Here Burns My Candle Part 35

Nae, the weight was something else entirely.

...thine hand upon me.

She dried her tears, staring at the words. The Almighty's hand was upon the one who wrote them? Instinctively she looked up, trying to imagine what that might feel like. The idea of being hemmed in by the Almighty, of having his hand laid upon her, was both comforting and terrifying.

The moon at least kept its distance.

But this Holy One drew very close indeed.

She quietly shut the book and eased it from her lap. What might Donald say if he knew the sort of questions she was asking? She'd never told him about the Nameless One. Could she bring herself to speak of the Almighty?

Perhaps in a letter she might broach the subject without feeling so awkward.

Elisabeth collected her scattered stationery, her ink pot, and a quill pen from the floor, then mixed a bit of dry ink powder with water from her pitcher. In lieu of her damaged writing desk, she sat at Donald's secretary, then took up her pen and began.

Sunday, 3 November 1745 My dearest husband, Our weather has turned colder. The November wind is biting and carries the scent of the sea.

She shook her head. Donald hardly needed such a report when he faced the elements round the clock. Something more personal was needed.

You are greatly missed here-by your wife most of all. The days are long and the nights longer still. I trust you have enough blankets to warm you since I cannot.

She would not entertain fears of another woman warming his bed. She would not. Her husband had given his word. In turn, could she not give him her trust?

Elisabeth dipped and blotted her pen, then paused, wondering if she should she tell Donald about the damage wrought by the dragoons. One could never be sure where a letter might land. She'd need to choose her words with care.

In the city the king's authority is upheld once more. Those who opposed it have been reminded of their duties, some more severely than others.

Rob would see that his father delivered her letter. Angus could tell Donald in person what she dared not put in writing. As to her husband's damaged books, she would make no mention of them and try her best to replace his favorites. Books were dear, however, and of late her mother-in-law seemed hesitant to share her guineas.

Elisabeth described their renewed services at the Tron Kirk, as well as her Sat.u.r.day morning spent caring for the wounded soldiers. She did not mention whether they were royalist or Jacobite. Infirmaries for both could be found, and Donald would know which patients she'd gladly served.

She had just enough room at the bottom of the page to put forth an idea she hoped he might consider.

You have told me how your father led your family in a time of worship after supper each evening. When you return, might you be willing to do the same for our household? I think you may find a receptive audience at your table.

Your loving and faithful wife Elisabeth lifted her pen, having second thoughts about including the word faithful. Would he frown and think it a barbed reminder of his own unfaithfulness? She could not simply draw a line through the word nor cut it out with scissors, as some did. Nae, she would leave it and hope the word loving outweighed the sting of faithful.

Whatever his weaknesses, she loved her husband. And missed him more than pen and ink could ever capture.

Fifty-Five.

But all's to no end, for the time will not mend

Till the King enjoys his own again.

MARTYN PARKER.

M arjory stared at the worn leather purses heaped on her bed. She'd lifted each loose board and searched between every dusty floor joist, but there were no more to be found. Before the prince's arrival in September, she'd counted twenty-two purses, each one bulging with guineas. Now only three remained.

How can there be only three, Lord? She well knew the answer to that.

When she rose from the edge of the bed, the coins shifted with a faint jingle, as if taunting her. Marjory thought of her cashbook in the top drawer of Lord John's desk and the growing stack of bills beside it. She owed money to everyone in town, or so it seemed. Mr. Geddes for their poultry, Mr. Porteous for Janet's winter gloves, Mr. Elder for her new kid leather shoes, Mr. Mercer for a supply of Stoughton's Elixir. Without the rental income from their Tweedsford estate in hand and with Martinmas looming, however would she manage?

Marjory began to pace. The rich plum cakes she'd enjoyed that afternoon-full of b.u.t.ter, sugar, cream, and all those lovely currants-now lined her stomach like cobblestones. In the future she would instruct Mrs. Edgar to serve plain oatcakes with their tea. Even b.u.t.ter and jam were becoming too dear.

