Here Burns My Candle (52 page)

SCOTTISH FOLK SONG

E
lisabeth rubbed her forehead in distress. Would thirty pounds suit her mother-in-law? Or would Marjory be furious that she’d sold the gowns for so little?

When she turned to Rob, seeking his opinion as a tradesman, he nodded. So did she, albeit reluctantly. “Very well, Miss Callander. I accept.”

“Ah.” The seamstress smiled coyly. “I thought you might.”

A small purse was quickly produced—heavy with coins, yet not nearly the weight of ten gowns. Elisabeth tried not to think of seeing her beautiful dresses on the High Street that spring, worn by other gentlewomen who could afford them.

She looked down at the purse in her hands.
Let me not be ashamed
.

“Will you have tea before you go?” Miss Callander asked, all the while smiling at Rob. “You are invited to stay as well, Mr. MacPherson.”

Before Elisabeth could decline, Rob did so for both of them. “We’ll not keep ye from yer labors,” he said rather brusquely. “Shall we go, Leddy Kerr?”

Moments later the three of them were descending the stair. Rob led the way, with Gibson bearing the sheet under his arm, the gold safely nestled in its folds. When they reached the street, Rob wrapped her hand round the crook of his elbow. “To keep ye safe,” he said as they started down the hill.

“That hardly seemed a fair bargain,” Elisabeth confessed, matching her gait to his.

“’Twas not,” he grumbled. “Meg Callander will double the price whan she sells them and make a tidy profit.”

Elisabeth’s spirits sank. “Should I have insisted on more?”

“Nae, for I ken the lass, and she’d not have paid it. Besides, ye dinna want to seem desperate, Leddy Kerr.”

“But we
are
desperate,” she said in a low voice, hoping no one would hear. “I’m only sorry I have no jewelry I might sell to Mr. Cowie. November last the dragoons took the few pieces I owned, including my seed pearl earrings and choker.” Her favorites, worn with Donald’s gown, were now tucked in some Englishwoman’s jewelry box.

Rob frowned. “Ye own nae jewelry at a’?”

“Only my two silver rings.” She released his arm long enough to hold out her gloved hands, satisfied to see the slight bump on each ring finger.

Rob eyed them both. “How lang will ye wear yer wedding band?”

“As long as I live. Longer still, if it’s not yanked from my cold fingers.”

Rob hastily wrapped her hand round his arm once more. “And what o’ the ither ring?”

“A gift from my mother.” She did not elaborate, silently counting the days since the new moon. ’Twas the sixth day, meant for hailing the moon. How little that mattered to her now when she could pray every day, at any hour.
Evening, and morning, and at noon, will I pray
. Even more remarkable was the promise that followed.
And he shall hear my voice
.

She glanced at the ring beneath her right glove. If she no longer trusted the Nameless One, could she slide the silver band off her finger? A ring passed down by her great-grandmother? Nae, if only for sentiment’s sake. Nor could she remove Donald’s ring. However unfaithful he was to her, she would not be unfaithful to him.

“Lord Kerr fell at Falkirk two months ago this day,” she said.

Rob stiffened. “D’ye think on him ilka hour?”

“I do, aye.” She could see that did not please him.

The small party continued in silence until they reached the door of Rob’s tailoring shop. “Will ye come and see my faither?” he asked, unlocking the door.

Elisabeth gazed through the window, knowing she could never refuse. “Aye, but we must let Gibson hurry home. ’Tis almost the dinner hour, and he’ll be needed.”

With a bob of his head, the manservant took off for Milne Square.

“Come, Bess.” The bell jingled as Rob shut the door, leaving his Closed sign in place. “I’ve little custom on a Monday,” he explained, guiding her through the dimly lit shop. Though it was the middle of the day, they found Angus fast asleep, the bedcovers drawn round his neck.

Rob extinguished the candle by his father’s bed. “He’s not weel, Bess.” Indeed, the older man’s skin was waxy and pale, and his breathing was ragged.

She looked down at him, her heart aching. “I am very sorry to hear it.”

Rob was quiet for a long time, then said, “My mither died whan I was a wee lad. ’Twas my faither wha raised me.”

Elisabeth heard the gruff affection in his voice. “I was too young to remember your mother, but I heard many a story about Mrs. MacPherson and her venison gravy.”

