Here Burns My Candle Part 43

"I can spare one guinea," Marjory said. Janet did not roll her eyes, but Elisabeth sensed her disapproval. She would let her work speak for her and hope Janet might soften toward her in the process.

The hour for callers approached. Their house was in good order, the claret was ready to pour, and Mrs. Edgar had a seedcake, fresh from the oven, cooling on the table. When eleven chimes rang out from the tall case clock, the women sat up straighter in their circle of chairs by the fire and waited for their friends and neighbors to pay their respects to the dead.

No one came.

Not in the first hour nor in the second. Not while the women ate a hasty dinner at one o' the clock nor in the afternoon. No notes were delivered, no messages received at the door. No one in Edinburgh, it seemed, mourned the loss of two young men guilty of treason.

"We are cursed," Marjory moaned when the last light of day faded from the windows. The uncut seedcake, the pristine wine gla.s.ses, and the empty chairs stood witness to her charge.

Elisabeth stayed by Marjory's side, providing sips of claret and fresh handkerchiefs, until her tears subsided and a new kind of grief settled in.

Anguish gave way to a lifeless melancholy as Marjory slumped in her chair, absently fingering the plain trim on her sleeve. "'Tis no use," her mother-in-law said, her words devoid of emotion. "We've no friends left."

"Aye, we do," Elisabeth reminded her. "The MacPhersons have been more than friends to us."

"Tradesmen," Marjory said dismissively, though Elisabeth saw a hint of regret in her eyes. "It must be said, they did tell us about... That is, we might not have known for days, even weeks..." She sighed heavily. "I mean only that I miss my old friends, Lady Woodhall and Lady Falconer especially."

No mention of Lady Ruthven, Elisabeth noticed.

Marjory dabbed her eyes. "This eve you'll want to write your mothers."

"Aye, so I shall," Elisabeth said, disheartened at the prospect. Though she'd written her mother several times, Elisabeth had not received a letter from home since before her mother's wedding. The letter Simon had brought to her was the last. As to her own letters, Rob had watched her mother tear one in two and toss it into the fire. Perhaps she did that with all of them.

"The Post Office cannot object to delivering our correspondence now," Marjory said, her tone petulant. "Our sad reports are of no use to King George."

A light tapping at the stair door instantly transformed Marjory. She sat up, dried her tears, and in all ways resumed the role of Dowager Lady Kerr as she looked toward the entrance hall, chin held high, antic.i.p.ating their first visitor at last.

"Mrs. Effie Sinclair," Gibson announced.

Elisabeth heard the relief in his voice and saw it on Mrs. Edgar's face as the housekeeper stood by the table, ready to be of service. Janet followed their mother-in-law's example-head up, shoulders back, face composed-as Elisabeth welcomed their faithful friend. "We are so grateful you are here."

"Had it not been for my students," she a.s.sured them, "I would have come sooner." Effie's expression was so tender that Elisabeth fought back tears yet again. "May the Almighty comfort you in your affliction."

Mrs. Edgar quietly served her a slice of seedcake while Effie spoke to each woman in turn, offering a specific word of encouragement. "It has been many years since Mr. Sinclair pa.s.sed away, but I remember the heartache well," she finally said, then took Elisabeth's hand in hers. "Lady Kerr, you and Mrs. Kerr will honor your husbands best by remaining widows and caring for your mother-in-law. She is your family now."

Elisabeth nodded, not knowing what to say. She'd been too racked with pain to consider the future. Was that what Donald would expect of her? That she care for his mother the rest of her days? Or should she return to Castleton, to her own mother, and see if some reconciliation might be made? Where did a daughter's loyalty belong?

Elisabeth glanced at Janet. Her eyes gave away nothing, but the set of her jaw suggested her feelings on the subject.

Mrs. Sinclair remained as long as propriety allowed, then stood to take her leave. "You will be in my prayers," she said in parting, squeezing each hand.

Elisabeth accompanied her to the door, thanking her for coming. "You are the only caller we've had," she admitted.

Mrs. Sinclair looked up at her in dismay. "Can this be true?"

"I'm afraid so. Had Lord Kerr and his brother fallen in the defense of King George, the mourners might have filled the house and trailed down the stair. Instead, our men bravely died for our prince."

"They did so willingly," Effie reminded her, "and most honorably." She patted her hand. "I'll call again if I may."

"Aye, please come." Elisabeth gazed down at the tiny woman who'd been like a mother to her when she'd first arrived in Edinburgh, just as Angus had ably filled the shoes of her father. "And do pray for us."

"So I shall." Effie's small eyes glistened. "Unless I am mistaken, you are seeking the Almighty with more... confidence, aye?"

"I am." Elisabeth looked down. After a lifetime of worshiping the Nameless One in secret, she was unaccustomed to discussing matters of faith.

"'Tis not a thing that can be taught, Lady Kerr, though I tried my best when you were under my tutelage." Effie smiled, her cheeks like round red apples. "He preserveth the faithful. And I believe you are among them." She donned her dark blue wool cape and was gone, leaving Elisabeth standing at the door.

Sixty-Seven.

The mother heart within me

Is almost starved for heaven.

