Here Burns My Candle (32 page)

Above the clamor rose the voice of her sons’ commanding officer. Not as old as Donald and certainly not so handsome, David Wemyss, Lord Elcho, was nonetheless impressive with his large, dark eyes and smooth brow. At the moment he was directing his men into orderly lines, no doubt anticipating the prince’s appearance and a swift departure for Musselburgh.

“I must go, Mother.” Andrew shifted his seat on his mount. “My brother is a far better correspondent. Look to his letters for news.”

“So I shall.” Marjory gave him a brave smile, reaching up to touch his sleeve. “I will pray for you both,” she promised. Had she not done
so every night since their enlistment? Nae, since their birth.
Guard them and guide them, according to thy will
.

When Janet stepped forward to bid her husband farewell, she was dry-eyed and stoic. “See that you come home, Mr. Kerr.” She lifted up her gloved hand for a parting kiss, then rested her hand on her waist in a none-too-subtle manner.

Janet styled her delicate condition “a possibility,” but Marjory recognized the signs. A summer baby, she’d decided, and bound to thrive. Even though her daughter-in-law would be seven-and-twenty, Janet was in excellent health.

“Mother?” Donald nudged his horse a step closer, then touched the brim of his tricorne. “May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?”

“Aye,” she quickly agreed. Anything to ease his mind. “You’ll write as oft as you can?”

“I shall, though do not expect a letter soon. I’ve little knowledge of our route and even less of our destination,” he confessed. “Some believe we’ll follow the east road toward Northumberland. Others say we’ll cross to the west and take Carlisle.”

Marjory shuddered.
Take
. The reality of what lay ahead came into sharper focus.

“You will be cautious?” she pleaded, no longer caring if her eyes grew wet with tears. Donald’s musket, his sword, his dirk were not meant for adornment. He would hold them in his hands; he would use them. “Let others engage the enemy in battle,” she begged him, keeping her voice low. “Guard the prince, and you’ll have done your duty.”

When he looked down at her with compassion in his eyes, she realized the absurdity of her request. Did she think her sons would merely ride their horses and sleep beneath the stars? They were soldiers. They would fight.

Donald lightly touched her shoulder. “God be with you, Mother.”

“And with you.” She pressed her handkerchief to her trembling lips.
Make them strong. Keep them safe
.

Donald inclined his head to look past her. “If I might have a last word with Lady Kerr.”

With a guilty start, Marjory stepped back to make room for Elisabeth,
who’d been patiently waiting. Donald’s features softened as he bent down to kiss her. Elisabeth stood on tiptoe, her graceful hands cradling his face.

Marjory tried to look away but could not. How tender they were with each other! Lady Ruthven could gossip all she wished. Donald had but one love.

Elisabeth’s parting words were an ardent plea. “Promise you’ll return to me, Lord Kerr.”

“Nae,” he said with a mock scowl. “You’re to look for a different husband, remember?”

Elisabeth smiled through her tears. “Aye, so I shall.”

Some private understanding, Marjory decided. Though her son
would
be a changed man when he returned. Andrew too. Her throat tightened.

Donald straightened in his saddle, never taking his eyes off his wife. “I’ll not soon forget the words spoken this night.”

“Nor will I,” Elisabeth assured him, her voice breaking. “Go, beloved. Your prince awaits.”

“Godspeed,” Marjory cried softly. She could say no more.

As Donald and Andrew eased their horses through the crowd and maneuvered into position, she strained to keep an eye on their progress until their blue uniforms were lost among the dozens like them. “Come home to me,” Marjory whispered, pressing her hand to her heart, wishing she might mend it, knowing she could not.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, with Gibson not far behind them, the three Kerr women watched the Life Guards prepare to greet their prince. His carriage drew near, a splendid coach-and-four with glass windows and lanterns made of brass. Charles emerged a moment later to the deafening roar of huzzahs, his countenance more radiant than any torchlight.

Without thinking Marjory waved her handkerchief, overcome with emotion at seeing the young prince again. If only his father, James Stuart, were on hand! Surely the exiled king would be as proud of his son that night as she was of hers.

A familiar face momentarily distracted her.

“Yer lealty is weel placed, mem.” Angus MacPherson bowed, then turned to join them in observing the spectacle. “And sae is yer gold.”

