Here Burns My Candle (31 page)

Elisabeth dispatched the caddie on his errand, then found the dowager in the drawing room, pacing back and forth across the carpet.

Marjory motioned Elisabeth closer to the mantelpiece. “Tell me,
Lady Kerr.” Her hazel eyes were filled with concern. “What transpired at the inn?”

Elisabeth pressed her lips tightly together lest she blurt out the truth.
Your son confessed to adultery. And begged my forgiveness
. Instead, she said what she could. “’Twas filthy, crowded, and noisy.”

“I’m not surprised.” Marjory glanced at Janet’s bedchamber door and added, sotto voce, “Your sister-in-law seems most distraught. How was she earlier this evening?”

“Rather out of sorts,” Elisabeth admitted. “But her color was fine and her balance steady. Only when she arrived in the square did she mention feeling nauseous. I suspect the sedan chair—”

“And I suspect something else.” Her mother-in-law had a knowing look in her eyes. “I have long waited for one of my sons to produce an heir.”

Elisabeth’s heart skipped a beat. “You believe Janet is—”

“I do,” Marjory said firmly. “She’s been more irritable of late and seldom breaks her fast before ten in the morning. I was the very same with both my sons.” The dowager clapped her hands together like a woman about to pray. “Isn’t it thrilling?”

Elisabeth managed to nod. “Aye. Thrilling.”

“Andrew may give us some hint on the morrow,” Marjory was saying. “In the meantime we’ll keep a close eye on Janet. Women cannot hide such secrets for very long, you know.” Skirts in hand, Marjory swept into Janet’s bedchamber with Elisabeth dutifully following behind.

The wood-paneled room, smaller than Elisabeth’s bedchamber and with half as many windows, felt snug and warm, the coals in the fireplace still glowing. With Andrew’s weaponry gone, Marjory could not abide having bare walls and so had acquired a series of small oil paintings at auction. “For a song,” she’d confided, “with so many folk leaving town.”

Mrs. Edgar was fussing over her charge, plumping Janet’s bed pillows, then pouring fresh tea in her cup. “Peppermint leaves and chamomile flowers,” the housekeeper said proudly. “The verra best for whatever ails ye.”

“She forced me to eat a dry oatcake too,” Janet said, making a face. “Days old and no butter.”

“My mither wouldna use onie ither remedy,” Mrs. Edgar declared. “Plain and dry. See if ye dinna feel better afore ye sleep.”

Janet exhaled, sinking deeper into her feather mattress.

Mrs. Edgar quit the room, leaving Elisabeth and Marjory to draw their chairs closer to the bed. Janet’s unbound hair fanned across her pillow. A pale violet sleeping jacket framed her wan face.

The dowager spoke first, patting Janet’s hand as she did. “I am glad to see you eat something. You’ve been absent from table the last few mornings.”

Janet turned her head as if embarrassed. “Nae appetite, I’m afraid.”

“Might there be some reason?”

Elisabeth winced, thinking the dowager’s question too probing. A gentlewoman was not usually forthcoming with such intimacies. At least not until her condition was undeniable.

“Though I cannot be certain,” Janet began, slowly turning back to look at them. “There is a chance… quite a
good
chance…”

“I thought so.” Marjory beamed at her daughter-in-law as if Janet had just given birth to three sons. “Your secret is very safe with us. Isn’t that so, Lady Kerr?” The dowager briefly exchanged glances with Elisabeth, then focused all her attention on the apparent mother-to-be. “Andrew must be very proud.”

Janet’s face clouded. “He is more concerned with bearing arms than my bearing his child.”

“Nae,” Elisabeth protested gently. “Even the most zealous Jacobite would rejoice at such news.”

The cloud across Janet’s face turned stormy. “You are the true Jacobite among us, Lady Kerr. If ’twere not for you, our husbands would still be living in Milne Square instead of riding for England.”

Elisabeth chafed beneath her accusation. “Were you not the one writing poetry in honor of the prince?”

“Ladies, that’s quite enough,” Marjory insisted. “My sons have chosen to support the Stuarts, and so have I.” She abruptly stood, ending
further discussion. “Donald and Andrew are brave and noble men, virtuous in every regard. We shall send them off with naught but praise for their courage. Are we agreed?”

