Here Burns My Candle (24 page)

“You cannot fight for Charlie!” his mother pleaded.

His gaze bore down on her. “Would you have me fight for Johnnie Cope?”

“Nae! I would not have you fight at all.” Marjory collapsed onto the nearest chair like a canvas sail bereft of wind.

Elisabeth knelt beside her mother-in-law, lightly resting her hand on the small of her back. There was nothing she could say or do to comfort her. But she could stand by her.

The next two hours were a blur of activity as Andrew returned home from Angus’s shop, boasting of the handsome uniforms they would wear and the fine weapons they would carry. If he had any concerns about being fit to enlist, Andrew did not voice them. His mother’s anguished pleas did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.

When dinner was served at one o’ the clock, Elisabeth dutifully moved a small amount of food from fork to mouth but did not taste it. Instead she sat close to her husband, thinking of excuses to brush her hand against his, capturing his gaze whenever possible. They would have
very little time together before his departure. A few quiet words, a lengthy embrace, and Donald would be gone from her side.

At half past the hour, Donald and Andrew were at the stair door, depositing muskets into the arms of two lads dressed in rags, both eager for the coins they would earn that afternoon. The men had already bid farewell to their mother, who’d retired to her bedchamber, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

Mrs. Edgar and Gibson slipped into the kitchen, allowing the couples a moment of privacy. Andrew drew his wife aside, and Donald did the same, wrapping Elisabeth in his embrace and cradling her against his chest.

After a long moment Donald said softly, “I’m sorry, Bess…” His voice broke. “Sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you as a husband.”

She stood on tiptoe to press her cheek to his. “You have not failed me, Donald. Not if you love me.”

With a low groan he pulled her closer still. “I do love you. God help me, I do.” His mouth found hers, and nothing more was said.

Thirty-Two

Words are women, deeds are men.

GEORGE HERBERT

H
olding the book of sonnets in her hand, Marjory carefully guided Donald’s paper knife along the folded edge, letting the curved blade do its work, freeing the page to reveal the printed text. Odd that Donald had not finished opening the leaves himself.

She’d borrowed his whetstone to sharpen the narrow blade, trying not to let her thoughts dwell on the swords her sons carried. Sharp enough to wound. Sharp enough to kill.

She quickly laid down the paper knife.
Think of something else, Marjory
.

September had ended, and October had begun. In the week since her sons’ enlistment, she’d done nothing but worry. Were they eating well? Were their tents dry and their plaids warm? Were they safe from harm? She’d not slept well since their departure. How could she when her sons lay beneath a moonless sky without wives or servants to attend them?

Marjory put aside the book of sonnets, too tired to read and too restless to sleep, even at that late hour.

Janet fled their quiet house each forenoon, seeking the companionship of her young friends. She remained abroad, feasting on teacakes and gossip until the supper hour, then chattered all through the meal and retired early, exhausted from her daily ventures into society. If she pined for Andrew, Janet kept that sentiment entirely to herself.

Elisabeth was still in deep mourning for her brother. She’d heard nothing from home, and the tailor’s son had yet to return. A sad business, delivering such news. Most days Elisabeth remained withindoors, stationed by the drawing room window, embroidering or sewing from dawn until dusk. Such dreary, solitary work! To her credit, Elisabeth quickly put aside her needle whenever Marjory required attention: to brush the tangles from her hair, to read poetry to her, or to engage in a
round of piquet. Elisabeth, an expert player, had far more patience with the French card game than Janet, who grew bored long before they reached the obligatory hundred points.

Marjory reached for her playing cards whenever she pleased now that public worship on the Sabbath was no longer permitted. Instead, the sanctuaries were filled with soldiers—some wounded, some prisoners. How very strange on Sunday last to drink tea well into the morning, looking out at a deserted square, listening for a kirk bell that never rang.

As for afternoon tea at Lady Woodhall’s, Marjory couldn’t possibly join them again after her unfortunate exchange with Charlotte Ruthven. Nae, not an exchange. A diatribe and one-sided at that. Marjory felt certain she was the sole topic of conversation on Monday last, served up like shortbread, flavored with scandalous tidbits about her beloved Donald. Just as well she did not attend, though Mondays would never be the same.

