Here Burns My Candle (39 page)

Before the congregation resumed their seats, several neighbors turned
round to look at the Kerrs, the daggers in their eyes sharpened to a fine point. The entire southeast parish knew of their disgrace. Perhaps all of Edinburgh knew by now. Marjory did not lower her gaze. She was Sir Eldon’s daughter and Lord John’s widow. Let them stare. She would not cower in shame.

“I believe James Hogg is gloating,” Janet whispered, nodding at the Tron Kirk’s lecturer.

The staunch royalist ascended the pulpit bearing a smug expression, then firmly closed the pulpit door. He barely glanced at the Scriptures before reciting his memorized text. “I have counsel and strength for the war. Now on whom dost thou trust, that thou rebellest against me?”

Marjory knew this was not her imagination: Mr. Hogg was speaking directly to her. His long, pointed nose was aimed at their pew like an arrow tautly drawn, and his narrow gaze even more so. For the next half hour, Marjory chafed beneath his stern instruction. Aye, her sons were rebelling against King George, however unwisely. But they were not rebelling against the Almighty.

Sitting on a wooden pew on a cold November morning, suffering the unspoken judgment and condemnation of her neighbors, Marjory longed to take Mr. Hogg’s place, stand before the congregation, and recite a cherished verse of her own, learned long ago. She sat up straighter, remembering every word.
I will not be afraid often thousands of people, that have set themselves against me round about
.

Nae, she would not be afraid, certainly not for herself. Nor would she mourn for her belongings, which her gold could easily restore. As to her place in society, she numbered a countess among her friends now. Still, her sons mattered most.

The warmth of her daughters-in-law by her side brought to mind Donald’s request before he rode off with the prince.
Look after Elisabeth
. Marjory dutifully glanced at the Highland lass in her austere gown. A beauty, to be sure, but clearly barren. Though Andrew had not made the same request, Marjory would take care of Janet and her babe. The young woman seemed to be feeling better, having eaten more oatcakes and gooseberry jam than usual that morn.

Before the minister’s prayer a psalm was sung, one of Marjory’s
favorites. When the precentor lined out the words, she offered each line back to him with such fervor that heads turned once again. Her voice was not as musical as Elisabeth’s, but she sang boldly and with conviction.

LORD, how are they increased that trouble me!
many are they that rise up against me.

Marjory’s voice faltered.
Many indeed
. Lady Woodhall, Lady Falconer, and Lady Ruthven, her tea-table companions, had turned their backs on her. So had Lady Glassie, Lady Northesk, and Lady Boghall, her most esteemed peers.

And her new friends were gone. Lady Nithsdale and her sisters had flitted to Traquair, while Margaret Murray and young Lady Ogilvie had accompanied their husbands on the prince’s campaign. Marjory had not spied a single white cockade in the kirk that morn or a swatch of Highland tartan in the streets.

The madness was over. A sober-minded season had come.

Marjory blinked away tears as she sang.

But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me;
my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

The Almighty had not preserved her household goods. But he’d spared her family. Unlike the soldiers at Queensberry House, not a bone was broken in their house at Milne Square. And the Lord did lift her head, and her heart as well, beyond the century-old oak roof and the bells in the Tron steeple. With the last note echoing round her, she whispered deep within.
Are you yet my shield, Lord? Do you love me still?

Though she heard no words, she sensed his presence. Some assurance, that.

The morning sermon proved gentler than the lecture. Reverend Wishart did not rail against the Jacobites or praise King George. Instead, he spoke of the Almighty. “In his days shall the righteous flourish,” he promised, “and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth.”

Elisabeth’s gasp was so soft no one else seemed to notice. But Marjory did and glanced over at her. Perhaps the mention of peace had touched her daughter-in-law. Or was it the enduring moon?

The moment worship ended, the Kerrs hastened down the aisle and through the arched door into the quiet High Street. Unlike the Sabbath morn when the surging crowd had nearly trampled them, on this noontide the pedestrians lingered in the street and carriages passed at a stately pace.

“Lady Kerr!” a high voice sang.

Hearing their shared title, Marjory and Elisabeth both turned to find Effie Sinclair coming toward them. Though she was slowed by her diminutive steps, her eyes sparkled, and her smile was most welcoming.

