Here Burns My Candle (37 page)

The surgeons exchanged glances, then Mr. Eccles said, “We’ve another errand for you, lad. Hail a sedan chair for our Lady Kerr, if you please. ’Tis not safe to have her tarrying in the street.”

“Aye, sir.” Grant hastened to the door, trying to disguise his limp with a jaunty gait.

A moment ago Elisabeth had been loath to depart. Now she was clearly needed elsewhere. No home was safe from these marauders, not even her own.

She slipped off her bloodstained apron, intending to leave it behind. Mrs. Edgar would understand. Scooping a bowlful of lukewarm water from the pot, she bathed her hands and face, then unpinned her sleeves, drenched as expected. Once she reattached the ruffles, at least her forearms were spared the feel of damp fabric.

When she fastened her wool cape, the white cockade caught her eye.

Mr. Cunningham grunted. “You’ll want your rose well hidden, much as it grieves me to say it.”

Elisabeth turned away from the men and pinned the cockade safely inside her bodice, where no dragoon would find it. Then with a heavy heart she made her rounds, bidding each soldier farewell, wishing she had a healing salve or soothing tincture to put things aright.

Alex Baird was last, still stretched across the hardwood floor with a bundle of clean rags for a pillow. As she bent down to speak to him, she begged the surgeons to set his injured leg before she left. “I cannot bear to think of you suffering a moment longer,” she told the braw Highlander, using one of the rags to wipe his damp brow. “On behalf of my husband, thank you for guarding my virtue.”

“Lord Kerr is a fortunate man,” Alex said, his eyes unfocused from the pain. “And Gilbert Elliot got what he deserved. Now, whisky, if ye please. And dinna watch, milady, for ’twill not be a bonny sight.”

Mr. Cunningham produced a silver flask, then gave Alex a leather strap to clamp between his teeth. With some difficulty the two surgeons knelt beside him. Their battered fingers could not stitch a man back together that day, but using palms, forearms, and elbows, they managed to wrest Alex’s leg into place. Elisabeth gave them room to work but did not turn away, standing beside Alex in his travail. Had he not stood by her?

“Leddy Kerr!” Grant Findlay called from the door, startling her. “I’ve a chair waiting for ye.”

Mr. Eccles slowly rose, his manners never forgotten, even in a sick room. “I wish you well, milady. Kindly send the tailor’s son if he’ll come. And when the government’s temper is spent, I hope you’ll return.” He nodded at the men round him struggling to lift themselves onto their elbows so they might see her off. “You’ve made many friends here.”

“Indeed I have.” Elisabeth lifted her hand to each one, not trusting herself to speak.

Soon she was retracing her steps through the front entrance. How strange it felt to be out of doors after many hours in that small, square room. Had she even heard the bells at noontide? Elisabeth crossed the courtyard, grateful to breathe in air that did not smell of camphor or turpentine. She was nearly at the street before she realized the chairman waiting for her was her own Mr. Fenwick.

“What a surprise to find you here!” she said. One concern put to rest, at least.

But Mr. Fenwick was not so sanguine. “I came leuking for ye ilka hour.” He pulled open the door and motioned her inside, all the while glancing up and down the street. “There’s an ill wind blowing o’er the toun.”

Elisabeth shivered, his words more chilling than the brisk November day. “Take me to the Luckenbooths on an errand first,” she told him, “and then deliver me home. I’ll not mind paying you twice.”

He shook his head. “’Tis nae yer
siller
I’m after but yer welfare.” He banged the door closed, then bent to lift the chair, calling out to his partner in the rear. The two men hastened up the Canongate as though Auld Nick was on their heels.

Elisabeth held on as if her life depended upon it, believing it well might. Having pulled her hood forward, she could not see out the side windows without turning her head. The front window, close enough to touch with her outstretched hand, afforded a sufficient view and an alarming one.

Royalist soldiers, on foot and on horseback, could be seen coming and going from the closes and wynds—climbing up forestairs, knocking
on doors, and accosting citizens in the street. Though these soldiers did not appear so fearsome as the ones who’d called at Queensberry House, not a one bore a smile, and all carried weapons.

She longed to ask Mr. Fenwick what he’d heard and seen since they parted that morn. Perhaps when he delivered her to Milne Square, with its quieter courtyard, they might have a brief conversation.

