Here Burns My Candle (22 page)

Elisabeth blushed at her praise, the first color Marjory had seen in her wan cheeks in several days.

“You also have a talent for costume,” Mrs. Sinclair said, replacing the pillow. “I trust you are still sewing.”

“On occasion,” Elisabeth said, though she did not elaborate.

Marjory hastened to add, “Miss Callander in Lady Stair’s Close usually fashions our gowns.”

“Miss Callander?” Mrs. Sinclair’s voice lifted another half octave. “What a pity when you have such a gifted seamstress beneath your own roof.”

Marjory opened her mouth and, having no proper answer, closed it again. She could not deny her daughter-in-law’s talents. But Marjory shuddered to think of anyone outside the household knowing that
Elisabeth stitched many of her own gowns, let alone that she’d once earned silver with her needle. Heaven forbid!

“I fear I have overstayed my welcome.” Mrs. Sinclair was already standing. “Might I ask one favor, my dear Lady Kerr? Several of my scholars have written poetry in honor of His Royal Highness.” She produced a narrow roll of writing papers. “You are far more likely than I to have an audience at Holyroodhouse. The young ladies would be most grateful if you delivered their poems to the prince.”

After sitting in a glassy-eyed stupor through most of the conversation, Janet came to life. “Oh! Might I read them?”

Mrs. Sinclair hesitated only a moment before placing them in Janet’s eager hands. “If you wish.”

Elisabeth promised to see them delivered posthaste, even as Marjory shot her older daughter-in-law a pointed look. Whatever had possessed Janet, behaving so rudely? Too much claret, perhaps.

Farewells were said and curtsies exchanged before Gibson escorted Mrs. Sinclair to the door. Marjory and Elisabeth both sank into their upholstered chairs, their energy spent from endless rounds of well-meaning visitors.

“A nap is in order.” Janet exited the drawing room without further comment, Effie Sinclair’s poems in hand.

When she was well out of earshot, Marjory leaned toward an exhausted Elisabeth. “Do forgive your sister-in-law. She is not accustomed to offering sympathy.”

Elisabeth nodded slowly. “You, however, have been a great comfort.”

The compliment took her aback. “I am glad,” Marjory finally said. “I keep thinking of your poor mother. ’Twould be the saddest hour of a woman’s life, losing a son.”

“Or losing a husband.” Elisabeth’s tender voice struck a chord. “You must have suffered greatly when Lord John—”

“Aye.” Marjory pressed her lips together, hoping to put an end to the matter. She could speak of many things but not of Lord John.

Gibson appeared at the door to announce a new visitor. “Leddy Ruthven.”

Marjory inwardly groaned.
Charlotte, of all people
. She was in no
mood for the woman’s gossip. And Charlotte would not be pleased that she’d ignored her letter. Nae, she would not. Whatever friendship they’d once enjoyed had faded into mere tolerance for the sake of society. Few hostesses genuinely welcomed Charlotte’s company.

Even Elisabeth was standing near her bedchamber door, poised to make her escape. “Ladies, I hope you will excuse me—”

“Very well.” Lady Ruthven sailed across the drawing room, waving her gloved hand. “’Tis your mother-in-law I’ve come to see, though you have my deepest sympathy. A Jacobite brother. Such a terrible loss.”

Elisabeth murmured her thanks and quit the room as Lady Ruthven deposited her scarlet cape in Gibson’s hands and smoothed her billowing skirts, festooned with an alarming number of ribbons and bows.

Marjory eyed the clock. “Perhaps you’ve already had your tea?”

“I have not. Will it be seedcake, then?” Charlotte made herself at home by the fire while Marjory dispatched Mrs. Edgar to prepare a tray. “We missed you at Lady Woodhall’s on Monday,” Charlotte began, “but of course your place was here.”

“It was,” Marjory said firmly. “I’m sure the three of you had much to discuss.”

“Naturally.” Charlotte eased back against the chair cushions as if settling in for a long afternoon. When the tea tray appeared, Charlotte added a generous dollop of honey to her cup, then let Mrs. Edgar put three slices of seedcake on her plate before feigning her dismay. “Please, ’tis too much.”

Marjory took a small bite and chewed it at length. Anything to avoid further conversation. The sweet cake was flavored with nutmeg and laced with brandy. Too rich for Marjory’s taste but well suited to Charlotte’s.

