Here Burns My Candle (17 page)

The brothers passed the town guardhouse, now firmly in Jacobite hands, and were nearing Milne Square when Donald spotted a familiar figure wrapped in a gray cape.
Elisabeth
. He hastened to greet her,
curiosity and concern lengthening his stride.
Where have you been, lass? Out alone, I see
.

When she looked up, mere steps away, a host of emotions crossed his wife’s face. Alarm, then surprise, then pleasure. “Lord Kerr! How thoughtful of you to come looking for me.”

Donald closed the gap between them. “I confess I did nothing of the kind, though I’m glad I found you.” He captured her hand and tucked it round the crook of his elbow. “Andrew and I—”

“Have been sampling Mrs. Turnbull’s ale,” she finished for him, “while I’ve been drinking tea with Effie Sinclair.”

He guided his wife toward home. “I trust you had a good visit with the old…ah, the…”

“We had a lovely time,” she said quickly, offering no details.

Andrew stood waiting at the entrance to the square, his neck cloth untied and his wig listing slightly. “If it isn’t Lady Kerr come to see these wayward lads home.”

She surveyed the two of them, her dark brows arched. “I’d suggest a few minutes with Gibson before the dowager sees you.”

“Och! What a clever lass you married.” Andrew claimed Elisabeth’s other arm and struck out across Milne Square, pulling the couple along. “You, madam, have made a Jacobite of my brother.”

“Not altogether,” Donald protested, though his complaint had no teeth. “In any case, history favors the Stuarts.”

Andrew snorted. “So you keep insisting.”

“Can it be true, Lord Kerr?” Elisabeth turned to look at him, hope shining on her face. “Are you prepared to side with the Jacobites?”

Aye, man. Say it
. Donald tried to form the word but could not. Not with his brother undecided and his own conviction wavering. “At the very least,” he finally said, “the time has come to tell our household of Simon’s allegiance to the prince.”

“You are brave indeed,” Elisabeth murmured, turning her head, though not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes.

Andrew halted in midstep. “Do you think that wise, Brother?”

“I do.” Donald threw back his shoulders, all at once as sober as a
reverend mounting the pulpit stair. “If Simon is not already fighting, he will be come sunrise. I say we lift our glasses at table and toast his safe return.”

“We’ve lifted our glasses quite enough this afternoon,” Andrew reminded him. “But, aye, the lad deserves our support. Besides, ’tis better Mother hear this unwelcome news at home rather than at Lady Woodhall’s tea table.”

“Far better,” Donald agreed, tipping his head back to gaze at their fifth-floor windows, where the dowager’s silhouette darkened the glass.

Twenty-Three

It is as easy to draw back a stone
thrown with force from the hand,
as to recall a word once spoken.

MENANDER

C
andles shone up and down the supper table as Elisabeth sat unmoving, from one course to the next, certain Donald would mention her brother at any moment. How could she possibly eat with her heart firmly lodged in her throat? Her glass of claret remained untouched, the napkin in her lap pristine. Seated at the head of the table, Donald watched her closely, almost as if he could sense her inner workings.

Please speak your heart, Donald. Please speak the truth
.

“Kindly eat something,” her sister-in-law prodded her, “or Mrs. Edgar will think you do not like her cooking.” Janet lowered her voice to add, “She’s a mediocre lady’s maid, but we must at least applaud her culinary skills or risk losing her completely.”

Elisabeth dutifully sampled a forkful of duck breast while Donald and Andrew consumed everything in sight. Full platters of stewed oysters, kidney collops, and roasted duck were reduced to scraps. A loaf of wheaten bread, slathered in butter, utterly vanished, and a dish of potatoes and turnips followed close behind.

As for Marjory, she ate in silence, meticulously cutting and chewing each bite of food, clearly vexed about something, yet unwilling to voice her displeasure. Did the dowager suspect what Donald intended to share? Or was she merely unhappy about being left to entertain herself all afternoon? Lady Marjory Kerr was not an easy woman to read. Nor was she easy to love. However deep the waters inside her stirred, on the surface her mother-in-law remained as hard as a Highland pond in January.

