Here Burns My Candle (35 page)

I hope so. Oh, I pray so
. Marjory pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, afraid to speak.

When they reached Baillie’s Land, the turnpike stair made her feel even more nauseous. She nearly fell through the door into the arms of Mrs. Edgar, who helped her to her bedchamber, then made her
presentable again when the worst was over. Marjory had never been so sick to her stomach nor had a better reason.
My sons, my dear sons
.

Elisabeth was waiting for her in the drawing room, her expression filled with concern. “I’m so sorry you were taken ill. Was it something you ate at Lady Falconer’s?”

Before Marjory could respond, Janet hurried in from her bedchamber. She was dressed for an evening with Lord and Lady Dalziel, though her hair was not yet styled nor her face powdered. “Whatever has happened, madam? You look a sight.”

Marjory sank into a chair, her head throbbing and her stomach still queasy. “I’ve much to tell you, none of it good.” Both young women joined her by the fire, their faces anxious, their mood sober.

Marjory was too drained to paint a gentle picture. “Lady Falconer did not receive me.”

“Surely not!” Janet gaped at her in disbelief. “Why would she be so uncivil?”

“Because we have turned our backs on the king.” Marjory’s voice was flat, pressed down with grief. “Because it is an act of treason. Edinburgh society will have nothing to do with us now.”

Her daughters-in-law were shocked into silence.

When she found the strength to do so, Marjory continued. “We should have… Nae,
I
should have known better. One does not oppose a king without consequence.”

“Is there any remedy?” Elisabeth asked.

“Aye, but ’twill be a difficult pill for my sons to swallow.” She held out the broadsheet, folded open to Marshal Wade’s notice. They read it in turn while Marjory watched their expressions. Irritation wrinkled Janet’s brow. Elisabeth’s eyes bore a hint of despair.

“What is to be done?” Janet wanted to know. “Shall we write to them, beg them to come home?”

Elisabeth slowly shook her head. “As Life Guards, Donald and Andrew would never desert the prince, for there is no honor in that. And Lord Elcho would have them shot for desertion. We cannot ask them to return home. We cannot even wish it.”

Marjory sank against the back of her chair, barely conscious.
I have
lost my sons
. For an instant it seemed there were no candles in the room, no fire in the grate. Only shadows swirling round her.

She heard Janet conversing with Elisabeth, their voices low. Heard a coach pass by on the High Street, harnesses jingling in the hollow night air. Heard the clock chime the hour of six.

And then Marjory heard a phrase from long ago echo in her heart.

Return unto me
.

She well remembered the words and who’d spoken them.

“Help me,” she whispered so softly no one could hear but the Almighty. Was he listening? Did he still watch over her as he once had?

Marjory closed her eyes and opened her heart ever so slightly.
My sons are all I have, Lord. Please
.

Forty-Seven

Morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.

JOHN MILTON

E
lisabeth emerged from the murky interior of her sedan chair into the pale morning light. “You’ll return for me at noontide, Mr. Fenwick?”

“Aye,” the chairman assured her, pocketing his sixpence. “Leuk for me whan Saint Giles plays her last tune.” He headed back whence he came, toward the town proper. With the prince’s men gone from Duddingston and Holyroodhouse deserted, few travelers would be found at the foot of the Canongate.

The sun had been up for less than an hour. Elisabeth drank in the fresh, cold air as she eyed the crowstepped gables and wooden dormers of the Canongate. The homes were altogether grander and not nearly so tall as the dizzying lands of the High Street. Beneath her feet oblong paving stones were meant to give a horse purchase on the sloping street, and above her stretched a colorless sky without a hint of sun or a threat of rain.

By employing the dependable Mr. Fenwick as her chairman, Elisabeth had overcome her mother-in-law’s halfhearted protest. “Visiting injured soldiers? Are you certain ’tis wise?” Marjory had fretted. “A charitable deed, to be sure, but…”

Neither Marjory nor Janet understood why Elisabeth had ventured out that morn. She could hardly explain it herself. “I need to do something useful,” she’d told them. That was the truth, so far as it went. Elisabeth also longed to be on her own. Away from Milne Square with its confining walls of wood and stone. Away from the Kerrs, if only for a few hours.

