Here Burns My Candle Part 16

A knock at the stair door brought them both to their feet. "Simon!" she cried, hastening toward the entrance hall, her concerns forgotten. Marjory and Janet emerged from their bedchambers to see who'd come to call even as Gibson, ever dutiful, was already greeting their visitor.

But it was not Simon after all.

Elisabeth stepped back in surprise when Tom Barrie crossed the threshold. "Lord Kerr, look who's come to see us! Our friend Mr. Barrie, returned from Gladsmuir." She ushered the veteran soldier into the dim entrance hall with its single window. His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Simon will be along shortly, aye?"

When Tom raised his head to meet her gaze, his skin was ashen, and his eyes were wet with tears.

A knot of fear tightened round her throat. "Whatever is the matter, Mr. Barrie?" Then she saw the folded cloth in his arms.

A Braemar plaid. Stained with blood.

Twenty-Seven.

Tears are the silent language of grief.

VOLTAIRE.

E lisabeth could hardly form the words. "Is Simon... Is he... dead?"

Tom's lower lip began to tremble.

"'Tis not possible," she whispered even as she received her brother's plaid.

Donald quietly slipped his arm round her shoulders. "Elisabeth..."

"Nae!" she moaned, clutching the plaid to her heart. "'Tis not possible, don't you see?" Nae Simon and nae Ferguson. "Gibson said... His name..." She tried to breathe, tried to speak. "His name...was not..." She pushed against Donald's firm embrace. Nae, nae, nae! "Simon cannot be dead. He cannot!"

"Come, dearest." With some effort her husband guided her to an upholstered chair in the drawing room while the household watched, shocked expressions on their faces.

Elisabeth sank into the cushions, holding Simon's plaid on her lap. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Not my Simon. Not my dear brother.

"Forgive me, Bess." Tom Barrie pulled off his tattered bonnet and knelt beside her, his wrinkled hands capturing hers. "I tried, but I couldna save the lad..."

Elisabeth bowed her head, not quite listening as she carefully traced the pattern woven by their father. When she finally looked into the older man's eyes, she found a sorrow to match her own. "Tell me about Simon."

"The charge was sounded just afore dawn. Yer brither was one o' the first to fire his musket. Och, he was sae brave! But then I..." Tom bowed his gray head, and his hands dropped to his side.

"Please, Mr. Barrie." She withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her eyes. "Please, I must know."

He began again, barely above a whisper. "The field was newly harvested, covered with stubble. And I..." He choked on the word. "I... fell."

Elisabeth touched his shoulder with an unsteady hand. "'Twas not your fault."

"Aye, but it was. When Simon reached doon to help me, an Englishman shot him." He touched his ribs, showing her where. "Not a fatal wound, ye ken. Not at first."

Elisabeth closed her eyes, imagining the hot, sharp pain of a musket ball piercing his side. My dear brother! "Did no one attend him?"

"Oo, aye. Whan the surgeons came from Edinburgh in the forenoon, a Mr. Eccles dressed his wound. But Simon insisted on burying the deid. Not monie soldiers were willing, ye ken."

Donald frowned. "Why not?"

"Some Hielanders thocht it beneath them to bury the English," Tom admitted, his shame apparent. "And the country folk ran aff in fear. Simon dug graves for the fallen men 'til the gloaming. But his bleeding wouldna stop ..."

Elisabeth looked away, trying to banish the painful image. Simon, dear Simon. Why did you not rest?

Tom sat back on his haunches with a weary sigh. "By the time we started home on foot this morn, yer brither was burning with fever. And by the time we reached Musselburgh..."

She moaned. "Simon was gone."

"Aye, Bess. He didna suffer lang."

"'Tis some consolation," Donald said, pulling her closer.

Elisabeth curled over Simon's plaid as a low keening sound rose from deep inside her. "Where... where is my brother?"

"I buried Simon in a wee corner of a plowed field." Tom struggled to his feet, brushing his hands as if dirt still clung to his palms. "And I built a cairn on his grave sae the farmer would ken 'twas not to be disturbed."

His grave. Elisabeth shuddered at the thought of Simon's body cold and lifeless in the damp ground, buried beneath a pile of stones. Nae, it cannot be! She pressed into the plaid, the wool scratchy against her skin.

The coppery scent of blood mingled with the faint aroma of heather that still clung to the fabric.

