Here Burns My Candle (49 page)

Elisabeth’s eyes grew glassy. “I hope ’tis true.”

“I feel certain you are the only woman he ever loved,” Marjory continued, “though I imagine many loved
him
. Such a handsome man, our Donald.”

Her daughter-in-law merely nodded.

Thinking it best to change the subject, Marjory said, “Will you show me your plans for Janet’s gown?”

They spent a pleasant half hour together with Elisabeth describing
in detail the various pleats and folds, buttons and tabs she intended to use. “No lace,” she hastened to add, “for I know ’tis costly. But the wee ruffle round the neckline will serve, and the pin tucks on the bodice may provide a bit of interest.”

Until now Marjory had paid scant attention to Elisabeth’s sewing skills. She was rightly impressed. “I will be eager to see the finished gown and so will your sister-in-law.” Though she would never confess it, Marjory wished she’d given Janet her old mourning gown so this new creation might be hers. An entirely selfish thought, of course. But honest.

Elisabeth was showing Marjory how her present gown might be altered for a better fit when Mrs. Edgar came looking for them.

“Ye’ve a visitor, leddies. Mr. MacPherson.”

Marjory glanced at her mantel, still looking for the clock she would never see again. By now it was sitting above a cozy hearth in Lancashire or Yorkshire, marking the hours for some infernal Englishwoman.

Rob was waiting for them in the drawing room, his hat and greatcoat removed, a glass of claret and a plate of seedcake on a small table by the fire. “Leddies,” he said with a proper bow, “I’m here to offer my sympathy. And to see how ye’re faring.”

“We’re glad you’ve come.” Elisabeth spoke for all of them since Janet had not bothered to make an appearance. “Kindly sit with us.”

“I wanted to call at the first hour on Monday,” he explained, “but waited ’til today, thinking ye might not want a tailor walking through the door with a’ yer gentry friends here.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” Marjory told him, “though you need not have worried. Had you visited us on Monday morn, you’d have been the only one.”

His dark countenance took on a ruddy tint. “Ye mean to tell me Edinburgh’s fine lords and leddies didna see fit to walk up yer stair? Whan ye’ve lost two guid men in the prime o’ their young lives?” Rob sat back, fists on his knees, a marked scowl on his face. “What sort o’ freens are those?”

“No friends at all,” Elisabeth admitted.

Marjory could hardly argue. When Lady Falconer closed the door on her, the rest of society quickly followed suit. Rather than dwell on
that depressing fact, Marjory broached another topic. “Your father is not with you. I trust he is well?”

Rob exhaled. “He is not, mem. Not weel at a’. I’ve had the apothecary come twice this week. Mr. Mercer says ’tis his heart. I thocht my faither had the heart o’ ten men, but—”

“Foxglove tea,” Marjory said at once, not wanting to hear the details lest they awaken too many memories. “Lord John drank a cup nightly to ease his chest pains.”

“I thank ye, mem. We’ll try it this verra nicht.” Rob shifted in his chair. “Enough of oor woes, for ’tis ye I’m meant to comfort.” He was looking at Elisabeth now. Clearly the offer of sympathy was meant for her.

“We have each other,” Elisabeth answered him, inclining her head toward Marjory, “and so we do not suffer alone.”

“I am glad to hear it, Leddy Kerr.”

Marjory saw the yearning in his eyes and the way he leaned toward her, his hands open.
If I were not here, he would take her in his arms
. Elisabeth would not allow it, of course. But his longing was as palpable as the scent of nutmeg wafting from Mrs. Edgar’s kitchen.

Would Elisabeth follow Effie Sinclair’s advice? Remain a widow and stay by her side? At four-and-twenty, Elisabeth was young enough to marry again and bear children. Should she be forced to care for a woman twice her age with no prospects, no hope? Marjory could never ask Elisabeth or Janet to make such a sacrifice. But if she did not, who would care for her as she grew older, in the same way Rob watched over Angus?

She had no husband or sons, no parents or siblings, and no friends. No one in the world cared whether she lived or died.

No one
.

Marjory abruptly stood, prompting Rob to his feet.

“Mem?” he asked.

“You are welcome to stay, Mr. MacPherson. But I…forgive me.” Marjory fled the room for her quiet bedchamber to mourn in private. And to pray.

Hands trembling, she closed the door behind her and locked it, then the door to Elisabeth’s room too. Marjory hastened to her bedside and sank to her knees, folding her hands as a child might.