Wrapping her sleeping jacket round her shoulders, Marjory quit her bedchamber and picked up a single burning taper to light her way. When she reached the drawing room, she glanced at Janet’s chamber door in passing and saw no light along the threshold. Sound asleep, then. Gibson, too, was curled up in his folding bed in the entrance hall, snoring too loudly to notice his mistress tiptoe past him.

When she pushed open the door to the kitchen, Marjory found Mrs. Edgar perched on a stool beside the wooden dresser, a long table used for dressing meat. Scrubbed clean, it doubled as the housekeeper’s desk. She was huddled over the day’s broadsheet, squinting at the small print, holding a candle as close to the paper as she dared.

“Mrs. Edgar?”

“Och!” She stood so quickly her tall stool threatened to topple over. “How may I serve ye, mem?”

Marjory scanned the dimly lit kitchen for some reasonable excuse to offer. Finding none, she spoke the truth. “I couldn’t sleep and thought, if you were awake, you might not object to company.”

“Weel, then.” Mrs. Edgar curtsied and patted the lone stool, a tacit invitation to sit. “Is it tea ye’ll be wanting? I’ve coriander biscuits, if ye like. And a wee slice o’ hard cheese, if ye’re feeling peckish.”

A late-night repast was quickly prepared. Mrs. Edgar held up the tray, tipping her head as she asked, “Would ye prefer to sit at yer tea table?”

Marjory hesitated. She
would
be more comfortable. But she would also be alone. “Add a second cup and join me,” she finally said, surprising even herself.

“Aye, mem.” Her housekeeper’s eyes were as round as the dishes on her tray.

A moment later the two women were sipping tea in her bedchamber. Marjory noticed that Helen sat on the edge of the chair as if she were uncertain of her place. “Mrs. Edgar, I’ve not read the
Evening Courant
. What news might you share?” Reading was a source of great pride for Helen. Such a discussion might put her at ease.

“Weel, mem,
syne
ye asked.” The housekeeper folded her hands in her lap as neatly as any lady. “Monie folk are flitting to the countryside, taking a’ their effects.”

Marjory had seen the exodus firsthand. “We could do the same,” she admitted, gazing at the dark windows facing the High Street. “Return home to Selkirkshire until the rebellion ends. You’ve not been to Tweedsford, but it’s a fine estate.”

She’d mentioned the possibility to Donald and Andrew before their departure, but they’d been adamant: Edinburgh was their home now. Under no circumstances was she to think of moving forty miles away, especially not when a brief visit from their wives could sometimes be arranged.

Their stubbornness chafed at Marjory. When had her sons become so headstrong?

“I’ve niver seen the Borderland,” Mrs. Edgar admitted.

“You’ll find the counties to the south far greener than Edinburgh,” Marjory told her. “The hills are lush and rolling, the rivers and
burns
are lined with trees, and the gardens rival any in Scotland.”

Mrs. Edgar gave her a timorous smile. “How
loosome
ye make it a’ sound, mem.”

Marjory nodded absently. “I was born there. So was my late husband, and so were our sons.”

“Hame is kindlier than onie place else,” Mrs. Edgar said, then drained her teacup.

Home
. Marjory seldom thought of it kindly. Too rural, too quiet, too isolated. But with her sons risking the family’s claim on Tweedsford, more drastic measures might be required to guard their estate. She eyed her writing desk across the room. Come the morning she would see what could be done.

“I’ll leave ye to yer bed, mem.” Mrs. Edgar curtsied, tea tray in hand. “Thank ye for…weel, thank ye.” She curtsied again and left at once, the dainty china cups dancing in their saucers.

Marjory woke to a sharp autumn chill in her bedchamber. She bathed in haste, grateful for the steaming pitcher of water by her washbowl. Mrs. Edgar had come and gone without waking her. By the sound of it, the housekeeper was busy next door, dressing Elisabeth in her mourning gown.

Remembering the dreadful twelvemonth that followed Sir John’s passing, Marjory hoped never to wear black again. Even the latest fashion—black silk embroidered with crimson flowers—held little appeal.

