Here Burns My Candle (40 page)

Stop, Bess. Stop punishing yourself
.

Aye, she’d reviewed the list quite enough. And telling Marjory the truth about her profligate son would only sharpen the pain for all of them.

Elisabeth took a long, slow breath. When her face had cooled and her temper with it, she started across the room, stepping over chapters of literature and history torn from their bindings. Last evening she’d been too exhausted, and the room too dark, to do more than make a path through the disarray. Now she had sufficient light, but was reluctant to disregard the Sabbath.
The L
ORD
blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it
. Aye, even she knew that one. If she had any intention of embracing this God, honoring his day might be the place to begin.

How to spend the few remaining hours of daylight, then?

She stood in the middle of her bedchamber, looking at two closed doors, feeling rather trapped. One door led to Janet’s room, though her sister-in-law would never let her walk through without an explanation.
What is all this about Rob MacPherson? What did the dowager ask you?
The other door led to Marjory’s room. If Elisabeth went that direction, her mother-in-law would assume she’d returned to make a confession and so probe more deeply.
Were you innocent when you married? Does Donald know of your relationship with the tailor’s son?

Nae, she would remain in her bedchamber, at least for the moment.

Reading a book would engage her well enough, but the only volume
left untouched by fire or steel was the family Bible. Elisabeth claimed the thick book from the mantelpiece, surprised again at the weight of it. She gathered a handful of pillows closer to the windows, arranged her hoops and skirts about her, and settled down with the Scriptures in her lap.

Reverend Wishart often chose something in the middle, so she did too, letting the Bible fall open where it would. After decades of use the paper had turned the color of weak tea spilled on linen. Each page felt like a well-worn shirt ironed by a firm hand. But the type was still quite black, marching along in neat lines.

Elisabeth was not surprised to find the Bible had opened to Psalms. In the Lowlands children were fed psalms more regularly than porridge. Bending closer, she began to read.

O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me.

She was struck at once by the intimacy of the words. The author was speaking to the Almighty as if he knew him and clearly was known by him. But first he was
searched
. She shuddered at the image. Who could bear such a close inspection, having nowhere to hide?

With certain trepidation, she chose another verse.

Thou hast beset me behind and before,
and laid thine hand upon me.

Wasn’t that precisely how she felt at the moment, trapped in her ruined bedchamber? She couldn’t move forward to Monday and put things back in order, yet she couldn’t step backward to Friday, when her room was still her own tidy refuge. Instead, she could only sit in the mess and the muck, pressed down by a sense of loss.

Nae, Bess
. She swallowed hard.
’Tis guilt that weighs on you
.

Guilt about many things but especially about her husband. If she’d not urged Donald to support the prince, he would still be by her side, and none of this would have happened.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she shifted the Buik on her lap, knowing her guilt went far deeper. If she’d voiced her fears instead of running away from home, her mother might never have married Ben Cromar.

And if she’d returned to Braemar rather than abandoning her brother, she might have spared him years of ill treatment.

Donald. Mother. Simon
.

Elisabeth stared at the page, undone.

She could do nothing to make amends. Nothing. She could not even beg their forgiveness. Donald had marched off to war. Her mother had tossed her letter into the fire. And Simon was gone forever.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the chilly, empty room. Her voice was thin, like a child’s. And her heart was breaking.

Tears blurred her vision, dropping onto the page as she bent forward. “Forgive me. Please, forgive me.” She feared her pleas were spoken in vain and heard by no one, but she had to say them. Had to.

Forgive me. Forgive me
.

It was some time before her tears began to ease. Only then did she realize, looking down at the verse, that nothing was said about being burdened by loss or by guilt.

Nae, the weight was something else entirely.

…thine hand upon me.

She dried her tears, staring at the words. The Almighty’s
hand
was upon the one who wrote them? Instinctively she looked up, trying to imagine what that might feel like. The idea of being hemmed in by the Almighty, of having his hand laid upon her, was both comforting and terrifying.

The moon at least kept its distance.

But this Holy One drew very close indeed.

She quietly shut the book and eased it from her lap. What might Donald say if he knew the sort of questions she was asking? She’d never told him about the Nameless One. Could she bring herself to speak of the Almighty?

Perhaps in a letter she might broach the subject without feeling so awkward.

Elisabeth collected her scattered stationery, her ink pot, and a quill pen from the floor, then mixed a bit of dry ink powder with water from
her pitcher. In lieu of her damaged writing desk, she sat at Donald’s secretary, then took up her pen and began.

Sunday, 3 November 1745

My dearest husband,

Our weather has turned colder. The November wind is biting and carries the scent of the sea.

She shook her head. Donald hardly needed such a report when he faced the elements round the clock. Something more personal was needed.

You are greatly missed here—by your wife most of all. The days are long and the nights longer still. I trust you have enough blankets to warm you since I cannot.

She would not entertain fears of another woman warming his bed. She would
not
. Her husband had given his word. In turn, could she not give him her trust?

Elisabeth dipped and blotted her pen, then paused, wondering if she should she tell Donald about the damage wrought by the dragoons. One could never be sure where a letter might land. She’d need to choose her words with care.

In the city the king’s authority is upheld once more. Those who opposed it have been reminded of their duties, some more severely than others.

Rob would see that his father delivered her letter. Angus could tell Donald in person what she dared not put in writing. As to her husband’s damaged books, she would make no mention of them and try her best to replace his favorites. Books were dear, however, and of late her mother-in-law seemed hesitant to share her guineas.

Elisabeth described their renewed services at the Tron Kirk, as well as her Saturday morning spent caring for the wounded soldiers. She did not mention whether they were royalist or Jacobite. Infirmaries for both could be found, and Donald would know which patients she’d gladly served.

