Here Burns My Candle (9 page)

“The flowers of Edinburgh are in full bloom,” he grumbled, sorry he’d recommended they venture out of doors. After three days of chamber pots being emptied into the street and no scavengers appearing at dawn with wheelbarrows to carry off the refuse, the High Street was even more malodorous than usual.

The incessant clang of the fire bell made discourse nigh to impossible. But he’d promised to bring his wife to the mercat cross, and this was not a day for breaking faith. By some miracle Elisabeth had accepted his glib answer for the never-ending gossip about him. It seemed she’d all but forgiven him, though who could understand the workings of a woman’s heart?

Discretion was his new byword. No more dancing with former paramours at Assembly Close. No more flirting with unmarried daughters in the street.
Losh!
Whatever had possessed him? He should have snubbed Anna Hart rather than addressed her. And no more midnight trysts with Lucy Spence, whose door in Halkerston’s Wynd stood tantalizingly close to his own…

“Lord Kerr?”

With a guilty start, he turned to find Elisabeth facing him, her elegant features shadowed beneath a straw-brimmed hat. He cleared his throat, wishing he might banish his wayward thoughts so easily. “Have you had enough, milady?”

“No indeed.” Her blue eyes gleamed above a sachet of rose petals pressed to her nose. “Not with the bonny prince almost at our gates.”

“Aye,” Donald admitted begrudgingly. “It seems the dragoons failed to stop him.”

They’d already heard the story numerous times since arriving in the marketplace. An advance party of Highlanders had startled the mounted dragoons near Colt Bridge and fired their pistols—in sport or in defiance, none could say. Panic-stricken, the dragoons turned round and headed for Leith, abandoning their baggage and arms. The citizens of Edinburgh had watched in dismay as both Hamilton’s and Gardiner’s men fled on horseback across the Lang Dykes north of town, leaving the capital undefended.

On the High Street tradesmen deserted their shops and stood about, bareheaded and empty handed, armed with only their indignation. Two regiments of royalist dragoons unmanned by a handful of Highlanders? The shame was not to be borne.

Donald was of the same opinion. Were there no true soldiers among them? Andrew would be livid when he heard of the dragoons’ humiliating retreat.

A nearby poultryman, wrapped in a bloodied apron, bellowed in protest. “Ne’er mind the dragoons. We’ll fight the rebels ourselves!”

“Aye,” growled a sawyer,
“wha
better?”

But there were other voices, stronger ones, begging for surrender. A saddler cried out, “Ye’re a’ daft if ye’re thinking o’ defending the
toun
now.”

Beside him, a pressman waved his ink-stained hands. “If we dinna surrender, we’ll be cut doon in our beds!”

All the while, a bold contingent of Jacobites sang so loudly they almost drowned out their detractors.

Oh, set me ance on Scottish land,
With my guid broadsword in my hand!
To see King James at Edinburgh Cross,
With fifty thousand foot and horse!

Donald snorted when he heard the exaggerated figure. “Not so many as that, I’ll wager. Five thousand men at best.”

“I’m glad the young dragoons were spared,” Elisabeth said. “If Prince Charlie and his men take the city peaceably, so much the better.”

Donald rolled his eyes in mock disdain. “Spoken like a true Jacobite.”

“Nae, spoken like a woman,” she countered. “Peace is always preferable to war.”

“Unless war is needed to restore the peace.” Donald looked up at the ancient cross of Edinburgh. “If anything’s to be announced, ’twill happen here.” The mercat cross not only marked a place of commerce. Proclamations were also made there. And executions.

Elisabeth touched his arm. “Angus MacPherson and his son are coming this way. May we speak with them?”

He could hardly refuse. The tailor was a family friend, who’d departed Elisabeth’s Highland clachan some years past, then welcomed her when she’d arrived in Edinburgh. Donald owed the tradesman a cordial greeting if naught else. “MacPherson,” he said with a brief nod.

“Lord Kerr.” Angus bowed as best he could in the crowded street. “And Leddy Kerr, ’tis
aye
a pleasure.”

“For me as well,” Elisabeth said warmly, clasping the tailor’s hands. “You are in good health?”

“a’ the better, seeing ye here,” Angus said, a twinkle in his gray eyes.

