Here Burns My Candle (48 page)

Marjory sighed. “Very well.”

Half an hour later the breakfast dishes were cleared and the thick Bible lay open on the table between them. Janet had excused herself, murmuring of a headache. Elisabeth did not fault her sister-in-law. Her own brow was tight with pain.

“Shall I read?” Elisabeth smoothed her hands across the pages, hoping she had chosen a proper psalm for the morning. “In the Kirk, they pray before reading. Might you do so?”

Her mother-in-law said nothing, only bowed her head. Elisabeth did the same and waited.

A
long silence passed, then Marjory spoke, her voice weak and unsteady. “Almighty God, bless the reading of thy Word.” She paused as if she might have more to add, then abruptly said, “Amen.”

They lifted their heads in unison. Marjory sat, stiff and silent, as Elisabeth began to read.

“Unto thee, O L
ORD
, do I lift up my soul.” She nodded at the familiar picture the words drew, thinking of altars built on hillsides in the Highland fastness. But how could a soul be placed on an altar?

She pressed on. “
O
my God, I trust in thee.”
Trust
. That was indeed a sacrifice. To trust in a God she could not see. To trust, though her heart was shattered. She read aloud the next line. “Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.”

Marjory spoke up, her chin trembling. “But we
have
been shamed. And our enemy has triumphed.”

Elisabeth was at a loss how to respond. Marjory’s complaint rang so true. She hoped some answer would follow. “Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed…” Elisabeth paused. “I am not certain what this means, except we’re to wait on the Almighty. Perhaps he banishes our shame?”

When Marjory nodded dully, Elisabeth did not press her but moved on, hoping she’d not chosen the passage amiss. She read through the
next few verses until she reached one that almost leaped from the page. “Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted.”

She lightly touched the words, stunned to find her feelings so clearly expressed. Desolate, afflicted, aye, and in great need of mercy. “But I thought we turned to God,” she said softly. “Does he also turn and look upon us?”

When she lifted her gaze, Elisabeth found Marjory had fresh tears in her eyes. “He looked upon me once,” her mother-in-law admitted. “Aye, he did.” She ducked her head but not before her features crumpled and a faint sob escaped from her lips.

Elisabeth waited for a moment, then slipped a clean handkerchief into Marjory’s open hand. “This day will be the hardest,” she said, her throat tightening. “Surely the morrow will be better.”

Sixty-Six

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer?

JOSEPH ADDISON

M
onday alas, was harder still.

The weather was dry, yet bitterly cold, with no sun to lift their spirits. Another restless night with little sleep set the household on edge. Their emotions were brittle, and their conversation bore a note of impatience.

Elisabeth reminded herself of the phrases she’d read yesterday morning—
wait on thee, trust in thee—
and tried not to make things worse.

Janet was especially pernickitie. “What am I to do for a mourning gown?” She glared at the two dresses borrowed from Marjory’s clothes press some time ago, neither of them black. “I’ll not have our visitors thinking less of me.”

“We cannot afford new gowns,” Marjory said. “My dark gray one will suit you for the moment.” She sent Mrs. Edgar to fetch it, then turned to study her reflection in Janet’s looking glass. “I had hoped never to wear this again.”

Elisabeth could not help noticing the black gown smelled of wormwood and fit too snugly in some places, though it was in all ways proper, unadorned and somber.

When Mrs. Edgar appeared with the gray gown, Marjory and Elisabeth repaired to the drawing room so Janet might dress. It was only nine o’ the clock. No callers would knock on their door before eleven. Caddies or menservants might deliver notes of sympathy at any hour, though none had arrived yet.

Marjory was too agitated to sit, pacing the room instead, her taffeta skirts rustling as she walked. “My sons belong with their father in Greyfriars Kirkyard, not miles away in Falkirk.”

Elisabeth nodded. Had she not felt the same when Simon was buried in a farmer’s field? “Angus would’ve brought them home to us if he could have,” she said gently.

She would never tell Marjory what Rob had confided to her. Other than the handful of officers buried in the kirkyard with Donald and Andrew, the dead from both armies were buried by the townsfolk in a common trench dug into the hill where the men fell. Elisabeth would silently thank Angus every day of her life for seeing Donald laid to rest in hallowed ground.

