Here Burns My Candle (27 page)

Busy with her writing, Janet paused long enough to shake her feathery quill at Elisabeth, who sat quietly reading by the fire. “Will you not try your hand at poetry, Lady Kerr?”

“I am afraid I have no gift for it,” Elisabeth said, closing her book. “But ’tis a fine day for sewing. I shall be in my bedchamber should anyone have need of me.” She disappeared with a whisper of black silk.

In seasons past Marjory might have objected, insisting a sewing needle belonged in the hands of a servant. Of late she’d begun to see things differently. If her grieving daughter-in-law found solace in hemming a gown or stitching a seam, so be it. Elisabeth had the sense to work in private, offending no one. Nor did she bring out each finished garment, expecting others to applaud.

“Ah!” Janet said, appraising the lengthy verse before her. “I do believe this will be your favorite.”

The sound of unfamiliar voices in the entrance hall provided a timely escape. “’Twill have to wait, I’m afraid.” Marjory quickly rose to investigate.

When Gibson stepped into the drawing room to announce their visitors, he bore a look of surprise. Nae, of shock. “Catherine Maxwell, Countess o’ Nithsdale, and the Leddies Barbara and Margaret Stuart o’ Traquair.”

Marjory instinctively touched her hair, then the neckline of her very ordinary green gown, wishing she looked more presentable. She’d entertained many a lord and lady but never three daughters of the Dowager Countess of Traquair, whose grand estate stood not ten miles from Tweedsford. Whatever had brought them to her door?

“Lady Nithsdale,” Marjory began, offering a deep curtsy. “What an unexpected honor.” Poetry forgotten, Janet stepped beside her to greet their guests as well, hiding her ink-stained fingers behind her back.

“The honor is ours,” Lady Nithsdale said as all three women curtsied.

Impeccably dressed, the Earl of Nithsdale’s wife and her unmarried twin sisters were as handsome as any portrait, with their dark hair and luminous eyes, their oval faces and full features. All three were perhaps a decade younger than she, Marjory decided. Even standing near a well-lit window, their fair complexions were as smooth as porcelain.

“We meant to call a fortnight ago, after the prince’s ball,” Lady Nithsdale said, her expression most sincere. “Can you forgive us, Lady Marjory?”

“Of course,” she said, her mind spinning.
Forgive a countess!
“Come and have tea, won’t you?” At any hour, in any situation, a pot of black tea was the best recourse. “Janet, kindly invite Lady Elisabeth to join us.” Marjory looked askance at her daughter-in-law’s hands, hoping she understood.
Do something about the ink
.

The six were soon seated round the drawing room table, the Traquair ladies having divested themselves of their cloaks, gloves, and hats. However warm the temperature inside, out of doors the weather was cool, rainy, and bleak. Not at all a day for visiting, yet here they were.

Marjory prayed their morning tea would be up to her guests’ expectations. Mrs. Edgar did not disappoint. Wearing her best apron and cap, she served freshly baked treacle scones, still warm to the touch. Marjory knew the housekeeper had baked them for the afternoon, so she thought it very canny of Mrs. Edgar to serve them now. Barbara Stuart dotted her scone with butter, clearly delighted with the rich texture, while her sister, Margaret, praised their housekeeper’s baking talents. Lady Nithsdale merely smiled, as if enjoying a secret known only to her.

All through tea Marjory nodded at Gibson whenever something was needed.
Hot water. Fresh linens. More scones. Clean spoons
. Each time he followed her pointed gaze, then swiftly did her bidding.

The Kerrs soon discovered Lady Nithsdale’s favorite topic of conversation: her two daughters. “Mary is thirteen, and Winifred, ten,” she explained. “Named after their grandmothers.”

Rather famous grandmothers, as Marjory recalled. Lady Mary gave birth to seventeen children, and Lady Winifred rescued her husband from the Tower of London the night before his execution. Weighty legacies for girls of any age to bear.

“A mother is always happiest with her children beneath her roof,” Marjory said.

Lady Nithsdale sighed expansively. “I
do
miss them, and their father as well. Still,” she said, brightening, “my sisters and I have a duty to our prince while he is in Edinburgh.” She leaned closer, gently easing aside her empty teacup. “You have done far more than your duty, Lady Marjory. Two sons willing to fight for the cause! Would that I had lads of an age to offer His Royal Highness.”

