Here Burns My Candle Part 27

The night is Hallowe'en, lady,

The morn is Hallowday.

Recognizing the auld ballad, Elisabeth finished the verse, while Donald listened.

Then win me, win me, and ye will,

For well I know ye may.

He inclined his head. "Shall I indeed win you back, Lady Kerr?"

Only then did she pay heed to the words she'd sung: win me, win me. 'Twas one thing to forgive a man, quite another to surrender to him. She lowered her gaze. You ask too much, Donald.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. "I'll not break your heart again. I can promise you that."

"You've made a great many promises, milord." Elisabeth regretted the words the moment they were spoken. But when she started to apologize, Donald lightly touched her lips.

"Nae, Bess. What you say is true. I've made too many vows and broken most of them. Save one." Then he kissed her, and in his kiss she tasted tenderness and pa.s.sion and regret. "I love you, Bess. You alone and no other."

Because she loved him, she believed him. All that remained was to forgive him.

When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark with a different sort of longing. "Will you-" His horse suddenly stamped the ground, yanking him from her.

Round the forecourt, guardsmen were mounting their horses. She could delay no longer. If Donald meant to ride for England with her forgiveness in his pocket, she alone could place it there.

She glanced up, thinking to look for the waning moon. Nae. The strength to forgive her husband could not be found in the night sky. Nor could she hope to manage on her own. Touching her forehead to Donald's chest, she closed her eyes. Please. If there were words she was meant to say, she did not know them. Help me.

In the crowded, noisy forecourt, an answer came. Hearken unto me.

Elisabeth stilled. Aye. She'd heard this voice before, comforting her the night she learned of Simon's death. Hear, and your soul shall live. Every part of her listened now, as if she were taking a long drink of water or a deep breath of air, drawing it in.

Drop by drop the well of silence inside her began to fill. My soul thirsteth for G.o.d, for the living G.o.d. Elisabeth did not fully understand the words. Yet she sensed the truth of them. Great is thy mercy. If this living G.o.d offered boundless mercy, could she let it flow through her like water, like wind?

Donald lifted her head until their gazes met. "Please, Bess." He brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, then gently kissed her brow. "Forgive me?"

In the murky darkness she saw the sheen in his eyes. Or perhaps the tears were hers.

Donald, my sweet Donald.

He was not always honest. He was not always good. Yet he loved her in his own way. And she loved him completely.

"You are forgiven," she whispered, then touched her mouth to his, tasting the salt in his tears.

Forty-Two.

There exists no cure for a heart

wounded with the sword of separation.

HITOPADESA.

M arjory could not take her eyes off her sons, even though her heart was breaking. Mounted on fine horses, their shoulders squared and their heads held high, Donald and Andrew were as bonny as the young prince they served and every bit as courageous.

My sons.

Had they truly fit in her arms once, their heads nestled in the crook of her elbow? Had they climbed into her lap and pressed their sticky hands against her cheeks? Marjory could barely imagine it, looking at them now.

She sensed their father, Lord John, standing beside her, admiring the fair-haired, blue-eyed lads they'd nurtured to manhood. They look like soldiers, milord. They look like you. Marjory valiantly fought back tears, gladly enduring the cold and the dark for one more minute with her precious sons.

They were hardly alone. A vast throng filled the palace grounds to witness the end of the rebel occupation. Thousands had come on foot, in carriages, on horseback to shout, to cheer, to weep.

Above the clamor rose the voice of her sons' commanding officer. Not as old as Donald and certainly not so handsome, David Wemyss, Lord Elcho, was nonetheless impressive with his large, dark eyes and smooth brow. At the moment he was directing his men into orderly lines, no doubt antic.i.p.ating the prince's appearance and a swift departure for Musselburgh.

"I must go, Mother." Andrew shifted his seat on his mount. "My brother is a far better correspondent. Look to his letters for news."

"So I shall." Marjory gave him a brave smile, reaching up to touch his sleeve. "I will pray for you both," she promised. Had she not done so every night since their enlistment? Nae, since their birth. Guard them and guide them, according to thy will.

When Janet stepped forward to bid her husband farewell, she was dry-eyed and stoic. "See that you come home, Mr. Kerr." She lifted up her gloved hand for a parting kiss, then rested her hand on her waist in a none-too-subtle manner.

Janet styled her delicate condition "a possibility," but Marjory recognized the signs. A summer baby, she'd decided, and bound to thrive. Even though her daughter-in-law would be seven-and-twenty, Janet was in excellent health.

"Mother?" Donald nudged his horse a step closer, then touched the brim of his tricorne. "May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?"

"Aye," she quickly agreed. Anything to ease his mind. "You'll write as oft as you can?"

"I shall, though do not expect a letter soon. I've little knowledge of our route and even less of our destination," he confessed. "Some believe we'll follow the east road toward Northumberland. Others say we'll cross to the west and take Carlisle."

Marjory shuddered. Take. The reality of what lay ahead came into sharper focus.

"You will be cautious?" she pleaded, no longer caring if her eyes grew wet with tears. Donald's musket, his sword, his dirk were not meant for adornment. He would hold them in his hands; he would use them. "Let others engage the enemy in battle," she begged him, keeping her voice low. "Guard the prince, and you'll have done your duty."