How long might her three hundred pounds need to last? Until the prince's campaign ended. Until her sons returned home. Until the road from Selkirk to Edinburgh was safe for her factor to travel. Until a time no one could name, not even Charles Edward Stuart.

The latest Evening Courant, folded on her dressing table, included very little about the army's recent movements, though one report from Edinburgh caught her eye. We are now happily delivered from the Highland Host so that the citizens begin to peep out of their lurking places.

"Happily delivered?" Marjory had scoffed, having spent the day overseeing two hired maidservants, who'd cleaned and swept and discarded until the six rooms of their house were more or less in order. Still, the torn upholstery required mending, the gla.s.sware and dishes needed replacing, the paintings were little more than strips of canvas, and Janet was reduced to one gown. Her daughter-in-law would have to borrow some of her own costumes from last season. The blue green satin, perhaps, or the burgundy damask, though they'd need to be altered when Janet's waist began expanding.

Marjory tarried at one of the windows overlooking Milne Square, watching a caddie with his paper lantern dart across the plainstanes. How early darkness came in November! With Martinmas one week hence, numbers swirled through her head. Twenty-five pounds for half a year's rent. Ten pounds for their seats at the Tron Kirk. Gibson and Mrs. Edgar were owed half their annual wages-forty shillings for Gibson, thirty for Mrs. Edgar.

At least the family coffers were spared ten shillings for Peg Cargill. They'd not heard a word from the la.s.s since she flitted to Coldingham. Marjory had been slow to replace her since Mrs. Edgar had not complained about the additional work. But what a frightful expense for two maids this day. A sixpence each!

Marjory gathered the remaining purses and hid them beneath the loose flooring nearest her bed, taking care not to sully her gown nor catch a splinter in her hand. She smoothed the carpet back in place, lest anyone think to look there. A useless measure, she realized. Why fret about her household carelessly spending her gold when she'd already done so herself?

Most of the purses had traveled through her door last month, concealed inside Angus MacPherson's greatcoat. Fifteen hundred gold sovereigns bound for Holyroodhouse. Fifteen hundred. A princely sum, Marjory had thought at the time, amused by her pun and basking in the glow of the prince's grat.i.tude. Now she saw her too-generous behavior for what it was: pride. The pride of thine heart hath deceived thee. Aye, hadn't it just?

Some might point to Lady Nithsdale's talent for persuasion, but Marjory blamed no one but herself. Hearing that Lord Elcho had parted with such a fortune, she'd risen to the challenge and matched his astounding gift. Or rather his loan, as Lady Nithsdale had insisted. In any case, her guineas were gone, with no promise of their return.

Marjory had not confessed her imprudence to a soul. Only Mr. MacPherson and his son knew the amount, and they were sworn to secrecy. She'd convinced herself it was an investment in her family's future. That it would guarantee her sons' safety and, when the prince claimed the throne for James, would a.s.sure them a place of honor in his kingdom.

But if she was wrong, if they were all wrong, and the prince was not victorious- The knock at her bedchamber door was a welcome interruption. "Come," Marjory called, in urgent need of good news.

Gibson entered, gray hair damp from the evening air, a letter in his hand. "From the Post Office, mem. Addressed to ye."

She noted at once the neatness of the handwriting, the formal sweep of each letter, and the fine quality of the paper. But when she saw King George's royal seal embedded in the wax, Marjory nearly sank to the floor.

My sons, my sons!

"I have ye, mem." Gibson supported her arm long enough to steady her. "'Tis only a letter, Leddy Kerr. Ye faced far worse on Sat.u.r.day whan the dragoons came."

The thick red wax had stained the paper. Like blood. Marjory couldn't bring herself to touch it. "Will you, Gibson?"

He broke the seal and pressed open the creases in the paper, his fingers bent and wrinkled but strong as ever. "I pray it willna be ill news, mem."

Marjory looked at the signature first, and her fears eased a bit. "'Tis from Lord Mark Kerr, a distant relation of Lord John's." Answering her letter at last, it seemed. "I'll read it to everyone at supper, aye?"

