Here Burns My Candle (15 page)

A moment later Elisabeth found Janet in the drawing room. Lady Marjory and her sons had already had breakfast and gone abroad on various errands, leaving just the two of them. Too restless to eat, Elisabeth joined her sister-in-law at table and sat before an empty plate.

A caddie had brought round a note from Simon last evening. She would meet him in less than an hour.

“Think of it!” Janet said, carving the air with her butter knife. “A reception on the prince’s first night at the palace. All the rebel ladies you might expect were there: Lady Balmerino, Miss Blair—you know, the bonny one—Lady Kilmarnock, and that wealthy Miss Christie.”

Elisabeth could have named another dozen but simply nodded. “Quite a showing of support.”

“I
might have been invited,” Janet said with a sniff. “Lord James Murray, one of the prince’s joint commanders,
is
, after all, a distant relation of mine.”

Very distant, Elisabeth knew. Still, if Janet might be won to the prince’s cause, Andrew would surely follow. And if all the Kerrs came round, lending their name and their fortune to the Jacobite effort, imagine what good might be accomplished!

“If your smile grows any wider, Lady Elisabeth, your face will suffer for it.” Janet was glaring at her. “’Twould appear my family connections amuse you.”

“Not at all,” Elisabeth hastened to say. “Lord James Murray is vital to the cause and would surely welcome your support.”
There
. She’d planted the seed and would water it often. “Janet, I confess my mind is elsewhere this morn. I’m to meet with my brother at ten.”

“Oh. I’d forgotten.” Janet’s voice lost its sharpness. “Simon, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “He was twelve when I left Braemar.”

“Both my brothers are older,” Janet said, not quite looking at her. “I’ve not seen them since I married.”

Elisabeth treaded lightly, so mercurial were her sister-in-law’s moods. “They’ve both settled in Dunkeld?”

“Aye. For good, I imagine.” Janet sighed. “And here’s Gibson to escort you to White Horse Close.”

He stood at the drawing room door. “Whenever ye say, Leddy Kerr.”

Elisabeth eyed a vacant table. Even from some distance she heard the great bell of the Canongate Kirk chime ten o’ the clock. “When my brother arrives,” she told the innkeeper, “I shall be waiting for him there.”

“Will ye, now?” The middle-aged woman squinted, her eyes disappearing in grayish brown folds of skin. “And ye’ll both have a plate o’ green kale, ye say?”

“Aye, mem,” Gibson told her, then guided Elisabeth to the table she’d chosen, well away from the entrance in a nook all its own.

Thick, soot-blackened beams hung low across the room, and worn flagstones covered the floor. A few small windows cast enough light to see the rising dust motes. Wooden benches, rather than chairs, were drawn up to a dozen or so tables occupied by travelers, soldiers, tradesmen, and merchants. Not many women among them, Elisabeth realized, and too many male gazes pinned on her.

She perched on a bench facing the door and hoped Simon would soon appear. When her kale arrived first, she abandoned the watery, flavorless dish after the first spoonful. The round, plate-sized bannock, baked from coarse meal, had more to recommend it. She pinched off one bite, then two, until at last she spied her brother walking toward her, his limp somewhat diminished.

When Simon reached the table, Gibson said with a parting bow, “I’ll be at the door, Leddy Kerr, if ye need me.”

Simon dropped onto the bench without ceremony and sniffed at her plate. “I need mair than green kale if I’m to march to Musselburgh come the morn.” His voice was rough as gravel. Although he’d not changed clothes since she’d seen him on Tuesday, his face was scrubbed and his unruly hair combed.

When the innkeeper appeared with a second plate of kale, Elisabeth waved it away and ordered a serving of barley broth with mutton instead. “’Twill put meat on your bones,” she promised her brother. She waited until the innkeeper lumbered away before giving Simon her full attention. “What can you tell me of Prince Charlie’s plans?”

“Verra little,” he confessed. “We’re to quit the toun and spend the nicht in Duddingston, east o’ the crags.”

She well knew the Salisbury Crags, rising like a fortress overlooking the city. On the morrow she would stand atop those steep, whinstone cliffs and hail the moon, just as their mother had taught her.
Number the days and measure the moon. Circle the silver and speak the truth
. Simon and their father had always known about their monthly ritual but never joined them. ’Twas a woman’s art.

