Here Burns My Candle (41 page)

Marjory looked at the signature first, and her fears eased a bit. “’Tis from Lord Mark Kerr, a distant relation of Lord John’s.” Answering her letter at last, it seemed. “I’ll read it to everyone at supper, aye?”

“Verra weel, mem.” Gibson bowed and quit the room as quietly as a cat while Marjory began reading. She was struck at once by the coldness of Lord Mark’s tone.

To the Dowager Lady Marjory Kerr
Milne Square, Edinburgh
Wednesday, 30 October 1745
Lady Marjory:

Your letter of 3 October was most troublesome. One cannot imagine what compelled the sons of Lord John Kerr to take up arms against their Sovereign.

Marjory knew precisely what had compelled them: a bonny young prince with a hero’s bearing and a rightful claim to the throne. Her sons’ desire to test their mettle had spurred them on as well. She understood that now.

If these sons of yours will not heed their own mother, they will hardly take the advice of a stranger.

His language was patently dismissive. Did he care so little for her sons and for her? Miffed by his words, she had to force herself to keep reading.

I must tell you, madam, your entire household is in grave danger because of their treason.

Her skin, already chilled, turned to ice. Her entire household had already faced grave danger, had already suffered…

A terrible possibility rose before her like a specter.

What if Lord Mark had ordered the soldiers to pillage her house, prompted by her letter? What if she had brought this destruction to her own doorstep?

Nae!

Marjory stared at the letter, barely able to breathe.
Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands
. She had not been wise. She’d indeed been foolish. Without meaning to, she’d betrayed her family and sacrificed their belongings.

She’d meant to save them. But she had not.

There, in Lord Mark’s hand, was the word that would condemn her sons to death.
Treason
. She pressed on, though she had to read each sentence twice to make sense of it, so addled were her thoughts.

You will be aware by now of His Majesty’s offer of clemency to any rebels who return home on or before the twelfth of November.

Aye, she was aware. Had she not kept the
Evening Courant
that Lady Falconer had presented to her on Friday eve?
There is hope for your sons
. No mother would discard even a scrap of hope.

If your sons ignore the king’s mercy, madam, I cannot offer any promise for their future. I trust the twelfth of November will find them at home in Edinburgh or Selkirk, prepared to defend their King.

Loyal Servant to His Royal Highness, George II
General Lord Mark Kerr

Come home
. Marjory held on to the letter, saying the words over and over in her mind.
Come home, come home
. She could not speak them aloud, dared not commit them to paper. She remembered Elisabeth’s comments, hard as they were to hear.
We cannot ask them to return home. We cannot even wish it
.

A niggling thought jabbed at Marjory. Perhaps Elisabeth did not want her husband to return. Perhaps…

Nae
. ’Twas not possible.

As she refolded the letter, Marjory heard voices in the entrance hall, one in particular.
Rob MacPherson
. She laid the letter on her bare dressing table and moved toward the door, a sense of urgency hastening her steps.

The tailor’s son was standing in the drawing room, hat in hand. Broad and brooding, dark haired and dark eyed, Rob MacPherson was nothing like her Donald. Marjory could not imagine Elisabeth finding such a man attractive.

She inclined her head, a sparse acknowledgment. “What brings you here, Mr. MacPherson?”

“Guid eve, mem.” He bowed when he saw her, though he did not smile. “I dinna mean to intrude. I only wanted to be certain Leddy Kerr received my note yestermorn. And to see how ye were faring.”

Marjory had never heard him speak so many words at once. “Lady Kerr did indeed receive your note. And, as you see, we are well.”

“Aye.” His gaze traveled the room. “’Tis meikle improved syne last I was here, though I’m sorry for yer losses.”

Elisabeth joined them a moment later. “How fortunate that you’ve come, Mr. MacPherson.” She produced a letter. “Might you see this delivered to my husband, Lord Kerr?”

Marjory couldn’t help noticing Elisabeth’s emphasis on Donald’s role and title. As if reminding this tailor’s son of his place. And of hers.
Well done, lass
.

He took the letter with some reluctance. “I canna say how lang ’twill take, milady. But I’ll see yer letter on its way.”

