Here Burns My Candle Part 52

Marjory lifted her head long enough to look at the letter. That it contained ill news was certain. "Aye," she finally said. "Let us gather by the fire where it is warm, at least."

When the three women were seated, so closely their knees nearly touched, Marjory nodded at Elisabeth, who held the letter in her hands. Gibson stood at attention in silent support.

The seal did not break easily when Elisabeth opened the letter, as if defying them from the outset. She leaned toward the single candle on a stand by her elbow and began to read aloud.

To Marjory Kerr

Milne Square, Edinburgh

Thursday, 17 April 1746

Mrs. Kerr: Janet fumed, "Why does he insist on calling you 'Mrs. Kerr' when 'tis my name?"

Marjory did not answer, fearing the reason. My dear Lord John, can ever you forgive me? She held her breath as Elisabeth read on.

It is most unfortunate that your sons gave their lives on Falkirk Muir, in particular for so vile and despicable a cause.

"Our husbands were neither of those things," Janet protested.

"But their deaths were most unfortunate," Marjory said, not wanting to argue with her. Not now.

Elisabeth must have skimmed ahead. Her face was the color of milk-washed linen. When she began reading again, her voice was noticeably thinner.

I regret to inform you of the consequences of their treason and yours.

Elisabeth looked up. "Oh, my dear lady." A tear slipped from the corner of her eye. "I am so sorry."

As her daughter-in-law continued reading, Marjory sank deeper into her chair with each terrible revelation.

Lord Donald Kerr of Selkirk is declared attainted, having been found guilty without benefit of a trial.

Attainted. The worst of charges, reserved for the worst of crimes against the Crown. My poor sons. To be so disgraced and not live to defend their actions.

His Lordship's t.i.tle is revoked and has reverted to the Crown.

Elisabeth paused. "Then I am...no longer Lady Kerr."

"Nae, nor I." Marjory stared at the glowing coals, knowing what would come next. Please, please. May it not be so, Lord. Surely a grieving widow could not lose everything. Not all she owned. Not everything.

Elisabeth read the words aloud before the letter slipped from her hands onto the carpet.

Tweedsford, his former Lordship's estate in Selkirkshire, is now forfeit to the Crown, and its contents seized for payment of fines.

"Forfeit?" Janet cried. "Meaning it is no longer ours? Whatever shall we do?"

With great effort Marjory lifted her head. "We shall go home."

Eighty.

The good widow's sorrow

is no storm, but a still rain.

THOMAS FULLER.

M arjory bent down to retrieve the letter so slowly 'twas like reaching through deep water. She glanced at the final line, then was sorry she'd read it.

You and your sons were duly warned, madam. It is regrettable that none of you took notice.

I did not need your warning, milord. I needed your help. She folded the letter, covering the bold signature of Lord Mark Kerr.

Elisabeth rested her hand on Marjory's arm. A warm, comforting touch. No one spoke. Muted cries from the street and pa.s.sing footsteps on the stair were the only sounds.

Finally, when she could hold the truth inside no longer, Marjory said in a low voice, "I feared this day might come."

"Yet you said nothing." Janet sniffed.

Feeling the sting of her disapproval, Marjory confessed, "It was easier to avoid the subject. To hope it would never happen."

"But it has happened." Janet's retort bore a sharp edge. "We depended upon your sons to provide for us. And then we depended upon you."

Silently pleading for wisdom, Marjory looked at both of her daughters-in-law, at Elisabeth's trusting expression and Janet's doubting one. "We will still leave on Thursday morn," she a.s.sured them, though she was not at all sure. "We will still make our home in Selkirk. I have... acquaintances there from years past." Many years past. Perhaps too many. Marjory had not written to a single one of them since leaving home. Would they even remember her?

Janet frowned. "These friends of yours. They will provide lodging?"

"I could not ask that of them," Marjory admitted. "But they might know of a prospect..." Even saying the words, she realized the futility of such an expectation. Who would offer lodging to three penniless women?

Janet's voice rose with her ire. "You expect us to travel forty miles with no hope of a bed or a meal waiting for us?"

"We do have relatives there, however distant," Marjory told her. That, at least, was not a fabrication. Anne Kerr, one of Lord John's cousins, still resided in Selkirk.

"Perhaps we could write to these relatives?" Elisabeth had such hope in her eyes that Marjory found her own spirits lifting. No wonder Donald had loved this young woman.

"I will pen a letter at once," Marjory agreed, already composing one in her mind even as she prayed. Please let Anne be willing, Lord. Please.