“Oo aye,” Rob said. “Dinna tell a soul, but she flavored it with green walnut pickle.” He stepped closer and spoke more softly, lest they wake Angus. “She threatened to pour a bottle doon my throat onie time I misbehaved.”

“Daily, then,” Elisabeth chided him.

Her gaze was fixed on Angus, but her other senses were attuned to Rob, now standing directly behind her. Nae, not standing. Looming, as dark and as silent as Creag Choinnich, rising behind her mother’s Highland cottage.

Though his presence unnerved her at times, Rob understood her in ways the Kerrs never could. She and Rob had grown up in the same mountain fastness. Saw the world through the same lens. Knew the same people and shared the same history. Though she was a lady now and he was a tailor’s son, they were not so very different.

“I miss home,” she said simply.

Rob’s breath was warm against her hair. “I feared ye’d forgotten the Hielands.”

“Never.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Perhaps when the Rising is over… perhaps I’ll return for a visit. If my mother…” Elisabeth bowed her head. “If she’ll have me.”

“Ye ken she will, my bonny Bess.” His arm slipped loosely round her waist. “I’ll gladly escort ye hame to Braemar parish whan the time comes.”

She shook her head. “I’m a widow, Rob. You know very well I cannot travel so far with an unmarried man.”

“Aye the proper leddy.” His voice was low and musical, each phrase beginning on a higher note and ending farther down the scale. “What if the man were married?”

“Rob!” She spun round in surprise, barely noticing that his arms now encircled her completely. “Do you plan to wed?”

“I do,” he said, the line of his jaw firm. “January next, whan the leddy is free to marry.”

Elisabeth felt strangely discomfited by his news. “Is the lass from Castleton? Or from Edinburgh?”

His steady gaze met hers. “Both.”

“Oh, Rob…” Elisabeth turned her head, hiding her dismay. Had she not known this day would come? “I do not… I cannot…”

“Aye, ye can.” He slowly tightened his embrace. “I’ve waited for ye a’ my life, Bess Ferguson. And I’ll not be denied. Not without a verra guid reason.”

My heart still belongs to Donald
. Was that not reason enough?

“Rob, please. What if your father woke and found us like this?” Her question gave him pause, long enough for her to ease out of his embrace.

But he did not let go entirely. His hand still firmly grasped hers. “My faither kens my feelings for ye, Bess. And ye do as weel.” He tugged her toward their table near the fire. “Ye’ve not had yer dinner. Come, let me serve ye broth and bread and tell ye what I have in mind. If yer answer is nae, then I must accept it. But hear me oot afore ye answer, aye?”

Elisabeth already knew her answer. But how could she refuse to listen when he’d served her family so faithfully? Still wrapped in her cape, she found a seat at the plain wooden table. Rob ladled two servings of cock-a-leekie soup from the fragrant pot simmering on the fire and placed them on the table with butter and a loaf of crusty bread.

She tried not to tear into her food, but she was hungry. The flavorful
chicken and leeks, cooked in veal stock, filled an empty place inside her. And she needed time to think, time to sort through the best way to refuse his well-intentioned offer of marriage.
It is too soon, Rob
. Nae, that was not the whole of it.
Your love borders on obsession
. That was closer to the truth. In Rob’s presence she felt both safe
and
in danger, if such a thing was possible.

When she put aside her horn spoon, sated at last, she looked up to find Rob’s dark eyes measuring her. “Have ye nae food at Milne Square?” he asked.

Embarrassed, she averted her gaze. “Aye, we do, though ’tis not quite so hearty.”

He reached across the table and easily circled her wrist with his thumb and forefinger. “Ye’ve lost weight.”

“Maybe a little.”

He was beside her at once, pulling off her cape, frowning at what he saw. “Why did ye not tell me, Bess? I thocht ye sold yer gowns because ye didna need them or didna want them. Not because yer table was bare.” He stood and paced the floor, his voice a low rumble. “Had I kenned the truth, I’d have forced Meg Callander to pay ye mair for yer gowns. Why did ye not tell me?” he asked again.