“I did not offer them,” Marjory was quick to say, wanting no credit for their decision. “Lord Kerr and his brother presented themselves at the palace on their own accord.”

Lady Nithsdale lifted one elegant finger. “Ah, but you did not stand in their way. And now that you’ve met the prince, you understand their zeal.”

“I do,” Marjory said, then surprised herself by adding, “and I believe I share it.”

“Well done.” A satisfied look on her face, Lady Nithsdale turned to
Elisabeth, who’d been unusually quiet that morning. “No one at this table has made a greater sacrifice than you, Lady Kerr.”

Elisabeth’s eyes remained dry and her voice steady. “My brother gave his life for a cause greater than himself. I hope my husband will not be required to do the same. Though he is willing—”

“Indeed.” Marjory quickly changed the subject. “Have you news, Lady Nithsdale, of how long the princes men will tarry in Duddingston?”

“We cannot be certain,” the countess replied, exchanging glances with her sisters. “Rumor has it the prince will invade England by month’s end.”

Janet’s eyes widened. “’Tis but a week.”

“Aye,” Barbara sighed. “We’ll surely soak our handkerchiefs with tears when the officers leave.”

“Oh, we shall,” her sister Margaret agreed. “They are ever so courageous.”

Marjory knew the Traquair ladies enjoyed daily forays to the palace, making themselves at home in the Duke of Hamilton’s apartments with Margaret Murray of Broughton, the beautiful Lady Kilmarnock, and the fair-haired Lady Ogilvie.

Might
she
be invited to join their illustrious circle? Was that the purpose of this visit?

Marjory took a quick sip of tea, if only to hide her excitement. Imagine! Mingling with His Royal Highness and his council, who met in the prince’s drawing room each morning to discuss their plans and policies. Everyone knew their names: Gordon, Lochiel, Keppoch, and the rest. Even if ’twere only for a week, Marjory would feast on the memories for a lifetime.

When she looked up, she found Lady Nithsdale studying her closely.

“I wonder, Lady Marjory, if we might speak privately? ’Tis a matter of some urgency.”

“Certainly.”
This is it, then. The invitation
. Marjory stood, aware of her gestures, her posture, hoping the countess would not find her manners wanting. She asked Elisabeth to entertain their guests, then escorted Lady Nithsdale to her chamber, trying to remain calm.

Once they were seated in the best of her upholstered chairs, Marjory
inclined her head in what she hoped might be a flattering pose and waited for the countess to speak first.

“Lady Marjory, what I am about to ask of you is quite confidential.”

“Oh?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

Her brown eyes glowed. “I can think of only a handful of ladies in all of Edinburgh to whom I might extend such an opportunity.”

“You are most kind.” Marjory could no longer contain her smile. She would wear her gold damask tomorrow, her dark pink silk on Saturday, and her flowered chintz on Sunday. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

Lady Nithsdale lightly touched Marjory’s sleeve. “As I am sure you are aware, the prince’s council meets each morning.”

“Aye.” Marjory beamed. “So my son has told me.”

“Yesterday their discussion was of particular importance.” The countess lowered her voice. “As you can imagine, mounting a military campaign is very costly.”

“I’m sure it is,” Marjory said, suddenly not sure of anything. Must she pay for the privilege of sipping tea at Holyroodhouse?

The countess pressed on. “You’ve no doubt met Lord Elcho, the prince’s aide-de-camp.”

“I saw him once. At the ball.” Marjory paused, trying to sort out the connection. If Lord Elcho’s approval was required for admission to the prince’s inner chambers, Donald might be of assistance. At the moment she could speak only the truth. “We were not introduced.”

“Easily remedied.” Another one of her dazzling smiles. “Few people know this, but Lord Elcho met with the prince at Gray’s Mill and presented His Royal Highness with a most worthy contribution.”

Marjory nodded yet dared not inquire the sum. Money was hardly an appropriate topic of conversation among gentlewomen.

Then, bold as brass, Lady Nithsdale stated the amount. “Fifteen hundred pounds.”

Marjory’s eyes widened as a slight gasp slipped out.
Fifteen hundred?

“Aye,” the countess agreed, “a fortune to some. But to those of us with property, a wise investment.” The many rings on the countess’s fingers caught the light, winking at Marjory. “You have chosen well, supporting the prince. Now your gold could ensure victory for the right side. Our side.”

