Here Burns My Candle (61 page)

The two gentlemen seated across from them both lifted their hats. A father and son, Marjory decided.

“You have our deepest sympathy, ladies,” the older of the two men said. He was perhaps fifty and the other man a few years older than Bess. “Since Mr. Dewar has not introduced us, please permit me to do so. I am Mr. Thomas Hedderwick of Galashiels, and this is my son, William.”

Marjory nodded.
Father and son. Just as I thought
.

“We’re both pleased to meet you,” Elisabeth responded. “I am Mrs. Donald Kerr, and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. John Kerr.”

Marjory’s smile tightened at the sound of her new name.
Mrs. John Kerr
. She was still a lady, she reminded herself. Still a gentlewoman. There were some things even King George could not take away.

The carriage jolted forward, tossing them about like so much luggage.

Marjory righted herself, sitting up a bit straighter, all at once feeling rather constrained by her whalebone stays. She would not lace them so tightly on the morrow. Nae, nor the day after that.

When she took a full breath, a strange and not unpleasant sensation came over her.

It wasn’t fear. Not this time. It was freedom.

W
HITE
H
ORSE
C
LOSE

Author Notes

Farewell, Edina! pleasing name,
Congenial to my heart!
A joyous guest to thee I came,
And mournful I depart.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

O
h, Edinburgh. If you only knew how often I think about your narrow, crooked streets and your misty-moisty air and your splendid craggy castle, so close to the sky it’s like something from a fairy tale.

The Kerr women are eager to leave Edinburgh and rightly so, but I cannot wait to return to this fun, funky, and altogether fascinating city. Though a great deal has changed since Prince Charlie’s arrival in September 1745, it’s astonishing how much of the Old Town remains. All the main thoroughfares are in place: Grassmarket, Lawnmarket, High Street, and Canongate. On opposite ends of the Royal Mile, Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse continue to welcome visitors, both royal and common. And on any given afternoon you may hear the skirl of the pipes or spy a braw lad in a tartan kilt and know without a doubt you’re not in Kansas anymore—or in Kentucky, for that matter.

Alas, Milne Square was swept away when construction on the North Bridge began in 1763. And though the Tron Kirk still stands, it’s no longer a place of worship. But you can blithely stroll through the pend into White Horse Close or sit on a wooden pew inside Saint Giles or climb atop the Salisbury Crags and imagine Elisabeth Kerr by your side, taking in the fine view.

For character names I usually turn to kirkyards and census records, but for this novel I had a gem of a resource:
A Directory of Edinburgh in 1752
, compiled by J. Gilhooley. Since these are fictional folk, I played mix and match with most of the names, but you’ll find a number of historical characters waltzing through the pages of
Here Burns My Candle
, including Margaret Murray of Broughton with her white cockades; Thomas Ruddiman, the publisher of the
Caledonian Mercury;
and Mrs.

Effie Sinclair, who taught the mother of Sir Walter Scott. Allan Ramsay, whose circulating library is mentioned, doesn’t have a speaking role, but here’s the juicy bit: he was secretly a Jacobite.

By the by, the Sassenachs—that is, the English—called the first battle Prestonpans because of the location, but the Highlanders called it Gladsmuir because of Thomas the Rhymer’s prophecy. In the same way, what the Highlanders called the Jacobite Rising, the English called the Jacobite Rebellion. As with all history, much depends on where you’re standing. Today most folk refer to the last Rising simply as “the ’45.”

Lord Mark Kerr—pronounced “care” with a wee roll to the
r—
played an interesting role in the ’45. After Sir John Cope and his troops were humiliated at Gladsmuir, Sir John supposedly fled to Berwick, the northernmost town in England. Lord Mark greeted him with the wry observation that Sir John was the first general in Europe to bring news of his own defeat. Whether the tale is true or simply a Jacobite fable meant to discredit Sir John, the story has stuck to this day, thanks to one verse of the popular Jacobite song “Hey Johnnie Cope”:

Says Lord Mark Car, “Ye are na blate;
To bring us the news o’ your ain defeat;
I think you deserve the back o’ the gate,
Get out o’ my sight this morning.”

The ministers mentioned in
Here Burns My Candle
were also living and breathing folk. Rev. Dr. George Wishart and James Hogg both served at the Tron Kirk in 1745. Thomas Boston, a parish minister in Selkirkshire, was so devoted to his flock that, when his health was in steep decline, he delivered his last sermon from the manse window. His book
Human Nature in its Fourfold State
, which Elisabeth reads aloud one Sabbath, held a place of honor on many a Scot’s bookshelf. James Thomson, the author of
The Seasons
, also hailed from the Borderland. When James was sixteen, his minister father died while performing an exorcism. Goodness.

Of course, the most famous historic figure in the novel is Charles Edward Stuart. He was first dubbed “bonny” in a letter written by eighteen-year-old Magdalen Pringle. Her eyewitness account of the prince’s grand entry into Edinburgh is singularly charming: “The windows
were full of Ladys who threw up their handkerchiefs and clap’d their hands and show’d great loyalty to the Bonny Prince.”

