Here Burns My Candle (19 page)

Donald eyed the busy tavern, tempted not by the ale but by the amiable company and the fresh news he might glean. He would pay a price for it, though: the inescapable noise, the crush of people, the fetid air.

“Another time, sir.” Donald touched the brim of his hat, bidding his friend farewell before he pressed on. It seemed the solitary walk he’d hoped for could not be had in Edinburgh that day.

When he found himself at Warriston’s Close, he ignored his nagging conscience and paused at the arched entrance, remembering how many times he’d slipped through the narrow passageway to seek the company of a certain widow. He thought of Susan McGill now for an entirely different reason. Her grown son, Jamie, was all Susan had in this world. Was he among the hundreds who’d fallen beneath a Highlander’s blade?

Donald gazed down the shadowy close, wondering if he might spy
a familiar face. Perhaps a friend or neighbor who knew the McGills. He could not possibly call on Susan, but he might inquire about her son.

A woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Looking for someone, Lord Kerr?”

With a guilty start, he turned away from the close. “Ah. Lady Ruthven.” He offered the widow a hasty bow. Charlotte Ruthven was not a person to be taken lightly. She traded in gossip, scandal, and innuendo like Maitland Hart traded in silk.

She peered round him, her plump face aglow with curiosity. “Imagine finding you here.”

Donald cleared his throat and stepped farther into the High Street. “I planned to visit the Luckenbooths.” He gestured toward the buildings behind her. Anything to draw her attention away from Warriston’s Close. “I’ve a book in mind to order from Mr. Creech.”

“My dear Lord Kerr, has no one told you?” The widow rested her hand on his coat sleeve, then tipped her dark head of curls so near she briefly unseated his hat. “The Luckenbooths are indeed locked on this unfortunate day.” She swept round him so the two were facing in the same direction. “Might you escort me to my lodgings in Swan’s Close?”

“’Twould be an honor.” He did his best to sound sincere for the dowager’s sake. This was one widow whose charms did not tempt him in the least.

Donald headed downhill at a sprightly pace, pretending not to notice Charlotte’s proprietary grip on his arm. Rumors flowed from her lips in an endless stream. Mrs. Rattray this and Lord Semple that and Mr. Noble something else. Did she speak disparagingly of him too?
Lord Kerr thus and so
. His mother knew nothing of his indiscretions. Donald prayed the same could be said for Charlotte Ruthven.

When they reached Swan’s Close, Trotter was waiting for his ladyship inside her stair door, a look of concern on his face. “Beg pardon, Leddy Ruthven, but I didna hear ye leave.”

“I traveled no farther than the Luckenbooths,” she assured her manservant, “and I had a fine escort bring me home.” She squeezed Donald’s arm before he could untangle himself from her grasp.

“Good day to you, madam.” Donald strode off in such haste he
almost collided with a burly cooper rolling a wooden barrel toward the High Street. Then he dodged a barber’s boy toting a freshly styled wig. Was there nowhere he might go for a moment’s peace?

When Donald reached the thoroughfare only to be met by a sea of troubled faces, he plunged headlong down the street, bent on reaching Milne Square without further delay. A quiet afternoon spent with his maps in the privacy of his bedchamber suddenly held great appeal.

He lengthened his stride, like a horse nearing a stable, until he nearly trampled Rob MacPherson coming out of the town guardhouse. Donald stepped back and tipped his hat. “Apologies, sir.”

The tailor’s son regarded him evenly, his dark eyes unblinking. “’Tis guid we’ve met, Lord Kerr. Might I have a wee bit o’ yer time?”

Donald stifled a groan. Would he never reach home? “The Duke’s Head Tavern is not far,” he suggested.

“Nae, a short walk will do.” Rob continued downhill with his lopsided gait. “My faither will be leuking for me at the palace afore lang.”

Donald matched his voice to Rob’s low pitch. “Is the prince expected?”

Rob shook his head. “His Royal Highness willna leave the field o’ battle ’til a’ the deid are buried. ’Twill likely be the morrow afore we see him in Edinburgh.”

An image of Jamie McGill flitted through Donald’s mind. “And the prisoners?”

“Headed for the tolbooth,” Rob answered bluntly.

At least Jamie’s mother could visit him there. “Lady Kerr is most eager to see Simon,” Donald told him. “Should he cross your path, please assure my brother-in-law he is welcome at any hour.”

