Here Burns My Candle Part 33

Rob remained by her side, a solid anchor amid the storm. "Wha kens why men destroy a' that is bonny and guid? Vengeance for their loss at Gladsmuir, I'll wager. And a warning to yer husband. Ye'll see what they've done with his papers."

When her gaze landed on Donald's mahogany secretary, her stomach lurched. The shelves and pigeonholes were completely bare. Not a map, not a ledger, not an atlas. "Oh, Rob," she moaned as she picked her way across the room, lifting her skirts, watching where she stepped. "Donald's fine maps. He gave some to the prince, but there were many others."

Rob followed close behind her, then took her hand when they reached her husband's desk. "Thank ye," he said in a low voice.

Confused, she turned to look at him. "Should I not be thanking you for coming to our rescue? I've done nothing for you, I'm afraid."

His dark eyes glowed. "Ye called me Rob. I thocht I might not niver hear ye speak my name."

Only now did she notice the warmth of his hand clasping hers. Embarra.s.sed, she said, "I should not have spoken so freely."

"Nae, but ye should." Rob tugged her one step closer. "We're freens, are we not?"

Broad as he was, he blocked her view of the room. For a moment there was no destruction; there was only Rob, standing too close in the fading afternoon light.

"Aye, we are friends." Elisabeth squeezed his hand, then gently pulled hers free. "As it happens, I came home byway of your shop."

"Hame from whaur?" he asked. "Yer mither-in-law wasna sure whaur ye went this morn, or I'd have come for ye."

Elisabeth wrinkled her brow. "Did I not say Queensberry House?"

"a' she told me was the Canongate. But she was in quite a state whan I arrived. Mebbe she didna remember."

"I cannot blame her." Elisabeth glanced at the adjoining door. Poor Marjory. These were her furnishings, her valuables that were broken or stolen and all for a cause she'd only recently embraced.

Rob tipped his head. "Why were ye leuking for me, Bess?"

All at once her heart was lifted from the ruins at her feet and reminded of the wounded soldiers who needed their care. "Your services with a needle are required at Queensberry House this very hour. The dragoons wreaked a different sort of havoc there."

When she described how they'd treated the injured soldiers, Rob was furious, as she knew he would be. "I'll do my best to help oor men," he a.s.sured her, "but G.o.d help those wha hurt them. If they cross my path, they'll not take anither step."

Angry as Rob was, Elisabeth was glad she'd not mentioned her would-be a.s.sailant, lest Rob insist on avenging her honor. She'd seen enough blood this day. "Martin Eccles is expecting you. A good man."

Rob nodded thoughtfully as though sorting things out in his mind.

"I'll leave whan Gibson returns." The room was bathed in shadows now without a single candle to dispel the gloom. Rain still pelted the windows and all the louder without her wooden shutters to m.u.f.fle the sound.

"I ken verra weel the dragoons will not spare oor shop or lodgings. 'Tis only a matter o' time." He glanced toward the far corner of the room. "I wish I didna have to say this, Bess, but ye've yet to see the worst." He lightly placed his hands on her shoulders, then turned her toward the mantelpiece and stepped aside.

Her eyes widened. "They didn't ..."

"Aye, Bess. They did."

She stumbled toward the hearth, still faintly glowing. Even in the dim light, she could see the fuel they'd burned instead of coal.

Books.

Donald's entire collection.

His beloved Thomson. Barbour with its fine, thick binding. Thomas Boston with the ribbon still marking the page where they'd last read. The Pilgrim's Progress with young Donald's own sketches in the margins. All the plays of Shakespeare bound in morocco leather. Poetry. History. Theology. Her husband's precious books torn asunder, then tossed onto the grate until they spilled over in a ma.s.sive heap. Set on fire, then left to burn.

How would she ever tell him?

Elisabeth bent down, not caring if her skirts dragged through the soot. "The Gentle Shepherd," she said in a broken voice, picking up the charred remains of Ramsay's play. The pages, still warm, fell apart in her hands. "Donald and I often read this aloud together." Her eyes filled with tears. "He would be Patie, and I would be Peggy."

Rob crouched beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. In a voice low and tender, he quoted the much-loved pastoral. "I greet for joy, to hear thy wirds sae kind."

