Here Burns My Candle (54 page)

Mrs. Edgar stood before her, twisting her apron in her hands. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but…”

Marjory studied the housekeeper more closely. The lines creasing her brow had deepened, and a worried look clouded her gray eyes. “What is it?” Marjory asked, genuinely concerned.

“I’ve had a letter from my mither in Lasswade. Ye ken she’s a’ alone.”

Marjory felt a knot tighten inside her. “Is she… unwell?”
Is she dead?

“Nae, but she is auld and verra frail.”

When the housekeeper fell silent, Marjory prompted her. “And?”

“Ye see, mem…” Mrs. Edgar hung her head. “My mither has begged me to come hame and care for her.”

Marjory sat up straighter, hoping she’d misunderstood her. “Do you mean to return home… for good?”

“Aye.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron strings. “I would niver do such a thing if ’tweren’t my mither asking.”

“I’m sure of it,” Marjory said, her heart sinking. She tried to picture her household without Helen Edgar and could not.

“Mebbe this wee bit will help.” Digging in her pocket, the housekeeper withdrew six shillings, which she carefully counted out. “I ken siller is hard to come by, mem. These are my wages ’til Whitsuntide.”

“Oh! I wouldn’t think of taking it,” Marjory protested. “That money is yours.”

Mrs. Edgar would not be persuaded. “Take it, mem. If Gibson
makes a canny bargain in Fishmarket Close, ye’ll have smoked haddies for a fortnight.”

Marjory touched the housekeeper’s hand, chapped and red from her labors. “I’d rather have you for a twelvemonth.”

“I’m sorry, mem. Truly, I am.”

“But I’m the one who must apologize. You were due a new gown in January. No wonder you’re keen to leave us.”

“Nae!” The housekeeper looked up, clearly appalled at the suggestion. “I wouldna leave ye o’er a silly gown. But, mem, ’tis a’ we can do to feed the five of us. If I’m not here, there’ll be only four mouths to feed.”

And no one to cook
. Marjory did not wish to heap any guilt on Mrs. Edgar’s shoulders. “If your mother needs you, then certainly you must go.”

The housekeeper merely bobbed her head, her cheeks wet, her nose running.

Marjory offered her lace handkerchief, her own emotions reeling. She depended upon Helen’s faithful service. Trusted her completely. When she’d thought of returning home to Tweedsford, she’d imagined Helen Edgar coming with her. “We’ll speak more of this in the morn,” Marjory told her.

“I hope to leave this Friday,” the housekeeper confessed. “I’ll be sure to finish a’ my tasks afore I go. I’m sure we can find someone to cook yer meals and a lass to clean ilka week.”

“But we’ll not find another Mrs. Edgar,” Marjory said with a heavy sigh, turning her head so her disappointment would not show.

“I’m verra sorry, mem. I’ll bid ye guid nicht for now.” The door closed softly behind her.

Marjory did not sleep well, nor did she dream. Instead she stared at the ceiling and whispered the words she knew to be true:
The Lord seeth. The Lord heareth. The Lord knoweth
.

Friday came too soon.

“The hoose is scrubbed clean from one end to the ither,” Mrs.
Edgar promised, already wearing her wool bonnet and a thin plaid cape. A small leather bag with her few personal belongings sat by the stair door.

“You’ve worked very hard this week.” Marjory clasped her housekeeper’s hands as if she might keep her a bit longer. Elisabeth and Janet stood on either side of her, one with a tender expression and the other with an air of impatience.

“Gibson kens whaur ilka thing can be found,” Mrs. Edgar said, nodding at him in the doorway. “He’ll do a’ the marketing and keep yer coal grates fu’ and yer water pitchers too.”

Marjory was somewhat comforted by Gibson’s fervent nodding. But it was a great deal to ask of one servant. And if Gibson became ill again… Well, she simply could not think of it. Not this day.

“Mrs. Sinclair’s maidservant, Betty, will clean ilka Thursday,” Mrs. Edgar promised. “But as to wha will cook…” She bit her lip.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Marjory told her. “We’ve made arrangements. Haven’t we, Elisabeth?” She looked to her daughter-in-law, hoping she’d not changed her mind.

“We have,” Elisabeth said firmly. “None will starve in this house.”

“Guid, guid.” Mrs. Edgar smiled even as her eyes began to fill. “Weel, then, I must be going.” She busied herself with the strings of her cape, already well tied. “’Twill not take me lang to reach Lasswade. Naught but seven miles. I’ll be at my mither’s door by three.”

