Here Burns My Candle Part 13

pa.s.sion is reason, transport, temper, here!

EDWARD YOUNG.

T is his crown by divine right!" Donald pounded his fist on Mrs. Turnbull's wooden table with such force that their tappit-hens jumped, sending the hinged lids clanking and ale sloshing over the side.

Andrew regarded him through narrowed eyes. "'Twould seem Prince Charlie has won a new adherent to the cause."

Donald looked round the smoke-filled tavern, his hand gripping the pewter tankard. "Mind what you say, Andrew, and where you say it." He drank another swig of ale, bolstering his resolve. Had he truly admitted his growing affinity for the Jacobites? Aye, he had, on a Friday afternoon with half of Milne Square convened at Mrs. Turnbull's.

"The tongue that needs guarding this day is yours." Andrew held up his tankard toward the boisterous crowd. "Lord Mark is in Berwick at the moment, but our cousin has many a friend in the castle. And who knows how many in the town?"

Donald nodded, swallowing the bitter truth as surely as he'd swallowed too many tappit-hens of ale. Lord Mark Kerr, a distant cousin, was a military man of high rank and no small repute. Though his quick temper had led to several duels, the flamboyant soldier held himself and others to a high standard. And as Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle, his loyalty to King George was unswerving.

"Aye, but what can the man do to us?"

"Do?" Andrew sputtered. "He's lethal with a blade, for one thing, and his father is the Marquis of Lothian."

"And our father is dead." Donald sank back in his chair. "Cousin or not, Lord Mark holds no sway over us."

Andrew frowned. "You underestimate him, Brother."

"He hardly knows of our existence," Donald grumbled, "considering what a trifling mark we've made in the world."

He stared into his gla.s.s of ale. Was there a man in Edinburgh who truly respected them? He and his brother were indeed gentlemen, but did they roll up their sleeves at c.o.c.kfights, ready to spar with the man who'd bested their gamec.o.c.k? They did not. Nor did they challenge Patrick Manderson or David Lyon to an impromptu horse race across the Lang d.y.k.es lest Andrew tumble from his mount, unable to breathe, or either of them make a poor showing of it.

Gentlemen, aye, but not truly men.

Susan McGill's words gnawed at him. If my brave son is willing to lay down his life for King George, so should every n.o.bleman. Even now, this very day, young Jamie McGill was sharpening his bayonet on the moors east of Edinburgh, while Lord Donald Kerr was sending down roots at Mrs. Turnbull's tavern, exercising only his elbow.

Disgusted with himself, Donald leaned across the table, the sleeves of his coat dragging through the spilled ale. "Do you never grow weary of caution, Andrew?"

"You know I do." His brother's sullen expression said more than his words.

"Choose a side, then, and throw yourself into the fray." He poked his index finger into Andrew's chest. "Your bedchamber wall is covered with weapons, polished and waiting. Yet what good are they?" Donald flapped his hand in the general direction of Duddingston. "Give the lot to Charlie's men. They'll see your French muskets put to proper use."

Andrew bristled. "I know very well how to handle my weapons."

"Well, then?" Donald pushed aside his ale, sorry he'd not done so sooner. "Are you strong enough to march uphill with a regiment? Can you match your steel to another man's as soundly as you match your wits?"

Andrew worked his jaw back and forth, grinding out an answer. "Aye," he finally said, "with practice, I might make a respectable soldier."

"You would, Brother." Donald nodded emphatically. "And so would I. What satisfaction can be found in living an untested life?"

Andrew shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "Brother, I never imagined you, of all people, urging me to take up arms."

Is that what I'm doing? Goading him into battle? Donald sighed, ma.s.saging his forehead, where a headache was brewing. "Perhaps 'tis the ale talking, eh?" He consulted his pocket watch. "Past five o' the clock. What say we walk for a bit-"

"And clear our heads," Andrew finished for him, already standing. They left sufficient silver for their ale and ventured into the street, blinking at the late afternoon light.

"Up to the West Bow and back?" Donald challenged him, striking out with more energy than he'd felt in months. Nae, in years. The air was neither fresh nor fragrant, but he filled his lungs and lengthened his stride. "Whether we choose to fight or not, Andrew, I would have you at my side."