MARGARET ELIZABETH SANGSTER.

W hy can I not visit Lord John's grave?" Marjory looked at Janet, seated across from her at breakfast. "'Tis perfectly acceptable for a grieving widow, and I would not be out in society."

Marjory waited for her objections, certain they would come.

"To begin with, the weather is ghastly," Janet replied matter-of-factly. With Andrew gone, her older daughter-in-law had cast aside any pretense of being charming. "Winter has returned, madam, dressed in ice and snow and bitterly cold winds. And it is a long walk to Greyfriars Kirkyard."

"Or a sixpence ride in a sedan chair," Marjory reminded her stiffly, though her words had no bite. Janet knew very well she could not afford such a luxury. And it was a bit of a walk down Peeble's Wynd to the Cowgate. Marjory had traveled there on foot only once. And on a fair spring afternoon, not a frozen Wednesday in January.

But she wanted to go, very much needed to go. To remind herself that she once had a husband, that she once was loved, that her life had some purpose, some greater meaning. She was neither wife nor mother now and would never be a grandmother. What was a mother-in-law without sons? Useless. Or worse, a burden.

Marjory shuddered at the realization.

"You see?" Janet said. "You're chilled even in the house." She punctuated her words by brandishing a well-b.u.t.tered triangle of toast. "Furthermore, you cannot venture anywhere near the Gra.s.smarket. That horrible General Hawley is keeping his hangman busy, punishing his troops who showed cowardice at Falkirk or tried to desert. Nae, madam." Janet bit the corner of her toast with her small, sharp teeth and took her time chewing and swallowing. "Your place is here, safe within our walls."

Marjory did not give Janet the satisfaction of seeing her quit the table in a pique. But once Janet finished her breakfast, Marjory abandoned her cold tea, seeking Elisabeth's company. At least her younger daughter-in-law respected her.

She found Elisabeth in her bedchamber with yards of black fabric unrolled across the carpet: Janet's mourning gown in progress. Marjory eyed the muslin pattern pinned to a dress form borrowed from the MacPhersons and noted the chalk lines drawn on the silk at her feet. "Already hard at work, I see."

Elisabeth held up her scissors. "I'll need Gibson to sharpen the blades on Donald's whetstone before I dare take them to this silk." Her cheeks, so pale of late, grew slightly pink. "I confess I tried to stab a dragoon with a pair of scissors at Queensberry House."

"Well done," Marjory said. "And I'm grateful you a.s.sisted the surgeons at the infirmary. Had my sons been given such care..." She closed her eyes as a wave of grief washed over her.

After a moment she felt Elisabeth's cool fingers on hers. "Angus did everything he could for them."

"That is my only consolation." Marjory lifted her head. Her daughter-in-law's eyes mirrored her own sorrow; her bonny face hid nothing. "You loved my son very much."

"Aye." Elisabeth's voice fell to a whisper. "I still do."

Marjory thought of their tender parting on the last day of October. And her son's heartfelt request: May I count on you to look after Elisabeth? And the look on Donald's face when Elisabeth stood on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye. It seemed only right to a.s.sure her. "My son loved you as well."

Elisabeth's eyes grew gla.s.sy. "I hope 'tis true."

"I feel certain you are the only woman he ever loved," Marjory continued, "though I imagine many loved him. Such a handsome man, our Donald."

Her daughter-in-law merely nodded.

Thinking it best to change the subject, Marjory said, "Will you show me your plans for Janet's gown?"

They spent a pleasant half hour together with Elisabeth describing in detail the various pleats and folds, b.u.t.tons and tabs she intended to use. "No lace," she hastened to add, "for I know 'tis costly. But the wee ruffle round the neckline will serve, and the pin tucks on the bodice may provide a bit of interest."

Until now Marjory had paid scant attention to Elisabeth's sewing skills. She was rightly impressed. "I will be eager to see the finished gown and so will your sister-in-law." Though she would never confess it, Marjory wished she'd given Janet her old mourning gown so this new creation might be hers. An entirely selfish thought, of course. But honest.

Elisabeth was showing Marjory how her present gown might be altered for a better fit when Mrs. Edgar came looking for them.

"Ye've a visitor, leddies. Mr. MacPherson."

Marjory glanced at her mantel, still looking for the clock she would never see again. By now it was sitting above a cozy hearth in Lancashire or Yorkshire, marking the hours for some infernal Englishwoman.

Rob was waiting for them in the drawing room, his hat and greatcoat removed, a gla.s.s of claret and a plate of seedcake on a small table by the fire. "Leddies," he said with a proper bow, "I'm here to offer my sympathy. And to see how ye're faring."

"We're glad you've come." Elisabeth spoke for all of them since Janet had not bothered to make an appearance. "Kindly sit with us."

"I wanted to call at the first hour on Monday," he explained, "but waited 'til today, thinking ye might not want a tailor walking through the door with a' yer gentry friends here."

"Very thoughtful of you," Marjory told him, "though you need not have worried. Had you visited us on Monday morn, you'd have been the only one."