"Verra weel, mem." Gibson bowed and quit the room as quietly as a cat while Marjory began reading. She was struck at once by the coldness of Lord Mark's tone.

To the Dowager Lady Marjory Kerr

Milne Square, Edinburgh

Wednesday, 30 October 1745

Lady Marjory:

Your letter of 3 October was most troublesome. One cannot imagine what compelled the sons of Lord John Kerr to take up arms against their Sovereign.

Marjory knew precisely what had compelled them: a bonny young prince with a hero's bearing and a rightful claim to the throne. Her sons' desire to test their mettle had spurred them on as well. She understood that now.

If these sons of yours will not heed their own mother, they will hardly take the advice of a stranger.

His language was patently dismissive. Did he care so little for her sons and for her? Miffed by his words, she had to force herself to keep reading.

I must tell you, madam, your entire household is in grave danger because of their treason.

Her skin, already chilled, turned to ice. Her entire household had already faced grave danger, had already suffered...

A terrible possibility rose before her like a specter.

What if Lord Mark had ordered the soldiers to pillage her house, prompted by her letter? What if she had brought this destruction to her own doorstep?

Nae!

Marjory stared at the letter, barely able to breathe. Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands. She had not been wise. She'd indeed been foolish. Without meaning to, she'd betrayed her family and sacrificed their belongings.

She'd meant to save them. But she had not.

There, in Lord Mark's hand, was the word that would condemn her sons to death. Treason. She pressed on, though she had to read each sentence twice to make sense of it, so addled were her thoughts.

You will be aware by now of His Majesty's offer of clemency to any rebels who return home on or before the twelfth of November.

Aye, she was aware. Had she not kept the Evening Courant that Lady Falconer had presented to her on Friday eve? There is hope for your sons. No mother would discard even a sc.r.a.p of hope.

If your sons ignore the king's mercy, madam, I cannot offer any promise for their future. I trust the twelfth of November will find them at home in Edinburgh or Selkirk, prepared to defend their King.

Loyal Servant to His Royal Highness, George II

General Lord Mark Kerr

Come home. Marjory held on to the letter, saying the words over and over in her mind. Come home, come home. She could not speak them aloud, dared not commit them to paper. She remembered Elisabeth's comments, hard as they were to hear. We cannot ask them to return home. We cannot even wish it.

A niggling thought jabbed at Marjory. Perhaps Elisabeth did not want her husband to return. Perhaps...

Nae. 'Twas not possible.

As she refolded the letter, Marjory heard voices in the entrance hall, one in particular. Rob MacPherson. She laid the letter on her bare dressing table and moved toward the door, a sense of urgency hastening her steps.

The tailor's son was standing in the drawing room, hat in hand. Broad and brooding, dark haired and dark eyed, Rob MacPherson was nothing like her Donald. Marjory could not imagine Elisabeth finding such a man attractive.

She inclined her head, a spa.r.s.e acknowledgment. "What brings you here, Mr. MacPherson?"

"Guid eve, mem." He bowed when he saw her, though he did not smile. "I dinna mean to intrude. I only wanted to be certain Leddy Kerr received my note yestermorn. And to see how ye were faring."

Marjory had never heard him speak so many words at once. "Lady Kerr did indeed receive your note. And, as you see, we are well."

"Aye." His gaze traveled the room. "'Tis meikle improved syne last I was here, though I'm sorry for yer losses."

Elisabeth joined them a moment later. "How fortunate that you've come, Mr. MacPherson." She produced a letter. "Might you see this delivered to my husband, Lord Kerr?"

Marjory couldn't help noticing Elisabeth's emphasis on Donald's role and t.i.tle. As if reminding this tailor's son of his place. And of hers. Well done, la.s.s.

He took the letter with some reluctance. "I canna say how lang 'twill take, milady. But I'll see yer letter on its way."

"You are most kind," Elisabeth said, though she did not look at him when she spoke, nor did she invite him to sit.

Heartened as she was to see her daughter-in-law's reticence, Marjory wanted to be very sure there was nothing between them. "Mr. MacPherson, have you plans for Martinmas?"