"And I, you."

The incline of the High Street robbed Andrew of any spare breath for speech. But his pace did not flag nor did his spirits. By the time they reached their goal, his brother was red-faced and breathing hard but still grinning.

"Well done, lad," Donald said, only a small lie.

Andrew turned to face Milne Square. "Downhill will be easier."

"Aye." They struck out in tandem, retracing their steps. "What think you of the prince?" Donald asked, testing the waters.

His brother shrugged. "He's about my age and favors you in appearance."

"Commendable from the start, then. And by all accounts an able soldier."

"He did have a fine seat on that gelding," Andrew agreed. "We'll know soon enough whether he's battleworthy."

"Very soon," Donald agreed and said no more.

Twilight had begun settling over Edinburgh, bathing their surroundings in shadows and mist. Men and women of every station crowded the High Street in no hurry to find their doors, while fresh gossip continued pouring into town. According to reports, the two armies were prepared to spend the night in view of each other.

The brothers pa.s.sed the town guardhouse, now firmly in Jacobite hands, and were nearing Milne Square when Donald spotted a familiar figure wrapped in a gray cape. Elisabeth. He hastened to greet her, curiosity and concern lengthening his stride. Where have you been, la.s.s? Out alone, I see.

When she looked up, mere steps away, a host of emotions crossed his wife's face. Alarm, then surprise, then pleasure. "Lord Kerr! How thoughtful of you to come looking for me."

Donald closed the gap between them. "I confess I did nothing of the kind, though I'm glad I found you." He captured her hand and tucked it round the crook of his elbow. "Andrew and I-"

"Have been sampling Mrs. Turnbull's ale," she finished for him, "while I've been drinking tea with Effie Sinclair."

He guided his wife toward home. "I trust you had a good visit with the old...ah, the..."

"We had a lovely time," she said quickly, offering no details.

Andrew stood waiting at the entrance to the square, his neck cloth untied and his wig listing slightly. "If it isn't Lady Kerr come to see these wayward lads home."

She surveyed the two of them, her dark brows arched. "I'd suggest a few minutes with Gibson before the dowager sees you."

"Och! What a clever la.s.s you married." Andrew claimed Elisabeth's other arm and struck out across Milne Square, pulling the couple along. "You, madam, have made a Jacobite of my brother."

"Not altogether," Donald protested, though his complaint had no teeth. "In any case, history favors the Stuarts."

Andrew snorted. "So you keep insisting."

"Can it be true, Lord Kerr?" Elisabeth turned to look at him, hope shining on her face. "Are you prepared to side with the Jacobites?"

Aye, man. Say it. Donald tried to form the word but could not. Not with his brother undecided and his own conviction wavering. "At the very least," he finally said, "the time has come to tell our household of Simon's allegiance to the prince."

"You are brave indeed," Elisabeth murmured, turning her head, though not before he saw the disappointment in her eyes.

Andrew halted in midstep. "Do you think that wise, Brother?"

"I do." Donald threw back his shoulders, all at once as sober as a reverend mounting the pulpit stair. "If Simon is not already fighting, he will be come sunrise. I say we lift our gla.s.ses at table and toast his safe return."

"We've lifted our gla.s.ses quite enough this afternoon," Andrew reminded him. "But, aye, the lad deserves our support. Besides, 'tis better Mother hear this unwelcome news at home rather than at Lady Woodhall's tea table."

"Far better," Donald agreed, tipping his head back to gaze at their fifth-floor windows, where the dowager's silhouette darkened the gla.s.s.

Twenty-Three.

It is as easy to draw back a stone

thrown with force from the hand,

as to recall a word once spoken.

MENANDER.

C andles shone up and down the supper table as Elisabeth sat unmoving, from one course to the next, certain Donald would mention her brother at any moment. How could she possibly eat with her heart firmly lodged in her throat? Her gla.s.s of claret remained untouched, the napkin in her lap pristine. Seated at the head of the table, Donald watched her closely, almost as if he could sense her inner workings.

Please speak your heart, Donald. Please speak the truth.

"Kindly eat something," her sister-in-law prodded her, "or Mrs. Edgar will think you do not like her cooking." Janet lowered her voice to add, "She's a mediocre lady's maid, but we must at least applaud her culinary skills or risk losing her completely."

