, o’ course. Only the Jacobites.”

Elisabeth glanced at the jewelry box where she’d hidden her white cockade. Donald’s remained tucked in his waistcoat safely out of view, yet there nonetheless. The thought of it made her heart leap with joy. Her Lowland husband sympathetic to the cause!

Mrs. Edgar stepped back, assessing her handiwork. With Peg gone and three Kerr women to dress, the housekeeper’s skills were sorely tested. Elisabeth’s coppery silk gown was poorly ironed and her hair swept into a lopsided knot loosely fastened at the crown. “Och! ’Twill have to do,” Mrs. Edgar said, throwing up her hands.

“And it
will
do,” Elisabeth assured her. Simon would neither notice nor care. Fine gowns were naught but cloth, he’d said.