His dark countenance took on a ruddy tint. "Ye mean to tell me Edinburgh's fine lords and leddies didna see fit to walk up yer stair? Whan ye've lost two guid men in the prime o' their young lives?" Rob sat back, fists on his knees, a marked scowl on his face. "What sort o' freens are those?"

"No friends at all," Elisabeth admitted.

Marjory could hardly argue. When Lady Falconer closed the door on her, the rest of society quickly followed suit. Rather than dwell on that depressing fact, Marjory broached another topic. "Your father is not with you. I trust he is well?"

Rob exhaled. "He is not, mem. Not weel at a'. I've had the apothecary come twice this week. Mr. Mercer says 'tis his heart. I thocht my faither had the heart o' ten men, but-"

"Foxglove tea," Marjory said at once, not wanting to hear the details lest they awaken too many memories. "Lord John drank a cup nightly to ease his chest pains."

"I thank ye, mem. We'll try it this verra nicht." Rob shifted in his chair. "Enough of oor woes, for 'tis ye I'm meant to comfort." He was looking at Elisabeth now. Clearly the offer of sympathy was meant for her.

"We have each other," Elisabeth answered him, inclining her head toward Marjory, "and so we do not suffer alone."

"I am glad to hear it, Leddy Kerr."

Marjory saw the yearning in his eyes and the way he leaned toward her, his hands open. If I were not here, he would take her in his arms. Elisabeth would not allow it, of course. But his longing was as palpable as the scent of nutmeg wafting from Mrs. Edgar's kitchen.

Would Elisabeth follow Effie Sinclair's advice? Remain a widow and stay by her side? At four-and-twenty, Elisabeth was young enough to marry again and bear children. Should she be forced to care for a woman twice her age with no prospects, no hope? Marjory could never ask Elisabeth or Janet to make such a sacrifice. But if she did not, who would care for her as she grew older, in the same way Rob watched over Angus?

She had no husband or sons, no parents or siblings, and no friends. No one in the world cared whether she lived or died.

No one.

Marjory abruptly stood, prompting Rob to his feet.

"Mem?" he asked.

"You are welcome to stay, Mr. MacPherson. But I...forgive me." Marjory fled the room for her quiet bedchamber to mourn in private. And to pray.

Hands trembling, she closed the door behind her and locked it, then the door to Elisabeth's room too. Marjory hastened to her bedside and sank to her knees, folding her hands as a child might.

"Please..." One word and her heart broke open. "Please...help me." She pressed her forehead against her hands, afraid to ask for what she needed, afraid the Almighty no longer cared. "I knew you once," she whispered. "Might I turn to you again?"

Desperate, she clung to the words she'd learned long ago. "Look upon mine affliction and my pain..." She drew a ragged breath. "And forgive all my sins." Too many, too many. "My husband," she moaned, "my precious John. And my sons, my dear sons. All dead because of me. If I'd learned to be content at Tweedsford. If I'd honored my husband's wishes. If I'd protected our children..."

Weary and spent, she crawled onto her bed, crushing her gown, dislodging the pins from her hair. "Forgive me," she pleaded. How could that be sufficient? "O G.o.d, in the mult.i.tude of thy mercy hear me. Please, please, hear me."

Sixty-Eight.

Patience is sorrow's salve.

CHARLES CHURCHILL.

C hange was coming. Elisabeth felt it in her bones. Prince Charlie and his army had retreated farther north into the Highlands, and Marjory's guineas were reduced to shillings and pennies. Only winter remained, bleak and unending. Though the days were a bit longer in February, the temperature struggled to get above freezing.

Elisabeth gazed down at the icy puddles scattered across the High Street. She was determined to brave the cold and visit Angus MacPherson now that his weak heart bound him withindoors. If Marjory did not object, Elisabeth would ask Gibson to escort her to the Luckenbooths that very morning.

She had stepped out of doors only twice since Donald's death. Once to visit Mr. Mercer's shop across the High Street when Gibson's troublesome cough made a sudden reappearance, and once to the Post Office to send a letter to her mother. Both were acceptable errands for a widow. The dragoons patrolling the street were the greater worry. General Hawley and the Duke of c.u.mberland had both come and gone from Edinburgh, heading north in pursuit of Prince Charlie and his army. But while the gallows still stood in the Gra.s.smarket, the town's Jacobites laid very low indeed.

She donned her clothing, then styled her hair as if she'd never had a lady's maid to slip gowns over her head or lace her stays. Mrs. Edgar still dressed Marjory each morning, and Janet as well, but Elisabeth thought to spare their housekeeper a few duties at least. A brief pause at her mirror and she was off to seek her mother-in-law's blessing.

She found her sitting by a window, trying to thread a needle, nearly in tears from the effort. "May I help?" Elisabeth made quick work of it, then kept the needle in hand. "If it's your b.u.t.ton that needs sewing, Lady Marjory, I'll gladly do so."

Marjory handed over the green gown and its matching silk b.u.t.ton with a sigh. "I'd hoped to master one simple task. Shouldn't a woman know how to repair her own clothing?"

Elisabeth was thrown off balance, hearing the discouragement in her mother-in-law's voice. If the Dowager Lady Kerr of Selkirk felt obliged to do her own sewing, their financial position was even worse than she'd realized.