Marjory sighed. “I wish I could afford a carriage for you …”

“Hoot!” She laughed, making her tears spill over. “A hoosekeeper in a coach-and-four? Nae, mem. I’ll find a wee family or some dairymaids to walk beside. Dinna fash yerself.”

“Promise you will write to us,” Elisabeth said, tugging Mrs. Edgar’s bonnet in place. “I’ve put a few leaves of paper in your bag. We’ll not mind the pence for your post.”

“I read better than I write,” the housekeeper admitted, “but, aye, I’ll send ye news.”

Nothing remained but to say farewell and bid Mrs. Edgar a safe journey. Janet was perfunctory, Elisabeth was warm, and Gibson was too overcome to speak.

Marjory followed her into the entrance hall. “Gibson will walk you to the end of the Canongate.” They paused by the door. “Our prayers will go with you to Lasswade.”

Mrs. Edgar bowed her head. “I’ve been honored to serve ye, Leddy Kerr. To leuk after Lord John…and to care for yer sons…” She broke down, sobbing into her new handkerchief. “I will sorely miss ye, mem.”

Marjory placed her hands on the housekeeper’s rounded shoulders, her eyes beginning to swim. “And I will miss you. So much.” She tried to say more but could not. For one moment Marjory forgot that she was the Dowager Lady Kerr and pulled her beloved housekeeper into her arms. “Godspeed, dear Helen. Godspeed.”

Seventy-Five

But dearest friends, alas! must part.

JOHN GAY

E
lisabeth stood in the kitchen, a white apron tied over her mourning gown. At her elbow Scotch collops were stewing in a pan, filling the air with the scent of onions and sweet herbs. Janet pretended not to know who was preparing their meals, while Marjory expressed her gratitude each time they sat at table. “We cannot afford even the most inexperienced scullery maid,” she’d said earlier at dinner, “and yet the Almighty has provided us with the best of cooks.”

Elisabeth had smiled at that. As if a Highland lass had a choice about learning her way round a kitchen! She had caught and cleaned eel, had perfected the art of smoked venison and salmon, and could fix milled oats in a dozen different ways. For this evening’s supper she’d chosen a simple dish, making do with a single serving of veal for all four of them.

In the end Marjory had not accepted Mrs. Edgar’s six shillings, even though the housekeeper hadn’t earned them, having departed before the end of her term. “She will need those coins,” Marjory had insisted, “for her mother and for herself.”

Elisabeth was taken aback. Something was happening to her mother-in-law. Whether it was the loss of her sons or the loss of her fortune, the Dowager Lady Kerr she’d once known seemed to be disappearing, and a real woman—with flesh and bone and heart—was slowly taking her place.

When a visitor came knocking on the stair, Elisabeth was glad she’d closed the door to her kitchen. Janet was right about this: if their neighbors discovered Lady Kerr in the kitchen, the gossip would never cease. She heard Mr. Baillie in the entrance hall, talking with Gibson. Delivering something, apparently.

Their landlord departed after a bit, and Gibson appeared in the
kitchen, bearing a letter addressed to her. “Mr. Baillie meant to bring this up on Friday. Said he forgot.”

Much as she longed to read it, the collops were ready to take off the fire and would not improve by stewing a minute longer. She slipped the letter inside her apron pocket and attended to her cooking. The last few minutes of daylight filled the drawing room windows as they sat down to supper at eight o’ the clock. Gibson brought their plates to table, and Elisabeth sat with the others, her apron left in the kitchen.

“Delicious,” her mother-in-law said after two bites. “Will you soon run out of dishes to prepare? Shall we borrow a copy of
The Compleat Housewife
for you? Perhaps Mr. Ramsay has the book in his circulating library.”

“I’ll be fine for a month or two,” Elisabeth assured her. But if Mr. Laidlaw, the Kerrs’ factor, did not bring the quarterly rents from Tweeds-ford soon, she would resort to her many recipes featuring oats.

Marjory seldom spoke of money now. There simply was none. Yesterday morning Marjory, too, had sold her gowns to Miss Callander, who’d offered only two pounds each. Gibson carried the gowns there himself, two at a time. When Marjory returned with her meager profit, Elisabeth reminded her she had a seamstress for a daughter-in-law. “When we can afford silk again,” she’d told Marjory, “I’ll dress us all in style.”

