Here Burns My Candle (7 page)

Elisabeth pictured Donald’s carefully rendered map of Edinburgh and its environs: the village of Kirkliston to the west, the seaport of Leith to the north. He’d commissioned maps of Berwickshire, of Roxburghshire, of Selkirkshire. But nowhere in the house could be found a map of Aberdeenshire, her own county to the north. Nor a painting of the grass-covered glens she’d loved as a child. Nor a sketch of the lofty hills surrounding Castleton of Braemar, the Highland
clachan
she’d once called home.

She’d left in haste, and for good reason. Now that all was resolved, she longed to visit her mother’s heather-thatched cottage with its tidy
kitchen garden by the door. To clasp the hand of her younger brother, Simon, and climb the steep slopes of Morrone. To meander among the ancient pines and share secrets, as they once had.

Yet each time Elisabeth mentioned the possibility of a journey north, her mother-in-law found some reason to object. The considerable distance. The unpredictable weather. The miserable condition of the roads.

Any suggestion that her family travel south to Edinburgh was met with further resistance—their cramped lodging being the chief impediment. “Wherever would your mother sleep?” Marjory fretted when the subject came up again last month. “I would be the worst of hostesses with only a drawing room to offer her.”

In spite of Elisabeth’s assurances that a pile of blankets near the hearth would suit Fiona and Simon Ferguson very well, Marjory would not hear of it. “Perhaps next summer,” her mother-in-law had said. As she always said. And so Elisabeth dreamed of the hills and glens of home and woke with tears in her eyes, then brushed them away before anyone noticed.

She was dry-eyed at the moment, though her thoughts were far from easy. Rather than hear Hamilton’s dragoons march through the city, she longed to hear Donald’s footsteps on the stair. She gazed at the coals nestled in the grate, willing her husband home.
Please, Donald. Soon
.

Janet was still complaining about the morning’s disruptions when the bells of Saint Giles began to ring. And those of the Tron Kirk. And the parish kirk in the Canongate to the east. Elisabeth and the others were on their feet at once, headed for the dowager’s chamber and her windows facing the High Street.

Andrew lifted one sash, then another. “Listen!” Not only bells resounded through the
wynds
and
closes
, the winding streets and narrow passageways that branched off the main thoroughfare. Now they also heard the distinctive staccato of drums. “Dragoons!” Andrew breathed, not bothering to hide his excitement.

Elisabeth leaned out as far as she dared, tightly gripping the windowsill. The other Kerrs joined her as all along the street sashes flew up
and startled faces appeared. Though she couldn’t see them, Elisabeth heard the clatter of hoofs on the paving stones and the sound of raucous cheers. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” She peered down the High Street, lined twenty deep with citizens. The staccato drums grew louder, the military rhythm more marked. At long last she caught a glimpse of red, a flash of white.

“Aren’t they splendid in their uniforms?” Janet clutched the generous cuffs of Andrew’s coat as she hung out farther still.

“Have a care,” Marjory cautioned, withdrawing into the safer confines of her bedchamber. “They’ll march below our windows shortly.”

Elisabeth lowered her heels and eased her shoulders inside. Without Donald to anchor her, it was perilous to lean out so far. She dropped to her knees, propped her elbows on the low sill, and settled her chin in her hands. Even from a distance she could see the soldiers’ bright red coats, brass buttons parading down the front. Close-fitting white breeches were tucked into polished black boots, cuffed at the knee. And on their heads sat black military hats, proudly cocked, the wavy edges trimmed in gold.

In years past she’d mended her share of officers’ uniforms at Angus’s shop, replacing lost buttons or repairing torn seams. “Just as
weel
their coats are red,” Angus had observed dryly. “The
bluid
from a Highlander’s dirk willna show.”

A friend of her late father’s and a fierce Jacobite, Angus MacPherson had guarded her welfare from the first hour Elisabeth had arrived in the capital. The tailor was no doubt roaming the town that afternoon, shadowed by his taciturn son of eight-and-twenty. She still remembered the way dark and brooding Rob MacPherson had watched her whenever she visited his father’s shop, the young man’s eyes like bits of coal, black and hard. Born with a club foot, Rob still had a marked limp, though he managed it well. The lads of Castleton had teased him unmercifully. Perhaps if they saw Rob now, with his broad shoulders and thick arms, they might not be so quick to taunt him.