"Aye," she whispered. "How could anyone be this cruel?"

"I dinna ken, Bess. Men do what is richt in their own e'es." He slowly rose, bringing her up with him. "I see the Buik was spared."

She followed his gaze to the mantelpiece, where the Bible lay on its side, untouched.

Picking it up with one hand, Rob hefted the thick volume with a look of satisfaction. "Even men with evil in their hearts canna destroy this."

Elisabeth had a strong urge to take the book in her arms and hold it close-whether to protect it or to draw strength from it, she could not say. But her hands were covered with soot, and she dared not soil its sacred pages.

"Leddy Kerr?" Gibson stood in the doorway. "I bought candles but not sae monie as I'd hoped." He held them up. "Mr. Herriot sold me only a pound, and his scolding tongue came with it."

Rob frowned. "'Tis begun, then. Royalists turning their backs on onie folk with a whiff o' Jacobite air about them."

Gibson fished out a handful of coins from his pocket and deposited them in Rob's free hand. "Yer siller, Mr. MacPherson. Now I must see if there's a candlestick left in the hoose." He departed the way he'd come, through Marjory's room, leaving Elisabeth alone with Rob once more.

A lengthy silence settled between them as Rob placed the Bible on the mantelpiece. "I should go," he said at last, though he sounded reluctant to do so.

"You must," she agreed. "The men at Queensberry House are counting on us both."

Rob offered her a wry smile. "They'll not be blithe to see me walk through the door instead of ye." His features, lit only by the glow of the smoldering fire, were more striking than she'd realized. Not handsome, like her husband's, but strong.

"Once you st.i.tch their wounds, they shall call you blessed," she a.s.sured him. "In truth, I wish I were going with you-"

"Then come, Bess." His eyes shone. "Come with me. 'Twould gladden their hearts."

"And sadden my family's, I'm afraid." She looked about the room, wondering where she would sleep, how she would bathe, or what the morrow might bring. "I must stay and be useful here," she told him, "though part of my heart will travel to the Canongate with you."

His dark gaze searched hers. "Will it, Bess?"

She looked down, lest he see something that was not there. "Mr. MacPherson-"

"Nae," he said gruffly, lifting her chin, forcing her to look at him. "'Tis Rob now. We'll not go back."

"All right. Rob, then. But only when we're alone."

"Verra weel." Desire, like the morning sun, rose in his eyes.

She took a small step backward, unsure of her footing in the cluttered room. "Thank you for caring for my family on such a dreadful day."

Rob quickly closed the gap between them. "'Tis not yer family I care for." He spoke so softly she had to incline her ear. "'Tis ye, Bess. I'll not pretend otherwise."

She turned her head. "Rob, I am a married woman."

"Aye. Married to a man wha has niver been leal to ye."

Elisabeth's heart sank. Had Donald confessed his infidelity to Rob? Or had her friend merely heard the blether in the street? She faced him once more. "What have you learned?"

"The truth." His voice was steady and so was his gaze. "I've nae doubt Lord Kerr loves ye. But he doesna care how oft he hurts ye. And I care verra much."

"Please, Rob. Do not say such things." She lifted her hand near his mouth, meaning to silence him even as she felt the warmth of his breath on her fingertips. "I am Lady Donald Kerr. Whatever my husband has done, I shall always be faithful to him. Always."

"And I shall aye be leal to ye." Rob boldly kissed the palm of her hand. "Guid eve, milady."

Fifty-Two.

Reason bears disgrace,

courage combats it,

patience surmounts it.

MARIE DE RABUTIN-CHANTAL, MARQUISE DE SeVIGNe.

T he Tron Kirk was as cold as a tomb. Dank, bone-chilling air seeped through Marjory's cape and gloves, leaving her shivering in the pew even with her daughters-in-law seated on either side to keep her warm.

They'd slept the same way last night, crowded onto a single mattress like poor women in a garret hovel. Janet's bed was the only one the dragoons had not demolished, perhaps because she'd been weeping beneath the bedcovers when they burst into her chamber. Instead of dragging her to the floor, they'd slashed her many gowns into ribbons and her oil paintings as well-paintings Marjory had yet to pay for, having only just received the bill from the auction room in Writer's Court.