"In the meantime I'll attend to our supper." Elisabeth stood, gazing down at her. "You'll find stationery and sharpened quills on Donald's secretary."

Donald. A twinge of pain. Not Lord Donald. Not ever again. Marjory waited, letting the sadness move through her. She had already lost her husband and sons. The loss of their t.i.tle was trifling in comparison.

Moments later she was seated at her tea table with paper, pen, and ink at hand. A soft rain had begun to fall, washing the windowpanes. Gazing at the pale gray sky, she considered how best to begin. I am coming home to Selkirk with my two daughters-in-law...

Marjory held the quill but could not put pen to paper. Tears stung her eyes. Did she think this was so easily managed? A few lines on a page and all would be settled? One woman might be absorbed into a household, but not three.

Still, her daughters-in-law were counting on her to provide for them. How can I, Lord, when I have nothing? She stared at the blank page, her heart aching. Janet and Elisabeth had been willing enough to accompany her to a fine estate. But Cousin Anne's humble lodgings in Selkirk were another matter. And what if Anne turned them away the moment they arrived?

I am coming home to Selkirk with my two daughters-in-law...

Nae. The prospect was too risky and far too uncertain.

Marjory pressed against her brow, holding back the pain. Must I let go of them as well? Tears dropped onto the paper as the answer became clear. Aye. She would send Janet and Elisabeth home to the Highlands. To the houses they knew and the families who loved them. However unexpected their return, a warm greeting was certain.

But not for her.

Marjory reached for a fresh piece of stationery, then bowed her head, drying her tears. Please make a way for me, Lord. Lead me and guide me.

Her memories of Anne Kerr were faint. She was perhaps six-and-thirty now, a stayed la.s.s, unless she'd finally married. Thoughtful and soft-spoken, Anne was a fair-haired woman with a gentle smile. Marjory imagined her husband's cousin standing before her as she began to write.

To Miss Anne Kerr

Halliwell's Close, Selkirk

Monday, 21 April 1746

Dear Cousin Anne: I pray this letter finds you, and finds you well.

How much to tell Anne? All of Selkirk would learn of the forfeiture when a new owner appeared at Tweedsford, if not sooner. Would her cousin be sympathetic? Or suspicious?

Alas, I have buried my husband, John Kerr, and my sons, Donald and Andrew. I am coming home to Selkirk.

There it was in ink. She would travel alone. Marjory had weathered so many difficult good-byes of late, but she could not imagine parting with both her daughters-in-law at once. Janet might be glad to be rid of her, but Elisabeth...

Marjory looked toward the kitchen. My dear Bess. The weaver's daughter from Braemar, who'd quietly won her heart. You chose well, Donald. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat and returned to her letter, praying Anne might be half so generous as Elisabeth.

Of my late husband's relatives, you are the only one I know who still resides in Selkirk. I expect to arrive on Sat.u.r.day next. Might you kindly accommodate me until I find lodgings of my own?

She hoped her cousin's eyes would gloss over the word until. It might be a long time before Marjory found somewhere else to abide. She remembered Halliwell's Close as a quaint and cozy place in the heart of town. If Anne still lived there and if she had sufficient room, might she make a home for her? For good? Please may it be so, Lord.

Marjory suddenly realized Gibson would also need somewhere to lay his head. Dare she ask for that as well?

This letter comes to you by way of our manservant of many years, Neil Gibson. I would be forever in your debt if you directed Mr. Gibson to an appropriate lodging place until I arrive.

Eagerly antic.i.p.ating the renewal of our acquaintance, Your cousin,

Marjory Kerr

She had no t.i.tle nor property to mention. Two names, nothing more. Hardly impressive. But she did not need her cousin's respect or admiration. She needed her help.

And she needed Gibson's a.s.sistance as well. Marjory found him at table, dutifully polishing the family's last three silver spoons. A more loyal servant did not exist in Christendom. "Come," she murmured, glad neither daughter-in-law was within earshot.

"What is it, mem?" he asked as she led him to the farthest corner of her chamber.

She kept her eye on the door and her voice low. "On Thursday I will take the carriage to Selkirk, just as you've arranged. But I am sending my daughters-in-law to their Highland families byway of Perth."

"Have ye not told them?"

"Nae, nor will I. Not until that morn." She sighed. "'Twill be hard enough to bid one another farewell. Better to surprise them and send them on their way."

Gibson nodded, though he did not look convinced.

"On the morrow kindly stop at White Horse Close and make the necessary changes in our arrangements."

"Aye, mem. But I'll need mair shillings to do sae."