“Look at that, will you!” Andrew cried, exultant.

Elisabeth looked down in time to see the mounted dragoons clash their swords as if engaged in battle. Each mock skirmish was met with roars of approval from the throng. Louder than the drums or swords were
the voices of women, old and young, gentle and common, calling out from their window perches—some with buoyant good wishes, others with unbridled scorn. “Ye’re nae match for the Hielanders!” shouted one.

Picturing a broadsword in the hands of a rugged clansman, Elisabeth feared their sharp-tongued neighbor might be right. When the dragoons passed by, her consternation grew. They, too, were young, and their mounts seemed skittish and unaccustomed to crowds. However fine the soldiers’ uniforms, their beardless faces and slender limbs told a truer tale.

“Mr. Kerr, where are they headed?” she asked.

“Corstorphine,” Andrew told her, “to join Gardiner’s regiment. All told, less than six hundred men.”

So few
. Elisabeth gazed toward the Lawnmarket. “Will the Gentlemen Volunteers march out with them?”

He paused before answering. “Aye.”

Elisabeth frowned. Surely Donald would not join their campaign, however great the need. Though his sword dutifully hung by his side, he’d had no military training, nor was he a skilled horseman. Still, with Andrew itching to enlist, might Donald be persuaded?

Or was someone else persuading Lord Kerr that afternoon and in quite another direction? Miss Anna Hart, perhaps, with eyes the color of jade. The young woman’s words jabbed her like a saber, the sharp tip bared.
I choose carefully whom I embrace
. Had the lass dared to embrace Lord Kerr, on this day or any other? Surely a merchant’s daughter would not be so careless with her virtue nor a husband so thoughtless with his favor.

Only then did Elisabeth recall his whispered endearment.
I have a weakness for beautiful women
. A compliment, as she’d imagined? Or was it a confession?

Elisabeth slowly rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirts.
Nae, Donald. I’ll not believe it. Not until you tell me so
. With a leaden heart, she stood waiting for the others as the dragoons disappeared from sight.

“Beg pardon, Leddy Kerr.” Gibson stood at the bedchamber door, his posture ramrod straight despite his sixty years. “’Tis one o’ the clock.”

“Pour the claret,” Marjory told him, sweeping past the others. “Rebellion or not, dinner is served.”

Nine

Nature’s loving proxy,
the watchful mother.

EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON

A
ny moment Lord Kerr will breeze through the door like an autumn leaf,” Marjory declared soon after they sat down to their Sabbath dinner. “We’ve no need for concern.” She felt the heat of false bravado rise to her cheeks. Or was it the claret warming her from the inside out?

She hid behind her glass, hoping no one noticed she’d hardly touched her food. What mother could have an appetite with an army approaching and her son amid the fray? For the others’ benefit, she treated Donald’s absence as a trifling matter. For her, it was yet another reason to worry.

Their first winter in Edinburgh both her sons had been weakened by a bout with consumption. Donald had regained his strength, albeit slowly, while his brother still struggled to breathe. Whatever their late father’s wishes, Andrew could never hope to serve in the military, and his older brother had never expressed any desire to do so. But if Donald saw his friends bearing arms and heard the cadence of the dragoons, might he not be tempted? Might he not join the Volunteers?

Holding the glass to her lips, Marjory sent a brief prayer heavenward, then drank deeply, as if sealing a bargain.
Bring my son home, Lord, and do not tarry
. She waited for the familiar sense of peace that had once followed her prayers. But such assurance did not come; only an empty silence.

As the others dined on lemon tarts and tea, Marjory’s gaze kept returning to the tall case clock in the corner of the drawing room, its brass pendulum counting the seconds. Nearly two o’ the clock and still no word from Donald. When Gibson finished his serving duties at table, Marjory quietly dispatched him to the Lawnmarket, knowing he would return with her son or with news of him.

The afternoon sky was gray but not threatening when the four of them put aside their linen napkins. “Shall we read beside the hearth?” Marjory suggested. Much as she longed to soothe her troubled mind with a game of whist, the Sabbath afternoon was better spent in spiritual pursuits. She sent Elisabeth to collect Reverend Boston’s book from her bedchamber and made herself comfortable by the fireplace.

