Here Burns My Candle Part 49

Friday, 11 April 1746

Lady Kerr-

She was no longer Bess to him. Just as well. It meant Rob understood such days were over. Elisabeth read on.

I have very sad news. My father died this morn.

"Nae!" She pressed the letter to her heart. Not my dear Angus. Gibson abandoned his water pitchers and hastened to her side. "What is it, milady?"

"Mr. MacPherson..." Elisabeth leaned against the dressing table. "He cannot be..."

"The tailor's son, ye mean?"

"Not Rob but dear Angus." She squeezed out the words. "He's... gone."

"Och, can it be so?"

"Tell the others," she begged him. Gibson did her bidding at once, leaving her alone with Rob's letter. She dried her eyes with her ap.r.o.n, trying to read the words, trying to grasp the truth.

He had a restless night. I thought to come for you but did not want to offend. I sent this letter by way of Mr. Baillie, trusting him to deliver it.

But he did not. Elisabeth gripped the paper, guilt washing over her. Rob thought she knew last Friday. Now it was Tuesday.

I will bury my father at Greyfriars at ten o' the clock on Sat.u.r.day. Meet me in the kirkyard, if you will.

"Oh, Rob." Her heart broke in two. I would have come. I did not know.

To think of Angus waiting for a bedside visit that never came. And Rob standing by his father's grave, hoping she might join him and share his grief. Please, please forgive me!

"Lady Elisabeth?" Marjory stood in the doorway. "I am very sorry to hear this news." She drew closer, her face lined with sympathy. "I know how much Angus MacPherson meant to you."

"Aye, he did." Elisabeth buried her head in the crook of her arm and wept.

Seventy-Six.

Unthread the rude eye of rebellion,

And welcome home again discarded faith.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

T he ten o' the clock drum was echoing down the empty High Street when Elisabeth retired to her bedchamber, her body exhausted and her heart weary. If she'd not sent Rob away so rudely, perhaps he might have come to her or taken her to see Angus and let her pour out her grat.i.tude for all the years he'd watched over her.

But Rob had not come nor had his letter-not until any hope of seeing Angus was lost.

The delayed letter was not her fault. She knew that. But she should have realized Angus was dying. She should have made an effort. She should have ignored her feelings toward Rob and visited his father...

Enough, Bess. She sagged against the pillows. Her list of regrets grew by the hour. With a deep sigh she drew her bedside candle closer, then unfolded Rob's letter. 'Twas the last line that now weighed on her heart.

I leave on the Sabbath for Inverness to join the prince's men and finish the work my father began.

Rob had never mentioned such plans to her. Maybe this was a promise he'd made to Angus in his final hours. Or perhaps, when she refused him, Rob chose to devote himself to his prince. The result was the same. Two days ago he'd departed for the Highlands, thinking Elisabeth Kerr did not care whether he lived or died.

I do care, Rob. Not as a future wife but certainly as an old friend.

Given the chance, she would have begged him to stay in Edinburgh rather than head north into the gathering storm. Monday's broadsheets reported the Duke of c.u.mberland and his royalist army marching to Inverness, where Prince Charlie and his Jacobites were a.s.sembling. After two months of skirmishes here and there, a battle was looming, far larger than Gladsmuir or Falkirk.

The end was coming. Elisabeth felt it in her bones. The prince's men were dwindling in number, and the duke's were growing by the hundreds. Rob was no doubt prepared for what awaited him in Inverness, but still she feared for his life. G.o.d be with you, Rob.

On the bed beside her lay the Buik, the cover stained and tattered from all the hands that had touched it. She pulled it onto her lap, as she did every night of late, and turned to the psalms. Sometimes the words comforted her; other times they challenged her. Often they left her in tears. She could not always explain why.

Elisabeth spread her fingers across the pages, her silver rings gleaming in the candlelight. She touched them in turn, remembering all they'd once meant to her. Strength, provision, comfort, security. She tugged on her wedding band to see if it would move. Nae. Perhaps because her hands were warm, the other ring was firmly in place too. Both were remnants of another life.

