Here Burns My Candle (23 page)

“Another time, perhaps,” Donald said, matching the tailor’s grin. “At the moment ’tis an officer’s uniform that’s needed.”

Angus’s expression slowly changed, his eyes widening and his chin dropping until his round face resembled a turnip carved for Hallowmas Eve. When he found his voice, it was filled with a breathless sort of incredulity. “D’ye mean…ye’ve decided for the prince?”

“I have.” He offered a gallant bow. “Lord Donald Kerr, at your service.”

“Hoot!”
Angus crowed, clapping his hands together.
“Anither
fine Lowlander won to the cause.” He danced an impromptu jig, stirring the dust round his feet until he was forced to stop and catch his breath. “Won’t Rob be surprised?” he said, wheezing a bit. “’Twill be the first news my son hears whan he returns from Castleton.”

The reminder didn’t sit well with Donald. He should have been the one to travel north on his wife’s behalf rather than sending a lowly tailor’s son. No remedy for it except to swallow his pride. “I daresay Rob will not be convinced of my fealty until he sees me in uniform, bearing arms.”

“Aye, weel.” Angus reached for his paper measuring tape. “Ye’ve already been to Holyroodhouse, then?”

Donald shook his head, a bit discomfited. Had he erred in stopping here first? “My brother and I are to present ourselves at the Great Hall come two o’ the clock. Perhaps we should wait—”

“Wheesht!”
Angus flapped his hand through the air, the measuring tape trailing behind. “The prince will gladly walcome ye both. Come and let me fit ye properly.”

Angus took his time, jotting numbers on a slate with a bit of chalk, all the while filling Donald’s ear with news from the prince’s camp. “The city has delivered one thousand tents to Duddingston, and none too soon,” the tailor reported, pulling the tape snugly round Donald’s waist. “a’ the while the prince has men traveling up and doon the country in search o’ mounts and arms.”

“We’ve no horses,” Donald admitted, “but if he’ll part with them, my brother has a fair collection of pistols and muskets.”

“They’ll be needed,” Angus said bluntly, continuing to scribble Donald’s measurements onto the slate. “I’m sure ye heard the cannons discharge yestreen round ten o’ the clock.” The tailor snorted. “Naught but some wee goats scrambling uphill to Edinburgh Castle. But the garrison lost their wits and fired into the toun.”

Donald had already heard the rest. “At least one house in the West Port was damaged and a woman and child wounded.”

“Cowards, the lot o’ them,” Angus muttered, clearly disgusted.

Donald merely nodded, overwhelmed at the thought of fighting against the British forces, cowards or not. He squared his shoulders, mentally preparing himself.

“Aye, that’ll make yer coat a better fit,” Angus said gruffly, patting his shoulder blades. “The Lord
bliss
ye, Lord Kerr. Ye’ll send yer brither to see me?”

“Within the hour,” Donald promised.

The gill bells of Saint Giles were ringing as he strode into the street. ’Twas half past eleven, when merchants and tradesmen closed their doors and headed for their favorite taverns to take their
meridian
, a gill of brandy or a pint of ale. Donald had time for neither.

When he reached Baillie’s Land, his brother met him at the foot of the stair, descending at a clip. “Och, there you are!” Andrew slapped him on the back. “I feared you’d enlisted without me.”

“You know better than that.”

His brother’s cheeks were ruddy with excitement. “I’ve stripped the weaponry from my bedchamber walls,” he boasted, “and hired two lads with a wheeled cart to follow us to Holyroodhouse this afternoon.”

Donald wished he had something of value to offer the prince. “Do you suppose my Lowland maps might be of some use in the campaign?”

“Aye, and why not?” Andrew made way for an unruly knot of young men, pushing and shoving their way across Milne Square.

Donald showed him the enlistment notice, then pointed his brother in the direction of the Luckenbooths. “I stopped by Angus MacPherson’s shop. He’s expecting you next,” he informed him. “See that you’re home at one o’ the clock for dinner.”

Andrew pretended to raise a glass. “Here’s to the king, sir.” He winked, finishing the rebel’s rhyme. “Ye ken wha I mean, sir.” With that, he was gone, whistling as he strolled across the plainstanes.

Minutes later Donald pushed open the door to their apartments intent on finding Elisabeth. If his mother would not support him, surely his wife would. In passing he noted Andrew’s polished weapons stacked in a wooden crate by the stair door, and his pulse quickened. No turning back now.