Donald stood, offering Tom Barrie his hand in thanks. "Such sorrowful news is better heard from a friend than from a stranger."

"She'll be wanting this as weel." He gave Donald a folded square of paper. "A lock o' the lad's hair."

Elisabeth lifted her head so Tom might see the grat.i.tude in her eyes, though she did not trust herself to speak.

Tom nodded, understanding all she could not say. "I kenned Simon Ferguson whan he was a bairn. 'Twas an honor to serve with him." He sighed, then brushed his bonnet against his knee and pulled it over his brow. "Forgive me, Bess. They'll be leuking for me at Duddingston."

The men moved toward the entrance hall, leaving her with Marjory and Janet, who'd not said a word since Tom's arrival. The two women stood side by side near the fireplace, still dressed in their gray gowns.

Her sister-in-law spoke first, her voice soft and low. "Lady Elisabeth, I am truly sorry for your loss."

The uncommon tenderness of Janet's words brought fresh tears to Elisabeth's eyes. "Have you a handkerchief?" she asked a moment later, holding up the limp remains of her own.

Marjory produced a clean square of linen at once, a hint of lavender wafting through the air as she pressed it into Elisabeth's hands. "'Tis the least I can do, my dear." Her eyes were moist, and her concern, however unexpected, seemed genuine. "I know what it means to lose someone you love. You have my deepest sympathy. You and your mother."

Elisabeth's heart sank. Mother. How could she tell Fiona Ferguson that her beloved son was dead?

"Donald, she cannot learn this from a letter." Elisabeth adjusted her head on the pillows, hoping she might see his expression more clearly in the firelight. The hour was late. A chilling westerly wind blew against the windowpanes and forced its way into their bedchamber, making her shiver.

"'Tis not wise to tarry with this news," Donald reminded her, "or your mother is sure to hear it from another." He lay beside her with one hand resting on her hip and the other tucked beneath her cheek. The sympathy in his gaze, the downward curve of his mouth mirrored the compa.s.sion she'd heard in his voice all evening. 'Tis a tragedy, sweet Bess. He was so young, so brave. If there is anything I might do, I stand ready.

She turned to kiss his palm. "'Twould be best if my mother were told in person by someone who cares for her. Annie Coutts was a dear friend, and Rose MacKindlay, the parish midwife. But I'm not certain they still live in the area."

"Tom Barrie is the man for it," Donald said, "but it may be many weeks, even months, before the Rising ends and he returns to Castleton."

If he returns. Elisabeth heard the words, though Donald did not say them.

She looked into his eyes. "Please, let me go home, Donald. Let me tell her myself."

"I cannot, Bess. 'Tis far too dangerous-"

"But Murray of Broughton's wife travels about," she protested, starting to pull away from him.

"Aye, with the entire Jacobite army as her guardsmen." Donald drew her close once more. "Even if Andrew and I both escorted you north, 'tis a long, lonely road with perils at every turn. Not at all safe for my bonny Bess." He kissed her brow, then her cheek, then her lips, lingering at the last.

"Please?" she whispered, his mouth still near hers.

"Nae, beloved." He kissed her once more, rather firmly, putting an end to the subject. "We must find another way to inform your mother. I'll not have my wife riding o'er the countryside while men are engaged in battle." When she did not respond, Donald asked more gently, "You do understand?"

Elisabeth turned her head, hiding the tears that pooled in her eyes. She'd wept off and on through the evening, soaking every handkerchief in Mrs. Edgar's linen closet. "Good night, then," she told her husband, too weary for more words. In the morning she would find some way to relay the tragic news. Forgive me, Mother. I would come to you if I could.

Shifting beneath the bedcovers until she found a comfortable position, Elisabeth heard Donald do the same and so closed her eyes, seeking the gentle embrace of sleep.

But sleep did not come.

After the firelight faded and Donald had drifted off, Elisabeth still lay wide awake, gazing into a room filled with shadows. Memories of Simon filled her mind. Sitting beside the turbulent waters of the Linn of Dee on a late summer's day. Watching the salmon ascend the waterfalls on their way upstream. Climbing the high road south of Castleton on a wintry November afternoon. Listening for the eerie mating call of the red deer echoing round the frosty hills.

Simon, dear Simon. Nothing will be the same.