She moved her hands aside, revealing her chosen verse for the evening.

"Our soul waiteth for the LORD." Aye, she knew something about waiting. Waiting for a husband, now lost to her. Waiting for a child that never came. Waiting to be embraced by a society that shunned her. But how did one wait for the Lord? Perhaps the waiting itself was an act of obedience.

"He is our help and our shield." She pictured the Highlanders on the field of battle with their round, leather targes held close to their chests, shielding them from the enemy's blows. Might the Almighty protect her in the same way, unseen yet invincible?

The truth was, she had no one to protect her now. Not Donald, not Angus, not Rob. She closed her eyes but could not shut out the words that pressed on her heart. Wait for him. Seek his help.

"Elisabeth?" Her mother-in-law entered her room with tentative steps. "Pardon me for intruding."

"Nae, nae, come in," Elisabeth said, waving her closer.

Marjory pulled a chair beside her bed. "Now then, Lady Elisabeth-"

"Bess," she said, surprising them both. "My brother always addressed me by that name. Donald preferred it as well." So did Rob, for that matter. "'Twould please me, if you're willing-"

"I am," her mother-in-law quickly a.s.sured her. "And you may call me Marjory in private." A brave step for a woman who'd always been so proud of her t.i.tle.

Elisabeth smoothed her hand across the open book in her lap. "I've been reading the Scriptures. The words are...quite moving."

Marjory lowered her gaze. "I felt that way once, as a young woman. The Almighty was very real to me then."

"Is he not real now?"

"Aye, but..." Marjory's voice faded into silence.

Thinking to put her at ease, Elisabeth said, "The Almighty has so many names. What do you call him?"

"I call him..." Marjory pressed her hand to her mouth. "I..."

Elisabeth watched her mother-in-law struggle, fighting tears. "If you'd rather not..."

"Nae, nae." Marjory's voice was strained, her expression more so. "I call him Lord. But there was a time... oh, Bess, there was a time I called him my friend."

Stunned by her confession, Elisabeth hurried to comfort her. "The Buik says he is the same yesterday and today and forever. So he must still be your friend."

Marjory shook her head. "I have changed-"

"But he has not," Elisabeth said firmly, then paused. It was as if she knew something she'd not known a moment before. Like lighting a candle in a darkened room and instantly being able to see every corner. "If you trusted him once, you can do so again. Perhaps we might learn together?"

Marjory lifted her head with a weary sigh. "I wouldn't know where to begin."

Elisabeth knew at once. "The same way you taught your sons when they were lads." She dared to touch Marjory's wet cheek. "Might you think of me as your daughter?"

"Oh, Bess, I would be honored to have you as my daughter." Marjory tried to smile, though Elisabeth could see it was an effort. "As it happens, I am considering returning home at Whitsuntide. I a.s.sumed you and Janet would accompany me to Tweedsford, unless your mothers might prefer-"

"Nae!" Elisabeth quickly said. "'Tis best if I go with you." She could not tell her mother-in-law the ugly truth of it. I am not wanted at home. She'd written her mother a dozen times since her marriage to Mr. Cromar. Not one letter was answered.

"Whitsuntide is but a month hence." Marjory stood, releasing a long sigh. "You needn't fear, Bess. I'll not abandon you."

Elisabeth watched her move toward the door. "Nor I you, Marjory."

Seventy-Seven.

What various scenes,

and O! what scenes of Woe.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O n Thursday next Elisabeth woke before dawn. She moved soundlessly through Janet's bedchamber and into the kitchen, shivering in her nightgown. A cold, steady rain from the north beat upon the windows as she filled her porcelain pitcher with hot water from the kettle, sparing Gibson at least one task.

That she'd slept at all was surprising with both Mrs. Edgar in La.s.s-wade and Rob MacPherson in faraway Inverness weighing on her heart. She prayed for them each night and committed them to the Almighty's care. Trust was not coming easily to her, but it was coming.