“Please…” One word and her heart broke open. “Please…help me.” She pressed her forehead against her hands, afraid to ask for what she needed, afraid the Almighty no longer cared. “I knew you once,” she whispered. “Might I turn to you again?”

Desperate, she clung to the words she’d learned long ago. “Look upon mine affliction and my pain…” She drew a ragged breath. “And forgive all my sins.”
Too many, too many
. “My husband,” she moaned, “my precious John. And my sons, my dear sons. All dead because of me. If I’d learned to be content at Tweedsford. If I’d honored my husband’s wishes. If I’d protected our children…”

Weary and spent, she crawled onto her bed, crushing her gown, dislodging the pins from her hair. “Forgive me,” she pleaded. How could that be sufficient? “O God, in the multitude of thy mercy hear me. Please, please, hear me.”

Sixty-Eight

Patience is sorrow’s salve.

CHARLES CHURCHILL

C
hange was coming. Elisabeth felt it in her bones. Prince Charlie and his army had retreated farther north into the Highlands, and Marjory’s guineas were reduced to shillings and pennies. Only winter remained, bleak and unending. Though the days were a bit longer in February, the temperature struggled to get above freezing.

Elisabeth gazed down at the icy puddles scattered across the High Street. She was determined to brave the cold and visit Angus MacPherson now that his weak heart bound him withindoors. If Marjory did not object, Elisabeth would ask Gibson to escort her to the Luckenbooths that very morning.

She had stepped out of doors only twice since Donald’s death. Once to visit Mr. Mercer’s shop across the High Street when Gibson’s troublesome cough made a sudden reappearance, and once to the Post Office to send a letter to her mother. Both were acceptable errands for a widow. The dragoons patrolling the street were the greater worry. General Hawley and the Duke of Cumberland had both come and gone from Edinburgh, heading north in pursuit of Prince Charlie and his army. But while the gallows still stood in the Grassmarket, the town’s Jacobites laid very low indeed.

She donned her clothing, then styled her hair as if she’d never had a lady’s maid to slip gowns over her head or lace her stays. Mrs. Edgar still dressed Marjory each morning, and Janet as well, but Elisabeth thought to spare their housekeeper a few duties at least. A brief pause at her mirror and she was off to seek her mother-in-law’s blessing.

She found her sitting by a window, trying to thread a needle, nearly in tears from the effort. “May I help?” Elisabeth made quick work of it, then kept the needle in hand. “If it’s your button that needs sewing, Lady Marjory, I’ll gladly do so.”

Marjory handed over the green gown and its matching silk button
with a sigh. “I’d hoped to master
one
simple task. Shouldn’t a woman know how to repair her own clothing?”

Elisabeth was thrown off balance, hearing the discouragement in her mother-in-law’s voice. If the Dowager Lady Kerr of Selkirk felt obliged to do her own sewing, their financial position was even worse than she’d realized.

“Let me show you.” Elisabeth sat beside her and pretended Marjory was one of Mrs. Sinclair’s students, teaching her step by step. Her mother-in-law was a quick study and tied the finishing knot herself. “You see?” Elisabeth said proudly. “You’ll not be daunted by a button again.”

“’Tis my mother’s fault,” Marjory said, examining her work. “Lady Nesbitt made it clear that a gentlewoman might embroider, but she was never to do common sewing. You’ve convinced me otherwise.”

Elisabeth tried not to let her amazement show. When she asked if she might visit Angus, Marjory surprised her a second time by agreeing at once, though her mother-in-law gave her a list of precautions.

“Cover your face with the hood of your cape, and stay close by Gibson’s side. You’ll need a ready answer if a dragoon stops you. Tell him you are bound for James Stirling’s in the Luckenbooths to fetch a quarter pound of tea.”

“Shall I carry two shillings to prove it?”

Marjory eyed her. “You
are
a canny girl.” She pulled two silver coins from her hanging pocket and lent them to Elisabeth. “On your way, then.”

Elisabeth followed Gibson down the turnpike stair, her teeth chattering. She’d sent ahead a caddie with a note so Rob would expect her. How odd it felt to step into the square after looking down on it for so many weeks! She followed Marjory’s advice to the letter and withdrew inside the folds of her hood, resisting the urge to study every passerby, wondering if they were friend or foe.