After the usual courtesies Mrs. Sinclair said in a conspiratorial tone, “How courageous of you three to come this morning.” She waved them closer like a tiny wren gathering her chicks beneath her wings. “Many who wore the cockade have left the city or remain behind their doors. Others quietly slip round the town, hoping not to be noticed.” She turned back the sleeve of her gown long enough to expose a corner of white silk. “If what I heard is true, you three endured a terrible hardship last night. Still you did your Sabbath duty this morn.”

“As you say, ’tis our duty.” Marjory tried to sound humble but could not hide her pleasure. Effie Sinclair was frugal with her compliments.

“You shall always have my friendship and support,” Effie said, then tipped her small head to look up at Elisabeth. “My dear, bring your family next time you come for tea.”

Elisabeth smiled down at her schoolmistress with fond affection. “Indeed I shall.” The two were soon engaged in conversation about former classmates from Elisabeth’s school days in Blackfriars Wynd, while Marjory and Janet were left to nod and feign interest.

A caddie appeared at Marjory’s elbow. Eight or ten years of age, he had a mop of brown hair and a pair of startling blue eyes. “Are ye Leddy Kerr?” he asked in a low voice, looking round as if afraid of being seen in her company. When Marjory nodded, he shoved a sealed letter into her hands. “From the tailor’s son, mem.”

She produced a ha’penny from her reticule. “Did he ask you to wait for a reply?”

“Nae!” The boy snatched the coin from her hand and darted toward Niddry’s Wynd without looking back over his shoulder.

Fifty-Three

A letter does not blush.

CICERO

M
arjory noticed the mediocre paper quality and inferior sealing wax. From Mr. MacPherson, she imagined. What other tailor’s son would take the liberty of writing her? She slipped the letter into her reticule and pulled the drawstrings shut, intending to read it when they returned home.

Once Mrs. Sinclair started for Blackfriars Wynd, the Kerr women were free to cross the High Street, dodging round sedan chairs, carriages, and men on horseback. No one approached them, though Marjory heard their names whispered in passing, often with “rebel” or “traitor” or “Jacobite” in the same breath and sometimes with all three.

Mrs. Edgar and Gibson had gone ahead of them after service and so were waiting with dinner when they arrived. Gibson relieved them of their capes and hurried them to table, perhaps to keep them from despairing over the wretched state of their drawing room.

A moment later Mrs. Edgar served hot bowls of Scotch barley broth, even though it was not quite one o’ the clock. “’Tis too cauld to stand on ceremony,” the housekeeper said, and Marjory agreed.

After cooking on a low fire all night, the soup, made with sheep’s head, a bundle of sweet herbs, and a generous measure of barley, was thick and flavorful. The dish was served with crusty bread pulled from the oven well before midnight lest Mrs. Edgar be found baking on the Sabbath.

Marjory made no objection to their simple, two-course meal. They had no company, no one to impress. Rich, hot broth suited the frigid day, especially when followed by cold almond custard baked in little china cups that had escaped yesterday’s debacle.

“We’re reduced to two candles at table,” Marjory admitted. Janet had been squinting as she buttered her bread, making rather a show of trying to see.

“With winter upon us, economy should be our rule.” Elisabeth’s gaze traveled from broken figurines to shattered teacups. “Shall we begin in this room on the morrow?”

Marjory refused to look at her surroundings, savoring her last spoonful of custard, sweetened with rosewater. “Aye,” she finally said. “I’ll ask Gibson to hire two maidservants. We’ll see what can be salvaged and have them sweep up the rest.”

Janet and Elisabeth exchanged glances. “What if no one is willing to work for us?” Janet asked.

Marjory bristled at the suggestion. “Our gold is not tainted,” she told them. “Mrs. Sinclair shares our sympathies. Perhaps she can suggest someone.”

Elisabeth nodded thoughtfully. “Or she may let us borrow one of her maids for the afternoon. I could ask Mr. MacPherson as well.”

At the mention of his name, Marjory reached for her reticule. “I’d almost forgotten. Mr. MacPherson wrote me.” A very short letter, Marjory discovered. Just two lines and rather nonsensical, she thought, reading them aloud.

Two for larder this day. One for my foot.

Marjory frowned at the paper. “If these words are not misspelled, what can they possibly mean?”

