Here Burns My Candle Part 37

Marjory nimbly turned to the pa.s.sage as if she knew well the landscape of the Scriptures, then read the verse aloud. "For thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle." She looked up, her eyes gla.s.sy. "Aye, I taught Lord Kerr that one. And very long ago it was too."

Janet sniffed. "Well, I have never heard my brother-in-law speak so devoutly."

"If not, he'll do sae now." Rob unfolded his arms and reached for the Bible, which was growing noticeably heavy in Marjory's hands. "Few men on the field o' battle dinna cry oot to G.o.d."

Fifty-Seven.

Through the hush'd air

the whitening shower descends.

JAMES THOMSON.

T is snowing." Marjory peered through Effie Sinclair's window, certain her eyes were deceiving her. Snow was uncommon in the capital, especially in the middle of November. The sky, the air, and the tall lands across the wynd were all washed in a pale, frosty gray.

The boarding school mistress joined her guests at the window, the top of her carefully piled hair only reaching Marjory's shoulder. "We've seen many winters without so much as a flurry." Effie's warm breath left a circle of steam on the icy pane.

Elisabeth, too, had abandoned their tea table, leaving behind their empty plates and tea-stained saucers. "Mr. MacPherson told me the prince and his men are soon expected to march south from Carlisle. I do hope the weather is a bit warmer there."

The concern in Elisabeth's voice and her poignant expression were further a.s.surance of her fidelity. Marjory felt almost guilty for doubting her daughter-in-law's devotion. She need not have worried. A man like Rob MacPherson, with his poor table manners and rough way of speaking, would hardly turn a lady's head. Especially one married to a gentleman of Donald's caliber.

Still, with his many Jacobite ties, the tailor's son had kept them informed of the army's activities, for which Marjory was grateful. He often relayed news the Evening Courant might not report for another week-or not at all if the account favored the prince. The most recent news from Mr. MacPherson was heartening. On Friday last the Duke of Perth took Carlisle, by Sat.u.r.day the castle was won, and on the Sabbath their bonny prince made his triumphant entry into Carlisle, striking terror in the heart of many an Englishman.

Marjory turned away from the window to glance at the mantel clock. "Mrs. Sinclair, I fear we are keeping you from your scholars."

"Not at all," Effie a.s.sured her. "I have three young ladies in my charge this season. They are having tea at the moment, followed by a writing lesson at four o' the clock." She turned to Elisabeth, smiling with her whole face. "Unless I might presume upon my most accomplished seamstress to offer them instruction in sewing."

Elisabeth glanced at the darkening sky. "I would enjoy nothing more, Mrs. Sinclair, but..."

"'Tis not the hour for it," Effie was quick to agree. "Some forenoon, perhaps, when the light is more amenable to threading a needle. For the moment I must bid you farewell." Capes and gloves were quickly donned, then thanks and curtsies offered round.

No sooner did Effie's door close than a fierce, biting cold sank its teeth into Marjory's neck. Shivering, she followed Janet and Elisabeth down the stair until they reached the paving stones of Blackfriars Wynd. A thick veil of snow hung over the dark lane, falling steadily. The occasional candle near a window, diffused by the snow into a faint, shimmering cloud of light, provided the only relief from the blackness before them.

"This is my fault," Marjory said, pulling them closer to her sides. "We should have taken our leave the moment I saw the first flurry."

Janet withdrew inside the hood of her cape. "At the very least while it was still light."

"We've not far to walk," Elisabeth encouraged them. "And we need not worry about dragoons on the High Street. No one will be out on such a night."

"As we should not be," Marjory said with a heavy sigh. Why had she not made some arrangement with Gibson to collect them at four o' the clock? Elisabeth was right-they did not have far to walk-but the street was uphill and slippery, and the snow fell harder by the minute.

They locked arms and began the slow trek up the wynd, knowing the High Street was ahead though they could not see farther than their outstretched hands. Marjory prayed Elisabeth was right about the dragoons remaining withindoors. Not only had Edinburgh Castle belched red-coated men like a sickness over the town, but on Thursday last two thousand more foot soldiers and dragoons had entered through the Netherbow Port.

Clinging to her daughters-in-law, Marjory put one hesitant foot in front of the other. "Our shoes will be ruined," she said, accepting the blame for that as well.

"You've no need to apologize for the weather," Elisabeth said. "'Tis not something within your control. 'For he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth,' aye?" She'd surprised them several times of late with a verse of Scripture. Perhaps that was to be expected, living in a house with only one book. "Here is the High Street." Elisabeth helped them navigate the icy plainstanes as they turned left. "We're halfway home."

Their voices sounded oddly m.u.f.fled, as if the snow were swallowing their words. In all her years Marjory could not remember a storm this early in the season. When she spied the familiar arcades of Milne Square, she nearly wept with joy.

The turnpike stair in Baillie's Land was colder still, and the stone steps treacherous. As soon as they reached their fifth-floor landing, Marjory fell against the door, praying Gibson would hear their knock and unlock the door at once.