Other debts would come to roost on Martinmas, a day of feasting and of reckoning, when bills were settled and servants paid their wages. For the first time in her life, Marjory feared she might reach for the leather purses beneath her floor and come up wanting. With the prince's army on the move and the countryside plagued with highwaymen and thieves, she could not safely send for the quarterly rents from her Tweedsford factor, Mr. Laidlaw. Her only recourse was to count her gold and pray the tally was sufficient.

The three Kerr women stood as Reverend Wishart began his opening prayer. Odd to be in church without her sons. Odd to be in church at all after six idle weeks while the prince held court at Holyroodhouse. Mrs. Edgar had managed to feed the Kerr women a cold breakfast that morn and dress them in whatever gowns had survived. Nothing could be done about their house. Not on the Sabbath. The morrow was soon enough to begin such an onerous task.

Before the congregation resumed their seats, several neighbors turned round to look at the Kerrs, the daggers in their eyes sharpened to a fine point. The entire southeast parish knew of their disgrace. Perhaps all of Edinburgh knew by now. Marjory did not lower her gaze. She was Sir Eldon's daughter and Lord John's widow. Let them stare. She would not cower in shame.

"I believe James Hogg is gloating," Janet whispered, nodding at the Tron Kirk's lecturer.

The staunch royalist ascended the pulpit bearing a smug expression, then firmly closed the pulpit door. He barely glanced at the Scriptures before reciting his memorized text. "I have counsel and strength for the war. Now on whom dost thou trust, that thou rebellest against me?"

Marjory knew this was not her imagination: Mr. Hogg was speaking directly to her. His long, pointed nose was aimed at their pew like an arrow tautly drawn, and his narrow gaze even more so. For the next half hour, Marjory chafed beneath his stern instruction. Aye, her sons were rebelling against King George, however unwisely. But they were not rebelling against the Almighty.

Sitting on a wooden pew on a cold November morning, suffering the unspoken judgment and condemnation of her neighbors, Marjory longed to take Mr. Hogg's place, stand before the congregation, and recite a cherished verse of her own, learned long ago. She sat up straighter, remembering every word. I will not be afraid often thousands of people, that have set themselves against me round about.

Nae, she would not be afraid, certainly not for herself. Nor would she mourn for her belongings, which her gold could easily restore. As to her place in society, she numbered a countess among her friends now. Still, her sons mattered most.

The warmth of her daughters-in-law by her side brought to mind Donald's request before he rode off with the prince. Look after Elisabeth. Marjory dutifully glanced at the Highland la.s.s in her austere gown. A beauty, to be sure, but clearly barren. Though Andrew had not made the same request, Marjory would take care of Janet and her babe. The young woman seemed to be feeling better, having eaten more oatcakes and gooseberry jam than usual that morn.

Before the minister's prayer a psalm was sung, one of Marjory's favorites. When the precentor lined out the words, she offered each line back to him with such fervor that heads turned once again. Her voice was not as musical as Elisabeth's, but she sang boldly and with conviction.

LORD, how are they increased that trouble me!

many are they that rise up against me.

Marjory's voice faltered. Many indeed. Lady Woodhall, Lady Falconer, and Lady Ruthven, her tea-table companions, had turned their backs on her. So had Lady Gla.s.sie, Lady Northesk, and Lady Boghall, her most esteemed peers.

And her new friends were gone. Lady Nithsdale and her sisters had flitted to Traquair, while Margaret Murray and young Lady Ogilvie had accompanied their husbands on the prince's campaign. Marjory had not spied a single white c.o.c.kade in the kirk that morn or a swatch of Highland tartan in the streets.

The madness was over. A sober-minded season had come.

Marjory blinked away tears as she sang.

But thou, O LORD, art a shield for me;

my glory, and the lifter up of mine head.

The Almighty had not preserved her household goods. But he'd spared her family. Unlike the soldiers at Queensberry House, not a bone was broken in their house at Milne Square. And the Lord did lift her head, and her heart as well, beyond the century-old oak roof and the bells in the Tron steeple. With the last note echoing round her, she whispered deep within. Are you yet my shield, Lord? Do you love me still?

Though she heard no words, she sensed his presence. Some a.s.surance, that.