Her daughter-in-law soon reappeared, the thick volume in hand. “Shall I begin?” Elisabeth offered, opening to the page marked from their last Sabbath reading.

Marjory pursed her lips. ’Twas Andrew’s voice she wished to hear, with the familiar cadence of home. Or Janet’s well-bred accent, honed from her years in Edinburgh society. Elisabeth’s speech, still tainted with a Gaelic air, grated on the ear. Too musical by half and too lively.
Human Nature in its Fourfold State
deserved a more sober reading.

But Elisabeth had already settled into an upholstered chair, her long feet balanced on a velvet-covered footstool. “Man’s life is a stream,” she read aloud, “running into death’s devouring deeps. They who now live in palaces must quit them…”

Marjory let the words wash over her, keeping only those sentiments that pleased her. “This world is like a great fair or market.” Aye, the High Street especially. “Youth is a flower that soon withers.” Her looking glass proved that. “Christ has taken away the sting of death.” A reassuring thought.

But the vanity of man’s life, the sinfulness of man’s nature, the certainty of man’s demise—Marjory did not dwell on those subjects. The tragic loss of Lord John had taught her all she needed to know of death and more than she wanted to know of guilt. His portrait hung above the marble mantelpiece, a tacit reminder of a marriage ended too soon.

Marjory sank back against the chair, closing her eyes so she might listen without distraction. Elisabeth’s voice played on, like a music box, the sound growing fainter and fainter…

“Mother?”

Marjory slowly lifted her head and blinked, trying to make sense of
things. The drawing room bathed in shadows. The warmth of the fire. Flickering candles on the mantelpiece. Donald touching her shoulder.

“You sent the right man,” he said, smiling down at her. “When Gibson found me in the Lawnmarket, he insisted I come home and refused to hear otherwise.”

“The Lord bless him for it.” Marjory studied Donald’s face. He was paler than usual with a fine sheen on his brow and upper lip and a bruised look to his eyes.
Poor lad
. He’d had a difficult afternoon. Though Donald no longer suffered as Andrew did, she’d sent Gibson none too soon.

Relieved to have them both home, Marjory sat up and patted her hair in place, knowing she must look frightful. How had she slept so soundly? When she glanced at the clock, her eyes widened. “Is it past six?”

“Aye.” Donald nodded toward the window. “The light has long faded.”

“Now black and deep the night begins to fall.” Marjory paused, waiting to see if he recognized the line of poetry.

“Much too easy,” he chided her, “or have you forgotten I acquired a new edition of Thomson’s
The Seasons?”

She sniffed. “I know better than to test you after I’ve been napping.”

Elisabeth spoke from across the room. “Do forgive us for not waking you.” She sat before a tambour frame, embroidering one of Donald’s silk waistcoats, the scarlet thread in constant motion, a bank of candles lighting her tiny stitches. “Lord Kerr mentioned you did not sleep well last night.”

“On the contrary.” Marjory abruptly stood, ignoring a slight twinge of pain. “I slept very well.” She took a turn round the room, hoping to ease the stiffness in her knees. “What news from the Lawnmarket, Lord Kerr? You’ve no doubt informed the others.” When she paused at one of the windows overlooking Milne Square, Donald joined her, briefly touching her hand, a thoughtful son comforting his mother.

“I reached the Lawnmarket not far ahead of Hamilton’s dragoons,” he began. “An hour later the Gentlemen Volunteers marched down the West Bow. You know what a winding, zigzag of a street it is, giving men
with second thoughts a chance to slip off unnoticed through open doorways or narrow wynds. By the time the Volunteers reached the Grass-market, only forty soldiers remained.”

“Forty?” Marjory looked up at him, aghast. “I thought they numbered four hundred.”

Donald looked out into the deepening twilight. “Family members pulled many aside, convincing them to stay behind. Other men couldn’t find the courage to go on. Then the parish ministers arrived, pleading for the youth of Edinburgh and the hope of the next generation.” He shook his head. “When Reverend Wishart spoke of the lads being made prisoners and maltreated, there was no hope for it. Captain Drummond marched what was left of his company back to the College Yards and dismissed them.”

Marjory envisioned George Drummond—his long bob wig and short neck, his bushy eyebrows and florid cheeks—and thanked heaven she’d refused his suit. He’d made a fine mess of things this day. “So the dragoons are all that stand between us and the Highlanders?”