Elisabeth drew her cape round her shoulders, feeling exposed. “I did not want to trouble you with family business—”

“Ye
are
my family,” he said, “or, at any rate, ye will be. I canna save them a’, Bess, but I can surely save ye.” He sat down again, his chair pulled close to hers, one arm propped on the table. “I promised to tell ye my plan, and sae I will. Come the first o’ May, whan the weather breaks, I’ll escort ye hame to Castleton o’ Braemar. And whan yer twelvemonth o’ mourning has passed, we’ll marry.”

“But…”

“I dinna need yer answer now,” he protested. “Not until ye’ve given it meikle thocht.” He pulled a letter from his waistcoat and placed it before her. “I’ve written it a’ doon, Bess. Read it whan ye’re alone. On Monday next I’ll come to Milne Square and expect yer answer, aye or nae.”

Elisabeth gazed at the folded letter, knowing it contained all his hopes for the future. “You’ve honored me greatly, Rob.”

He touched her cheek. “I want to do mair than honor ye, lass. I want to marry ye.”

She looked into his dark eyes. He was not wealthy, but he would never be poor. He was not cultured, but he knew much of the world and how it worked. He was not a gentleman, but he was an honest man.

Aye, he was a tailor’s son, but wasn’t she a weaver’s daughter?

And Rob loved her. Would love only her, the whole of his life. If he doted on her endlessly, besetting her at every turn, was that not better than a man whose affections she could never fully trust?

Rob brushed his lips across her brow. “Come, I’ll walk ye hame, Bess. In a week, whan I knock on yer door, I hope to hear guid news.”

Seventy-Three

I know not how to tell thee!

THOMAS OTWAY

E
lisabeth woke at dawn, the sky outside her window a pale blue wash of color. As she bathed and dressed herself, the air in her bedchamber was cool but not freezing. Rob’s letter, unfolded and read many times, lay on her dressing table.

A week ago she was sure of her answer. Now she was less certain.

Was it Rob MacPherson who wooed her? Or was it the hills and glens of Braemar? She could not separate the two in her mind.

This much she knew: Edinburgh was no longer her true home. Tall lands and narrow wynds, which once quickened her pulse, now made her feel hemmed in. The crowded High Street with all its diversions held little appeal for a penniless widow. And everywhere she turned, she saw Donald. Or thought she did, then realized it was someone else with a slender build and a fair periwig.

Having her hopes raised, then dashed again and again was numbing. Would marrying Rob MacPherson next January put an end to her pain?

Elisabeth stood facing the window, absently dragging a brush through her hair, rather than look at the bed she’d shared with her husband for nearly three years. To consider marrying another seemed a sacrilege. She’d not informed anyone of Rob’s proposal for that very reason. Why upset the household—her mother-in-law in particular—if the answer was going to be nae?

Elisabeth glanced at Rob’s letter, wisely written in Gaelic. She put down her brush and opened the letter once more, scanning the lines she almost knew by heart. His words were written in a bold, unpolished hand. The ink was the very color of his eyes.

My dear Bess,

I have loved you as long as I have known you.

She did not doubt Rob for a moment. Whenever they were together, his gaze was riveted on her as if no one else existed. Such complete attention was unnerving. But at least she never questioned his loyalty.

From the adjoining rooms came the sounds of her family stirring from their sleep. Determined to make up her mind before breakfast, Elisabeth read on.

This spring I would be honored to escort you to Castleton of Braemar and deliver you into your mother’s arms.

Elisabeth’s heart tightened. Would her mother swing open their cottage door and gather her in a fierce embrace, whispering, “All is forgiven, all is forgotten”? Or would the new Mrs. Cromar close that same door in her daughter’s face, shutting her out forever?

If you accept my proposal of marriage, Bess, I will do everything in my power to make you happy.

A bewitching notion, having a husband dedicated to her happiness. Could she do the same? Put his pleasure above hers? Though Rob had yet to ask that of her, surely he had the right to expect she would return his boundless affection.

My heart and my hands are yours, and everything I own in this world, if you will have me as your husband come January.

No man could offer more. Donald had given her a title and a fine home, aye. But his heart and his hands were never hers entirely.
May these gloves warm your hands, as your hands warmed me
. She could not fathom Rob being unfaithful to her, nor had she ever heard a whisper of gossip about him.

But were devotion and provision enough to win her heart?

Elisabeth stared at the words on the page, tracing the ink with her fingertips. She would marry for no other reason but love. Never mind that society laughed at such conventions. Before she could wed Rob MacPherson, she had to love him.