Some readers have informed me that my novels make them hungry. (Ah, but they’re calorie free, at least!) I’m not much of a cook, but I do adore old cookbooks. My latest fave is
The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy
by Hannah Glasse. Though the book was originally published in 1747, facsimile editions continue to roll off the press. The recipe names are a hoot: “To dress a pig the French way” and “A second sort of fine pancakes.” Then there’s this one: “To keep Venison or Hares sweet, or to make them fresh when they stink.” Aye, please do.

The Art of Cookery
was one of many resources strewn about my feet as I wrote. Of the eight hundred Scottish volumes on my shelves, here are my top ten books about this grand time and place in history:

Hugo Arnot,
The History of Edinburgh
(1799)
Walter Biggar Blaikie,
Edinburgh at the Time of the
Occupation of Prince Charles
(1910)
Rev. D. Butler, M.A.,
The Tron Kirk of Edinburgh
(1906)
Robert Chambers,
Traditions of Edinburgh
(1929)
John Sibbald Gibson,
Edinburgh in the ’45
(1995)
Henry Grey Graham,
The Social Life of Scotland in the
Eighteenth Century
(1906)
Michael Hook and Walter Ross,
The ’Forty-Five
(1995)
Sir Herbert Maxwell,
Edinburgh: A Historical Study
(1916)
Stuart Reid,
1745: A Military History of the Last Jacobite
Rising
(1966)
David Wemyss, Lord Elcho,
A Short Account of the Affairs
of Scotland
(1907)

As lovely as books about Scotland can be, friendly Scots are an even better resource when it comes to sorting out what’s what. At Caddon View Country Guest House in Innerleithen, Joyce Lees and Molly Robertson served as my dialect coaches, while Steve and Lisa Davies fed me the tastiest dish of salmon on the planet.

At nearby Traquair House, the oldest inhabited house in Scotland, I had an audience with Catherine Maxwell Stuart, the twenty-first Lady of
Traquair and a descendant of our Catherine Maxwell, Lady Nithsdale. “Audience” may be overstating things; we sat and chatted in her office with dogs running about and pictures of her darling children scattered round! Imagine my delight when one of her guides took me to the lower drawing room to see portraits of Lady Nithsdale’s sisters, Barbara and Margaret Stuart, looking exactly as I’d described them in
chapter 35
. I may be the first American tourist who got teary-eyed gazing at those paintings.

A late October visit to Braemar, Elisabeth’s childhood home, found us tramping about Braemar Castle on a private guided tour, courtesy of Andy and Sheila Anderson, who offered a warm welcome on a cold afternoon. Blessings to Doreen Wood, who put us in touch with them and provided a fine phrase for our story: “the eerie mating call of the red deer echoing round the frosty hills.” Later that evening my husband and I heard that full-throated sound just as snow was beginning to fall. Still gives me shivers to think of it.

Closer to the village center, Kindrochaide Castle is reduced to rubble now, albeit very
nice
rubble, while the Victorian cottage where Robert Louis Stevenson began writing
Treasure Islands
as cozy as ever.

If you’re curious about the origin of Elisabeth’s pagan rites, worshiping the moon has a long and sordid history. The Bible clearly states that any man or woman who “served other gods, and worshipped them, either the sun, or moon, or any of the host of heaven” would be stoned to death (see Deuteronomy 17:2–5). No wonder Elisabeth was worried about the kirk session discovering her secret! Alexander Carmichael’s
Carmina Gadelica
, a collection of Gaelic blessings, hymns, and poems from the Highlands and Islands, features many incantations dedicated to the moon; five of them were included here.

As to Andrew’s malady, you’ll find no better description of consumption than this passage from
Nicholas Nickleby
by Charles Dickens: “A dread disease, in which the struggle between soul and body is so gradual, quiet, and solemn, and the result so sure, that day by day, and grain by grain, the mortal part wastes and withers away.” Known by its modern name—tuberculosis or TB—the disease is still common round the world and still deadly.

On a happier note, my editorial team remains in excellent health,
with well-sharpened pencils and keen eyes. Deep and abiding thanks to Laura Barker, Carol Bartley, Danelle McCafferty, and Sara Fortenberry for your incredible patience and prodigious gifts. Benny Gillies—a fine Scottish bookseller, proofreader, mapmaker, and friend—provided his services again, for which I am most grateful, and artist Simon Dawdry captured White Horse Close perfectly. Extra-special hugs go to my in-house editors, whom I cherish: Bill Higgs, who has a special gift for grammar, spelling, and word usage; Matt Higgs, who watches for accuracy, continuity, and character development; and Lilly Higgs, a storyteller in her own right, who gleefully brainstorms with me at all hours of the night. To each and to all, many blessings and many thanks.

I’ve reserved my most heartfelt gratitude for
you
, dear reader, and am ever thankful for your support and encouragement. If you’d enjoy receiving my free newsletter,
O Gentle Reader!
e-mailed just twice a year, kindly pop on my Web site:
www.LizCurtisHiggs.com
.

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