At the Netherbow Port, the sedan chair came to a halt. A week ago a Highlander would have waved them through with nary a second look. But this was a royalist porter returned to his post. He scowled at Mr. Fenwick’s black sedan chair as if it contained a French spy with seditious papers beneath her cloak.

She held her breath, hoping Mr. Fenwick’s spate of words would drown the fellow’s suspicions. After a very long pause, they took off again, and the Tron Kirk steeple and its clock came into view.
Nearly three
. Elisabeth moved her hood long enough to eye Milne Square in passing. She noticed a few soldiers gathered in a knot and stabbing at the air with their bayonets. Arguing, she wondered, or pointing?
This house. Nae, that house
.

Her heart began to thud in her chest. Had these men knocked on her family’s door? Or kicked it down, as they had at Queensberry House? Nae, the stair door was too thick for that. Would Mrs. Edgar admit them? Loyal as she was to the family, their housekeeper was not a Jacobite. Nor was Gibson. But surely they would protect the dowager. Surely they would guard Janet, even not knowing she was with child. Surely.

Please, please, please
.

Near tears, Elisabeth leaned forward, prepared to leap from the chair the moment Mr. Fenwick stopped at the MacPhersons’ door. She would not entertain the very real possibility of Rob not being there. He had to be home, had to be willing to help the surgeons at Queensberry House. She could not abandon Will and Alex and John and the others. If it came to it, she’d return and stitch their wounds herself.

Yet she was also needed at home.
Hurry, hurry, hurry
.

The sedan chair stopped so quickly she tumbled to the floor, then nearly into the street when Mr. Fenwick flung open the door.

“Och, milady!” He helped her stand, then brushed the dust from her cape. “Begging yer pardon.”

She waved away his concerns. “You’re to wait for me,” she reminded him, then picked up her skirts and hurried toward the door of Angus’s ground-floor shop.

But the door was closed. And locked, she soon discovered. The windows showed a dark interior with not one candle lit on that gray afternoon. She pressed her nose to the glass, feeling like an intruder. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the familiar shapes of Angus’s cutting table and his beloved sewing cabinet.

What she could not see was any sign of life. The MacPhersons had their lodgings behind the shop, yet those windows were dark as well. They had no risp at the entrance, and the tinkling bells that signaled a customer only rang when the door opened.

She had no choice but to knock. Still there was no answer.

“’Twould seem he isna here,” Mr. Fenwick said, peering over her shoulder. “We’d best take ye hame, Leddy Kerr.”

“Aye, aye,” she said, turning away from the door in frustration. Naught to be done but send a caddie with a message for Martin Eccles, begging his forgiveness.

They reached Milne Square in minutes. Mr. Fenwick gave the knot of soldiers a wide berth and deposited her at the door in such a manner they would not see her alight from the chair. She paid him, thanked him, then took the stair at a run, holding her skirts higher than truly proper. And to think she’d planned to tarry and speak with the chairman in the square! She had little interest in town gossip now. Not when her family might be in jeopardy.

Just as young Findlay had said, the stair was filled with folk. Servants, mostly. They leaped up to make room for Elisabeth as she tried to get past them without being rude. To a person, they looked at her with wide, curious gazes. Milne Square was home to few Jacobites. No doubt they thought her a novelty to be inspected and then discussed out of earshot.

When Elisabeth reached the door, she was relieved to find it still solid and well locked. At least this knock would be answered.

And it was, but not by Marjory or Janet or Gibson or Mrs. Edgar.

“Leddy Kerr!” Rob MacPherson pulled her within, then shut the door with a forceful bang. The hand on her arm was not gentle, and a muddle of emotions crossed his face: fear, joy, anger, and relief.

Elisabeth felt quite the same. “Mr. MacPherson, I was just—”

“Wheesht!” Rob nearly shook her, so abrupt was his release. “Wherever have ye been? D’ye not ken what’s happened?”

Taken aback, she stared at him in the shadowy entrance hall. “I was in the Canongate. And at your shop. Please, tell me—”

“Nae.” His expression grim, he stepped aside. “Leuk for yerself.”

Fifty

My loss is such as cannot be repair’d.