Each time the linen beneath her cheek grew damp, she turned the pillow, until it seemed she'd soaked every inch. I water my couch with my tears. Familiar words, though she could not place them. Donald would know the poet.

Pressed down by an aching, unrelenting grief, she exhaled into the still night air. How could Simon be gone from her life forever? They'd been together just three days earlier. She'd seen her brother, spoken with him, held his hands in hers. They'd shared their secrets and their tears and their mutual loathing of Ben Cromar.

Oh, Mother, you cannot marry him. You cannot.

They'd planned to wed on Michaelmas, one week hence. Could a letter be delivered by then?

Elisabeth pressed her face into the pillow, exhausted. So much to think about. So many questions. If ever she needed to reach beyond herself for strength, it was now. She touched her sleeping husband, drawing comfort from his presence. If only seeking a.s.surance from a G.o.d were so simple!

Her entreaties for Simon atop the Salisbury Crags came to mind. Guard him and keep him safe. However heartfelt her pleas, they'd not been answered. She touched the silver ring on her right hand, fresh doubts stirring. Are you listening? Can I trust you? She remained motionless yet sensed nothing. Not in the room nor in her heart. The silence bore down on her until nothing remained but sorrow and an unanswered question. If the Nameless One was not real, who would watch over her and those she loved?

The faint ticking of the clock, two rooms away, began to lull her to sleep. Grateful for any respite from her pain, Elisabeth sank deeper into her pillows and closed her eyes.

Incline your ear, and come unto me.

She slowly raised her head, her heart quickening.

Hear, and your soul shall live.

The words were distinct, as if spoken aloud, yet she knew they were not. Had the Nameless One come after all? A response followed, swift and sure.

My people shall know my name.

Not the Nameless One, then, but another One.

Elisabeth sought refuge beneath her bedding as the phrases rose and fell inside her. Come unto me. Know my name. Not demanding, not insistent. Simply inviting her. Tenderly wooing her. Easing her into sleep.

Twenty-Eight.

The early gray

Taps at the slumberer's window pane.

RALPH HOYT.

L eddy Kerr?" Mrs. Edgar stood at her bedside, laden with towels. "Will ye be wanting yer bath?"

Elisabeth blinked at the housekeeper. The gray light of morning filled every corner of the room. "What... what time is it?"

"Eleven o' the clock, milady."

"Eleven?" Elisabeth threw aside her bedcovers in dismay. She'd never slept so late in all her life. Nor so soundly.

"'Tis a' my fault." Mrs. Edgar helped her down from the high bed. "I didna wauken ye, thinking ye needed yer sleep." She lowered her eyes. "I'm verra sorry about yer brither."

Elisabeth acknowledged her kindness as realization dawned and sorrow returned. Simon is gone. And Mother must be told.

"Yer water is het, milady." Mrs. Edgar poured the steaming contents of the pitcher into the porcelain bowl, then laid the soap and towels where Elisabeth could easily reach them. "I've pressed yer dark gray satin. Yer mither-in-law sent a note to Miss Callander this morn, asking her to come round and fit ye for a black gown."

Elisabeth murmured her thanks as she moved to the washbowl, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The last time she'd worn mourning clothes was after her father's death. She'd st.i.tched a plain gown from her father's own finely woven wool, dyed in fresh sorrel and birch ashes. This time her gown would be fashioned of black silk with very little lace, no ribbons or bows, and no embroidery. She would gladly wear such dreary attire for six months to honor Simon's memory. Nae, she would wear it the whole of her life if it might somehow bring him back to her.

Elisabeth bathed in silence, mingling the soapy water with her tears.

Across the room Mrs. Edgar fussed over the dark gray satin Elisabeth would wear until her mourning gown was ready. With obvious reluctance, the housekeeper snipped off the elegant bow that decorated the bodice. "Och! It doesna leuk the same without it," she fretted. "Ye can wear only pearls. Naught with a shine to it. Still, best to do what's proper."

"Aye." Elisabeth slipped on a clean chemise, then donned the gray gown. Standing before her looking gla.s.s, she knew her husband would find it difficult to say the color flattered her skin. Marjory and Janet, with their auburn hair and peach complexions, both wore gray well. But against her pale skin and dark brown hair, the dull hue robbed her of any vibrancy. It mattered not. "For Simon," Elisabeth said, reaching for a clean lace handkerchief to tuck in her sleeve.