Elisabeth produced a treat for dessert. “A fresh orange from Lisbon. Mr. Strachan of New Bank Close was anxious to sell them and gave me a very fair price.” She split open the orange, sending a fragrant mist into the air, then handed each of them a quarter, Gibson included.

Janet eyed her fruit. “But I thought you had no coins left in your purse.”

“His daughter fancied my enameled hair comb.” Elisabeth savored one juicy slice of orange, then admitted, “An easy exchange was made.”

“Has it come to that, then?” Janet savagely tore her quarter into slices, spraying juice everywhere. “Selling all we own or wear?”

“Aye, it has come to that,” Marjory said simply. “I sent a letter to Mrs. Pitcairn, inquiring of her possible interest in our furniture.”

“The
rouping wife?”
Elisabeth was relieved to hear it. The female auctioneer had a reputation for clever dealing and would treat Marjory
more fairly than their miserly seamstress had. She looked about the room, wondering how much anyone might be willing to pay for chairs with mended upholstery and missing cushions. She’d done the best she could with her embroidery needle. But held up for auction, piece by piece, their plenishings would make a sad lot indeed.

Marjory followed her gaze. “I know we’ll not earn a large sum. But I cannot afford the repairs, and we truly don’t need all this.” She waved her hand about. “I sent the letter this morn. We’ll see what she says.”

The letter
. Elisabeth only now remembered Mr. Baillie’s delivery, left in her apron pocket. She hurried to the kitchen rather than ring for Gibson, who was running his feet off trying to care for three women. She found him heating water brought up from the Netherbow wellhead. In months past they would have paid a caddie to haul water up the stair; now the job fell to Gibson.

Elisabeth quickly found the letter and was about to invite Gibson to join them in the drawing room to hear it read when she looked more closely at the handwriting. Plain, bold strokes of black ink.
Rob MacPherson
.

Not trusting her legs to hold her, she perched on Mrs. Edgar’s old stool. She did not regret turning down Rob’s proposal or sending him away, but she did wish she’d done so with more grace. Would his letter be an apology? Or a reproach?

She unfolded the thick paper and smoothed out the creases, then leaned toward the firelight. A longer letter than she’d expected, dated the day Mrs. Edgar quit Milne Square, bound for home.

Friday, 11 April 1746
Lady Kerr—

She was no longer
Bess
to him. Just as well. It meant Rob understood such days were over. Elisabeth read on.

I have very sad news. My father died this morn.

“Nae!” She pressed the letter to her heart.
Not my dear Angus
. Gibson abandoned his water pitchers and hastened to her side. “What is it, milady?”

“Mr. MacPherson…” Elisabeth leaned against the dressing table. “He cannot be…”

“The tailor’s son, ye mean?”

“Not Rob but dear Angus.” She squeezed out the words. “He’s… gone.”

“Och, can it be so?”

“Tell the others,” she begged him. Gibson did her bidding at once, leaving her alone with Rob’s letter. She dried her eyes with her apron, trying to read the words, trying to grasp the truth.

He had a restless night. I thought to come for you but did not want to offend. I sent this letter by way of Mr. Baillie, trusting him to deliver it.

But he did not
. Elisabeth gripped the paper, guilt washing over her. Rob thought she knew last Friday. Now it was Tuesday.

I will bury my father at Greyfriars at ten o’ the clock on Saturday. Meet me in the kirkyard, if you will.

“Oh, Rob.” Her heart broke in two.
I would have come. I did not know
.

To think of Angus waiting for a bedside visit that never came. And Rob standing by his father’s grave, hoping she might join him and share his grief.
Please, please forgive me!

“Lady Elisabeth?” Marjory stood in the doorway. “I am very sorry to hear this news.” She drew closer, her face lined with sympathy. “I know how much Angus MacPherson meant to you.”

“Aye, he did.” Elisabeth buried her head in the crook of her arm and wept.

Seventy-Six

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,
And welcome home again discarded faith.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

T
he ten o’ the clock drum was echoing down the empty High Street when Elisabeth retired to her bedchamber, her body exhausted and her heart weary. If she’d not sent Rob away so rudely, perhaps he might have come to her or taken her to see Angus and let her pour out her gratitude for all the years he’d watched over her.

But Rob had not come nor had his letter—not until any hope of seeing Angus was lost.