“Mr. MacPherson,” Elisabeth said, patting her cheeks dry. “I expected to find you astride a horse this eve, preparing to ride out with the army.”

“Oo aye, and soon I shall be. At my age I may niver have anither chance. Ance I see the prince’s men on the road to Musselburgh, I’ll join the ithers marching southeast to Dalkeith.” The tailor, dressed in a wool greatcoat and riding boots, rocked back on his heels, unbridled pride shining on his face. “We’ll a’ be gone from the toun by morn.”

Marjory sighed at the sad reminder. Edinburgh society had quickly grown accustomed to the royal suppers and balls at Holyroodhouse. With the onset of winter, the capital would be a very dour place indeed.

“Look,” Janet said, nodding toward the prince, who’d abandoned his carriage to lead his mounted guards on foot. “Will he walk all the way, do you suppose?”

“Aye, weel he might,” Angus replied, “for His Royal Highness likes to set a guid example for his men. He’ll sleep at Pinkie Hoose, whaur he spent the nicht after Gladsmuir. ’Tis but five or six miles east o’ here.”

Marjory remembered the old house with its massive square tower, having once ventured out with Lord John for a day of golf on the Musselburgh links. When the prince retired in warmth and comfort beneath the Marquess of Tweeddale’s roof, would her sons sleep on the cold, damp ground? She shivered beneath her cape, wishing she’d sent them each with another plaid.

Elisabeth tugged her hood tighter round her neck. “Will you close your shop?” she inquired of Angus.

“Nae, Rob will carry on at the Luckenbooths. o’ course, he’d rather go with me, but…” His smile faded. “His foot, ye ken. Rob canna ride weel nor march on rough ground.”

When Elisabeth nodded, Marjory saw the sympathy in her eyes. “How disappointed he must be.”

“Have nae fear,” Angus said, quickly regaining his good spirits. “Rob will be serving the prince in his ain way. And there’s not a finer hand
with a needle in Edinburgh.” He tipped his hat. “Excepting yers, Leddy Kerr.”

Marjory bristled at the reference to her daughter-in-law’s former labors. Better those days were long forgotten. Elisabeth was a gentlewoman now.

“I hope ye’ll not mind,” Angus continued, “but I’ve asked Rob to call at yer hoose from time to time. To see that ye’re weel and give ye what news he can.”

Elisabeth nodded. “We’ll be glad for his company, will we not, madam?” She glanced at Marjory as if seeking her consent.

“Your son is welcome to call at Milne Square,” Marjory assured him. They were tradesmen, aye, but they’d duly served the Kerr family.

“Rob kens which messengers are to be trusted with a letter,” Angus said. “He’ll be honored to do whatsomever ye need. The prince is grateful for yer sacrifices, Leddy Kerr.”

Marjory lowered her gaze lest he see the fear in her eyes. Her gold was no real sacrifice. But she would not give up her sons.

From the distant High Street, the bells of Saint Giles marked the hour of six as the last of the prince’s men turned onto the road heading east.

Forty-Three

Words are mighty,
words are living

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

E
lisabeth was numb.

She hovered as close to her bedchamber fireplace as she dared, shivering from cold and exhaustion, unwilling to shrug off her wool cape until some feeling returned to her stiff fingers and toes.

The evening had ended badly. Once the prince departed Holyroodhouse and the immense crowd dispersed, an empty sedan chair could not be found, not even with a whole fistful of sixpence to offer. Poor Gibson was beside himself. The Kerr party had little choice but to trudge home, arriving in Milne Square with icy feet and chapped faces.

Elisabeth’s heart and mind seemed frozen as well. Donald was truly gone. Not a half mile downhill but many miles away with no promise of when he might return. Yet she had asked for help and received it. She had said, “You are forgiven,” and meant it.

A voice had stirred inside her. No mistaking that.

Mrs. Edgar came up behind her with a cautious step. “Leddy Kerr, if I may.” She gently lifted the cape from her shoulders. “I’ll have Gibson add mair coals to yer grate.”

“Our dear Mrs. Edgar.” She smiled down at her. “However would we manage without you?”

A moment later Gibson appeared with the coal bucket. He held a handkerchief pressed to his nose, his cheeks still red from the cold night air. “Will there be anything else, milady?”