When her brother’s rich meat broth appeared, he said nothing for several minutes, his spoon constantly moving from dish to mouth. Fistfuls of bannock followed until the plate was clean and a single gulp of ale remained to wash down the crumbs. A moment later he banged down the cup with a satisfied groan. “What’s on yer mind, Bess? I canna stay lang.”

She studied the table, uncertain where to begin. “Tell me about home.”

“Castleton’s the same as ever.” He stretched out his bad leg, wincing as he did. “Hills and glens, cottages and sheep.”

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I meant, how is Mother?”

A cloud moved across his features. “She’s weel enough. In guid health and guid spirits.” He lowered his voice. “She and Ben Cromar are behaving like married folk, if ye ken my meaning.”

Her heart sank. The mother she remembered would never have brought such shame to her door. “No wonder she bade me share her news.”

“Do they mean to wed?” Simon asked her bluntly. “Is that what this is about?”

“Aye,” Elisabeth confessed. “’Tis why she wrote me.”

Simon shook his head, clearly disgusted. “The woman made me carry her letter for a fortnight whan she might have told me herself? Och!”

Elisabeth could hardly defend their mother’s actions, but she did try to soften the blow. “Whatever her faults, she loves you, Simon. And she knows you don’t approve of Mr. Cromar.”

“Aye, ye could say that,” he muttered. “I’d gladly toss Ben Cromar in the River Dee and watch him drown.”

Her brother’s words frightened her. His expression even more so.
Something to do with the leuk in his e’e
. Aye, she saw it too. A wound that refused to heal. A memory he could not erase.

Elisabeth felt a tightening in her chest. “Simon, did this man… did he hurt you?”

He looked down. A long silence followed.

When he spoke, his voice was low, his words broken. “If Prince Charlie hadna come… I’d have left on my ain.”

“Oh, Simon.” She clasped his hands, not letting go when he tried to pull them away. “Will you not tell me what happened?”

“’Twas a lang time ago. Best forgotten.”

“Surely Mother—”

“She niver kenned. He’s a sly one, that Cromar.”

“Aye, he is.” Elisabeth waited, giving Simon time, thinking he might explain. Instead, he slowly dropped his chin to his chest, revealing an ugly red scar along the nape of his neck. A burn mark, long and flat, shaped like a blacksmith’s iron bar…

“Nae!” She squeezed his hands, fighting tears. “When did this happen? Simon, why did you not write to me?”

He slowly lifted his head. “I was four-and-ten, Bess. How was I to send a letter whan ye were far awa at boarding school?”

She closed her eyes, feeling sick. “This is my fault. I should have stayed in Braemar. I should have protected you—”

“Dinna blame yerself, Bess.” He sat up, easing his hands free. “I’m sure ye left hame for a guid reason.”

Ben Cromar
. She made herself open her eyes. Made herself look at the brother she’d abandoned. “Mr. Cromar was the reason I left, Simon.”

A spark of anger shot through his brown eyes. “Did the man hurt ye as weel? He’ll not live if he did—”

“Nae, nae, Simon.” She was embarrassed to confess it now. “Ben Cromar only looked at me. Nothing more, only looked.”

“Oh, aye,” he growled, “I ken the leuk ye mean. Had ye stayed, lass, he’d have done mair than leuk.”

She nodded, grateful he understood. “Still, I should have taken you with me—”

“Nae, Bess.” He gently dried her tears with the back of his hand. “Ye didna ken. Anyway, ’tis done.”

There was little else to say.

He pushed back the short bench and stood. “I fear I must leave ye, Bess. I’ve been gone too lang as it is.”

“Can you not tarry a few more minutes?” she pleaded.

“I’m sorry.” He offered her his arm. “Walk with me?”

Gibson was waiting for them at the entrance. She nodded, hoping he would know to follow them. At the moment words escaped her.

Simon led her out of doors and down the stair into White Horse Close, a broad courtyard paved in stone and crowded with horses, stablers, and wheeled conveyances. Elisabeth held on to his arm with both hands, slowing her steps as they walked through the vaulted
pend
that led to the Canongate.

When they reached the main thoroughfare, Simon glanced toward the King’s Park, then turned and took her hands in his. “I
luve
ye, Bess,” he said gruffly.

She kissed his cheek, though her mouth was trembling. “And I love you, Simon.”