Marjory had been inconsolable last evening despite Elisabeth’s attempts to lift her spirits. “If the prince and his men are as victorious in England as they were at Gladsmuir, your worries will be for naught,” she’d assured her mother-in-law, though it did not seem to help.

Janet, who’d gone to sup with the Dalziels at Marjory’s urging, had returned home less than an hour later in tears, having found an equally cold reception. “Whatever has happened to our city?” Janet had wailed, throwing herself across her bed, crushing the gown Mrs. Edgar had spent two hours ironing. “When the prince resided at the palace, we were all Jacobites!”

Were we?
Elisabeth had held her tongue but not without effort.

Gazing down the street toward Holyroodhouse, she remembered Janet’s heated words from three days past.
You are the true Jacobite among us
. Would there be many supporters left in Edinburgh now that Prince Charlie and his five thousand Highlanders were gone?

Elisabeth sensed a tidal change coming, a swift and thorough shift of opinion and practice. The capital would be all for King George now. Ministers would return to their pulpits, magistrates would resume their duties, and the town guard would bang their ten o’ the clock drums once more. Edinburgh Castle, no longer under siege, would open its portcullis, and the royalist troops would reclaim the town for King George.

Life would return to normal for most. But for loyal Jacobites, things might never be the same. Marjory and Janet had experienced that firsthand last evening. Elisabeth had little doubt her turn was coming. This morning’s mission would leave no doubt of her allegiance to the prince.

Taking in another draught of fresh air, she resolutely walked toward the entrance of Queensberry House, a temporary hospital for Jacobite officers and soldiers injured at Gladsmuir. These were the men who’d fought beside Simon, the ones who’d survived but could not march out with the prince.

She’d passed by the makeshift infirmary each time she visited White Horse Close and wished she might stop for a visit. This morning upon waking she’d thought again of these men—strangers, yet true to the cause—who might be feeling rather abandoned just now. For Simon’s sake, for their sakes, she would offer what comfort she could.

The residence of a duke, Queensberry House had a suitably impressive exterior. Harled walls, stretched three floors high, were lined with windows and topped with a mansard roof. Two large wings pointed toward the street, creating the open courtyard she was now crossing. Her
footsteps echoed between the walls on either side of her. Since she was not expected, Elisabeth had worn her white cockade prominently displayed on her cape, hoping she would not be rebuffed at the door.

A man of forty-odd years in waistcoat and shirt sleeves answered her knock. He’d not shaved in days, by the look of him, and wore a flesher’s apron streaked with blood. Surgeon or meat dresser, his broad smile boded well as did his hearty welcome.

“What a Jacobite rose is this!” His bow was as ebullient as his speech. “I am Martin Eccles, madam. One of the surgeons, at your service.”

“Lady Donald Kerr,” she responded, curtsying with a quiet sigh of relief. Now that she was through the door, how best to proceed? “I thought I might be of some use caring for the men. My brother, Simon Ferguson, fought at Gladsmuir—”

“He did indeed.” Mr. Eccles escorted her into the entrance hall, with its marble floors, Corinthian pillars, and a rich cornice outlining the high ceiling. Candles flickered in all four corners, illuminating the statuary on the stair. “When the prince called for surgeons, I was the one who dressed your brother’s wounds. Fine young man, with the zeal of ten.” He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his weathered face. “I did all that I could for him, Lady Kerr. But…”

“’Twas not your fault.” She paused to clear her throat lest the strain in her voice add to his guilt. “My brother died as he lived.”

“Courageously,” he assured her, nodding. “Well, madam, you’ve not come for my benefit but for the lads’, aye?” He smoothed a hand over his bare, freckled crown, then pointed her to an open doorway. “This way, if you please.”

Elisabeth followed him into a square room with paneled walls, a fine molded chimney piece, and sufficient windows to usher in the much-needed light of day. She counted eight beds, such as they were: wooden planks on stout legs with the thinnest of mattresses. Nonetheless, the soldiers appeared well cared for. Their dressings looked cleaner than she’d feared, and their limbs were set with sturdy planks.

To a man, they were smiling at her. Nae, grinning.

One lad with wavy black hair and crooked teeth called out, “Is this what the apothecary sent to make us weel?”

Another soldier cried, “I’ll take my medicine without complaint.”