“Ye’d shelter a Jacobite?” Rob eyed him closely. “I thocht the Kerrs were the staunchest o’ royalists. On Tuesday last ye stood in the midst o’ the Jacobite army, asking if onie present had once been leal to King Geordie.”

Donald grunted. “You’ve a keen memory.”

“It has served me weel.” A hint of a smile crossed Rob’s features, then disappeared. “I’ve reason to believe ye’ve had a change o’ heart.” He
glanced up at the Kerr apartments, then fixed his gaze on Donald. “’Tis why I wanted to speak with ye, Lord Kerr.”

He swallowed, doing his best to sound nonchalant. “Oh?”

Rob did not mince words. “Have ye and yer brither come round to the cause? Certain men have informed me o’ such, and they’re seldom wrong.”

“Spies, you mean.”

Rob shrugged. “If ye like.”

Plagued with uncertainty, Donald stared at the dirty plainstanes beneath his feet. It was risky to support the prince. Perhaps riskier still not to. “I would speak with my brother first,” he said finally. “When you ask me again, Mr. MacPherson, you shall have your answer.”

Twenty-Six

And when the hour strikes, as it must…
I beg you very gently break the news.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

E
lisabeth could not recall a Sabbath when the pews of the Tron Kirk groaned from the weight of so many parishioners. Some folk sought a respite from the noisy street, crowded with returning soldiers bearing whatever spoils they’d claimed from the field, mostly weapons and supplies. Others longed for solace after a crushing defeat at the hands of the Highlanders. Many despaired for their lives and their families. A few came only for the gossip.

Since yesterday Elisabeth had waited impatiently for Simon’s safe return. A tear-stained list of fallen and injured Jacobites had traveled round the taverns. Gibson assured her Simon’s name was not among those tallied. “I leuked up and doon the list,” he promised, “and there was nae Simon and nae Ferguson.” Elisabeth wished she’d seen the list herself, just to be certain. Simon would laugh at her for worrying so.

Hundreds of soldiers, both royalist and Jacobite, had already streamed into the capital. The tolbooth was swollen with prisoners. Englishmen, mostly. Duddingston was once again an army encampment. The last of the prince’s men, including her beloved Simon, were expected in town by day’s end.

Elisabeth cast her gaze about the sanctuary. The Jacobites in the congregation were easy to spot. They were the ones sporting the brightest colors and the broadest smiles. Her royal blue gown well suited the day, with its open robe in polished satin displaying a quilted petticoat. Peacock feathers sprang from the knot of hair on her crown, and over her heart she’d pinned her white cockade. “Be proud, but not prideful,” her mother would say. Elisabeth hoped she’d struck the proper balance, though she might have overdone things a bit.
For you, Simon
.

Marjory and Janet wore solid gray gowns, their unsmiling faces turned toward the pulpit. Both women had shunned Elisabeth since
she’d confessed her allegiance to the prince. Over time she hoped to regain their trust. At the moment Donald’s mother seemed unwilling to look in her direction, let alone speak to her. Would the dowager truly welcome Simon at their door as Donald had promised?

The kirk bells had already tolled the hour, and the precentor had finished lining out the gathering psalm. Elisabeth folded her gloved hands and waited for Reverend Wishart to climb into the pulpit and offer his opening prayer.

She waited a bit longer. Then longer still.

Up and down the pews, anxious words took flight. “Is the reverend not coming?” “Has he taken ill?” “Is he burying the fallen at Gladsmuir?”

Amid the clamor Mr. Hogg rose and slowly walked toward the front. By the time the lecturer climbed into the pulpit and closed the small door behind him, a solemn hush had fallen over the congregation. Without prayer or preamble, he commenced his morning lecture, drawn from Psalms. “Some trust in chariots, and some in horses,” he intoned. “But we will remember the name of the
LORD
our God.”

When he spoke against the Jacobites, murmurs of disapproval swept round the sanctuary. But when he spoke in favor of King George, the crowd remained strangely silent. Elisabeth touched her white cockade and noticed how many others had bloomed on her neighbors’ waistcoats and gowns since the Sabbath last. Could the tide of opinion be turning? Donald had not objected when she appeared at breakfast wearing hers. He had, in fact, winked at her, when no one was paying attention.