“Aye,” they both said, though not quite in unison.

Noble. Virtuous
. Elisabeth knew Donald would ever remain so in his mother’s eyes.

She rose and bid Marjory and Janet good night, then passed through the door into her empty bedchamber. The room was noticeably cooler than Janet’s, the fire reduced to dying embers. At least her thick tapestries held the late autumn winds at bay and contained whatever heat remained.

Mrs. Edgar tapped on the door, then entered with a steaming cup of tea. “Ye leuk a wee bit
dwiny
yerself, milady.” While helping Elisabeth out of her gown, the housekeeper said nothing about her poorly laced stays or her crooked chemise, her tousled hair or her soiled stockings. Mrs. Edgar was especially gentle with soap and cloth, toweling Elisabeth dry as if she were made of porcelain.

She murmured her thanks, certain Mrs. Edgar understood all she could not say.
He took his pleasure. Then he broke my heart
.

When she was alone once more, Elisabeth finished her tea, then blew out the last candle and slipped beneath the covers, waiting for a soft blanket of sleep to settle over her. Tears came instead.

However would she face the day ahead with its twin heartaches? She’d never done anything so difficult before. And she would have to do them both at once.

Forgive her husband, yet bid him farewell.

Trust him, and then let go.

Forty-One

The parting of a husband and wife
is like the cleaving of a heart;
one half will flutter here, one there.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

T
he gloaming would not linger, not on the last day of October when a biting wind blew round every corner and thick, gray clouds scuttled across the early evening sky.

Elisabeth stood in the midst of the prince’s Life Guards, their uniforms crisscrossed with leather bags, their horses saddled and restless. The dowager and Janet had hurried off to find Andrew in the crowded palace forecourt, giving Lord and Lady Kerr a few moments alone. To settle accounts. To say good-bye.

Astride his chestnut gelding, Donald already had the mien of a veteran soldier. His sword hung from a broad tartan belt strapped across his chest, and Gibson had polished his master’s black riding boots until they shone.

“How fine you look,” Elisabeth said, gazing up at her husband.

He touched the brim of his gold-laced tricorne, an intent expression on his clean-shaven face. “May I return the compliment, milady?”

“You may.” She offered him a faint smile, though her heart was anything but light. Within the hour the prince would ride east to Musselburgh with Lord Elcho’s Life Guards and Lord Pitsligo’s regiment, more than four hundred men and their mounts.
And my Donald
.

Elisabeth looked down, lest he mark her distress. She’d returned home last night with her heart in tatters, seeking the strength to forgive him.
For all of it
. Whether she had the courage to do so remained to be seen.

“Lady Kerr?” Her husband dismounted with ease, the brass buttons on his coat catching the last bit of light. “I would know your thoughts.” He stood before her, one hand loosely holding the reins, the other
touching her cheek, his winter gloves a painful reminder of truths spoken and unspoken.

“My thoughts are scattered to the winds,” she finally admitted, not ready to say more.

“’Tis anyone’s guess how far those winds might travel on Hallowmas Eve.” He turned toward the Salisbury Crags, where the brilliant orange flames of a bonfire leaped upward. “On the last of October in Castleton, did you march round with torches?”

She nodded, vividly recalling her brother chasing after the lads from the neighboring glens with burning bracken, then tossing his torch inside a circle of stones. “Simon was all for building the tallest bonfire in the parish. Our mother feared her thatch might go up in smoke.”

Elisabeth felt the loss of Simon keenly that evening. He should have been in Duddingston mustering with the foot soldiers, preparing to march southeast to Dalkeith. Instead, he lay beneath a cairn in a farmer’s field, lost to her forever.

Donald took her gloved hand in his. “Your brother was a fine lad. And a good soldier.”

“He was indeed.” She looked down at her mourning clothes. Come spring, when Mrs. Edgar wrapped her black gown in wormwood, the memory of her brother would remain in her heart, closer than any silk bodice.

“Lady Kerr,” her husband said firmly, “do not imagine I will share his fate.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’ll not even consider the possibility.”

