Here Burns My Candle (12 page)

She’d come because her loved ones had insisted. “Royalist or Jacobite, all of Edinburgh will be bound for Holyroodhouse,” Donald had assured her over a hasty breakfast. Unwilling to be left behind, Marjory had reluctantly agreed to join them, though she made certain her family knew this outing was not to her liking.

The Kerrs stood amid the throng awaiting the arrival of the young pretender to the throne. Marjory refused to give him any other title. Charles Edward Stuart was by no means
her
Prince Regent. Thousands filled the grounds. Nae, tens of thousands. The heath-covered Salisbury Crags loomed over the scene, silent and brooding, while all eyes were trained on the masonry palace with its matching pairs of round towers north and south topped with conical roofs.

At least the weather was tolerable. A scattering of thin clouds hung in the forenoon sky, posing no threat of rain, and a light breeze stirred the air. Unkempt heads and tartan-covered shoulders impeded her view, but if she stood just so, she could spy the old king’s tower, where the Stuart heir would soon hold court.

Nae, it cannot be
. Marjory swallowed hard, trying to grasp the awful truth of it: Jacobites had commandeered the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

The Highlanders crowding the streets hadn’t brandished their swords or fired their pistols, but they carried them just the same, reminding the citizenry which side had won the day. Though cannon
shots were fired by the royalist forces defending Edinburgh Castle, little else was done to dissuade the rebels who’d overrun their city.

Meanwhile, Marjory’s neighbors had spent the morning plying the enemy soldiers with food and drink in an effort to placate them. She’d not followed suit. Meat and ale were too dear. Let the bonny prince fill their bellies. “Where
is
His Royal Highness?” she fumed, loath to see him, yet impatient as well.

Janet turned round to address her. “You must admit, madam, ’tis a worthy occasion. We’ve not had a royal visitor in Scotland for sixty years. Not since his grandfather James climbed the great stair at Holyroodhouse.”

Marjory surveyed the battered stonework, the grimy windows and could only imagine the neglected palace interior. “Does he know the sorry state of his lodgings?”

“If the prince succeeds in reclaiming the throne,” Andrew observed, “he’ll likely reside in London.”

But he cannot succeed. Must not succeed
.

Marjory held her tongue, mindful of all the Jacobites within earshot. Surely Elisabeth was not sympathetic to their cause, despite that wretched business this morning. Whatever was her daughter-in-law thinking, stepping out of doors before sunrise with an invading army afoot? Naturally, Donald had defended her. Never was a lad so blinded by beauty.

From the moment they’d departed Baillie’s Land, heading downhill through the Canongate, Marjory had watched her daughter-in-law survey the rebels pouring into town as if she were looking for a familiar face.

She studied Elisabeth now, resplendent in her damask gown, and hoped her daughter-in-law hadn’t intentionally dressed to match the Highlanders’ blue bonnets. Her cheeks were pinker than usual, and her eyes glowed with uncommon zeal. Elisabeth lacked only a white silk cockade pinned to her bodice to be counted among the rebels.
Most imprudent, lass
. Marjory would caution Elisabeth to store her blue gown in aromatic wormwood, at least until Sir John Cope and his troops resolved the Jacobite problem once and for all.

“He comes!” someone cried, diverting her thoughts. A fresh wave of anticipation rippled through the forecourt. More bagpipes stuttered to life, and the shouting grew louder. “The prince! The prince!”

Marjory stood on tiptoe, trying to see what she could. When the crowd shifted, she finally spotted the young pretender, mounted on a fine bay gelding, with some seventy or eighty Highland officers following in attendance.

Her first impression was of a tall, slender man in the prime of youth, wearing Highland dress from his tartan short coat to his red velvet breeches. He conducted himself—she could not deny—in a most princely way, generously offering his hand to the many Lowland lassies who ran forward to touch his garments or to bestow him with kisses and handkerchiefs.

But it was his light-colored periwig and fair skin, his elongated face and small mouth that gave Marjory pause. Who could have guessed that Charles Stuart would bear a striking resemblance to Lord Donald Kerr?

“Madam,” Janet exclaimed over her shoulder, “I did not realize you had a third son.”

“Nor did I,” Marjory answered, surprised to find her poor opinion of the prince somewhat altered. It was hard to despise a young man who favored her cherished offspring.