The man was well in his fifties, Donald supposed, since his black hair and trimmed beard were shot through with silver. Angus MacPherson was a head shorter than he and a good deal rounder, yet the tailor was surprisingly fit, with the bearing of a man nearer the age of his son, who shared his solid, muscular build.

Elisabeth turned to smile at the younger man. “Mr. MacPherson, you’re looking well.”

“As are ye, milady,” he responded, offering her a deep bow. Despite being the size of a small mountain, Rob was as soft spoken as his father was gruff, his deep voice barely audible amid the hubbub. Black hair sprang from his head like thick winter wool, and his coat was neatly brushed, as befitted a tailor. But it was his eyes Donald noted: dark as night, even on a fair day.

“Have you news of the prince?” Donald inquired, suspecting the MacPhersons were loyal Jacobites.

Angus eyed him warily. “Why would a tailor from the Luckenbooths
ken
His Royal Highness’s whereabouts?”

Ever the peacemaker, Elisabeth stepped between them. “Lord Kerr is aware of our sympathies, Mr. MacPherson.” She gave Donald a sideways glance. “You’ll find my husband quite trustworthy.”

“Is that
richt
, sir?” Angus asked, his brow creased with doubt.

Donald grunted his assent, though his gaze was fixed on Elisabeth.
Trustworthy
. Was she toying with him? Testing him? Had she seen through his duplicity after all?

“As it happens, I do have news,” Angus continued. “Come the morrow Edinburgh will have a new sovereign.”

His bold pronouncement caught Donald’s ear, drawing him back to the issue at hand. “Have you nothing more to tell us than that, MacPherson? ’Tis common knowledge no army stands between the rebels and the capital.”

Angus wagged his index finger. “Aye, but how and whan they’ll arrive is not so widely
kenned—”

A shout sliced through the air like gunfire, ending any discussion. All at once folk began moving en masse toward Parliament Close, bumping against one another like sheep being herded into the fold.

Elisabeth reached for Donald’s hand as Angus and Rob were swept away by a different current. If the snippets of conversation flying about could be trusted, the Lord Provost had convened a public meeting. Donald fought to keep Elisabeth close by his side, while she gripped the brim of her hat, lest it be knocked to the ground and she along with it.

Twelve-story buildings lined the narrow confines of Parliament Close, shutting out much of the late afternoon sunlight. The shoving, jostling, elbowing crowd made their way toward the High Kirk of Saint Giles, their voices at a fever pitch. Donald guided Elisabeth up the low steps leading to the massive arched entranceway. Both wooden doors had been thrown open to receive the human flood.

He found a seat for his wife at once and stood behind her, hands resting on her shoulders. The aisle quickly filled with an anxious citizenry, subdued for the moment by the cool, dank interior of the old kirk with its Gothic arches sweeping high overhead.

“’Tis easy to feel insignificant in such a place,” Elisabeth said, her head tipped back to take it all in.

Donald was about to respond when he spotted the lithe figure of Lucy Spence. The fair-haired widow, still young at two-and-twenty, stood amid a knot of women huddled against one of the broad stone pillars. Had Lucy seen him? Would she turn those cool green eyes his way?

Aye
.

However difficult, he averted his gaze. It was perilous even to look at Lucy with his wife so near.

The crowd began to stir, drawing Donald’s eyes toward the front of the church. “Ah, there’s the Lord Provost,” he told Elisabeth, lightly squeezing her shoulders. “Now we shall see what’s to be done.”

Almost immediately the shouting resumed. “Surrender!” rang out the loudest. When the Lord Provost asked if the dragoons should be brought within the town walls, the assembled cried, “Nae dragoons!” When he pressed further, demanding to know whether or not Edinburgh should mount a defense, the answer was clearly, “Nae defense!”

No sooner had the Lord Provost finished than a commotion at the door captured the crowd’s attention. Heads craned and young lads stood on tiptoe as a plainly dressed messenger made his way toward the front. “A letter for the town council,” he called out, waving his offering.

Mr. Orrock, the dean of shoemakers, broke the seal and unfolded the letter with a flourish, then began to read.

“Cease!” the Lord Provost demanded, bearing down on the man. “I will know the signature before I’ll allow this letter to be made public.”

With noticeably less confidence, Mr. Orrock read aloud, “Charles P. R.”

Elisabeth stifled a gasp. “Prince Regent,” she whispered, looking up at Donald.