They started up the High Street, facing into the icy wind blowing down from Castle Hill. Elisabeth pretended not to notice the lanes they passed along the way: Geddes Close, home to Jane Montgomerie, and Warriston’s Close, where Susan McGill lodged. Did they know of Donald’s death? The thought of other women mourning the loss of her
husband made her ill. Nae, it made her angry. How dare they grieve her beloved Donald! She reached for Marjory’s words like a healing balm.
You are the only woman he ever loved
.

“Almost there, Leddy Kerr.” Gibson kept a firm grip on her hand, circled round his elbow. They quickened their steps past the mercat cross, where the latest news regarding the unnatural rebellion in the Highlands was being proclaimed.

Elisabeth still longed to see the Stuarts restored to the British throne. But the farther the prince and his men withdrew from the London road, the less likely victory seemed. The glorious cause had already cost far too much.

When they reached the door to Angus’s tailoring shop, her heart sank. The glass window was newly repaired, but peering inside, she could see the damage wrought by the dragoons’ November visit. The long looking glass was gone, along with Angus’s sewing cabinet, and the shelves of fabric seemed vastly depleted.

Here came Rob, answering their knock. “Leddy Kerr,” he said, his pleasure at seeing her unabashed. “Gibson, if ye’ll not mind, I’ll see the leddy hame. I’m sure ye’re needed at Milne Square.”

His words were not a dismissal, though Gibson’s lowered brow suggested otherwise. “Are ye certain, Leddy Kerr? I’ll not mind to stay, however lang ye’ll be.”

Rob was right. Gibson’s time would be better spent at home. And her friend could easily walk her down the hill that afternoon. “I’ll be home by four,” she told Gibson, sending him gently on his way. “’til then, I’m well cared for here.”

The manservant took his leave, the bell tinkling as the door shut behind him.

“Ye’ll be warm enough by the fire,” Rob promised, guiding her through to their lodgings behind the shop. “My faither is eager to visit with ye, Bess. ’Twill do him some guid, I’ve nae doubt.”

Their single room was very tidy, especially for two men. The small beds were covered in beautifully woven plaids, the oak furnishings were simple in design yet solidly built—rather like the MacPhersons themselves—and
the tallow candles on the hearth and table gave the room a warm glow.

The man seated by the fire was the one she’d come to see. To her dismay he’d aged ten years since they last spoke. “Angus!” she cried softly, hurrying to his side. His skin had a gray pallor, and his hair was now more silver than black.

Angus came to life at her greeting. “Och, my bonny Bess!” He kissed her hand, then hung on tight. “Ye’ve come to see yer auld freen.”

“Not so very old,” she chided him. “And I must apologize—”

“Nae, ye must not,” he said gruffly. “Ye’ve been mourning yer husband, and sae ye should. How’s yer mither-in-law? This canna be easy for her.”

Elisabeth perched on a three-legged stool beside his chair and filled his ear with all the news from Milne Square even as she took careful note of the changes his illness had wrought over the last month. Angus was definitely weaker. His movements were slower and his breathing more strained. She was pleased to find his sense of humor had not diminished. And when Rob served them a dinner of hearty Scotch broth and fresh bannocks, Angus’s appetite was as healthy as ever.

“Ye must dine with us mair often,” Rob told her at table. “I’ve not seen my faither eat a second plate o’ broth in some time.”

Angus waved his horn spoon at Rob. “Ye’ll not be speaking o’ me as if I wasna present,” he scolded his son good-naturedly. “But the lad is richt. Having ye here has done my puir heart guid.”

“Then I shall come every week,” she promised.

Rob eyed her with a steady gaze. “I hope ye will, Bess.”

“Come sit by the fire,” Angus said, “and I’ll tell ye what I ken o’ the prince.” His scowl was prodigious. “Ye’re thinking an auld man locked in his lodgings wouldna ken onie news from afar, aye? Weel, I have my ways, lass, and monie a Jacobite kens whaur I live.”

Rob’s smile greatly altered his face, softening his hard features and smoothing his brow. “Aye, they come knocking at a’ hours o’ the day and nicht, bearing tales from the north.” He brought a chair from their table. “Dinna sit on the
creepie
, lass. Ye’ll be mair comfortable on this.”

She took the offered seat, then inched closer to the fire, wishing she’d chosen warmer stockings and stouter shoes.

“His Royal Highness split the army in two at Crieff,” Angus told her. “Last I heard, the prince was at Dalwhinnie, but that was three days syne.”

Elisabeth asked him gently, “Is there hope yet for the cause?”