Here Burns My Candle (45 page)

“Surely we are not expected to do the same?” Marjory huffed at the very thought. “I will not be hospitable to any man bent on killing my sons! Furthermore, I have a houseful of women to protect and one of them with child…” Marjory froze. To confess such a thing to a neighbor, and a bachelor at that! Janet appeared about to swoon, and Elisabeth turned the color of ripe strawberries.

Marjory quickly tried to make amends. “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacPherson. I should never have mentioned so…ah, private a matter.”

But Rob was not looking at her. He was looking at Elisabeth with an expression of pure agony.

Marjory saw the truth in his eyes.
He thinks Elisabeth is carrying Donald’s child
. She saw another truth there as well.
He is desperately in love with her
.

“I didna ken… about the bairn,” he said, his voice so low she strained to hear him.

“And that is entirely my fault,” Marjory said, this time aiming her words at Janet, whom she’d wronged terribly. But Janet would not meet her gaze.

Marjory tried again to recover from her faux pas. “What I meant to say, Mr. MacPherson, was that we have four women in the house and not a weapon among us.”

Without taking his eyes off Elisabeth, Rob slowly pulled a dirk from his boot and placed it on the table, the lethal blade gleaming amid the crockery. “Now ye do, mem.”

Marjory eyed it for a moment, then gingerly picked it up, surprised by the heft of it. “Are you certain you can spare this?”

Rob’s voice was flat. “I’ve anither at hame.”

Marjory laid the dirk on the table with care as if it might bite, like a serpent. “Once again, sir, you’ve come to our rescue.”

“Indeed you have,” Elisabeth told him.

Marjory studied them both. Was Elisabeth aware of the depth of Rob’s feelings? Only a feebleminded woman could look at the man and
not read his heart. And her daughter-in-law was anything but feebleminded. Something would have to be done. If Lord Kerr returned and learned of Rob’s betrayal of their friendship, he would run his sword through the man’s heart.

Nae
. Marjory would not let herself dwell on such possibilities. Did she not have enough worries in the here and now without dwelling on events that might never happen?

Janet, at least, had recovered from her embarrassment. “Perhaps residing on the fifth floor will keep us from harm,” she said.

“It didna spare yer hoose the last time,” Rob reminded them. “Soldiers can also break yer windows from the inside oot.”

Marjory refused even to consider it. “We must be ready on the morrow.”

“Aye, for the troops. As to General Hawley himself, leuk for him to arrive in toun on
Uphalieday
or thereabouts.”

Epiphany, the English called it. Only yesterday morning Marjory had entertained a fleeting hope that her sons might return in time for the last day of Yule. Perhaps
she
was the one with a feeble mind. Donald and Andrew were coming east, aye, but they were not coming home. A battle larger than Gladsmuir was on the horizon. The prince and his men had faced brief skirmishes in England, but this was something else. She heard it in the angry voices that crept up the stair and saw it on people’s faces at the Tron Kirk on the Sabbath last.

Wars and rumours of wars
. Aye, just so.

When she looked up, Rob was on his feet. “If ye’ll forgive me, led-dies, I’ll take my leave. The blether on the High Street is thicker than cauld porridge. Mebbe I can learn mair of what’s to come.” While Gibson helped him into his greatcoat, Rob gave the manservant clear instructions. “Licht yer candles, bolt yer door, and open it to none but me.”

“Whatsomever ye say, sir,” Gibson told him, nodding vigorously.

Gibson was no doubt relieved to have a younger, stronger man watching out for their safety. Marjory was grateful for Rob’s help as well. But the tailor’s son could not stake any claim on Elisabeth. Nae, not even in his imagination. When Gibson escorted him out, Marjory noted with satisfaction that Elisabeth did not follow Rob with her gaze.

As soon as the door was bolted shut, Janet touched her sleeve. “I wonder, Lady Marjory, if I might have a word with you.”

“Of course.” Marjory began composing her thoughts as the two walked into her bedchamber. She would begin with a heartfelt apology and see where it led. Perhaps she might be given some hint of when the child could be expected or a sense of how Janet was feeling. In the midst of fear and pain and war, the promise of a wee child was a balm to Marjory’s soul, as it surely would be to the whole household when they learned the happy news.