“Ah, there you are, Elisabeth.” Donald reached the drawing room at the same time she entered through the opposite door. Her complexion was wan, the skin beneath her eyes bruised from lack of sleep. Donald searched for some way to cheer her. “A new gown, is it?”

“So it is.” Elisabeth curtsied, the black silk rustling round her. “Miss Callander, the mantua maker, left a wee bit ago.”

“’Tis… well made.” What else could be said about a mourning gown
with its severe lines and utter lack of adornment? The color did not flatter her skin in the least. But the plain gown was meant to honor her brother’s memory, not catch a gentleman’s eye.

“Only six months, Donald.” She’d read his expression, it seemed. “Then I’ll be free to wear something more to your taste.”

“You look as beautiful as ever,” he quickly assured her, pulling off his gloves before he reached for her hands. “Come, milady, for we’ve much to discuss.”

They sat together by one of the windows facing the square, the noontide sun illuminating the faint lines creasing her brow. Elisabeth had not smiled in days. Not even that morning when he and Andrew had discussed their plans at breakfast. Now that they had the drawing room to themselves, Donald did not hesitate to sit closer than propriety allowed, cradling her face in his hands, lightly rubbing his thumb across her sweet mouth.

“Bess,” he began, keeping his voice low, “what say you of my enlistment in the prince’s army?” He pulled the printed notice from his waistcoat and laid it on the table beside her, feeling a bit daft for saving it. “You were so quiet at table this morning, I could not be certain.”

“Oh, Donald.” She drew a long, even breath, then released it with a sigh. “I am proud you’ve chosen to support Prince Charlie. But to give up your freedom… to risk your life…” Elisabeth bowed her head, though she could not hide the tears in her eyes.

After a moment he reminded her gently, “Simon thought the sacrifice worthwhile.”

She looked up. “How can you be sure? In his last hours my brother may have rued the day he came out for the prince.”

“Bess, you know he did not.” Donald brushed back the loose strands of hair that touched her cheek. “Simon fought willingly. And died bravely.” He swallowed hard, watching her eyes fill with fresh tears. “Now, ’tis my turn to take up arms.”

“For Scotland?”

“Nae, my love.” He brushed a kiss against her brow. “For you.”

Thirty-One

Hope, folding her wings,
looked backward and became regret.

GEORGE ELIOT

E
lisabeth lowered her gaze. “Serve the prince because you believe in his cause. But not for me, Donald. Never for me.”

“Why not, Bess? I thought ’twould please you.”

The yearning in his voice made her look up. She saw it in his eyes too: some urgent need, some longing far deeper than desire. “You’ve… nothing to prove,” she began, searching for the right word. “Nothing to atone for.”

“You are wrong, dear wife.” He stood abruptly, showing her his back. “I’ve much to atone for, as you well know.”

Elisabeth studied his posture, wishing he’d spoken more plainly. Did he mean his affairs before they married? Or something else altogether, something more recent? “Whatever you may be seeking,” she finally told him, “you’ll find naught on a battlefield but death. Simon is proof of that.”

“On the contrary.” Donald turned to face her, sunlight gilding his hair. “Your brother is proof there are valiant souls in this world. Men who put honor before self.” His voice softened. “Simon laid down his life for what he believed. Will you not let me do the same?”

“Nae, I will not.” Marjory closed her bedchamber door with a firm bang, startling them both. As she drew near, her gaze narrowed. “’Tis quite as I feared,” she said evenly. “You, Lady Kerr, have corrupted both my sons. And I intend to put a stop to it.”

Elisabeth rose to defend herself even as Donald protested, “Mother, you cannot—”

“I can,” the dowager said, “and I will. Within the hour I shall write a letter to this prince of yours and inform him of a certain weakness of your brother’s—”

“Nae!” Donald balled his fists at his side, his face like flint.

Elisabeth touched her husband’s arm, hoping to calm him. “Are you speaking of Andrew’s bout with consumption?”

Donald ground out the words, “We are.”

His mother jerked her chin at him, as angry as Elisabeth had ever seen her. “You may not remember how your brother suffered, but I do. His fevers, his flushed cheeks, his violent coughing. I feared Andrew would not live to see the spring.”