He regarded her at length, as if memorizing every feature of her face. “I canna say whan we’ll meet again.” For an instant, she saw the young boy she’d left behind in Braemar, standing at the door with his heart in his eyes. “Hail the moon for me, Bess?”

“I will.” She could not bear to let him go. Could not bear to say good-bye. “Tomorrow, Simon. I’ll not forget.”

Twenty

Early and provident fear is the mother of safety.

EDMUND BURKE

M
arjory flattened her palm against her stomach, willing her dinner to cease its arguing. Mrs. Edgar insisted she’d flavored the spiced salmon with a light hand, yet Marjory could still taste the sharp black pepper and pungent cinnamon. At least she had the house to herself. Unusual for a Friday afternoon.

Seated at the mahogany desk in the entrance hall, Marjory drew the candle nearer, peering at the latest entries in her cashbook.

Mrs. Gow, for six bottles of port: one pound, three shillings.

Mr. Noble, for two bob wigs: two pounds, one shilling.

Mr. Chapman, for ten
bolls
of meal: five pounds, seven shillings.

After Lord John’s death such bookkeeping duties had fallen to her, since Donald was more interested in words than numbers. The rental income from their Tweedsford tenants, who lived on their estate and worked the land, had to be managed each quarter. And Donald’s inheritance needed careful tending.

“All gold and silver rather turn to dirt,” he’d quoted the last time he’d found her squinting over the cashbook.

“Shakespeare,” she’d answered after a moment’s reflection. “But when that soil surrounds Tweedsford, it is rich dirt indeed.”

Donald had merely smiled, as though their Lowland property was of little concern to him. He was not his father’s son on that score. Lord John spent all his daylight hours walking the estate, dreaming of the gardens and trees he might plant, finding satisfaction in the fertile land and its bounty.

But then he married you, Marjory. A woman who is seldom satisfied
.

Stung by the reminder, she scratched at the paper with her quill,
nearly tearing the page. Hadn’t she done what she could to make her husband happy? And to please her father as well? Lord John was already forty and graying when her father declared him a suitable match for a baronet’s daughter with a plain face and few prospects. Their betrothal was toasted with glasses of port, a wedding was arranged in haste, and the new Lady Kerr was delivered to Tweedsford near the end of her eighteenth year.

Eight-and-ten
. Had she ever been so young?

Marjory held her pen over the ink pot rather than mar the lined page swimming before her eyes. Aye, she’d been young. And impetuous too, insisting her aging husband spend his guineas showing her the world. Paris, London, Amsterdam, Brussels. Each time they’d returned to rural Selkirkshire, she’d complained of their dull life at Tweedsford.

Tedious, she’d called it. Uneventful in the extreme.

After endless cajoling on her part, the Kerrs had finally moved to Edinburgh. One season became two, then three. And then Lord John died.

Because of you
.

Marjory gripped her quill. She’d learned, had she not, and so had put her sons’ happiness before her own? She could not undo the past. But if she protected the Kerr inheritance, she might yet honor her husband’s name. She dipped her pen in fresh ink, determined to finish before her sons returned home.

Donald and Andrew had adjourned to Mrs. Turnbull’s tavern across the High Street. They’d left behind their swords but undoubtedly not their talk of the rebellion. Donald had spoken of little else since the prince’s unwelcome appearance.

At least she’d heard one bit of good news on the stair. The Jacobite soldiers had departed from Duddingston early that morning, marching east to engage Sir John Cope and his men in battle. Donald believed their numbers were evenly matched, but she was certain Sir John would trample the rustic Highlanders beneath his well-polished boots and arrive in Edinburgh by the Sabbath, standard held high.

With the streets a bit quieter, Janet had slipped down to Carruber’s Close in search of doeskin gloves for winter. Elisabeth had seemed on
edge all through dinner, eying the clock, leaving her salmon untouched. Close on the heels of Donald and Andrew, she’d flown out the door at the strike of two, her gray cape swirling round her, a ready excuse on her lips. “With the army gone, I can safely visit Mrs. Sinclair in Blackfriars Wynd,” she’d said. “I’ve not seen her in ever so long.”

Something about her swift departure bothered Marjory. Though she wouldn’t alert Donald until she had proof, she felt certain Elisabeth was a rabid Jacobite. A traitor in her own household! Marjory shut her cashbook, not caring whether or not the ink was dry. She swept through the house, her mind fixed on another book, one she’d discovered earlier that week: Elisabeth’s almanac. Might she find an answer there?