When they had the drawing room to themselves, Lady Ruthven quickly got to the point of her visit. “I’ve been expecting to see you at my door. Did you not receive my note?”

Your summons, you mean?
Marjory kept her voice even. “Your note was received and read at once. But my family has needed me every hour since.” Not
every
hour perhaps but most of them.

“So you say.” Charlotte looked down her none-too-attractive nose.

“If Lord Kerr’s reputation does not concern you, I’ll not bother you with details.”

“Come, come,” Marjory scolded her lightly. “Naturally I’m concerned.”

“You should be.” Charlotte lowered her voice, eying the adjoining doors before she continued. “On the Sabbath before last, I saw Lord Kerr stroll through the Lawnmarket with Mrs. Susan McGill, a widow of dubious repute.”

Marjory had heard such tiresome stories before. Invariably a young widow was involved. On the High Street. At Assembly Close. In Mr. Creech’s bookshop. Nothing untoward ever occurred. Donald was merely seen in the vicinity of a woman who was not his wife.

“Did he kiss this widow?” Marjory asked her guest bluntly. “Escort her into a tavern? Press her against the tolbooth wall?”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “Marjory, really! I never—”

“Indeed.” Marjory stood so quickly she surprised herself. “I am weary of lies being tattled about by small-minded folk who have nothing but time in their pockets.”

“But I—”

Marjory held up her hand, unwilling to hear more. “Lord Kerr is handsome, wealthy, charming, and titled. Naturally women flock to him, whatever their station. Nonetheless, he is faithful to his wife and a devoted son to me.” Hot tears stung her eyes. “If you have finished your tea, Charlotte, I have a grieving daughter-in-law to console. Gibson will see you out.”

What have I done?

Marjory leaned against her bedchamber door, her heart in her throat. Lady Ruthven had departed in a state, wool cape swinging, eyes blazing with indignation. Marjory had meant to silence the woman. Instead, she’d likely spurred Charlotte to take her revenge, spreading rumors like marmalade on toast—juicy and thick.

“Mother?” Donald’s voice, following a light tap on her door.

Marjory quickly washed her hands, still sticky from the seedcake,
then shook the crumbs from her skirts and bid him enter. Her words burst forth before she could contain them. “Donald, I’m afraid Lady Ruthven—”

“I know.” A broad grin stretched across his face. “Andrew and I passed her on the stair. That is to say, she nearly ran us down. Whatever did you put in the woman’s tea?”

Marjory huffed. “She came here not to offer condolences to your wife but to peddle a barrow full of rubbish about you and the Widow McGill.”

His eyes widened ever so slightly. “And you sent her packing?”

“I suppose I did.” Marjory fell back a step, touching her brow. “I… spoke rather plainly, Donald.”

“Well done,” he said, though something in his tone suggested otherwise.

Shame warmed her cheeks. “I am not certain what came over me. ’Twill be difficult to show my face at Lady Woodhall’s come Monday.”

“Perhaps the time has come to expand your social circle.” He paused before adding, “The Traquair ladies would gladly make you welcome at Holyroodhouse.”

“Those…Jacobites?” Marjory said, appalled at the thought. Only then did she see the
Caledonian Mercury
tucked under his arm.

Donald held up the broadsheet with a flourish. “Come, let me read to you.” Before she could protest, he led her into the drawing room, where Andrew stood by the fire, sipping tea. “Brother, ’tis time our mother heard from the prince himself.”

Andrew saluted them with his teacup. “See to it, then.”

Stunned, Marjory watched Donald unfold the traitorous newspaper. How had it come to this? Her sons turning their backs on all she held dear?

He read the prince’s words with due solemnity, “Gentlemen, I have flung away the scabbard. With God’s assistance I don’t doubt of making you a free and happy people.”

“But we’re already free and happy,” Marjory cried, feeling her sons pulling away from her like ships no longer anchored to port. “Do we or do we not honor King George in this household?”

“We should honor the
rightful
king,” Andrew said with certainty.

“Aye.” Donald slapped the folded paper against his leg. “I, for one, intend to support the king chosen by God. With my sword, if necessary.”

Marjory stared at him in horror. “Son, you cannot… nae, you
must
not fight.”

“We can, Mother,” Andrew insisted. “And if our bonny prince will have us, we shall.”

Thirty

Come Donald, come a’ thegither
And crown your rightfu’, lawfu’ king!

CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY NAIRNE

T
he crowd eddied round Donald in the Lawnmarket as he studied the enlistment notice, thrust into his hand by a Jacobite soldier. A fortnight ago he would have crumpled the paper and tossed it into the nearest fire. Now every word seemed written for his benefit.

Abbey of Holyroodhouse, 26 September 1745…

Dated that very day. The printer’s ink might yet smear under his thumb.

All those who are willing to take arms…

Staring blankly at the wooden facades lining the street, he searched his heart and mind. Was he willing to take up arms? Andrew certainly was. Donald had left his brother at Milne Square cleaning his French muskets.

To the deliverance of their country…

This phrase gave him pause. Did he mean to fight for Scotland? For Prince Charlie? Or to prove he was a gentleman worthy of his title? Donald hadn’t yet sorted out his many reasons, but he wanted—nae,
needed
—to enlist, of that he was certain.

Repair this day at two in the afternoon…

Three hours hence. Sufficient time to enjoy his last dinner at home, polish his steel, and march with Andrew to Holyroodhouse to begin their new life. A soldier’s life.

Donald slid the notice inside his waistcoat, taking care not to bend the corners. Elisabeth might be glad to have the paper. Women
sometimes kept such things. A lock of Simon’s hair wrapped in paper rested in a corner of her jewelry box. She’d unfolded it many times that week and gingerly traced the brown curl, her eyes moist with tears.

Donald started for Milne Square, more determined than ever. He would brook no further arguments from the Dowager Lady Kerr. Were he and his brother not grown men, able to decide their own futures? Their mother had wept on and off for two days, twisting her handkerchief into a soggy knot and growing more hysterical by the hour. Donald had fled for the Lawnmarket that morning, seeking a moment’s peace, while Andrew had retreated to his bedchamber, polishing cloth in hand.

Now that his mind was thoroughly fixed on a course of action, Donald could face the dowager again, if only to assure her. With one decisive battle the Jacobites already held sway over Scotland. England would succumb in short order, and the Kerr brothers would return home victors, their lands and title well protected. Wasn’t security what their mother desired? They would see to it, then.

He crossed the street at Old Bank Close, with its handsome row of houses and turreted stairs. The air was mild for late September and decidedly fresher since the scavengers had returned with their wheelbarrows. Thin clouds, like muslin, stretched above the chimney tops. A large flock of swallows with their distinctive, two-pronged tails flew southward, as if pointing the way for the prince’s army.

Donald lengthened his stride past the mouth of Libberton’s Wynd, where Barbara Inglis lodged. He’d not seen the red-haired widow in a twelvemonth. They’d traded glances in a crowded oyster cellar, nothing more. Yet, to hear Lady Ruthven tell it, he was slipping into some widow’s bedchamber thrice weekly and twice on Sundays. The nerve of the woman!

At least Charlotte Ruthven had not convinced his mother of his many transgressions. Was there ever a more stalwart mother? For Lady Marjory Kerr to concede her son a profligate, two dozen young widows would have to appear at her door bearing blue-eyed, fair-haired bairns and naming him as the father. In seven years of scattering his seed to the four corners of Edinburgh, no such misfortune had occurred. Some men might be concerned. For his part, Donald was relieved.

That afternoon when he passed through the Netherbow Port, he would leave his sordid history behind him—yet another benefit of enlistment.

Approaching the Luckenbooths, he eyed the ground-floor shop where the MacPhersons labored at their tailoring. He’d promised Angus his custom. What better time than the present when he needed a uniform in Jacobite blue?

Donald opened the shop door, a tinkling bell announcing his arrival. The Highlander kept an orderly establishment, though the low ceiling and small front windows made for a dim interior. Thick candles, placed a safe distance from fabric, patterns, and thread, illuminated the smooth-edged wooden cutting table and a tidy sewing cabinet with its many small drawers. Waistcoats and breeches hung from the walls in various stages of repair.

A long looking glass was given pride of place near the front, though the surface was marred with dark patches where the silvering had worn thin. Donald paused to straighten the stock at his neck, more from habit than necessity.

Angus MacPherson appeared a moment later, emerging from his lodgings behind the shop. A band of linen covered with pins lay draped round his neck, and a wide grin split his broad face. “Lord Kerr,” he called out jovially, “have ye come for that new frock coat?”