The two women sat together by the fire, perched on upholstered chairs that had seen better days. Marjory spoke first. “I must apologize once more—”

“Nae.” Janet grabbed her hand rather firmly. “Things are not as they seem.”

Marjory saw the shadow fall across Janet’s face.
She has miscarried
. “My poor girl—”

“Nae, you do not understand.” Janet looked down. “I am not expecting.”

“I am so very sorry,” Marjory said gently. “When did you lose the child?”

Janet cleared her throat. “You cannot lose what you never had.”

Marjory’s heart skipped a beat. “Whatever do you mean, Janet?”

“Only this.” Janet lifted her head. Her eyes were dry. “The last night my husband and I were…together, I told him I was carrying his child”. And I
might
have been. That is … it was not entirely a fabrication …

Marjory stared at her, speechless.

“I thought if I were expecting it might change his mind about going off with the prince.” Janet sighed, letting go of Marjory’s hand. “Obviously my little ploy didn’t work.”

“You lied… to Andrew? To all of us?”

“Well…” Janet flapped her hand about. “Don’t women sometimes
think
they are with child and then realize they are not?”

“Aye, but…” Tears stung her eyes.
There will not be a child. I will not be a grandmother
. “Why did you not tell us when you realized… when you knew?”

Janet had the decency to blush. “I confess I rather liked playing the expectant mother. Everyone fusses over you and brings you wee treats. You can nap whenever you please and have breakfast at noontide. I kept meaning to tell everyone…well, at least to tell
you
… but the time never seemed right. Until today, when something
had
to be said.”

“I see.” Marjory was undone. That such a woman lived under her roof and ate at her table and shared her son’s bed was beyond comprehension. A year ago she’d thought her a fine prize for Andrew. Now she knew Janet Murray had been no prize at all.

Her daughter-in-law stood, sighing as if a great burden had been lifted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to straighten out Rob MacPherson before he tells someone. It won’t do to have the neighborhood minding my waistline.”

Marjory watched her quit the room without a backward glance. Only then did she quietly grieve for the grandchild she’d lost yet never had. She dabbed at her eyes, grateful no one came looking for her. They might think her daft or weak, and she could not afford to be either. Not when she needed to be wise in her husband’s stead and strong for her sons.

The first day of this dreaded month and already fear and disappointment had been heaped at her door. None but the Almighty knew what else January might hold.

Sixty-Two

’Tis winter, yet there is no sound
Along the air
Of winds along their battle-ground.

RALPH HOYT

A
storm was brewing to the south. At three o’ the clock on Friday the seventeenth, the sky was gunmetal gray tinged with purple. It was not cold enough to snow but cold enough, with a stiff wind rattling the panes. Elisabeth gazed down at the High Street, emptier than she’d seen it in days. Townsfolk scurried across the plainstanes, looking over their shoulders, not stopping to chat with neighbors. Frightened.

Elisabeth now had a faint idea of what imprisonment felt like. Although their house at Milne Square bore no resemblance to a squalid tolbooth, she’d spent the last fortnight behind a locked stair door, neither coming nor going, while Edinburgh played host to their enemy.

After menacing the town for a week, General Hawley and his royalist troops had departed through the West Port earlier that week, bound for Linlithgow. Farther west, outside of Falkirk, the prince and his Highland army lay in wait. “Mair than eight thousand strong,” Rob had said with pride, their numbers having grown since their return to Scotland. Elisabeth hoped they were very strong indeed since a new wooden gallows stood in the Grassmarket, compliments of Hangman Hawley, the name his own men whispered behind his back.

Voices drew Elisabeth’s attention to the entrance hall, where her mother-in-law was upset about something. Janet, seated by the fire, looked up as well.

“You
must
find us more candles.” Marjory was pleading with Gibson as if he were hoarding them beneath his thin mattress.

“Mr. Herriot willna sell them to me.” Gibson sounded forlorn. “Nor will Mr. Watson o’ Libberton’s Wynd.”

Barbara Inglis lives there
.