She tapped on the adjoining door, summoning her housekeeper.

“I’ll not be a moment,” Mrs. Edgar promised, then was as good as her word, slipping through the door before Marjory had finished cleaning her teeth, using a frayed bit of licorice root daubed in cream of tartar. She rinsed the bitter taste from her mouth, then submitted to Mrs. Edgar’s ministrations, donning a simple cranberry-colored gown with only a touch of lace edging the square neckline.

No need for ribbons and bows when her vital task of the day was to pen a letter. She’d promised her sons she would not write Holyrood-house informing the prince of Andrew’s health concerns. But she’d made no such vow regarding Lord Mark Kerr, the Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle.

Having risen to the rank of general, Lord Mark surely understood the appeal of military life. He would know how to speak to her sons and
convince them of the very real danger they faced if this Jacobite rebellion failed as others had before it. The Kerr lands and title would be forfeit, if not her sons’ lives. Wasn’t Viscount Kenmure summarily tried, found guilty, and beheaded for supporting the Stuart cause in 1715? And could the same not happen to Donald and Andrew?

Her stomach clenched at the mere thought.
Not my sons. Never my sons!

“Will ye want a cooked breakfast, Leddy Kerr?”

“Nae.” Marjory pressed a hand to her waist. “Something lighter. Oatcakes, if they’re fresh. But I’ve a letter that needs writing first. Tell the others I’ll join them in a bit.”

Alone for the moment, Marjory carried her wooden writing desk across the room and placed it on her tea table, hoping to capture what morning light she could. Once seated, she inked and blotted her sharpened quill, then composed her thoughts, praying for the right words to persuade this man she barely knew but whose assistance she desperately needed.

To General Lord Mark Kerr, Governor of Edinburgh Castle
Thursday, 3 October 1745

My Dear Lord Mark,

I would never presume to take advantage of the distant relations between your noble family and that of my late husband, Lord John Kerr of Selkirk.

No doubt Lord Mark would see through her artifice, knowing she fully intended to exploit the family ties that bound them, however thin. She’d met him on a handful of occasions, all of them formal, with little chance for discourse. He would remember her, though; she was certain of it.

I come to you as an anxious mother of two sons, Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr, whose recent behavior may well dishonor the family name and bring into question our long allegiance to King George.

She could hardly put things more plainly. Even if Lord Mark did not give a fig what happened to her sons, he would care very much if they soiled the name
Kerr
.

Both my sons have imprudently aligned themselves with the Young Pretender. They have enlisted in his service and reside within his camp at Duddingston, where rebellion against the crown is their daily portion.

Marjory nodded at the paper, pleased with her wording. Identifying Charles Edward Stuart as pretender rather than prince would sit well with Lord Mark. But the news of her sons’ deep involvement would not. She was counting on a heated response that would stir Lord Mark to action.

A brief letter from your hand impressing upon my sons the gravity of their decision might put a swift and welcome end to things. My own pleas have been ignored, yet I am confident they will heed your advice above all others’.

Honesty was always the wisest course. Flattery helped too. She closed with a reminder of their familial bond in the meekest words she could think of.

I will be ever grateful for any courtesy you might extend to these, your relatives and my beloved sons.

Your faithful, humble servant,
The Dowager Lady Marjory Kerr
Milne Square, Edinburgh

Marjory signed her name with a flourish of ink, then wondered if her sweeping script might negate any claim to humility. She cast a sprinkling of sand across the page and let the ink thoroughly dry before shaking the loose grains into the fireplace.

“Leddy Kerr?” Mrs. Edgar was at her door. “Ye’ve a caddie here w’ a letter from Duddingston.”

Marjory quickly sealed her outgoing letter, then hurried to the
entrance hall. A young lad in shabby clothes waited for her, as did the rest of the household, eager for news. The caddie held out a folded letter and an open palm, then grinned, his teeth surprisingly white.

“You’ll wait while I read it?” she asked, depositing a coin in his hand.

“Oh, aye, mem.” He slipped the ha’penny into his pocket. “I’ve a letter for Leddy Kerr as weel.”