Janet filled the awkward gaps in conversation with neighborhood gossip gleaned from a fruitful hour at the glover’s. “Mr. Colquhoun’s
daughters have fled to their country estate in Lanarkshire,” she announced. Her hazel eyes shone with excitement, the long curls draped along her neck fairly bouncing with each breathless revelation. “Our friend, Lady Boghall, fainted in the street when they fired the guns from the castle rampart. Can you imagine it? And Mrs. Scott, the minister’s widow, is bound for Dalmeny parish, taking Mary Dundas with her.”

“What a shame,” Elisabeth murmured, recalling Mary and Peg meeting on the stair, happily exchanging the day’s blether. Now both lasses were gone. How many other residents had left Milne Square for safer quarters? The steady stream of leather trunks and wooden
kists
flowing down the outer stair at all hours gave evidence enough.

When their polite exchanges dwindled to sighs, Donald finally spoke up. “My brother and I have news as well, gleaned at Mrs. Turn-bull’s. As of a few hours ago, Sir John Cope had yet to engage his men in battle. Apparently he’s waiting for the Highlanders to attack.”

“True to form,” Andrew grumbled. “A fussy little man, by all accounts. Neither brave nor bold in his actions.”

“Aye, but there
are
courageous men on the field well prepared to fight.” Donald caught Elisabeth’s eye, then leaned toward his mother, his voice softening. “You may not be aware, Mother, that Lady Kerr’s brother is of an age to bear arms.”

Marjory swallowed the last bite of her food, apparently in no hurry to respond. Finally she said, “What has this young man to do with our family?”

“He is a member of our family.” Donald emphasized each word, his irritation showing. “Simon Ferguson is my wife’s only sibling. His welfare should be of interest to everyone at this table.”

“His welfare?” Marjory carefully placed her dinner knife across her empty plate, then waited for Gibson to remove it. “Have we cause for concern?”

“We do,” Donald said firmly. “Simon marched east from Edinburgh this very morning.”

Her face slowly hardened to stone. “This brother of yours…is a Jacobite?”

Elisabeth cleared her throat. “Aye, madam. He is.”

Marjory looked away as if she could not bear the sight of her. “How has such treachery found its way to our doorstep?”

“’Tis not treachery,” Elisabeth countered without apology. “’Tis loyalty to the rightful king.”

“Rightful?” Marjory turned back to face her. “Will you now confess you are a Jacobite rebel as well?”

Elisabeth weighed her answer with care. Her family had been loyal to the Stuarts since Mary, Queen of Scots, gave birth to James VI at Edinburgh Castle. She would not deny her sovereign king. Yet her mother-in-law might never look at her in the same light. Their relationship, tenuous at best, would be strained to the breaking point.

Finally Elisabeth said what she must. “Aye, Lady Marjory. I am, as you say, a rebel.”

Her mother-in-law turned to Donald at once. “How long have you known the truth?”

“From the first,” he admitted. “Elisabeth has never concealed her support of the Jacobite cause.”

“Not from you perhaps,” Marjory said coolly.

“’Twas not of any import when we married.” He nodded toward Elisabeth, doing his best to include her in the conversation. “We seldom discussed the subject, lest it divide us.”

“Well advised for a marriage. But you’ve an entire household to consider, Lord Kerr. And your title and property to protect.”

Elisabeth sensed the tension in his posture as she saw his countenance darken.

“Not for one moment, Mother, have I neglected my duties.”

“Son, I was not suggesting—”

“And what if Prince Charlie and his men are victorious? Have you considered that? If the Stuarts are restored, my title will be worthless and Tweedsford lost.”

“’Tis not likely,” Marjory said with a sniff.

“Do not be too sure.” Andrew folded his napkin haphazardly and dropped it beside his plate. “The prince has already taken Edinburgh. Who knows what the hours ahead may hold?”

Elisabeth glanced at the time. Almost nine o’ the clock. “Gibson?”

She beckoned him closer. “I wonder if you might make a brief visit to Mrs. Turnbull’s.”

“For ale, Leddy Kerr?”

“Nae,” she said softly, “for news.”

The manservant bowed and was gone in a trice, the door closing soundlessly behind him.

Janet stifled a yawn, then gazed meaningfully at her husband. “Sir, ’tis time we retired. I did not sleep well last night.”

“Nor did I.” Andrew was on his feet at once, bidding the others a good night before taking Janet’s arm and disappearing with her into their bedchamber.