Elisabeth dutifully sampled a forkful of duck breast while Donald and Andrew consumed everything in sight. Full platters of stewed oysters, kidney collops, and roasted duck were reduced to sc.r.a.ps. A loaf of wheaten bread, slathered in b.u.t.ter, utterly vanished, and a dish of potatoes and turnips followed close behind.

As for Marjory, she ate in silence, meticulously cutting and chewing each bite of food, clearly vexed about something, yet unwilling to voice her displeasure. Did the dowager suspect what Donald intended to share? Or was she merely unhappy about being left to entertain herself all afternoon? Lady Marjory Kerr was not an easy woman to read. Nor was she easy to love. However deep the waters inside her stirred, on the surface her mother-in-law remained as hard as a Highland pond in January.

Janet filled the awkward gaps in conversation with neighborhood gossip gleaned from a fruitful hour at the glover's. "Mr. Colquhoun's daughters have fled to their country estate in Lanarkshire," she announced. Her hazel eyes shone with excitement, the long curls draped along her neck fairly bouncing with each breathless revelation. "Our friend, Lady Boghall, fainted in the street when they fired the guns from the castle rampart. Can you imagine it? And Mrs. Scott, the minister's widow, is bound for Dalmeny parish, taking Mary Dundas with her."

"What a shame," Elisabeth murmured, recalling Mary and Peg meeting on the stair, happily exchanging the day's blether. Now both la.s.ses were gone. How many other residents had left Milne Square for safer quarters? The steady stream of leather trunks and wooden kists flowing down the outer stair at all hours gave evidence enough.

When their polite exchanges dwindled to sighs, Donald finally spoke up. "My brother and I have news as well, gleaned at Mrs. Turn-bull's. As of a few hours ago, Sir John Cope had yet to engage his men in battle. Apparently he's waiting for the Highlanders to attack."

"True to form," Andrew grumbled. "A fussy little man, by all accounts. Neither brave nor bold in his actions."

"Aye, but there are courageous men on the field well prepared to fight." Donald caught Elisabeth's eye, then leaned toward his mother, his voice softening. "You may not be aware, Mother, that Lady Kerr's brother is of an age to bear arms."

Marjory swallowed the last bite of her food, apparently in no hurry to respond. Finally she said, "What has this young man to do with our family?"

"He is a member of our family." Donald emphasized each word, his irritation showing. "Simon Ferguson is my wife's only sibling. His welfare should be of interest to everyone at this table."

"His welfare?" Marjory carefully placed her dinner knife across her empty plate, then waited for Gibson to remove it. "Have we cause for concern?"

"We do," Donald said firmly. "Simon marched east from Edinburgh this very morning."

Her face slowly hardened to stone. "This brother of yours...is a Jacobite?"

Elisabeth cleared her throat. "Aye, madam. He is."

Marjory looked away as if she could not bear the sight of her. "How has such treachery found its way to our doorstep?"

"'Tis not treachery," Elisabeth countered without apology. "'Tis loyalty to the rightful king."

"Rightful?" Marjory turned back to face her. "Will you now confess you are a Jacobite rebel as well?"

Elisabeth weighed her answer with care. Her family had been loyal to the Stuarts since Mary, Queen of Scots, gave birth to James VI at Edinburgh Castle. She would not deny her sovereign king. Yet her mother-in-law might never look at her in the same light. Their relationship, tenuous at best, would be strained to the breaking point.

Finally Elisabeth said what she must. "Aye, Lady Marjory. I am, as you say, a rebel."

Her mother-in-law turned to Donald at once. "How long have you known the truth?"

"From the first," he admitted. "Elisabeth has never concealed her support of the Jacobite cause."

"Not from you perhaps," Marjory said coolly.

"'Twas not of any import when we married." He nodded toward Elisabeth, doing his best to include her in the conversation. "We seldom discussed the subject, lest it divide us."

"Well advised for a marriage. But you've an entire household to consider, Lord Kerr. And your t.i.tle and property to protect."

Elisabeth sensed the tension in his posture as she saw his countenance darken.

"Not for one moment, Mother, have I neglected my duties."

"Son, I was not suggesting-"