Mr. Hogg’s lecture was followed, not by a prayer or a benediction, but with the briefest of announcements. “Reverend Wishart is not present. There will be no sermon.”

The congregation looked at one another, aghast. Would no one shepherd them?

Within the hour the members of Tron Kirk discovered theirs was not the only empty pulpit. Most of Edinburgh’s parish ministers, faithful to King George and fearing for their safety, had retired to the country, refusing to preach while the Highlanders occupied the city.

Of the Kerrs, Marjory was the most upset, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief while her Sabbath meal sat untouched. “I thought Prince Charlie sent all the ministers a letter last night, urging them to carry on as usual?” When all seated round the table assured her they’d heard the same report, she wailed, “Then how could Reverend Wishart abandon us?” Her color high, she quit the dinner table with Janet close on her heels. A moment later the dowager’s bedchamber door closed firmly behind them.

In the wake of silence, Andrew stood. “Well, then,” he said, brushing the crumbs from his waistcoat, “the coffeehouses should have their doors open by now. Join me, Donald?”

Elisabeth gazed at her husband, longing to keep him by her side yet not wanting to encumber him. “Do as you wish,” she said, smiling lest he doubt her sincerity.

Donald reached across the table and took her hand. “I prefer to remain at home. We’re expecting Lady Elisabeth’s brother to appear at our door. In truth, he could knock at any moment.”

Andrew pushed in his chair. “Should I hear any news of import—”

“Aye, aye.” Donald waved him off. “We’ll send Gibson for you the instant Simon arrives. You’ll be pleased to meet my brother-in-law, though he cannot hold a candle to his sister.”

Andrew smiled at her. “I know that’s so, Lady Kerr. I’ll return before nightfall.”

Elisabeth enjoyed a companionable hour with her husband at table while he finished his plate of cold Sabbath fare. She sipped her claret, keeping an eye on the clock.

“Shall we read?” Donald asked her, putting his napkin aside. They both kept books by the fireplace so they would be close at hand whenever the mood struck.

But when Elisabeth looked down, the page before her was a sea of ink, demanding more attention than she could spare. Her thoughts belonged only to Simon. Had Rob MacPherson relayed their message? Would her brother indeed come to Milne Square, or did he have duties that might keep him in Duddingston? How could she be certain he was safely home?

When the clock struck five, she could bear it no longer. “Donald… might you… Is there some way we could…”

He closed his book at once, not bothering to mark the page. “If it will put your mind at ease, Elisabeth, I will gladly send Gibson to Duddingston. Or if you prefer, I will go myself.”

“Oh, Donald,
would you?”

“Aye—”

A knock at the stair door brought them both to their feet. “Simon!” she cried, hastening toward the entrance hall, her concerns forgotten. Marjory and Janet emerged from their bedchambers to see who’d come to call even as Gibson, ever dutiful, was already greeting their visitor.

But it was not Simon after all.

Elisabeth stepped back in surprise when Tom Barrie crossed the threshold. “Lord Kerr, look who’s come to see us! Our friend Mr. Barrie, returned from Gladsmuir.” She ushered the veteran soldier into the dim entrance hall with its single window. His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders. “Simon will be along shortly, aye?”

When Tom raised his head to meet her gaze, his skin was ashen, and his eyes were wet with tears.

A knot of fear tightened round her throat. “Whatever is the matter, Mr. Barrie?” Then she saw the folded cloth in his arms.

A Braemar plaid. Stained with blood.

Twenty-Seven

Tears are the silent language of grief.

VOLTAIRE

E
lisabeth could hardly form the words. “Is Simon… Is he… dead?”

Tom’s lower lip began to tremble.

“’Tis not possible,” she whispered even as she received her brother’s plaid.

Donald quietly slipped his arm round her shoulders. “Elisabeth…”

“Nae!” she moaned, clutching the plaid to her heart. “’Tis not possible, don’t you see?”
Nae Simon and nae Ferguson
. “Gibson said… His name…” She tried to breathe, tried to speak. “His name…was not…” She pushed against Donald’s firm embrace.
Nae, nae, nae!
“Simon cannot be dead. He cannot!”

“Come, dearest.” With some effort her husband guided her to an upholstered chair in the drawing room while the household watched, shocked expressions on their faces.

Elisabeth sank into the cushions, holding Simon’s plaid on her lap. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Not my Simon. Not my dear brother
.