Elisabeth stared across the room at the dying fire, more ash than coal. Sitting with her back to the windows, she felt the cold night air seeping through the shutters. Autumn was upon them in earnest with winter not far behind.

Had she not felt a keen bite in the wind atop the Salisbury Crags? Colder still was the silence. Effie Sinclair’s tea had warmed her and the lady’s company more so, but Elisabeth would never forget the frozen stillness that followed her down that hill. She had done all she knew to do and said all she knew to say. Would it be enough?

Come home to me, Simon. Come home to us all
.

Only her husband and mother-in-law remained with her at table. Neither appeared inclined to leave, though the air between them was as chilly as that out of doors. At least Marjory had not asked Donald where
his
sympathies lay.

Mrs. Edgar cleared the table in haste, perhaps sensing her mistress’s mood. “Guid nicht to ye, Leddy Kerr,” the housekeeper said and took her leave.

“Will you have a glass of port by the fire?” Donald asked his mother.

“What I will have is the truth.” Marjory pressed her back into the chair as if settling in for a long evening. “You have informed me that Simon Ferguson is a Jacobite. I’d already suspected as much. And your wife has confessed that she, too, is a traitor—”

“Mother!” he said sharply.

She held up her hand. “When a Kerr opposes the reigning king, no other word will suffice. Her misplaced loyalty is no surprise to me. I feared such all along.”

Elisabeth tamped down her anger but could not still her tongue. “Because I am a Highlander?” she asked, wishing her words did not sound so sharp.

“Nae,” Marjory insisted, “because you hide things. Even from your husband.”

“You go too far,” Donald warned her. “My wife does not keep secrets.”

Marjory stood, throwing down her napkin like a gauntlet. “We shall see.” She practically marched into her bedchamber and left the door ajar as she continued into the next room.

Donald frowned. “Whatever is she after?”

“I cannot imagine.” Elisabeth couldn’t see past the corner of Marjory’s bed nor through the open door beyond it. Her great-grandmother’s ring was safely on her right hand. All else she carried in her heart.

A moment later the dowager reappeared in the drawing room, concealing something among the folds of her skirt. “You’ll recognize this, I’m sure.” She held out a small book with a look of triumph.

Heat crawled up Elisabeth’s neck. “My
Ladies’ Diary.”
She accepted it gingerly, as one would a scalding hot cup of tea. Had the dowager read her scribbled notes? Could she possibly have understood them?

Marjory eyed her son. “This almanac belongs to your wife, does it not?”

“’Twas a Yuletide present,” Donald said evenly, “from me.”

“Lady Kerr, kindly explain the meaning of your many notations.”

Elisabeth drew a long, steadying breath. “I follow with great interest the phases of the moon.” She opened the book with care, intending to show Donald only the monthly calendars. “Farmers and gardeners do the same, of course. In my case the moon has a more…ah, personal meaning.”

She stopped short.
Personal meaning?
However would she explain
that? When her husband plucked the book from her hands, she nearly gasped.
Nae, Donald!
She cared little what her mother-in-law thought of her, but her husband’s opinion was another matter.

“Personal, you say?” He opened to the first page and looked down at the line of poetry written in her hand. “John Dryden’s translation of Virgil,” he said, smiling. “A favorite of mine as well.” He pointed at another line, written on the second page. “But this, I’m afraid, I cannot unravel.”

Elisabeth translated the Gaelic, hoping the phrase would signify nothing to the Kerrs. “Comes the night before the day.”

He nodded as if the phrase was not wholly unfamiliar. “Day unto day uttereth speech,” he said, “and night unto night showeth knowledge.”

She did not recognize the words, but she liked them. “A poet from your bookshelf?”

The dowager pounced on her words. “Do you not know the psalms, Lady Kerr?”

“Oh! I… that is…”
Foolish, foolish Bess
.

Donald rescued her at once. “King David was indeed a poet. And the Bible holds a place of honor on our shelf.” He slowly paged through the monthly calendars. “I see you chart the moon’s journey very closely, milady. Month in and month out.”

“I do,” Elisabeth admitted, searching for a simple explanation to give her husband. Stargazers, fortunetellers, and mariners followed the moon’s phases. But she was none of those.

Donald closed the small volume and placed it in her hands. “We’ll speak of it no more, dear wife, for I know the truth.”

Twenty-Four