Instead, Rob MacPherson ushered the Kerr women into their house. "We'd hoped ye might remain at Mrs. Sinclair's for the nicht," he said, "though 'tis guid yer a' hame."

Marjory pushed back the hood of her cape, staring at him in confusion. "Where is Gibson that you are pressed into service as a footman?"

Rob quickly closed the door, about to answer her, when Mrs. Edgar came at a run.

"Leddy Kerr!" Her face was flushed, and her words tumbled over themselves. "Gibson has given us a wee fright. First his head was verra het and now his chest. He's begun to cough as weel." She glanced toward the drawing room. "I dared not put him in one o' yer beds, but his ain was too cauld here by the door."

Marjory threw off her cape, the word cough sufficient to capture her attention. "Well done, Mrs. Edgar. Now, licorice and tartar, if you please." Helen Edgar had helped tend her ailing sons a decade earlier. Between them, they would see the man well cared for.

Gibson was stretched out on a thick plaid before the fire, his face and neck the color of fresh beetroot. He lifted up a shaky hand. "Och, mem, I'm sorry ye found me sae dwiny."

"We'll have none of that," Marjory told him, drawing the footstool near so she might sit beside him. "When did this begin?"

"Yestermorn, though I paid it nae mind." He shrugged. "I didna want to worry ye."

"Too late," Marjory chided him gently, placing her hand on his brow and cheek and then his chest. Worse than she'd feared: almost as hot as the coals in the grate. She turned to Rob, standing behind her. "Will the apothecary come out in such weather?" she asked. "Perhaps if you simply describe Gibson's symptoms, Mr. Mercer will know what to send."

"I'll bring the man and his medicines," Rob promised and was gone.

Mrs. Edgar appeared a moment later, cup and spoon in hand. "Spanish licorice and salt o' tartar in boiled water, just as ye asked. 'Tis bluid warm. Two spoonfuls, if ye please, sir."

Gibson lifted his head enough to take his medicine, then fell back on the plaid with a groan.

Janet bent over him. "My, he's quite red."

"Careful!" Marjory shot to her feet, nearly knocking her daughter-in-law over in her haste. "You cannot risk getting so close, dear. Not in your... condition."

Janet frowned. "My...oh! Nae, I cannot." Without another word she fled for her bedchamber. "Do not expect me at supper."

Elisabeth and Mrs. Edgar remained, looking as helpless as Marjory felt. Neil Gibson's sixty years were showing, his skin drawn taut against his bones, his bald crown dotted with brown spots. Though his breathing was even, his color worried her, and his fever more so. She would know better once she heard his cough.

By the time Rob MacPherson returned with the apothecary, Marjory had heard Gibson cough several times. When she apologized to Mr. Mercer for requiring his services on such a stormy night, the stout man pushed his spectacles in place, then brushed away her concerns.

"I am only across the High Street. And I could not be sure of what to send until I examined Mr. Gibson for myself. If I might trade places with you, madam?"

Marjory joined the others gathered behind him while the apothecary poked and prodded in an efficient fashion, making small grunting sounds under his breath as he worked. Gibson gazed up at him through bleary, half-opened eyes.

Mr. Mercer stood at last, yanking his waistcoat over his round belly with little success. "'Tis not consumption," he said with some authority.

Marjory and Mrs. Edgar exchanged relieved glances.

"For the fever," Mr. Mercer continued, "make use of the snow and pack it round his neck. You'll also be wanting Dr. Hardwick's fever powder." He produced a brown paper packet. "For the cough, peel and slice a turnip, cover the pieces with coa.r.s.e sugar, let them stand in a dish until the liquid drains, and give him a spoonful whenever he coughs." The apothecary was already in his coat and eying the door. "Unless you have further need of me, I bid you good night."

Mrs. Edgar escorted him through the entrance hall, reviewing his instructions, while Rob MacPherson started down the stair ahead of him, wooden pail in hand, intending to bring back a supply of new-fallen snow.

Only when all of Mr. Mercer's instructions had been followed and Gibson was sleeping by the fire, his fever beginning to abate, did Marjory think to ask what had brought Rob MacPherson to their door in the first place. "Did Mrs. Edgar send for you?" she asked as the three of them sat on the long sofa.

"Nae, mem." Unlike at Martinmas, he'd not been in a talkative mood this evening. "I thocht... that is, I came to tell ye I had visitors this afternoon. The dragoons... ah, searched oor shop."

Marjory understood at once. "They did not merely search it. They sacked it, didn't they?"

"Aye, sae they did." He rubbed his hand over his jaw. "Tore the bolts o' fabric to shreds. Shattered oor lang leuking gla.s.s. Chopped the sewing cabinet into kindling-"

"Oh, Rob," Elisabeth moaned, "not the cabinet your father cherished."

He looked at her. "Aye, Bess. The verra one."