My gold
. Marjory’s gaze was drawn to the corner of her woolen carpet where four hundred guineas lay beneath the floor. And there, under the mahogany washstand, another four hundred. Leather purses filled with gold were hidden all over the room. Perhaps she could spare one or two for the prince.

“You have already given your greatest treasure,” Lady Nithsdale reminded her gently.

My sons
. Marjory stood, then slowly walked toward the nearest loose board, as if in a trance. What was money compared to Donald and Andrew?

“When Lord Elcho shared his fifteen hundred pounds, the prince immediately made him his aide-de-camp. Think what His Royal Highness might do for your sons if you made a similar gift to the cause.
Think
, Lady Marjory!”

Marjory closed her eyes, longing to rub her temples, which were already beginning to throb.

If her gold earned the prince’s favor …

If her gold assured her sons a place of honor …

If her gold might keep them safe…

A snippet of truth, learned long ago, flitted through her mind.
With favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield
. Could the Lord alone protect her sons? Or in time of war, was her trust better placed in gold? Something she could touch. Something of value.

Lady Nithsdale was standing beside her now, the scent of lavender wafting from the rich folds of her gown. “When victory comes, as it surely will, the prince will repay you, Lady Marjory. ’Tis not a gift, really, but a loan. What say you, madam? For the sake of your sons?”

A loan
. Marjory took her first full breath in many minutes.
A good man showeth favour, and lendeth
. Aye, that was an easier prospect. She would be investing the family’s gold, not giving it away.

“Lady Nithsdale, if you will kindly repair to the drawing room, I will take a close look at my resources.” Marjory opened the chamber door for her, inclining her head. “I shan’t be long.”

The countess laughed, a bright, musical sound. “I believe ’twill be a treasure worth waiting for.”

Thirty-Six

O moon, thou climb’st the skies!
How silently, and with how wan a face!

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

G
azing out her bedchamber window, Elisabeth heard the clock chime half past four. Already darkness was falling. On the High Street below, folk walked with their heads bent down, fighting the sharp October wind that blew hard from the west. The coffeehouses, taverns, and oyster cellars overflowed with patrons. Many were singing Jacobite ballads, their off-key voices filled with bravado and soaked in ale.

In six weeks Charlie had beguiled the capital, body and soul. Edinburgh Castle still remained in the hands of King George’s men, but from its portcullis downward, the town belonged to the bonny prince.

Elisabeth looked up, searching the eastern sky. Soon the full moon would begin rising, as round and as gold as the dowager’s guineas delivered into the prince’s hands by Angus MacPherson. “’Twould be unthinkable for me to do so in person,” her mother-in-law had explained on Friday last. “I trust Mr. MacPherson to see our gold safely to Holyroodhouse. He’ll make certain Lord Kerr and Andrew are by his side for the…presentation.”

Whatever Lady Nithsdale had said or done to persuade her, the dowager had been most generous, it seemed. The amount was not mentioned, but Elisabeth saw the look in Angus’s eyes when he began stuffing the many leather purses inside his clothing. “His Royal Highness will be verra pleased,” he’d said, a bit flustered, his waistcoat bulging. “I’ll send a caddie, bidding Rob to bring my greatcoat. We’ll take care o’ things, Leddy Kerr. Have nae fear.”

Hours later Angus had returned from the palace with a note from Secretary Murray of Broughton, expressing the prince’s heartfelt gratitude. The dowager had seemed disappointed not to receive a letter in the prince’s hand and even more perturbed that an invitation to morning tea never came from the Traquair ladies. “I cannot simply present myself at
the palace door,” she’d fretted all week long. “Who knows what sort of reception I might find?”

Her agitation was somewhat placated when she learned her sons had advanced in rank, appointed to the prince’s Life Guards under Lord Elcho. Elisabeth was grateful as well. The Life Guards were a prestigious group of gentlemen and merchants assigned to protect the prince. Not only was the position an honorable one; it was also less hazardous. When the time for battle came, they would not lead the charge.

A brief note from Donald was read aloud last evening at supper.

Your gift of Kerr gold secured us fine mounts, French uniforms, and some degree of respect. I hope you will not feel the loss of those guineas too dearly, Mother.