“Nor will I.” He nodded toward the palace. “Six weeks in the capital, yet the prince added very few titled gentlemen to his ranks.”

He added you
. A thread of guilt tugged at her heart, pulled more tautly by Janet’s accusation.
You are the true Jacobite among us, Lady Kerr
. Would Donald have taken such a risk without her influence? From childhood Elisabeth had longed for the Stuarts to regain the throne. Then she’d lost Simon. Now Donald was leaving.

Return to me
. That’s what she wanted to say to him.
Come home
.

The bells of Saint Giles began chiming the hour. At five o’ the clock
the sky had grown darker than Donald’s midnight blue coat. When the last bell echoed through the air, he surprised her with a song.

The night is Hallowe’en, lady,
The morn is Hallowday.

Recognizing the auld ballad, Elisabeth finished the verse, while Donald listened.

Then win me, win me, and ye will,
For well I know ye may.

He inclined his head. “Shall I indeed win you back, Lady Kerr?”

Only then did she pay heed to the words she’d sung:
win me, win me
. ’Twas one thing to forgive a man, quite another to surrender to him. She lowered her gaze.
You ask too much, Donald
.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “I’ll not break your heart again. I can promise you that.”

“You’ve made a great many promises, milord.” Elisabeth regretted the words the moment they were spoken. But when she started to apologize, Donald lightly touched her lips.

“Nae, Bess. What you say is true. I’ve made too many vows and broken most of them. Save one.” Then he kissed her, and in his kiss she tasted tenderness and passion and regret. “I love you, Bess. You alone and no other.”

Because she loved him, she believed him. All that remained was to forgive him.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark with a different sort of longing. “Will you—” His horse suddenly stamped the ground, yanking him from her.

Round the forecourt, guardsmen were mounting their horses. She could delay no longer. If Donald meant to ride for England with her forgiveness in his pocket, she alone could place it there.

She glanced up, thinking to look for the waning moon.
Nae
. The strength to forgive her husband could not be found in the night sky. Nor could she hope to manage on her own. Touching her forehead to
Donald’s chest, she closed her eyes.
Please
. If there were words she was meant to say, she did not know them.
Help me
.

In the crowded, noisy forecourt, an answer came.
Hearken unto me
.

Elisabeth stilled.
Aye
. She’d heard this voice before, comforting her the night she learned of Simon’s death.
Hear, and your soul shall live
. Every part of her listened now, as if she were taking a long drink of water or a deep breath of air, drawing it in.

Drop by drop the well of silence inside her began to fill.
My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God
. Elisabeth did not fully understand the words. Yet she sensed the truth of them.
Great is thy mercy
. If this living God offered boundless mercy, could she let it flow through her like water, like wind?

Donald lifted her head until their gazes met. “Please, Bess.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, then gently kissed her brow. “Forgive me?”

In the murky darkness she saw the sheen in his eyes. Or perhaps the tears were hers.

Donald, my sweet Donald
.

He was not always honest. He was not always good. Yet he loved her in his own way. And she loved him completely.

“You are forgiven,” she whispered, then touched her mouth to his, tasting the salt in his tears.

Forty-Two

There exists no cure for a heart
wounded with the sword of separation.

HITOPADESA

M
arjory could not take her eyes off her sons, even though her heart was breaking. Mounted on fine horses, their shoulders squared and their heads held high, Donald and Andrew were as bonny as the young prince they served and every bit as courageous.

My sons
.

Had they truly fit in her arms once, their heads nestled in the crook of her elbow? Had they climbed into her lap and pressed their sticky hands against her cheeks? Marjory could barely imagine it, looking at them now.

She sensed their father, Lord John, standing beside her, admiring the fair-haired, blue-eyed lads they’d nurtured to manhood.
They look like soldiers, milord. They look like you
. Marjory valiantly fought back tears, gladly enduring the cold and the dark for one more minute with her precious sons.

They were hardly alone. A vast throng filled the palace grounds to witness the end of the rebel occupation. Thousands had come on foot, in carriages, on horseback to shout, to cheer, to weep.