When he looked down at her with compa.s.sion in his eyes, she realized the absurdity of her request. Did she think her sons would merely ride their horses and sleep beneath the stars? They were soldiers. They would fight.

Donald lightly touched her shoulder. "G.o.d be with you, Mother."

"And with you." She pressed her handkerchief to her trembling lips. Make them strong. Keep them safe.

Donald inclined his head to look past her. "If I might have a last word with Lady Kerr."

With a guilty start, Marjory stepped back to make room for Elisabeth, who'd been patiently waiting. Donald's features softened as he bent down to kiss her. Elisabeth stood on tiptoe, her graceful hands cradling his face.

Marjory tried to look away but could not. How tender they were with each other! Lady Ruthven could gossip all she wished. Donald had but one love.

Elisabeth's parting words were an ardent plea. "Promise you'll return to me, Lord Kerr."

"Nae," he said with a mock scowl. "You're to look for a different husband, remember?"

Elisabeth smiled through her tears. "Aye, so I shall."

Some private understanding, Marjory decided. Though her son would be a changed man when he returned. Andrew too. Her throat tightened.

Donald straightened in his saddle, never taking his eyes off his wife. "I'll not soon forget the words spoken this night."

"Nor will I," Elisabeth a.s.sured him, her voice breaking. "Go, beloved. Your prince awaits."

"G.o.dspeed," Marjory cried softly. She could say no more.

As Donald and Andrew eased their horses through the crowd and maneuvered into position, she strained to keep an eye on their progress until their blue uniforms were lost among the dozens like them. "Come home to me," Marjory whispered, pressing her hand to her heart, wishing she might mend it, knowing she could not.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, with Gibson not far behind them, the three Kerr women watched the Life Guards prepare to greet their prince. His carriage drew near, a splendid coach-and-four with gla.s.s windows and lanterns made of bra.s.s. Charles emerged a moment later to the deafening roar of huzzahs, his countenance more radiant than any torchlight.

Without thinking Marjory waved her handkerchief, overcome with emotion at seeing the young prince again. If only his father, James Stuart, were on hand! Surely the exiled king would be as proud of his son that night as she was of hers.

A familiar face momentarily distracted her.

"Yer lealty is weel placed, mem." Angus MacPherson bowed, then turned to join them in observing the spectacle. "And sae is yer gold."

"Mr. MacPherson," Elisabeth said, patting her cheeks dry. "I expected to find you astride a horse this eve, preparing to ride out with the army."

"Oo aye, and soon I shall be. At my age I may niver have anither chance. Ance I see the prince's men on the road to Musselburgh, I'll join the ithers marching southeast to Dalkeith." The tailor, dressed in a wool greatcoat and riding boots, rocked back on his heels, unbridled pride shining on his face. "We'll a' be gone from the toun by morn."

Marjory sighed at the sad reminder. Edinburgh society had quickly grown accustomed to the royal suppers and b.a.l.l.s at Holyroodhouse. With the onset of winter, the capital would be a very dour place indeed.

"Look," Janet said, nodding toward the prince, who'd abandoned his carriage to lead his mounted guards on foot. "Will he walk all the way, do you suppose?"

"Aye, weel he might," Angus replied, "for His Royal Highness likes to set a guid example for his men. He'll sleep at Pinkie Hoose, whaur he spent the nicht after Gladsmuir. 'Tis but five or six miles east o' here."

Marjory remembered the old house with its ma.s.sive square tower, having once ventured out with Lord John for a day of golf on the Musselburgh links. When the prince retired in warmth and comfort beneath the Marquess of Tweeddale's roof, would her sons sleep on the cold, damp ground? She shivered beneath her cape, wishing she'd sent them each with another plaid.

Elisabeth tugged her hood tighter round her neck. "Will you close your shop?" she inquired of Angus.

"Nae, Rob will carry on at the Luckenbooths. o' course, he'd rather go with me, but..." His smile faded. "His foot, ye ken. Rob canna ride weel nor march on rough ground."

When Elisabeth nodded, Marjory saw the sympathy in her eyes. "How disappointed he must be."

"Have nae fear," Angus said, quickly regaining his good spirits. "Rob will be serving the prince in his ain way. And there's not a finer hand with a needle in Edinburgh." He tipped his hat. "Excepting yers, Leddy Kerr."

Marjory bristled at the reference to her daughter-in-law's former labors. Better those days were long forgotten. Elisabeth was a gentlewoman now.

"I hope ye'll not mind," Angus continued, "but I've asked Rob to call at yer hoose from time to time. To see that ye're weel and give ye what news he can."

Elisabeth nodded. "We'll be glad for his company, will we not, madam?" She glanced at Marjory as if seeking her consent.

"Your son is welcome to call at Milne Square," Marjory a.s.sured him. They were tradesmen, aye, but they'd duly served the Kerr family.

"Rob kens which messengers are to be trusted with a letter," Angus said. "He'll be honored to do whatsomever ye need. The prince is grateful for yer sacrifices, Leddy Kerr."

Marjory lowered her gaze lest he see the fear in her eyes. Her gold was no real sacrifice. But she would not give up her sons.

From the distant High Street, the bells of Saint Giles marked the hour of six as the last of the prince's men turned onto the road heading east.

Forty-Three.

Words are mighty,

words are living