When Janet joined them in the drawing room, her displeasure with the dowager’s gray gown was evident. She yanked at the tight sleeves and moaned about the unflattering style until Elisabeth offered a solution.

“I will gladly sew a mourning gown for you if we can afford the fabric.” Elisabeth looked to Marjory for her consent and was surprised when it was quickly offered.

“I can spare one guinea,” Marjory said. Janet did not roll her eyes, but Elisabeth sensed her disapproval. She would let her work speak for her and hope Janet might soften toward her in the process.

The hour for callers approached. Their house was in good order, the claret was ready to pour, and Mrs. Edgar had a seedcake, fresh from the oven, cooling on the table. When eleven chimes rang out from the tall case clock, the women sat up straighter in their circle of chairs by the fire and waited for their friends and neighbors to pay their respects to the dead.

No one came.

Not in the first hour nor in the second. Not while the women ate a hasty dinner at one o’ the clock nor in the afternoon. No notes were delivered, no messages received at the door. No one in Edinburgh, it seemed, mourned the loss of two young men guilty of treason.

“We are cursed,” Marjory moaned when the last light of day faded from the windows. The uncut seedcake, the pristine wine glasses, and the empty chairs stood witness to her charge.

Elisabeth stayed by Marjory’s side, providing sips of claret and fresh handkerchiefs, until her tears subsided and a new kind of grief settled in.

Anguish gave way to a lifeless melancholy as Marjory slumped in her chair, absently fingering the plain trim on her sleeve. “’Tis no use,” her mother-in-law said, her words devoid of emotion. “We’ve no friends left.”

“Aye, we do,” Elisabeth reminded her. “The MacPhersons have been more than friends to us.”

“Tradesmen,” Marjory said dismissively, though Elisabeth saw a hint of regret in her eyes. “It must be said, they did tell us about… That is, we might not have known for days, even weeks…” She sighed heavily. “I mean only that I miss my old friends, Lady Woodhall and Lady Falconer especially.”

No mention of Lady Ruthven, Elisabeth noticed.

Marjory dabbed her eyes. “This eve you’ll want to write your mothers.”

“Aye, so I shall,” Elisabeth said, disheartened at the prospect. Though she’d written her mother several times, Elisabeth had not received a letter from home since before her mother’s wedding. The letter Simon had brought to her was the last. As to her own letters, Rob had watched her mother tear one in two and toss it into the fire. Perhaps she did that with all of them.

“The Post Office cannot object to delivering our correspondence now,” Marjory said, her tone petulant. “Our sad reports are of no use to King George.”

A light tapping at the stair door instantly transformed Marjory. She sat up, dried her tears, and in all ways resumed the role of Dowager Lady Kerr as she looked toward the entrance hall, chin held high, anticipating their first visitor at last.

“Mrs. Effie Sinclair,” Gibson announced.

Elisabeth heard the relief in his voice and saw it on Mrs. Edgar’s face as the housekeeper stood by the table, ready to be of service. Janet followed their mother-in-law’s example—head up, shoulders back, face composed—as Elisabeth welcomed their faithful friend. “We are so grateful you are here.”

“Had it not been for my students,” she assured them, “I would have come sooner.” Effie’s expression was so tender that Elisabeth fought back tears yet again. “May the Almighty comfort you in your affliction.”

Mrs. Edgar quietly served her a slice of seedcake while Effie spoke to each woman in turn, offering a specific word of encouragement. “It has been many years since Mr. Sinclair passed away, but I remember the
heartache well,” she finally said, then took Elisabeth’s hand in hers. “Lady Kerr, you and Mrs. Kerr will honor your husbands best by remaining widows and caring for your mother-in-law. She is your family now.”

Elisabeth nodded, not knowing what to say. She’d been too racked with pain to consider the future. Was that what Donald would expect of her? That she care for his mother the rest of her days? Or should she return to Castleton, to her own mother, and see if some reconciliation might be made? Where did a daughter’s loyalty belong?

Elisabeth glanced at Janet. Her eyes gave away nothing, but the set of her jaw suggested her feelings on the subject.

Mrs. Sinclair remained as long as propriety allowed, then stood to take her leave. “You will be in my prayers,” she said in parting, squeezing each hand.

Elisabeth accompanied her to the door, thanking her for coming. “You are the only caller we’ve had,” she admitted.