“You are most kind,” Elisabeth said, though she did not look at him when she spoke, nor did she invite him to sit.

Heartened as she was to see her daughter-in-law’s reticence, Marjory wanted to be very sure there was nothing between them. “Mr. MacPherson, have you plans for Martinmas?”

’Twas hard to say who looked more surprised, Elisabeth or Rob.

“Nae plans, mem,” he finally said. “o’ course, the shop will be closed for the day…”

Marjory smiled. “Then you’ll be free to join us for our Martinmas dinner?”

Rob glanced at Elisabeth. “’Twould be a pleasure, mem.”

“We’ll expect you at one o’ the clock.” Marjory nodded, a polite dismissal.

He bowed and took his leave. Though Elisabeth followed him to the entrance hall, she kept her distance and did not linger at the door.

Marjory clasped her hands together, strengthening her resolve. If Elisabeth was innocent, ’twould be most unfair to suspect her. But if there was something between them, Marjory would do whatever was necessary to protect Donald’s good name. She’d failed him in so many ways as a mother. She would not fail him in this.

Fifty-Six

It fell about the Martinmas
When nights are lang and mirk.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY SCOTTISH VERSE

E
lisabeth lifted the spoon to her mouth, enjoying the rich soup even before she tasted it. Peppercorn, thyme, and bay leaf created a heady aroma, but the pungent oxtail made the dish Donald’s favorite on Martinmas.

He was in England now. Whatever his plans for Martinmas, they would not include a meal like this. Elisabeth slowly put down her spoon, the broth having lost its flavor.

Mrs. Edgar was by her side at once. “Is the oxtail not to yer liking, milady?”

“’Tis delicious,” Elisabeth assured her, retrieving her spoon. Mrs. Edgar had labored all morning on their meal, even though the Scottish term day was meant to be free from work. Elisabeth’s father never touched his loom on Martinmas, and no wheels spun in the cottages round the hills and glens of Braemar.

“A fine soup,” Rob MacPherson announced, his plate already empty.

Elisabeth saw him eying the wheaten bread. Perhaps if Rob were alone at home, he would wipe a thick slice round his plate to soak up the last drop. Simon had often done the same. Donald, with his fine manners, would never have stooped to such behavior at table, though he’d proven to be less than a gentleman in other ways. She could not imagine Simon ever being unfaithful had he married. As for Rob, she could not say.

Aye, she could.
I meant what I said. Loyal. Always
.

Rob’s contribution to their Martinmas feast was a bottle of claret: a welcome gift since the dragoons had depleted their store. Donald’s seat remained vacant, a constant reminder of his absence. Elisabeth suspected that Rob was invited solely because her mother-in-law wanted to
see them together, side by side, as a test of her fidelity. Rob had yet to say or do anything untoward, for which Elisabeth was grateful.

Marjory motioned Mrs. Edgar to bring the next course. “I hope you’ll not mind, Mr. MacPherson, but we’ll not be serving haggis.”

Elisabeth knew her mother-in-law could not bear the traditional Martinmas dish of chopped meat and oatmeal boiled in a sheep’s stomach. A common dish in every Highland cottage but not at all common at the Kerr table.

“I’ve had monie a plate o’ haggis this season,” Rob assured her. “My faither and I have a woman wha cooks for us. Not a week goes by without sheep pluck on oor table.”

“’Tis good that you enjoy it, then.” Marjory’s smile was forced. “We’ll be having the usual fish, flesh, and fowl.”

“And apple tart,” Janet added, anticipation shining in her eyes. If Janet had her way, every meal would begin with something sweet. And end with it too.

Elisabeth, sitting with her back to the windows, had to glance over her shoulder to see if the day remained dry. Not for long, judging by the thickening clouds. The Firth of Forth brought cold air and brisk winds blowing in from the North Sea, vastly changing the weather from one hour to the next. The air was dry for now at least and not so bitterly cold as yesterday morning at the Tron Kirk, where they’d huddled under their wool capes and moved their feet to keep them from growing stiff.

“Haddies,”
Rob said with a broad smile when Mrs. Edgar served him fish with a brown sauce. As a dinner guest he was easy to please. Few things appeared more often on Edinburgh tables than haddocks. Roasted leg of lamb with oysters came next and then oven-browned pullets with potatoes. Elisabeth ate enough of each course to keep Mrs. Edgar from frowning, while Rob enjoyed two servings of every dish.