“Lord Kerr is the better looking,” Elisabeth insisted, “though the likeness is remarkable.”

“One braw lad in the family will do,” Donald said, poking his brother’s shoulder. “The gentleman on the prince’s left is his aide-de-camp, Lord Elcho.”

Before Marjory could respond, one of her Monday tea-table companions appeared at her elbow. “A noble family,” Lady Ruthven declared, nodding toward the handsome Elcho heir. “He’s a year younger than your Andrew.”

Marjory eyed the woman, curious to find her mingling so freely among the prince’s admirers. Perhaps Charlotte
had
shifted her allegiance, just as she’d hinted she might at tea. “What brings you to Holyroodhouse?” Marjory asked, keeping her tone nonchalant.

The younger widow inclined her head, her dark hair swept into a loose knot, her plump mouth curled upward. “I might ask the same of you, madam.”

A filthy lad in tattered clothes held up a fistful of white muslin rosettes. “Cockades for ye, leddies?”

“Certainly not.” Marjory brushed away his offering as one might a cloud of midges.

“The prince’s faither will be king afore lang,” the boy mumbled, trudging away. “Then ye’ll change yer tune.”

Charlotte glanced at Lord Kerr, then leaned closer to Marjory, an odd light in her eyes. Her voice was low, conspiratorial. “Tell me, dear friend, is all quite well with Lord and Lady Kerr?”

Marjory bristled. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Only that—”

“Leddy Ruthven?” Her manservant had arrived to collect her. Hard of hearing, Trotter could be depended upon to interrupt his mistress at the worst possible moment.

“Coming, coming,” she told him, patting her hair. “Well, Lady Kerr, I am bound for the mercat cross, where a host of Highland folk are busy making grand proclamations.” She winked at her. “’Tis quite entertaining, I’m told. Care to join me?”

“I’ve seen enough.” Marjory was beginning to wish she’d never come. Mrs. Edgar had done a poor job lacing her stays, and her new brocade shoes pinched her toes until they were numb. And now this strange business of Charlotte Ruthven worrying about Donald’s marriage. “Dinner and a comfortable chair sound more to my liking,” Marjory told her.

Charlotte tugged her gloves back in place. “Our paths will soon cross again. I trust your family will see you home.”

The moment the widow took her leave, Elisabeth stepped round to Marjory’s side, an eager expression on her face. “Could we tarry a bit longer? The prince may show himself at the tower window, perhaps even speak to his people.”

“We are not his people,” Marjory said evenly. “Remain here with Lord Kerr if you’re determined to do so. The others can escort me to Milne Square.”

“’Tis a long walk,” Andrew advised, “and all uphill. Suppose I hire a sedan chair for each of us.”

“There’s a good lad,” she said, taking his arm. “Escort me to the foot of the Canongate. We’ll find chairmen eager for our sixpence.”

All at once a tradesman’s voice rang out from the crowd. “If it isna Lord Kerr!”

Marjory looked round to find Donald’s tailor approaching their party, his son close behind, impeded by a slight limp. The two were dressed in the manner of their trade, without wigs or hats to distinguish their appearance.

“I’ve a
wird
for Leddy Kerr,” the tailor said. “A private wird, if I may.”

Marjory bit her tongue, lest she lash out at the man.
Private? The very idea!

“If you insist,” Donald said, stepping aside. “Milady, I shall be a stone’s throw away if you need me.”

Marjory watched Elisabeth swiftly turn and greet the men in a too-familiar manner. Why, their bowed heads were nearly touching! “Lord Kerr,” Marjory fretted, “an intimate conversation between a gentlewoman and two tradesmen is not at all appropriate.”

“Angus MacPherson has known Elisabeth since childhood,” Donald reminded her. “Let the man speak his piece. ’Twould seem to be good news.”

Marjory glanced over her shoulder. Whatever the tailor was saying, her daughter-in-law’s face beneath her straw hat shone like a candle. Nae, like a chandelier.

Sixteen

Do not think that years leave us
And find us the same!

EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON

M
y brother is here?” Elisabeth looked from father to son. “You are certain?”

Angus smoothed back the hair from his brow. “We’ve yet to speak with the lad, but ’twas Simon Ferguson we saw and none
ither.”

Her heart felt ready to burst. “Please, tell me whatever you can.”