“Gentlemen,” the surgeon cautioned them, “this is Lady Kerr, come to… eh, change your bandages…” He looked at her to be sure, then continued. “And to offer a word of encouragement, nae doubt. Her brother, Simon Ferguson, fought bravely at Gladsmuir. Aye, and died bravely as well.”

At this the men pounded on their bedframes with their fists and shouted as one, “Huzzah! Huzzah!”

Their obvious respect for Simon brought tears to her eyes. Why had she not visited his fellow soldiers weeks ago? “Forgive me for not coming sooner,” Elisabeth began, slipping off her cape. The men quieted at once, sobered perhaps by the sight of her black gown. She told them, “My husband, Lord Donald, and his brother, Andrew, rode out with His Royal Highness on Thursday eve. Let us see what can be done to heal your wounds and send you off to join them.”

The same young lad piped up. “But if ye’ll be coming round to see us, milady, we’ll none of us want to go.” The others laughed, and a roll of bandages was pitched in his direction, along with a few good-natured insults. He protested, “I didna say I wouldna fight!”

Elisabeth plucked the bandages from amid his sheets. “Then I’ll be sure to start with you.”

Mr. Eccles pointed out the few supplies available: alum for cuts, camphor for itching, ginger for nausea, oil of turpentine and yarrow to staunch the bleeding, comfrey and figwort for healing compresses. Several of the soldiers had broken bones that time alone would mend, but those with ugly gashes and musket wounds would benefit from the physic herbs.

“I’ll be in the next room, should you have need of me.” Mr. Eccles finished with a cheerful bob of his head, then disappeared through the door.

“Now then, gentlemen.” Elisabeth quickly detached the black ruffles lining her sleeves and laid them aside with her cape, then borrowed a few pins from her hair to fasten her gown’s full cuffs out of the way. “I trust you’ll not mind smelling of heather,” she said, reaching into her hanging pocket for a bar of Donald’s favorite soap.

The lad nearest her blushed profusely. “Onie smell will be an improvement, milady.”

More laughter ensued as she filled a basin with steaming hot water from the room’s crackling hearth. She’d borrowed one of Mrs. Edgar’s aprons, hoping to spare her gown, and had stuffed the pockets full of clean linen squares. The simple act of bathing the young man’s face and hands, then attending to the wound on his leg gave Elisabeth a deep sense of satisfaction. When she finished, her hands would be chapped and her sleeves soaked, despite her efforts to keep them dry. But it was a worthy cause.

She learned each of their names in turn. Grant Findlay, her first patient, was the youngest and bearded Will McWade, the stoutest. Every visible inch of Thomas MacPadden was covered in red hair, and Alex Baird served as their unofficial leader by virtue of his daunting height and strength. Robert Glendinning hailed from Aberdeen, and David Grassie, despite his two broken legs, had a hearty laugh. Alasdair Campbell, who spoke only Gaelic, was elated when Elisabeth responded in kind. But it was green-eyed John Hardy she was most glad to meet. He’d marched from Perth with Simon and knew her brother well.

“A stubborn lad,” John said, then looked at her as if prepared to apologize.

“I’ve never known his equal,” she agreed, remembering the brother who’d clambered up trees he was told not to climb, forded rivers he was ordered not to cross, and eaten berries he was warned would make him sick, which they did. Elisabeth’s smile was bittersweet. “Simon did not bend, nor did he break.”
Not even beneath the hand of Ben Cromar
. The thought strengthened her spine and put her to work serving her brother’s comrades.

Beginning with soap and water, she spent perhaps a quarter hour with each patient. They were a brave lot, not once flinching when she cleaned their wounds or tightened the rags holding their splints in place. In her youth she’d cared for Simon’s gashes and sprains, so nothing she saw that morning made her feel faint. While she went about her work, the men plied her with questions concerning the prince’s departure. Had
Secretary Murray arranged a formal ceremony? Did His Royal Highness look well? Was the elderly Lord Pitsligo fit to ride?

Elisabeth was in the midst of describing the prince’s grand carriage when a loud commotion on the street cut her short. Angry shouts and cries of alarm could be heard, and the clatter of hoofs filled the courtyard. Elisabeth hastened to the nearest window, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Was there trouble in Dalkeith? Had some of the prince’s men returned?