Here Burns My Candle (51 page)

“Our rent is paid through Whitsuntide,” she told them, “so we’ll not lose the roof over our heads. Mrs. Edgar and Gibson have their wages through May as well. Still, we must look for ways to be frugal. I’m afraid our black gowns will have to do for some time, perhaps a year—”

“A year
?” Janet moaned. “I cannot be seen wearing the same gown for a twelvemonth!”

“A widow isn’t meant to be seen,” Elisabeth reminded her, not unkindly.

“You
visit the MacPhersons,” Janet shot back.

“Aye, but my friends don’t care what gown I’m wearing.”

“Well,
I
care very much! It tarnishes our good name to be—”

“Ladies, if you please.” Marjory offered a silent prayer of thanks that she’d borne sons. “There are graver concerns. Food, for example. I cannot ask Mr. Chapman to give us more meal, so porridge and oatcakes will soon disappear from our table.”

Janet rolled her eyes but said nothing. “Cottagers food” she’d often called such mainstays of the Scottish diet.

“The flesher and the fishmonger will also become strangers at our door,” Marjory warned them, “unless we are very prudent with our pennies and make do with potatoes and turnips on occasion.”

Janet started to raise another protest, but Elisabeth quickly intervened.
“Mrs. Edgar’s
tatties
and
neeps
are quite nourishing. What else might we do, Lady Marjory?”

“We’ve another two months before the days lengthen and the weather warms. Until then, we must be especially mindful of our candles and coal, or they’ll claim much of what’s left of our money.” Marjory slowly emptied the leather purse into her lap, the coins speaking more loudly than her words. She heard Elisabeth’s sharp intake of air and saw Janet’s rounded eyes. “Aye. This is all we have.”

Elisabeth stood and blew out her candle at once. “Something must be done. Let me ply my needle on our behalf. Angus might have a bit of work for me, or I could see if Miss Callander has need of my services.”

“Do you mean to sew for
money?”
Janet cried, her disgust apparent. “Won’t we be the talk of Edinburgh? Lady Elisabeth Kerr… a
seamstress
!”

Elisabeth looked down at her with a cool gaze. “You seemed well pleased with the gown I stitched for you.”

“But that was for
family.”
Janet sniffed. “A different matter altogether.”

Marjory was torn, rather liking the idea but not wanting to expose Elisabeth to ridicule. “Perhaps you might teach sewing at Effie Sinclair’s school,” she proposed. “Nothing unladylike there.”

Elisabeth shook her head. “I couldn’t ask her to take me on when she has so few students. Now that the streets are overrun with British soldiers, Edinburgh is not the proper place to board a young lady scholar.” She sat once more, her expression earnest. “I’m not afraid of work, Lady Marjory. Do at least consider letting me sew.”

Janet folded her arms across her bodice. “And what would you have me do? Paint china cups and sell them in the Luckenbooths?”

Marjory tried to smooth her ruffled feathers. “Come, Janet—”

“I’m not
meant
to work,” she said, almost in tears. “I am a gentlewoman!”

“We all are.” Marjory reached forward and took both their hands. Elisabeth’s skin was warm and dry to the touch, Janet’s cool and clammy. “This situation is entirely my fault. Had I not given so much money to the prince—”

“Why
did you
do such a thing?” Janet demanded, pulling her hand free.

“To protect my sons,” Marjory told her. “And because I sincerely believed Charles Edward Stuart capable of regaining the throne for his father.”

“But you don’t believe it now,” Elisabeth said. It was not a question.

Marjory squeezed her hand. “I know the prince’s cause has been near to your heart all your life. But those of us who came later to his support are…less certain of the outcome.” She could not say more. Not when her sons had died for their beliefs.

Janet stood, her face stark against her black gown, the light from the coal fire throwing her shadow against the wall. Her hands were clenched and her voice low and strained. “You threw away your gold, Lady Marjory.
Our
gold. You did not protect our husbands. You killed them.”

“Janet!” Elisabeth was clearly horrified. “You cannot say such things.”

“I thought we were supposed to be honest with one another,” Janet retorted and stormed out of the room.

Undone by her cruel words, Marjory stared at the fire, shame crowding out every other emotion. “Your sister-in-law is right.”

“Nae, she is not,” Elisabeth said firmly. “Lord Donald assured us it was his decision alone. Do you remember?”

