Here Burns My Candle Part 50

"Leave? But..." Betty was gone before Elisabeth could ask the question.

Mrs. Sinclair appeared an instant later. "My dear Lady Kerr." She pulled her into the house with both hands, thoughtfully nodding at Gibson as well. "I cannot think what brought you to my door this morning, but I am very glad to see you."

"And I you." Elisabeth looked about the school's furnishings, draped in sheets. "Betty said you are leaving?"

"Fleeing is closer to the mark," Effie confided. "An old friend of my grandfather's sent a message by courier, urging me to quit the city at once. He has some inkling of c.u.mberland's plans. I've arranged to take a carriage leaving for Berwickshire at twelve o' the clock." She closed the door, then leaned against it, catching her breath. "Your family must not remain in Edinburgh, Lady Kerr. 'Tis not safe for anyone, especially not those of our persuasion."

Elisabeth nodded, understanding. "We were planning on traveling south at Whitsuntide. But I'm afraid a carriage is out of the question."

"Are things so bad as that?" Effie asked, concern filling her small brown eyes.

"Don't worry about us for a moment," Elisabeth said, unhappy with herself for hinting at their money woes. "Once we reach Tweedsford, all will be resolved."

"I am glad to hear it," Effie said, patting her hand. "Now, I must beg your forgiveness, but..."

"We shall leave you to your packing." Elisabeth kissed each round cheek, then departed, her heart aching as they descended the turnpike stair. Would she ever see her beloved schoolmistress again? "Too many farewells," she confessed to Gibson when they reached the wynd. As they walked home, Elisabeth remembered a wintry evening when the Kerr women had struggled along the same path through the falling snow, only to find Gibson ill when they reached Milne Square. "Your health seems quite restored," she said.

"Aye, milady. Just as weel, for we'll not have Betty's help ilka Thursday."

"Oh!" Elisabeth stopped in her tracks, having completely forgotten. "Betty was to clean for us this afternoon." In truth, they could no longer afford a sixpence each week for her services. "We'll manage somehow, Gibson." She briefly considered putting a dusting cloth in Janet's hand, then discarded the idea. Better to do the work herself than endure her sister-in-law's complaining.

The two were soon home, sharing all they'd heard in the street.

"I've told Janet of my decision to return home to Tweedsford," Marjory said as Elisabeth drew closer to the fire, warming her hands. "If Sir Robert's friend is rightly informed, perhaps we should leave sooner than May."

"We should," she urged her, greatly relieved. "Effie Sinclair would never abandon her school in haste unless she was very sure."

Marjory nodded. "I expect Mrs. Pitcairn on Sat.u.r.day. If she purchases all we own, Bess, we'll be free to leave for Selkirk at once. If indeed you are ready?"

Elisabeth eyed the few coals in the grate, the single candle on the mantel, and nodded. "More than ready."

Seventy-Eight.

Much dearer be the things

which come through hard distress.

HERBERT SPENCER.

M arjory clasped her hands, hoping her anxiety did not show. "What say you, Mrs. Pitcairn? Will you buy our plenishings to sell at auction?"

The rouping wife, a tall, angular woman full of years, regarded the drawing room sofa with a practiced eye, her spectacles hanging precipitously near the end of her long nose. She nodded for a bit, then made several notations. "I'll take them a', mem. But ye'll not like the price."

Marjory's hopes plummeted. Everything depended on how many pounds and shillings the rouping wife offered. With the clear April light pouring through the window, Marjory saw her furniture through Mrs. Pitcairn's eyes, and the view was unimpressive.

The auctioneer touched the silk upholstery, slashed by the dragoons. "Someone with a deft hand mended this."

"My daughter-in-law," Marjory admitted. Over the winter months Elisabeth had employed her needle wherever possible, adding clever bits of embroidery to cover her repair work. "She is very skilled."

"Mmm." Mrs. Pitcairn spent a few more minutes taking inventory, then scratched a number in her notebook and held it out for her approval. "'Tis my best offer."

Marjory abruptly sat in the nearest chair. "Is that all?" Lord John had paid ten times that amount.