She had just enough room at the bottom of the page to put forth an idea she hoped he might consider.

You have told me how your father led your family in a time of worship after supper each evening. When you return, might you be willing to do the same for our household? I think you may find a receptive audience at your table.

Your loving and faithful wife

Elisabeth lifted her pen, having second thoughts about including the
word faithful
. Would he frown and think it a barbed reminder of his own unfaithfulness? She could not simply draw a line through the word nor cut it out with scissors, as some did. Nae, she would leave it and hope the word
loving
outweighed the sting of
faithful
.

Whatever his weaknesses, she loved her husband. And missed him more than pen and ink could ever capture.

Fifty-Five

But all’s to no end, for the time will not mend
Till the King enjoys his own again.

MARTYN PARKER

M
arjory stared at the worn leather purses heaped on her bed. She’d lifted each loose board and searched between every dusty floor joist, but there were no more to be found. Before the prince’s arrival in September, she’d counted twenty-two purses, each one bulging with guineas. Now only three remained.

How can there be only three, Lord?
She well knew the answer to that.

When she rose from the edge of the bed, the coins shifted with a faint jingle, as if taunting her. Marjory thought of her cashbook in the top drawer of Lord John’s desk and the growing stack of bills beside it. She owed money to everyone in town, or so it seemed. Mr. Geddes for their poultry, Mr. Porteous for Janet’s winter gloves, Mr. Elder for her new kid leather shoes, Mr. Mercer for a supply of Stoughton’s Elixir. Without the rental income from their Tweedsford estate in hand and with Martinmas looming, however would she manage?

Marjory began to pace. The rich plum cakes she’d enjoyed that afternoon—full of butter, sugar, cream, and all those lovely currants—now lined her stomach like cobblestones. In the future she would instruct Mrs. Edgar to serve plain oatcakes with their tea. Even butter and jam were becoming too dear.

How long might her three hundred pounds need to last? Until the prince’s campaign ended. Until her sons returned home. Until the road from Selkirk to Edinburgh was safe for her factor to travel. Until a time no one could name, not even Charles Edward Stuart.

The latest
Evening Courant
, folded on her dressing table, included very little about the army’s recent movements, though one report from Edinburgh caught her eye.
We are now happily delivered from the Highland Host so that the citizens begin to peep out of their lurking places
.

“Happily delivered?” Marjory had scoffed, having spent the day
overseeing two hired maidservants, who’d cleaned and swept and discarded until the six rooms of their house were more or less in order. Still, the torn upholstery required mending, the glassware and dishes needed replacing, the paintings were little more than strips of canvas, and Janet was reduced to one gown. Her daughter-in-law would have to borrow some of her own costumes from last season. The blue green satin, perhaps, or the burgundy damask, though they’d need to be altered when Janet’s waist began expanding.

Marjory tarried at one of the windows overlooking Milne Square, watching a caddie with his paper lantern dart across the plainstanes. How early darkness came in November! With Martinmas one week hence, numbers swirled through her head. Twenty-five pounds for half a year’s rent. Ten pounds for their seats at the Tron Kirk. Gibson and Mrs. Edgar were owed half their annual wages—forty shillings for Gibson, thirty for Mrs. Edgar.

At least the family coffers were spared ten shillings for Peg Cargill. They’d not heard a word from the lass since she flitted to Coldingham. Marjory had been slow to replace her since Mrs. Edgar had not complained about the additional work. But what a frightful expense for two maids this day. A sixpence each!

Marjory gathered the remaining purses and hid them beneath the loose flooring nearest her bed, taking care not to sully her gown nor catch a splinter in her hand. She smoothed the carpet back in place, lest anyone think to look there. A useless measure, she realized. Why fret about her household carelessly spending her gold when she’d already done so herself?

Most of the purses had traveled through her door last month, concealed inside Angus MacPherson’s greatcoat. Fifteen hundred gold sovereigns bound for Holyroodhouse.
Fifteen hundred
. A princely sum, Marjory had thought at the time, amused by her pun and basking in the glow of the prince’s gratitude. Now she saw her too-generous behavior for what it was: pride.
The pride of thine heart hath deceived thee
. Aye, hadn’t it just?

Some might point to Lady Nithsdale’s talent for persuasion, but Marjory blamed no one but herself. Hearing that Lord Elcho had parted
with such a fortune, she’d risen to the challenge and matched his astounding gift. Or rather his
loan
, as Lady Nithsdale had insisted. In any case, her guineas were gone, with no promise of their return.

Marjory had not confessed her imprudence to a soul. Only Mr. MacPherson and his son knew the amount, and they were sworn to secrecy. She’d convinced herself it was an investment in her family’s future. That it would guarantee her sons’ safety and, when the prince claimed the throne for James, would assure them a place of honor in his kingdom.

But if she was wrong, if they were all wrong, and the prince was not victorious—

The knock at her bedchamber door was a welcome interruption. “Come,” Marjory called, in urgent need of good news.

Gibson entered, gray hair damp from the evening air, a letter in his hand. “From the Post Office, mem. Addressed to ye.”

She noted at once the neatness of the handwriting, the formal sweep of each letter, and the fine quality of the paper. But when she saw King George’s royal seal embedded in the wax, Marjory nearly sank to the floor.

My sons, my sons!

“I have ye, mem.” Gibson supported her arm long enough to steady her. “’Tis only a letter, Leddy Kerr. Ye faced far worse on Saturday whan the dragoons came.”

The thick red wax had stained the paper.
Like blood
. Marjory couldn’t bring herself to touch it. “Will you, Gibson?”

He broke the seal and pressed open the creases in the paper, his fingers bent and wrinkled but strong as ever. “I pray it willna be ill news, mem.”