Marjory nodded pensively. “He was always truthful, my Donald. I cannot think of a promise he did not keep. Can you, dear?” When Elisabeth didn’t respond, Marjory looked up. Even in the darkened room, she saw the tears in her daughter-in-law’s eyes.

Seventy-One

Necessity urges desperate measures.

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES

H
ere’s the last o’ them, Leddy Kerr.” Mrs. Edgar shook out Elisabeth’s rose-colored gown and spread the voluminous skirts across her bed. “Eleven gowns in a’.”

Elisabeth smoothed her hand over the fine silks and polished satins, the elaborate brocades and soft velvets. A few costumes were her own designs. Miss Callander had stitched the others. “I cannot wear them for another year,” Elisabeth said, convincing herself she would not miss them, that the money her gowns might earn was worth more than the pleasure of keeping them in her clothes press. “Perhaps, when my time of mourning ends, we’ll be in a position to order a new dress or two.”

“Aye, milady.” Mrs. Edgar did not sound convinced. Neither was Elisabeth.

The dowager’s coin purse was empty. Potatoes and turnips had replaced beef and mutton, and their thick morning porridge was reduced to a thin, colorless broth. Tea leaves were carefully strained and reused until the flavor was faint and the inside of the cup was easily seen through the tea. When Elisabeth suggested using coffee, which was less expensive, she was quickly overruled. “Ladies of quality drink black tea,” Marjory had insisted. Biscuits were served with their watery tea only if the miller offered a reasonable price for his flour. Wheaten bread at dinner was a luxury now.

“Have ye told yer mither-in-law about selling yer gowns?” Mrs. Edgar asked her.

Elisabeth heard no judgment in the housekeeper’s voice, only a thread of concern. “She agreed Gibson and I might carry them to Miss Callander’s in Lady Stair’s Close and see what the seamstress will offer for them. I feel certain Lady Marjory will be glad for the money. Perhaps she may decide to sell her gowns too.”

Mrs. Edgar did not make a sound, but Elisabeth read the expression on her face.
Not likely, milady
.

Elisabeth’s eye was drawn to one gown in particular: the lavender satin, with its Brussels lace, silk gauze, and gold-dipped sequins. Could she truly sell Donald’s gift, worn but twice? When she touched the sleeve, the words from Donald’s letter stirred inside her.
Now you know the full extent of your mercy
. She’d forgiven him that October eve, not realizing what true mercy required: forgiving her husband again and again, each time his sin came to mind, each time the pain surfaced, each time she was tempted to take back her words.
You are forgiven
.

“Are ye having second thochts, milady?”

Elisabeth began tugging on the shoulders of her lavender gown, slowly pulling it free from Mrs. Edgar’s tidy pile. With a cool whisper, the satin pooled at her feet. She picked it up, then held it against her body and turned toward the looking glass, hearing Donald’s words.
A rare beauty. Like you, my love
.

She confessed, “I cannot part with this one.”

Mrs. Edgar took the gown from her without a word and stored the satin folds inside the empty clothes press, her efficient movements almost soundless.

“Do you think me a fool, Mrs. Edgar?”

The housekeeper’s guileless gray eyes met hers. “Not for a moment, milady.”

Within the hour Mrs. Edgar had wrapped the remaining gowns in a sheet, preparing them for the journey up the High Street to Miss Callander’s shop in the Lawnmarket. “Gibson canna manage them alone,” she said. “Might Mr. MacPherson help carry yer gowns?”

Elisabeth glanced out the window toward the Luckenbooths. Since their abrupt parting outside the jeweler’s shop a month ago, Rob had sent her several notes filled with remorse.
I did not mean to offend. My intentions are wholly honorable. I hope you can forgive me, Bess. My father misses you very much
. The last note had worn down her resistance. When she’d visited the MacPhersons with Angus’s finished shirt, Rob had been on his best behavior. They were back on steadier footing now, friends again.

But she was careful not to be alone with him. “Aye,” she agreed, “have Gibson ask Mr. MacPherson. Perhaps he’ll not mind helping us this forenoon.”

Rob shifted the knotted sheet from one hand to the other. “Ye’re certain this is but ten gowns?”

“I know they’re heavy,” Elisabeth admitted, keeping pace with him as they climbed the bustling High Street. “Miss Callander expects us at eleven o’ the clock.”