Once the tarts were served, their guest was well sated. “I canna remember a finer Martinmas meal than this one, Leddy Kerr,” Rob told her.

“Mrs. Edgar will be glad to hear it.” Marjory stood, bringing him quickly to his feet. “Will you have coffee by the fire, Mr. MacPherson?”

“Aye,” he said, “if ye’ll allow me to repay yer hospitality with three gifts.”

“The claret was present enough,” Elisabeth assured him, but it seemed he had more in mind.

Gathered in a half circle were four upholstered chairs, each one draped with a plaid to cover its scars. While the women took their seats, Rob remained standing, his elbow propped on the mantelpiece. “Gifts, you said?” the dowager prompted him.

“The first is a verra auld song, meant for the day.”

When he cleared his throat and began to sing, his small audience was pleasantly surprised as a rich baritone poured forth, the notes full and the words tender.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,
And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?
For of my life I am wearie.

“Oh!” Janet exclaimed. “Please sing it again. From the beginning, if you know it.”

“I ken a’ the verses, milady.” Rob proved it, sharing in song the sad tale of a brokenhearted maid. Mrs. Edgar and Gibson quietly cleared the table and trimmed the candles, taking in the rare treat, for none in the Kerr household sang except at kirk.

When he finished, Janet said with a melodramatic sigh, “Too tragic. Have you no good news for us?”

“My second gift this term day,” Rob said, folding his hands behind his back. “News from England.”

Marjory sat up, clearly interested. “Do tell us what you’ve learned.”

“Aye, do,” Elisabeth urged him, thinking only of Donald.

“The reports are a day auld or mair,” he cautioned, “but I’ll give ye whatsomever news I can. The prince leads his men on foot, they say, as strong and as brave as ilka soldier on the field. Whan they crossed the Tweed, the leddies o’ Jedburgh flocked into the street to kiss the prince’s hand. But none o’ their men joined oor army.” Rob shook his head.
“Would that they had, for I’ve heard as monie as a thousand Hielanders have deserted the prince.”

Though Marjory gasped at the number, Elisabeth was not surprised. “’Tis too far south,” she said. “Too close to the English.”

“Aye. Whan the prince heard some were lagging behind, planning to desert, he mounted a horse and rode to the rear, spurring them forward.” His countenance darkened. “But ithers crept o’er the hills in the gloom o’ nicht, headed for hame.”

Marjory eyed Elisabeth. “Are men not shot for this?”

“Some have been severely punished,” he admitted. “For ithers, ’tis enough to threaten them with burning their hooses and crops.”

Elisabeth watched Marjory’s expression change, as if envisioning Tweedsford in flames. A wave of sympathy washed over her. Her mother-in-law had two sons bearing arms and two properties to manage. A worthy reminder, Elisabeth decided, for the days when Marjory’s complaints grew tiresome.

“On Friday last,” Rob was saying, “the prince and his men crossed the border to England. Alas, whan the Hielanders unsheathed their broadswords to shout their huzzahs, Cameron o’ Lochiel cut his hand on his blade.”

Elisabeth saw the problem at once. “’Tis a bad omen.”

Rob nodded grimly. “Ye can be sure his men thocht sae.”

“Did you say you had a third gift, Mr. MacPherson?” Her mother-in-law sounded impatient. Or simply tired.

“Indeed I do.” Rob reached inside his waistcoat and produced a letter. “For Leddy Kerr.” His dark gaze met hers. “From Lord Kerr.”

“Oh!” Elisabeth could not hide her excitement, nearly tearing the paper as she broke the seal. “I feel quite certain he means us all to hear it.”

Marjory brightened at once.

“Ye’ll not want to trust your letters to the Post Office,” Rob cautioned them. “They’ve taken to reading the letters o’ Jacobites, scrawling
Treason
or
Rebel across
the page, then delaying the letters a fortnight or mair.”

“How perfectly dreadful,” Janet said, making a face.

“You alone are to see our letters delivered,” Marjory told him.

“As ye say, mem.”