"I'll remind ye every piece is used and most are damaged." Towering over her, Mrs. Pitcairn tapped on the notebook. "Aye or nae, mem?"

Marjory closed her eyes rather than stare at the disheartening sum. "Aye."

"Sold, then." Mrs. Pitcairn closed her notebook with a snap. "I'll auction them on Friday next at the Golden Fan below Blackfriars Wynd.

My men will come round on Thursday at noontide to collect everything. Will that suit?"

Marjory nodded, the decision made for her. They would depart in five days, leaving behind an empty house.

The woman withdrew from her skirt pocket a large leather purse heavy with coins. She counted out the agreed-upon sum, deposited it in Marjory's hand, then yanked her purse shut. "'til Thursday, then. Shall we wet oor bargain?"

Heat flew up Marjory's neck. "I'm afraid the dragoons took all our whisky."

Mrs. Pitcairn clucked her tongue. "Ye'll shake the dust aff o' yer feet whan ye leave this toun."

"So I shall," Marjory agreed, suddenly very weary of living in the capital. Who could have envisioned such a day? She saw Mrs. Pitcairn to the door, then sat down at Lord John's mahogany desk in the entrance hall and released a lengthy sigh.

The house was quiet. She'd sent Elisabeth and Janet to Mr. Ramsay's circulating library for an hour, thinking the whole unseemly process might be more bearable without her daughters-in-law on hand to share her humiliation.

Gibson emerged from the kitchen, steaming cup in hand. "I thocht ye might be needing yer tea, mem."

The aroma alone revived her. Stirring in a half lump of sugar, she told Gibson, "I'll tally up the last of our debts and have you settle them for me on Monday."

Something flickered across his face. Disappointment? Fear?

Marjory reconsidered. There was no reason to wait. "Would you rather call on our creditors this afternoon?"

"Aye," he said, the relief evident on his face. She knew he took the brunt of any complaints from merchants and would be as glad as she to see their obligations met.

Marjory pulled out her cashbook and the burgeoning stack of unpaid bills, then took a long drink of tea to fortify her. The glistening pile of pounds and shillings would not be hers for long. She began her bookkeeping, praying she would not come up short. She had nothing else to sell. And nowhere else to turn.

Mrs. McIntosh, for washing: one pound, two shillings.

Mr. Stonehouse, for coal: three pounds, one shilling.

Mrs. Dunsmuir, for tea and loaf sugar: one pound, four shillings.

Marjory eyed her teacup. Having given up almost every other indulgence, she refused to feel guilty for maintaining one small habit.

She made a careful list for Gibson, indicating who was to be paid by using simple drawings. He would be making more than a dozen stops that afternoon, including one at White Horse Close to arrange a carriage for Thursday morn. After their bills were accounted for, only a dozen or so shillings remained. Marjory held the coins cupped in her palm, thinking how in days gone by she would easily lose this much at cards and think nothing of it. Now each coin was precious and not to be wasted.

With some reluctance she pressed one more shilling into Gibson's hand. "Bring us a dozen potatoes," she told him. "If you find a good price on trout in the Fishmarket, buy that as well. Let the color of the gills and the look of the eyes be your guide. And bacon from Mr. Gilchrist in Fleshmarket Close, if you will."

"Aye, mem." He'd hidden all her coins in various pockets. "I'll return as soon as ever I can."

Marjory leaned forward, but she could not see the hands on the clock in the next room. He would be home by six o' the clock, she guessed, in time to a.s.sist Elisabeth with their supper.

Shortly after Gibson departed down the stair, her daughters-in-law returned, their faces sober. "Still no news from Inverness," Elisabeth said, tugging off her cape, "though an official report cannot be long in coming. The rumors all point to a battle, but precisely where and when..." She shook her head.

"I have already lost my sons," Marjory reminded them, slipping the remaining shillings in her pocket. "Whatever the outcome, King George can take nothing else away from me. He cannot charge the dead with treason nor take lives already given."