He nodded grimly. Charles Edward Stuart was asserting his right to wrest the throne from King George’s grasp. Could the prince and his army manage such a feat?

“Enough!” The Lord Provost snatched the letter from the shoemaker’s hand. “The town assessor will rule on the reading of this.” He stamped out of the kirk, a stream of people trailing in his wake.

Donald helped Elisabeth to her feet. “Suppose we find my brother. I would know his view of the day’s events.”

“Andrew will have much to say,” she agreed, taking Donald’s arm as they merged with the crowd flowing back into Parliament Close.

The conversations round them were more heated than ever. “Ye dare not sleep in yer beds,” one older fellow warned, stabbing the air with his walking stick to punctuate his words. “They’ll run ye through with their swords!”

“Och, they’ll do nae such thing,” shouted a fishmonger with a basket of oysters strapped to his back. “They’re Hielanders, not savages.”

“’Tis a’ the same,” a red-faced woman complained, her frown a permanent fixture.

Donald and Elisabeth had not moved ten steps when Rob MacPherson reappeared, his skin flushed, his eyes like pierced tin lanterns, dark but glowing. “A moment if I may, Leddy Kerr.” Rob leaned closer to Elisabeth, his voice too low to be overheard. Did the man never speak up?

Donald watched the two of them, heads bent together, surprised at the spark of jealousy that shot through him. Rob MacPherson was a tailor’s son, unworthy of Elisabeth’s regard. She was merely being polite. Yet whatever Rob was saying, her eyes had widened considerably. News from home, perhaps?

All at once Donald felt a woman’s hand brush the small of his back.
Lucy?
He’d almost forgotten she was there. Almost, but not quite.

Elisabeth seemed rather engaged. Could he risk a quick glance? Fighting a losing battle, Donald looked over his shoulder in time to see the fisherman’s widow pass by, hiding a knowing smile behind her handkerchief.

Twelve

Vexations may be petty, but they are vexations still.

MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

L
ady Woodhall’s clock chimed half past six. The brief, muted sound drew no one’s attention, save Marjory’s. She’d purposely sat facing the mantel, her back to the window, preferring not to see Edinburgh in a state of misery and chaos.

A trio of like-minded friends shared the round tea table. Lady Falconer dabbed at her mouth with a linen napkin while Lady Ruthven stirred yet another spoonful of honey into her cup. Plates of lemon cake dotted with orange peel had come and gone, as had several hands of whist. Only tea and lukewarm conversation remained.

The sterling spoons were numbered so when the maidservant whisked away the china cups to be refilled, they were returned to the proper guest. A spoon resting on the saucer was an unspoken request for another cup of tea. Marjory had lost track of how many she’d enjoyed. Four? Five? But they were such
small
cups. Despite the exorbitant price demanded by smugglers and merchants alike, surely Lady Woodhall would not begrudge a thirsty friend.

Marjory lifted her spoon, wondering if she dared place it on the saucer again.

“Have another,” Lady Woodhall insisted, crooking her finger to summon her maidservant. “Fresh cups all round, Jenny, before the Highlanders abscond with my silver.”

A moment later Marjory’s hands shook as she lifted her cup. Would Prince Charlie allow his men such liberties? Entering a widow’s home? Stealing her valuables? When a fleeting image of her hidden leather purses came to mind, Marjory gulped her tea, hoping to drown her fears.

Lady Joanna Falconer was the eldest among them. Her white hair no longer needed powder, and she’d given up rouging her papery cheeks some years past. Marjory found herself particularly drawn to the woman,
if only because she shared her late mother’s first name and her birth year as well. “What think you of Mr. Hogg’s lecture yesterday morning?” Lady Falconer asked the group.

“Rather strident,” Lady Ruthven replied, still eying the pot of honey. The youngest among them, Charlotte Ruthven proudly wore her black hair in a dramatic sweep of curls, without hat or powder to diminish its raven beauty. One hardly noticed her pudgy features or sallow complexion. “I have little sympathy for the Jacobite cause,” she added, “but if we’re forced to endure another diatribe like that one, I may shift my allegiance.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lady Woodhall scolded her. “Not while your title and wealth are wholly dependent on King George’s favor.”

“Speaking of the peerage…” Lady Ruthven fixed her gaze on Marjory, then leaned forward. “On Sunday afternoon Trotter and I ventured up to the Lawnmarket, where I spotted Lord Kerr. He was not alone.”