A cold chill moved along Marjory's forearms. They'd addressed each other by their Christian names. Had she not been sitting between them, Rob might have taken Elisabeth's hand, so warm was his gaze. If 'twas not longing Marjory saw in those dark depths, it was uncomfortably close to it.

She stood at once, breaking the spell. "Lady Kerr? 'Tis eight o' the clock."

But Elisabeth mistook her cue. She did not ask the tailor's son to leave. She invited him to stay. "Mr. MacPherson, will you share our supper?" Elisabeth asked. "The hour is late, and your lodgings are...not what they once were. We'll not have as elaborate a meal as Martinmas, but you are welcome to sup with us."

He dipped his chin, accepting her invitation. "'Twould be a pleasure, milady."

Once offered, hospitality could hardly be revoked. Marjory was torn as well, for Rob MacPherson had proven to be a good friend to their family. They'd come to count on him for news. Aye, and for protection. Nothing to be done but watch the man and pray her suspicions were unfounded.

No sooner had they taken their seats at table than Elisabeth offered to stand in Gibson's place, helping Mrs. Edgar serve the meal.

"Lady Kerr!" Marjory scolded her, but her daughter-in-law was already out of her seat and moving toward the kitchen.

"We can hardly ask our guest to serve himself," Elisabeth reminded her, knowing Marjory could pose no argument.

"It seems we shall be served by a lady," Marjory said.

Mr. MacPherson smiled, a rare occurrence. "She is indeed that, mem."

Elisabeth returned bearing plates of mussel brose, though Mrs. Edgar was adamant she would serve the rest. "There are but three of ye," she said firmly, "and I'm meant to do it." She soon brought minced collops, flavored with nutmeg. Then roasted onions, hot from the oven. Finally a plate of macaroons and coffee, though Marjory did not suggest moving to sit by the fire, lest they disturb Gibson from his sleep.

From first bite to last Marjory watched Mr. MacPherson court her daughter-in-law. No other word could describe his behavior. He studied Elisabeth's eyes, her mouth, her hands. When her linen cloth slipped from her lap, he retrieved it almost before it touched the floor. If she said something mildly amusing, his low, rumbling laugh was sure to follow. And if she grew quiet or pensive, he matched his mood to hers.

Marjory took consolation in this: Elisabeth did nothing to encourage him. In fact, she seemed completely unaware of his slavish devotion. Perhaps in time Rob would lose interest, realizing how much Lady Kerr loved her husband. Short of confronting him, Marjory knew there was little she could do.

She was beginning to realize how few things were hers to manage. Not the weather, certainly. Not the furnishings beneath her roof. Not the health of those round her. Not the fate of her sons in battle. And not the faithfulness of the wives they left in Edinburgh.

Marjory looked down, lest anyone see the fear in her eyes. Come home, Donald. Soon.

Fifty-Eight.

They that know the winters of that country

know them to be sharp and violent,

and subject to cruel and fierce storms.

WILLIAM BRADFORD.

E lisabeth awakened the next morning to find the High Street blanketed with snow. She'd expected the storm to end while the household slept. But the snow kept falling, and the wind blew hard from the west.

Days pa.s.sed in a white blur. Rumors crept into town from the neighboring villages. A foot of snow. Two foot. Six. "The severest known," the Evening Courant reported, "the snow in some parts being upwards of twelve foot. Two men perished in the snow near Peebles. They were going home from the mill, and though they knew the road perfectly well, the snow was so deep that they were suffocated."

The tragic story weighed on Elisabeth's heart even as her fears for Donald and Andrew grew. Was the weather to the south as severe? Were the brothers strong enough to ride o'er the cold, snowy hills? Or had they succ.u.mbed...

Nae, nae, nae. Elisabeth could not let her imagination wander down such murky paths.

Instead she reminded herself daily of the rebel victories on English soil. The Jacobite army had taken Carlisle, then pushed on to Lancaster and Preston, with the prince's gaze fixed on London. That much they knew. But the farther from home the army marched, the harder it became for Rob to gather any news that could be trusted, so conflicting were the reports from the south. And mail was unbearably slow, sometimes weeks in coming. Her three letters from Donald were hidden beneath her carpet like the dowager's gold lest a dragoon come looking for them.

Elisabeth could do nothing but wait, keeping her needle busy and her mind occupied as the days grew shorter and the nights colder.

On the first Sat.u.r.day in December, when the temperature hovered below freezing and the windows were covered with frost on both sides of the gla.s.s, Rob MacPherson came knocking on their door.

"The prince has reached Derby," he announced, pulling off his gloves and hat in the entrance hall and stamping the ice from his boots. Gibson, his health restored except for a lingering cough, ushered Rob into the drawing room. The Kerr women were seated round a card table by the fire, whiling away the frigid afternoon playing omber, a card game designed for three.

Rob c.o.c.ked his brow at the pile of b.u.t.tons in the center of the table.