“Mother, I—”

“Listen to me, Donald. You have recovered completely, but your brother has not. The lad cannot even climb the stair without stopping to catch his breath.” His mother sighed, her fury beginning to abate. “Whatever Andrew’s reckless Jacobite convictions, his health will not permit it.”

Donald growled, “’Tis
you
who’ll not permit it. You cannot do this to Andrew, Mother. Nae, you
will
not.”

When the dowager shrank back at his harsh tone, Elisabeth quickly intervened. “Dearest, your mother means only to protect him.”

He glared at her. “You would side with her, then, and not with your own husband?”

Elisabeth turned from mother to son, struck anew by their similar natures. Obstinate. Unbending. “Lord Kerr, I
am
on your side,” she finally said, “and so is your mother. We both want you and your brother alive and well, safely residing with us in Milne Square.”

Her mother-in-law gaped at her. “Aye, that’s precisely what we want.”

“Then I must disappoint you both,” Donald said flatly, motioning Gibson to his side. “Pack a small trunk for me at once,” he ordered, “and bring me a whetstone.”

Elisabeth’s heart skipped a beat.
Nae, Donald. You cannot do this. Not for me
. When he moved toward the fireplace to claim his sword, she stepped in his way. “If you truly want to please me, Lord Kerr, you’ll not act in haste.”

He maneuvered round her as neatly as if they were dancing a minuet, then plucked his mounted sword from the wall. “I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought, Lady Kerr. So has my brother. We’ll not stand
by and let other men fight in our stead. The Stuarts are sure to reclaim the throne. We’d be wise to support them.”

When his mother opened her mouth to protest, Donald stemmed her words with a raised hand. “’Tis my decision alone, Mother. See that you do not blame my wife or her family. The consequences are mine alone to bear.”

“I shall bear them too,” the dowager reminded him. “So will Elisabeth.”

At the sound of her Christian name, Elisabeth paused. Seldom did the dowager address her so informally. Or so personally. “Lord Kerr, will you not reconsider?” she pleaded. “There are other ways to support Prince Charlie. Fill his coffers with gold. Sing his praises in the street.”

“Or march out with his men,” Donald said, more gently this time.

Gibson reappeared with the whetstone and placed it by the window. “I’ll have yer kist ready afore lang,” he promised, then hastened toward the bedchamber.

Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law. Was there nothing else to be done? A shared sense of helplessness hung in the air. Standing side by side, they watched Donald oil the whetstone, then polish the blade across the surface with slow, measured strokes. Elisabeth knew they dared not speak. Even a momentary distraction might cost him a fingertip.

When he finished, Donald wiped the blade clean with great care, then hung the sword from a broad leather belt stretched from shoulder to hip. Not a gentleman’s method of wearing a sword, but a soldier’s.

He already looked the part of a Jacobite officer, Elisabeth realized. His dark blue coat and red waistcoat would suffice until a uniform could be stitched for him, and his buff-colored breeches and boots would serve him well on cold autumn nights.

“I am proud of what you’re doing,” she confessed in a low voice, not looking at his mother. “Yet I cannot bear to lose you.”

“Indeed, you’ve sacrificed enough.” He touched her cheek. “’Twill all be resolved by Yuletide. And then I’ll come home to you.”

Her vision blurred as she smoothed a hand along his sleeve.
Please, Donald. Please don’t leave me
. No one in the household loved her but
Donald. No one cared if she lived or breathed, if she ate or slept. Such selfish thoughts! Yet she could not deny them.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, unsure whose pardon she sought. Donald’s? Her mother-in-law’s? Whom else had she wronged by urging her husband to support the prince, then begging him to stay?

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Donald assured her. “Charles Edward Stuart won my allegiance with his victory at Gladsmuir. Despite my mother’s charge, you did not corrupt me.”

She knew better, remembering all too clearly her words meant to persuade.
No cause could be nobler
. Donald might not hold her accountable for his decision, but guilt pressed down on her all the same.

A moment later Gibson deposited a heavy leather trunk at Donald’s feet, then held out a dark blue tricorne. “Yer hat, milord.”

When Donald pulled a white cockade from the recesses of his waistcoat, his mother let out a soft cry. “Nae!” She clutched his forearm as if to shake the Jacobite symbol from his hand.

He gripped the silk rosette, pinning it firmly to the upturned brim.