Mrs. Sinclair looked up at her in dismay. “Can this be true?”

“I’m afraid so. Had Lord Kerr and his brother fallen in the defense of King George, the mourners might have filled the house and trailed down the stair. Instead, our men bravely died for our prince.”

“They did so willingly,” Effie reminded her, “and most honorably.” She patted her hand. “I’ll call again if I may.”

“Aye, please come.” Elisabeth gazed down at the tiny woman who’d been like a mother to her when she’d first arrived in Edinburgh, just as Angus had ably filled the shoes of her father. “And do pray for us.”

“So I shall.” Effie’s small eyes glistened. “Unless I am mistaken, you are seeking the Almighty with more… confidence, aye?”

“I am.” Elisabeth looked down. After a lifetime of worshiping the Nameless One in secret, she was unaccustomed to discussing matters of faith.

“’Tis not a thing that can be taught, Lady Kerr, though I tried my best when you were under my tutelage.” Effie smiled, her cheeks like round red apples. “He preserveth the faithful. And I believe you are among them.” She donned her dark blue wool cape and was gone, leaving Elisabeth standing at the door.

Sixty-Seven

The mother heart within me
Is almost starved for heaven.

MARGARET ELIZABETH SANGSTER

W
hy can I not visit Lord John’s grave?” Marjory looked at Janet, seated across from her at breakfast. “’Tis perfectly acceptable for a grieving widow, and I would not be out in society.”

Marjory waited for her objections, certain they would come.

“To begin with, the weather is ghastly,” Janet replied matter-of-factly. With Andrew gone, her older daughter-in-law had cast aside any pretense of being charming. “Winter has returned, madam, dressed in ice and snow and bitterly cold winds. And it is a long walk to Greyfriars Kirkyard.”

“Or a sixpence ride in a sedan chair,” Marjory reminded her stiffly, though her words had no bite. Janet knew very well she could not afford such a luxury. And it
was
a bit of a walk down Peeble’s Wynd to the Cowgate. Marjory had traveled there on foot only once. And on a fair spring afternoon, not a frozen Wednesday in January.

But she wanted to go, very much
needed
to go. To remind herself that she once had a husband, that she once was loved, that her life had some purpose, some greater meaning. She was neither wife nor mother now and would never be a grandmother. What was a mother-in-law without sons? Useless. Or worse, a burden.

Marjory shuddered at the realization.

“You see?” Janet said. “You’re chilled even in the house.” She punctuated her words by brandishing a well-buttered triangle of toast. “Furthermore, you cannot venture anywhere near the Grassmarket. That horrible General Hawley is keeping his hangman busy, punishing his troops who showed cowardice at Falkirk or tried to desert. Nae, madam.” Janet bit the corner of her toast with her small, sharp teeth and took her time chewing and swallowing. “Your place is here, safe within our walls.”

Marjory did not give Janet the satisfaction of seeing her quit the table in a pique. But once Janet finished her breakfast, Marjory abandoned her cold tea, seeking Elisabeth’s company. At least her younger daughter-in-law respected her.

She found Elisabeth in her bedchamber with yards of black fabric unrolled across the carpet: Janet’s mourning gown in progress. Marjory eyed the muslin pattern pinned to a dress form borrowed from the MacPhersons and noted the chalk lines drawn on the silk at her feet. “Already hard at work, I see.”

Elisabeth held up her scissors. “I’ll need Gibson to sharpen the blades on Donald’s whetstone before I dare take them to this silk.” Her cheeks, so pale of late, grew slightly pink. “I confess I tried to stab a dragoon with a pair of scissors at Queensberry House.”

“Well done,” Marjory said. “And I’m grateful you assisted the surgeons at the infirmary. Had my sons been given such care…” She closed her eyes as a wave of grief washed over her.

After a moment she felt Elisabeth’s cool fingers on hers. “Angus did everything he could for them.”

“That is my only consolation.” Marjory lifted her head. Her daughter-in-law’s eyes mirrored her own sorrow; her bonny face hid nothing. “You loved my son very much.”

“Aye.” Elisabeth’s voice fell to a whisper. “I still do.”

Marjory thought of their tender parting on the last day of October. And her son’s heartfelt request:
May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?
And the look on Donald’s face when Elisabeth stood on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye. It seemed only right to assure her. “My son loved you as well.”