“Aye.” Elisabeth noted his sagging shoulders. “A good night’s rest for you.”

“Bliss ye,” he said with a weary smile, then bowed and took his leave.

Elisabeth closed her eyes.
Finally. Alone
.

She eased out of her mourning gown and the usual array of petticoats, glad Donald was not on hand to see her ungraceful efforts. At least
her whalebone stays, laced in the front, were easily undone, as were the tapes securing her pocket hoops. When nothing remained but her linen chemise, she pulled the pins from her hair and bathed herself at the washbowl, grateful for the hot water but less so for the chilly air. Brushing her hair beside the fireplace, warmed by the rising heat, she finally stopped shivering.

As she finished the last few strokes, Elisabeth absently scanned the row of leather-bound volumes that lined the mantel before her. Scottish poets, mostly: Barbour, Dunbar, Barclay, Lindsay, Thomson. She loved hearing Donald read his favorite verses aloud, enjoying the cadence of them, the varying tempos, like music without notes.

Her brushing slowed as she considered again the words that poured into her heart in the palace forecourt earlier that evening:
Hearken unto me
. Nae, they were not merely words; they were poetry.

On impulse Elisabeth reached for the nearest book at hand, Ramsay’s
Tea-Table Miscellany
, and began paging through, thinking to find something akin to what she’d heard echoing inside her. She paused at a verse Donald once read to her with a bemused expression on his face.

Altho’ I be but a country lass,
Yet a lofty mind I bear—O,
And think myself as good as those
That rich apparel wear—O.

A clever appraisal but nothing at all like the words she’d heard.

As she replaced Ramsay’s
Miscellany
, Elisabeth eyed the thick family Bible, which lay turned on its side, lest it tumble into the fireplace and take the others with it. Donald once said his father had treasured the Scriptures and read from them nightly. Now the sacred writings were seldom touched in the Kerr household, though her mother-in-law could quote long passages when it suited her. Words she’d learned as a child, the dowager explained. Words that had mattered a great deal to her once.

Elisabeth opened the heavy book, carefully balancing it on the broad mantelpiece. She turned the leaves, the paper faded with age, the print small but still legible. Near the center were pages upon pages of poetry. Her gaze alighted on one verse among the many.

When I consider thy heavens,
the work of thy fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which thou hast ordained.

Her eyes widened. ’Twas the same voice she’d heard that evening. Different words, yet surely from the same source, infused with truth and with power. And there was her old friend, the moon.
Ordained
, the verse said, by
thou
. Meaning the Nameless One? When Elisabeth reached the last verse, she found her answer.

O LORD our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!

Thy name
. She stared at the page, trying to reconcile what she’d always thought to be right with what the Bible said to be true. The One who ordained the moon was not nameless. He was the One to whom Reverend Wishart prayed by name. The Lord, the Almighty.

Elisabeth closed the book with a soft thud, though her confusion was not so easily put aside. Why would the Almighty speak to her when she’d always sought the counsel of another?

Help me
. That was all she’d said. So few words.

But Someone had heard. And Someone had answered. Perhaps even now the Almighty was present in her bedchamber. Watching over her. Listening to her.

Unnerved by the thought, she quickly blew out the candles round the room, then slipped beneath the covers, and waited for the night to wrap her in its silent embrace.

Elisabeth rose later than she meant to, lulled back to sleep by the steady rain ushering in a cold, wet November day.

Her mother-in-law’s light tapping at the door had awakened her. “You’ve been hiding from us all morning,” Marjory chided her gently. “Come have tea.”

Elisabeth dressed in haste and joined them at the dowager’s table. Janet and Marjory were both wearing green costumes of different hues. Elisabeth eyed the gold silk edgings on Marjory’s gown, the cream-colored lace on Janet’s. She was content to wear her black gown, but her fingers itched to create something new with her needle. Perhaps that afternoon she would see what might be done with the blue watered silk in her clothes press.

Mrs. Edgar sailed into the chamber with her tea tray. “Ye’ll not go hungry this forenoon.” Cinnamon, ginger, and clove mingled in the air as she served her rich gingerbread brimming with sultanas. If Janet’s appetite was any indication, her morning queasiness was well ended.