JOHN DRYDEN

M
arjory heard Elisabeth’s voice in the distance. Only two rooms separated them. And several lost hours.
Before
. That’s how Marjory would think of this day.
Before. And after
.

She called out, thinking she was shouting. “Lady Kerr?” But her throat was too raw and her voice too thin. She was not shouting at all. She was whimpering.

Speak up, madam. Where is your gold?

Marjory shifted, her knees beginning to ache, despite the wool carpet beneath them. She sank back on her heels, then slowly leaned forward, until her brow almost touched the carpet.
I am bowed down greatly
. Aye, she was kneeling but to no avail. All her prayers had gone unanswered.

Footsteps drew near. Then a cry of dismay. “Oh, my dear lady!”

Hearing her daughter-in-law’s voice, Marjory slowly lifted her head.

“Come.” Elisabeth gently pulled Marjory to her feet and then into her arms. “I am sorry,” she whispered in her ear. “So very sorry.”

Marjory sank into her daughter-in-law’s embrace, too exhausted to resist.

The others stood round, bereft of words. Janet was still weeping, though an hour had passed, while Mrs. Edgar had wrung her apron to rags. Gibson, who blamed himself, could not meet her gaze. And Rob MacPherson had come too late.

When Marjory eased away from Elisabeth, she was struck by the anguish in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. She’d seen the drawing room, then. Feeling lightheaded, Marjory sat rather quickly on the edge of her bed. “Lost,” she said mostly to herself. “All is lost.”

Elisabeth drew a chair beside her and took her hand. “I should have been here. I might have helped…” Her words faded into silence.

Marjory shook her head. “There were so many. Six soldiers. Eight.

No one could have stopped them.” She turned toward the window, surprised to see rain falling. When had that begun? “Daylight will be gone soon. Have we any candles left?”

“None, mem.” Mrs. Edgar looked down at the toes of her worn leather shoes as if it were her fault the candles had been taken.

Rob MacPherson produced a purse full of coins. “John Herriot will have what’s needed.”

“We cannot allow you to pay for them,” Elisabeth protested, but the money was already in Gibson’s hands, bound for the candle maker in Carruber’s Close. “Tallow will do very well,” Elisabeth called after him.

Marjory swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Never in all her privileged life had she known the oppressive odor of tallow candles. The thought of mutton and bullock fat instead of fragrant beeswax on her mantelpiece was beyond bearing.

But she would bear it. Aye, and much worse.

A brief silence fell over the room. The stair door opened and closed.

“The candles in their hands were what I noticed first,” Marjory said to no one in particular. “When Gibson answered their knock, the soldiers each held a burning candle. So nothing would be missed, they said.”

Elisabeth touched her arm. “Do not torture yourself, madam. Mr. MacPherson can inform me of the details.”

“Aye, he can tell you what he found when he arrived.” Marjory waved her hand listlessly at the silk upholstery cut to shreds and the table lace in tatters. “But he cannot tell you what happened.”

“
I
can.” Janet dried her cheeks with her handkerchief. “They poked their candles into every nook of this house on the pretense of searching for arms.”

Elisabeth turned to look at her. “But your husband gave—”

“I
told
them that. Still, they’d heard about the weapons Mr. Kerr displayed on our bedchamber wall. And they were determined to find them.” Janet began to weep again. “Have you seen what’s left of our new oil paintings?”

“Nae,” Elisabeth said softly, “not yet.”

Rob MacPherson spoke up. “I wasna here, but their
wickit
deeds speak loudly enough. Whan the only weapons they found were Lord
John’s rusty dagger and Gibson’s dirk, they took what they liked and destroyed what they pleased.”

“Can nothing be done?” Elisabeth asked.

“Aye, but not within the law.” Rob’s expression darkened. “The government has marked yer family as traitors to the king. They may do whatsomever they like with yer goods, even with yer lives.”

Marjory stared at her dressing table. One glass bottle remained. Her powders and perfumes had been emptied onto the floor, ruining the carpet. Her jewelry now lined a dragoon’s pockets.

How long had it taken? Twenty minutes, a half hour? She’d staggered from room to room, watching them fling open chests and yank out drawers and scatter the contents, using their swords rather than their hands to sort through her belongings. Piercing, cutting, tearing as they went. Without compassion and without apology.