Elisabeth asked her to read them more slowly, then said, “I believe he’s sharing information best kept secret and so has written them in a sort of code. ‘Two’ might mean our two husbands. And ‘one’ would be his father.” Elisabeth sounded out the words several times, then nodded. “’Twould appear Donald and Andrew rode for Lauder. A village in the Borderland, aye?”

Marjory studied the paper. “So it is, en route to Kelso.” Clever of Mr. MacPherson to provide such timely news. “But where is ‘my foot’?”

Elisabeth smiled. “I believe he means ‘Moffat.’ It seems the prince has divided his troops to confound the enemy.”

“Let us hope he is successful.” Marjory drew one of the candles closer to read the second line. Just as there had been no salutation at the
top, there was no signature at the bottom. Only a few words, which she read aloud.

I meant what I said. Loyal. Always.

Marjory sighed, irritated by his cryptic prose. “Another mystery you must solve for us, Elisabeth.”

Her pale skin bloomed like a rose. “Perhaps the letter was mis-delivered.”

“The caddie said it was for Lady Kerr,” Marjory said, then realized her mistake. “Ah. He meant you.” When she looked at the line again, the words took on a different shade of meaning. “To whom is Mr. MacPherson loyal?”

“He is loyal to… ah, the prince,” Elisabeth said. “The MacPhersons have always supported the Stuarts.”

“Then why bother to mention their fidelity?” Marjory held out the letter, wishing to be rid of it and all that it implied. The tone was too secretive, too personal. An unmarried tradesman had no business writing to a married gentlewoman. “All the years you’ve known this young man, he’s been a Jacobite?”

“Oh, aye.” Elisabeth quickly folded the letter. “Rob has ever been faithful.”

Marjory narrowed her gaze. “Is it ‘Rob’ now?”

Elisabeth’s pink cheeks darkened. “A habit from childhood, nothing more.”

Marjory remembered another letter MacPherson had brought to their door the morning after Donald’s departure. And the private meeting that followed in Elisabeth’s bedchamber. “I’ve not heard you use his Christian name before.”

Janet surprised Marjory by coming to Elisabeth’s defense. “An honest mistake.”

“Then an honest answer is called for.” Marjory stood, casting aside her linen napkin. “Pardon us, Janet. I must speak with your sister-in-law alone.”

Marjory led the way, her emotions churning. Elisabeth had known
the tailor’s son far longer than she’d known her Donald. Was there something illicit between them? Elisabeth had once disappeared in the wee hours of a September morn and, upon returning, said she’d had business with Mr. MacPherson. What sort of business?

By the time Marjory reached the far corner of her bedchamber, she could no longer rein in her temper or her tongue. “Lady Kerr, have you been unfaithful to my son?”

“Nae!” Elisabeth cried, her shock apparent. “I would never… not for a moment!”

Marjory wanted to believe her, if only for Donald’s sake. But Elisabeth was far too flustered for an innocent wife. “What is this tailor’s son to you that he insists on speaking with you privately?”

Elisabeth’s color remained high. “Mr. MacPherson is simply an old friend.”

“A friend to your family?” Marjory asked pointedly. “Or to you?” When her daughter-in-law did not answer quickly enough to suit her, Marjory pressed the issue. “I must ask you again, have you honored your wedding vows? I sometimes wonder. Lord Donald has certainly honored
his
, yet you’ve still not presented him with an heir.”

Elisabeth did not shrink beneath her accusations. In fact, she seemed taller than ever. “From the first hour we met, I have been faithful to your son.”

Marjory saw the tears in her eyes. Not of shame, she decided, but of conviction. “Lady Elisabeth, I am relieved—”

“Mr. MacPherson is my friend, and Lord Kerr is my husband. You can be very sure I do not confuse them.” With that, Elisabeth quit the room with a sweep of her skirts and a firmly closed door.

Fifty-Four

The only faith that wears well…
is that which is woven of conviction.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

E
lisabeth stood alone in her bedchamber, arms folded across her bodice, her cheeks still warm. To be falsely accused of adultery when Donald was the guilty one! How she longed to fling open the door and recite a list of names for his mother’s edification. “Susan McGill. Maggie Hunter. And let us not forget Lucy Spence…”