Rob leaned closer, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across her.

“We saw the lad enter the King’s Park through a breach in the wa’ this forenoon.”

She gazed toward the expanse of land south of Holyroodhouse. “Did he look well?”

“I suppose,” Angus said after a lengthy pause.

She frowned, uncertain of his meaning. “Has he been wounded, then?”

“Yer brither was limping a bit,” Rob admitted, “but ’twas the change in his face we noticed. Something to do with the
leuk
in his
e’e.”

Elisabeth pictured Simon as she last saw him: a lad of twelve, green as the pastures in May. He was standing at their cottage door, watching her ride off to Edinburgh. Chocolate brown hair, like hers. Mischievous eyes. Coltish legs. And a wistful smile.

Alas, that Simon was grown and gone.

Angus clapped a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “Come, Son. ’Tis cruel to keep Leddy Kerr waiting, with Simon
sae
near the palace. Let us awa.”

Rob looked toward Donald, his features hardening. “What o’ Lord Kerr?”

“I shall ask him to join us,” Elisabeth said, thinking to make amends for her predawn outing. She wove through the milling crowd, her eye on her husband.

“News of Simon?” Donald asked the moment she reached him.

“Aye. He’s been seen.” She studied his face, trying to gauge his reaction. “Will you escort me to him?”

Donald offered his arm without hesitation. “’Twould be an honor, milady.”

The martial cadence of a pibroch brayed through the air as the foursome crossed the palace grounds. Elisabeth ignored the knot in her stomach and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Soon she would hold Simon’s hands in hers. Soon she would know what Rob had seen in her brother’s eyes.

The MacPhersons led the way through the crowd, gesturing toward a battalion gathered in the shadow of Holyrood Abbey, adjoining the palace. “Simon wore a belted plaid,” Angus said. “Ye’ll nae doubt ken the weave.”

Aye, she would. For many years Braemar parish had but one weaver—their father, James Ferguson—who dyed his fleeces with lichen and berries, then fastened the color with sorrel. Didn’t she keep a length of plaid from home hidden in her clothes press? When she saw the same hues kilted round a young Highlander, she’d recognize her brother, no matter how much he’d changed.

Donald slowed his pace as they neared the company of soldiers. “You’ve no need to worry,” Elisabeth assured him in a low voice. “Once he sees I’m being well cared for, Simon will gladly call you his brother.”

“We shall see what he calls me,” Donald muttered.

She examined the men round her, looking for a familiar thatch of brown hair beneath a blue wool bonnet her mother might have stitched. A weaver like his father before him, Simon Ferguson would be well garbed. But for how long? Winter came early to Scotland, and the windswept, barren hills made a cruel bed.

Angus and Rob were deep in conversation when her gaze settled upon a young man wrapped in a Braemar plaid. He was sitting on the ground with his back against the abbey wall, his head bent over a long-branched bayonet stretched across his lap. He had the graceful hands of a fiddler. Or a tailor.

Or a weaver. Like our father
.

“Simon?” she whispered, too uncertain to address him.

He looked up. Whether he’d heard her or not, she couldn’t say. Nor was she certain it was her brother. The lad sitting before her hadn’t shaved that week. Nae, nor any day since Lammas. Though she couldn’t make out the shape of his mouth, his long nose resembled the one she saw in her looking glass.

Then his gaze met hers. And she knew.

“Simon!” She started across the trampled grass, clutching her skirts.

He leaped to his feet, his weapon forgotten. “Bess? Nae, it canna be!”

“Aye!” With a soft cry, Elisabeth threw herself into his waiting embrace.
My dear brother
. She buried her face in his shoulder and soaked his wool coat with her tears. Soldiers stood round them on every side-shouting, arguing, cursing—the rank odor of their bodies unavoidable. Yet Elisabeth heard but one soldier, one whose plaid smelled of heather and of home.

“Six years, Bess.” He held her tight against his chest. “I feared I’d
niver
see ye again.”

“And I, you,” Elisabeth whispered, her mind flooded with childhood memories. Clambering o’er the ruins of Kindrochaide Castle. Fishing for brown trout in the Clunie Water. Weeping at their father’s grave. Laughing round their mother’s table.
Simon, dear Simon!

Finally she eased away from him, then straightened her straw hat and dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Forgive me,” she murmured, certain she’d embarrassed him.