She quietly carried the water pitcher to her bedchamber, then bathed and dressed, glad to have steaming hot water on such a dreary morn. When her hands were soapy, her rings almost slid off her fingers.

At breakfast Janet smeared her bannock with the last dab of marmalade in the house. "Something is afoot this morn. You can hear it in the voices floating up from the square now that the rain has stopped."

Elisabeth had heard them too. "I plan to visit Rob MacPherson's shop. Though his letter said he was leaving for Inverness, perhaps he changed his mind." A slender hope, to be sure, but Elisabeth was clinging to every thread in reach. And Rob would never come looking for her. "Gibson will escort me. I'll be in no danger."

"You are certain?" Marjory asked her across the table.

"Aye." Elisabeth was already slipping on her cape. The mid-April morning was not only wet but also chilly. "I'll be home by one o' the clock to prepare dinner. You'll not mind eating later?"

Marjory offered a sad smile. "'Tis fashionable now to dine at two."

Fashionable? Elisabeth looked at the remains of their spa.r.s.e breakfast and thought of the meager dinner that would follow: a single plump pigeon Gibson had snared from an abandoned doocot, a handful of very old carrots, and four small potatoes she'd received in trade for a length of green silk ribbon. She had no broth or pudding to offer, though they did have two oranges left to share. As for supper, she would surely pa.s.s a fishwife on the High Street anxious to sell her husbands morning catch or a pie seller willing to make a bargain. Elisabeth had a few ha'pence in her pocket. A very few. If Marjory was ready to part with her furniture, it was none too soon.

"'til one, then." Elisabeth followed Gibson through the house and down the stair, accustomed to people looking the other way as she walked by. The Highland widow of a Lowland traitor was a woman with no country to call her own.

The street was crowded with folk, many standing in tightly knit groups, all talking and gesturing at once, their faces dark with fear. The same words kept striking Elisabeth's ears as she hastened uphill toward the Luckenbooths. Inverness. c.u.mberland. Nairn. Culloden House. No bits of gossip she heard in pa.s.sing were alike. Numbers of troops and conditions of armies changed with every step. No one was singing Jacobite ballads, as they had October last. Not a soul spoke fondly of their bonny Prince Charlie. Only the word Jacobite was used, and seldom kindly.

Ten steps away from Rob MacPherson's shop, Elisabeth knew her friend was gone. The Closed sign hung askew on the door, and one of the small windowpanes was broken. The rest of the gla.s.s would soon follow, too tempting for a wee lad with a stone in his hand. She peered inside and saw no signs of life. Nothing that suggested a tailor and his son had ever lived and worked there.

"Perhaps he is staying in town with friends," Elisabeth ventured. "Or he might have traveled home to Braemar."

"Mebbe sae, milady," Gibson agreed, though she suspected he meant only to be polite.

Discouraged, she started back downhill, grateful not to see as many red-coated dragoons patrolling the High Street that morning. Whether they were sequestered in nearby Edinburgh Castle or fighting for King George in the Highland capital of Inverness, she could only guess.

When the gill bells of Saint Giles began ringing, Elisabeth took Gibson's arm, pulling him closer so he might hear her above the clamor. "I've not spoken to Mrs. Sinclair in a week. Suppose we see if she's safe and sound."

He bobbed his head. "Whatsomever ye like, milady."

With a steady wind at their backs and gray, scuttling clouds pushing east toward the Firth of Forth in the distance, the two walked down to Blackfriars Wynd. When they pa.s.sed Mr. Sprott's, Elisabeth was glad they were no longer in need of candles since they could ill afford them. Now that the sun rose long before they did, candles were only required at supper and into the night. Soon they might manage without them entirely if they went to bed with the setting sun.

They climbed Effie's stair and were surprised to find her door slightly ajar. "Mrs. Sinclair?" Elisabeth sang out, peering into the entrance hall. Several wooden kists were stationed at the door. A moment later Effie's maidservant, Betty, came round the corner toting another.

"Och, Leddy Kerr!" She nearly dropped the chest in surprise. "I'll fetch my mistress. She'll be glad to see ye afore we leave."