"But we supported the prince as well," Elisabeth said softly. "With our coins and our poems and our hearts."

Janet frowned. "Are you saying we are in danger?"

"I am saying it is not King George who concerns me but his son, the Duke of c.u.mberland. His reputation marks him as heartless and cruel. He is the reason Mrs. Sinclair left in haste."

"We'll not be long behind her," Marjory promised.

"What of Mrs. Pitcairn?" Janet wanted to know. "Was the woman generous?"

"She was...honest," Marjory admitted. "At least we'll not depart Edinburgh in debt. I've asked Gibson to arrange for a morning coach on Thursday."

"Five days," Janet breathed, as if trying to take it in.

"We should start packing at once." Elisabeth ducked into the kitchen, then reappeared with three linen ap.r.o.ns. "I've a small kist in my room that should hold my few belongings."

Janet took the ap.r.o.n with obvious disdain. "I cannot believe I must pack my own trunks."

Marjory snapped back, "And I cannot believe you would expect either of us to do it for you." When Janet's mouth dropped open, Marjory felt only a little guilty.

"We'll all help each other," Elisabeth suggested. "Suppose we begin in your bedchamber."

Within the hour two large trunks were filled with Janet's petticoats, hats, gloves, and shoes. Though the dragoons had spared none of her gowns, Janet did have several pieces of jewelry the men hadn't found, including an expensive pair of gold and emerald earrings. When no one was looking, Marjory plucked them from Janet's dressing table and held them to her ears, admiring how the dark green jewels sparkled in the looking gla.s.s.

"My father gave me those," Janet said from the doorway.

Marjory quickly put the earrings back where she'd found them. "Lovely," she murmured, then returned to folding handkerchiefs. Janet easily owned a dozen, all edged in delicate lace. "We'll pack my trunk next," Marjory said. "'Twill not take long."

While she and Elisabeth labored, lining a small trunk with her nightgowns and stockings, Janet mostly watched. Marjory could not remember what it was about her older daughter-in-law that had once appealed to her. Had Janet changed? Or had she?

Marjory glanced at the window as the clock chimed six. Two more hours of daylight remained for Gibson's errands, though most shops would have closed by now. When he hadn't returned by seven o' the clock, Marjory lost interest in packing and simply stood by the window, looking down at the High Street. And when Elisabeth placed their supper on the table at eight, as the last rays of the sun were fading behind the rooftops, Marjory could barely taste her broth, however highly seasoned.

"He'll not be much longer." Elisabeth meant to comfort her, but her words carried little weight. Who knew what might have happened? Gibson was not a young man. He'd left the house with his pockets stuffed with coins. And Edinburgh was rife with strangers.

Marjory put down her spoon. "Should the three of us look for him? Perhaps together..." Her voice trailed off at the sound of footsteps on the landing. When the door opened, she flew to the entrance hall.

"Och, mem!" Startled, Gibson nearly stumbled back onto the landing.

Marjory gave him room, waving him inside. "Forgive me, but..."

"Aye, nae wonder ye're worried, late as I am." He hung his coat on the hook by his bed, then turned to her. "It took a lang time to find a' the folk. Some were at the mercat cross, ithers at the Star and Garter, and some were having supper behind their shops and couldna hear my knock." He patted his many pockets, satisfied they were empty. "'Tis done, mem. Yer carriage hame is arranged. And a' yer debts are paid."

Marjory almost kissed his brow she was so relieved. "Come, have some broth with us at table."

His bushy eyebrows drew together. "I should eat in the kitchen ..."

"Not this night." Marjory led him into the drawing room, where Elisabeth had taken her cue and had a place waiting for him.

He sat, then fished something out of his waistcoat. "I stopped by the Post Office." He held out a letter. "For ye, mem."

Marjory recognized the hand. Helen Edgar. "From La.s.swade," she announced, opening it at once.

To Lady Marjory Kerr of Milne Square

Sat.u.r.day, 12 April 1746

I arrived home after a pleasant walk.

Janet rolled her eyes. "Only Mrs. Edgar would consider walking seven miles pleasant."