Elisabeth tried to brush away such thoughts as quickly as they surfaced, but they soon returned. Knowing the names and addresses of all Donald’s conquests had begun to color her view of Edinburgh. The closes and wynds she’d traveled for many seasons had a different feeling about them. Warriston’s Close was no longer the home of her favorite baker, Mr. Orr, with his buttery caraway buns; now Warriston’s Close was where Susan McGill lived.

Marjory asked, “Have you tried Mr. Sprott of Blackfriars Wynd?”

Janet was across the room and standing by Gibson’s side in a trice. “I have oft given Mr. Sprott my custom,” she said with a confident toss of her hair. “If I go with you, we’ll come home with candles.”

Marjory frowned. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Mr. MacPherson cautioned us against leaving the house.”

“Oh, but most of Hawley’s men are gone,” Janet said with a careless shrug. “Anyway, ’tis not far to Mr. Sprott’s. And with Gibson by my side, you’ve no need for concern.”

Elisabeth moved toward them, a knot of fear tightening inside her. She knew Janet was weary of being withindoors, just as she was. But the king’s soldiers were still patrolling the High Street. Furthermore, they’d identified every Jacobite household and were ruthless in their search for spies and informants. Janet was neither, of course, but suspicion alone could land her in the tolbooth.

’Twas too great a risk.

Seeing Janet reach for her cape, Elisabeth acted quickly. “What if you sent a note with Gibson instead? Your words alone might prompt Mr. Sprott to accept our shillings.”

“A woman can be far more persuasive in person.” Janet’s mind was clearly made up. Her cape was already settled round her shoulders. “If you’ve shillings in your pocket, Gibson, I am ready.”

Elisabeth tried again. “Could we not wait and ask Mr. MacPherson to help us?”

“We have but two candles left,” Marjory explained, “and Mr. MacPherson has not been to see us in days. He may very well have joined his father at Falkirk. I’m afraid we must do what we can, Lady
Kerr.” She placed two shillings in Gibson’s weathered hand. “Bring back four pounds of tallow candles. And take good care of my son’s wife.”

Janet, looking pleased with herself, led the way across the threshold. She and Gibson soon disappeared round the curve in the stair.

Marjory bolted the door behind them, then turned to Elisabeth. “You are unhappy with me for letting her go.”

“Nae,” Elisabeth assured her. “Janet was determined to leave no matter what anyone said.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Marjory sighed, tightening the strings of her leather purse. “As you often are, my dear.”

After nearly four months without Donald and Andrew beneath their roof, Elisabeth had watched each woman’s distinct personality emerge. Marjory gave in to Janet too easily, and Janet never gave in at all. The role of peacemaker had fallen to Elisabeth just as it had when she lived at Mrs. Sinclair’s boarding school.

Seeing her mother-in-law’s troubled expression, Elisabeth asked, “Might I read to you?” On Monday last Marjory had pressed some of her precious shillings into Gibson’s hand and sent him to Mr. Creech, the bookseller, to purchase a replacement for Donald’s ruined copy of
The Seasons
.

She handed Elisabeth the book from the mantelpiece. “When my son returns home, he will be heartbroken to find his library gone.”

Nae, he will be furious
. “Which of the seasons shall I read?” Elisabeth asked.

“Not
Winter
,” Marjory said firmly. “Give me a taste of
Spring
, and let me pretend it is not the middle of January.”

They sat together on the sofa, which was drawn close to the fire. Elisabeth positioned the candlestand so she might read the tiny print. Marjory could not afford the larger copy with its fine leather binding and settled instead for a clothbound edition hardly bigger than a deck of playing cards.

Elisabeth gazed at the opening page. Aye, here was the needed respite.

Come, gentle Spring, ethereal mildness, come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil’d in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.

When Elisabeth paused, Marjory said, “Did I tell you James Thomson was schooled in nearby Jedburgh? His mother, Beatrix, once told me her son spent each New Year’s Day burning most of his writing from the year past.” A ghost of a smile flitted across Marjory’s features. “I don’t suppose we could convince our Janet to do the same with her poetry?”

An unexpected knock sounded on the stair door. Three sharp raps, then two: Rob MacPherson’s signal.

Elisabeth put aside
The Seasons
and hastened to greet him. When she reached the entrance hall, Mrs. Edgar was already pulling open the door to usher him within.