Would it be awkward, this meeting? Elisabeth knew the value of her gowns but not what the seamstress might be willing to pay. If it meant the Kerrs could settle their bills and have meat on their table again, she would gladly accept almost any amount. But since Marjory’s gold had paid for the gowns and the fabric to make them, the final decision was hers. “No less than five pounds for the best gowns, four for the others,” the dowager had cautioned her.

The March air was damp and cold, though no wind stung their cheeks. Gibson, the shorter of the two men, led the way uphill, bearing his end of the bundle without complaint as they passed the mercat cross, then the tolbooth. When they ducked into Lady Stair’s Close and started up the turnpike stair to the third floor, Elisabeth discovered how canny their housekeeper was. A large trunk would have been impossible to navigate up the narrow stair, but their long bundle, however cumbersome, took the constant turning without mishap.

Miss Callander answered at their first knock, her eyes brightening at the sight of Rob coming through her door. “What a surprise, Mr. MacPherson!” Her cheeks soon matched her strawberry hair. Though she was rushing the season wearing spring green, the color was very flattering and the style of her fashionable gown no doubt Parisian. In her late twenties, Meg Callander still had a youthful lilt to her voice. “Come in, Lady Kerr. A pleasure to have you here.”

The room was small but well lit, with no shutters or curtains to block the light. An abundance of beeswax candles shone in the gilt-framed looking glass. Elisabeth noted the painted folding screen, the
papier-mâché dress form, and the cherry sewing cabinet with its ivory drawer pulls. But it was the vibrantly hued seamstress who commanded the room, despite her diminutive size. Miss Callander had been most sympathetic when she learned of Elisabeth’s loss. “Bring your gowns to me, and let us see what can be done,” she’d said the last time they spoke.

Now that they were here, Elisabeth found herself reticent to ask for help. But it had to be done, for her family’s sake. “Miss Callander,” she began, “you will recognize some of your gowns from seasons past. Others here are my own.”

“Ah! Those I wish to see first,” she insisted. “Mr. MacPherson, if you might unroll the sheet for us?” In a moment the dresses were spread before them like a peacock’s colorful feathers.

“I made this one two Januarys ago.” Elisabeth lifted a dark blue gown with delicate silver braiding on the bodice. She remembered the long wintry hours seated beside her bedchamber window, needle in hand, the lustrous blue silk draped across her lap.

“Lovely,” Miss Callander declared. “Now if I might see the yellow taffeta.”

Rob and Gibson stood quietly to the side as the women examined each gown in turn with Elisabeth holding them up, then Miss Callander nodding her approval.

“I shall add some fresh trim,” the seamstress decided. “Perhaps remake the sleeves. Whatever is required so none will be the wiser.” She lowered her voice. “I hardly need tell you a terrible cloud has settled over your household, Lady Kerr. I must alter your gowns such that my customers will not recognize them as yours. Do forgive me.”

“I understand,” Elisabeth said, all too aware of the Kerrs’ diminished place in society. She did not mind for herself, but Marjory’s shame and disappointment were painful to watch. “Might you take some of my gowns?”

“Oh, every one. Your designs are quite impressive.” Miss Callander touched the embroidered neckline of an emerald green silk draped across a chair. “Were you not a lady, I’d encourage you to enter the trade.”

Elisabeth’s heart lifted. “Would you have some use for me, perhaps? In your employ?”

“Oh, Lady Kerr.” Miss Callander’s small features tightened. “’Twould not be proper. Nae, nae, I cannot consider it, however fine your skill with a needle.”

Heat rose from her neck. “Forgive me,” Elisabeth murmured.

“Nae, I am the one who is sorry,” she assured her. “We are all trapped by society,
n’est-ce pas
? As to my offer…” The seamstress counted prettily on her fingers, then announced, “Three pounds each.”

“So little?” Elisabeth couldn’t contain her disappointment.
Only thirty pounds in all
. She didn’t know the extent of their debts but feared they would quickly swallow the meager earnings. “Might you consider five pounds for the pale green silk with the ruching? Or four pounds for the pink taffeta with the tulle quilling?”

“Exquisitely made,” Miss Callander agreed, “but they are hardly new. My resources are such…” She gave a ladylike shrug. “’Tis the best I can offer you, Lady Kerr. Aye or nae?”

Seventy-Two

When all is said and done,
He’s but a tailor’s son.