Here Burns My Candle Part 54

When she reached Milne Square, Marjory paused for a final look at the ten stories of Baillie's Land. Few pedestrians were out at that early, rainy hour. Just as well, for the Kerrs did not have time to linger. They turned left and started down the High Street, the lads cavorting round the plainstanes with their heavy leather trunks as if they weighed nothing. Marjory did not bother to scold them.

"Our coach driver will toss them about as well," Elisabeth said, reading her mind.

When they walked by Halkerston's Wynd, Elisabeth gazed down the narrow lane but said nothing. Marjory did not ask why.

The rain, no more than a nuisance at first, began coming down harder, and the wind pressing on their backs was more insistent. "If we had a sail, we might be at the foot of the Canongate by now," Janet said, raising her voice above the elements.

They were indeed moving quickly, already pa.s.sing d.i.c.kson's Close. Marjory's heart began to thump at a faster pace. She'd imagined a leisurely stroll through town while she told her daughters-in-law their true destinations. Instead, time was slipping through her hands.

When they reached Blackfriars Wynd and paused for a last look at Effie Sinclair's fine boardinghouse, Marjory knew she could delay their discussion no longer. She stepped between her daughters-in-law, hooking her arms with theirs so they might all walk together.

"My, this is cozy," Janet said as they started out, their progress disjointed until they matched their gaits.

Marjory swallowed. Help me say what I must. Help them understand. "I have... something to tell you both."

When they turned toward her, Marjory met each woman's gaze in turn: Janet, with her wide-set hazel eyes, and Elisabeth, with her luminous blue ones. "I have given this a great deal of thought," she continued, wishing she did not have to lift her voice to be heard above the rain and wind. "As much as I long to have you with me in Selkirk, your mothers are the ones who deserve your company."

Elisabeth's downcast expression took her by surprise. "Now that my mother has remarried... well, I am not at all sure she would take me back into her home."

Marjory's breath caught. "Oh, of course she would. Even now she may be writing to you, pleading with you to come home to Castleton. No doubt Lady Murray feels quite the same."

Janet pulled them to an abrupt stop. "What are you saying, madam? Is our company abhorrent to you? Would you prefer we not join you in Selkirk?"

Marjory looked from one to the other. Already she'd made a terrible mess of things.

She started again. "What I would prefer is that we be honest with one another." Marjory eased them forward, drawing them closer. "Although I've sent Gibson ahead with a letter for Cousin Anne, I'm not certain she has room for three of us. And if she does not, where else would we stay?" She exhaled, overwhelmed again by the thought of it. "I cannot take that risk."

"Nor can we abandon you." Elisabeth's voice was strained. "Our husbands would surely expect us to care for their mother."

"But you have," Marjory insisted. "You've loved my sons and mourned them honorably." She squeezed their arms with genuine affection. "G.o.d bless you, my daughters. You've shown nothing but kindness to me."

Janet's gaze narrowed. "I thought 'twas honesty you were after."

"But you're still here, Janet," Marjory reminded her. "You did not quit Edinburgh after your husband joined the prince nor after our sad news from Falkirk. All through the autumn and winter, and now through the spring, you've remained faithful to me."

For a fleeting instant Marjory saw a hint of warmth in her daughter-in-law's eyes. Janet heard me, Lord. 'Tis a start.

The rain had eased a bit. All three of them lifted their heads to gaze at the Netherbow Port soaring above them with its round turrets and square clock tower. They were truly leaving the city now, pa.s.sing through the narrow gate for the last time.

Once they reached the Canongate, Marjory tried a new approach. "It is time you both thought of the future. You're still young enough to marry again and bear children. And well you should."

"But we're in mourning." Janet's whining tone had returned.

"Aye," Marjory agreed. "Come January next, though, you'll leave your black gowns behind."

Janet frowned. "And choose a new husband?"

"He might do the choosing," Marjory reminded her, "or his mother might." As I chose you, Janet.

She looked up to be sure their young porters were still in sight. It seemed the rain had put a damper on their spirits. They were trudging along now, single file, yet keeping the trunks out of the puddles.

Elisabeth spoke, her tone thoughtful. "Effie Sinclair told us we would honor our husbands best by remaining widows and caring for you."

"So she did." Marjory wished the venerable lady had said otherwise. "You'll not be putting aside your vows to my sons. Their deaths release you to marry again. And I release you from any obligation as well." Her words no doubt sounded cold, yet she was setting them free for their own good. Surely they could see that.

Elisabeth stopped and turned toward her. "I do not wish to be released. My place is with you, Marjory. You are the one who knows the Almighty."

For a moment she was speechless. "You would risk everything and come with me... because of my faith?"

"Aye." Elisabeth's sincerity only made things worse.

Marjory turned to her other daughter-in-law, hoping for the answer she wanted. "And you, Janet. Is it your intention to join me in Selkirk as well?"

Janet nodded, though with perhaps less conviction. "'Tis my duty, mem."

Marjory stepped back, nearly throwing her hands in the air in frustration. She'd already paid for their travel on the northbound coach. They couldn't come with her now even if she wanted them to. And she truly did not. Not with her future so uncertain.

She looked at their dear faces and was undone.

Please, please do not make me hurt your feelings.

Marjory prayed for wisdom and began anew. "What do you think you'll find in Selkirk?" she asked them. "A royal burgh, aye, but with few prospects for marriage. I'm certain I will not marry again. And if I did, would you wait for me to have two more fine sons for you to wed?"

Elisabeth touched her arm. "Marjory, we are not looking for husbands-"

"Not now, perhaps. But when your time of mourning ends, what then? Selkirk has cobblers, weavers, tanners, coopers, and an alehouse keeper. None of them are t.i.tled. None will keep you in velvet and silk, as my sons did."

"But I am the daughter of a weaver," Elisabeth said. "I would be going home to a rustic cottage in a Highland clachan far smaller than Selkirk." She leaned down to meet her gaze. "Do you not want to take us with you, Marjory?"

Of course I do. Very much. And yet I do not. For your sakes.

"'Tis G.o.d's will," Marjory said as firmly as she could. "He has seen fit to humble me. But I cannot do the same to you." She started downhill toward White Horse Close at a loss for what else to tell them, except the inescapable truth.

They were traveling north. They were going home.

And so was she.

Eighty-Three.

Faith is the flame that lifts the sacrifice to heaven.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

E lisabeth followed close behind her mother-in-law, desperate to convince her. "Being poor doesn't frighten me. Nor does widowhood. But returning to a home where the Almighty is not worshiped, where the Buik is not read... truly, that is my greatest fear."

Not my only fear, dear Marjory. But the only one that matters.

Marjory slowed her steps. "Are you saying your mother doesn't believe as we do?"

Elisabeth hesitated, weighing her words. "My mother serves... a different G.o.d." Say it, Bess. Speak the truth. "I once did the same. 'Twas a nameless one and powerless as well."

There. A secret no more.

She held her breath. Please, Marjory. Please understand.

Beneath her woolen hood a troubled look fell across her mother-in-law's brow. "Did Donald know of this... different G.o.d of yours?"

"He did not," she hastened to explain. "No one in Edinburgh knew. But I've abandoned the auld ways. In truth, I should have done so long ago. You can be certain 'tis finished." Her courage nearly spent, Elisabeth bowed her head, her eyes fixed on the plainstanes. One thing remained. "Can you possibly forgive me?"

After a lengthy silence, she felt the touch of Marjory's gloved hand on her cheek, lifting her face until their gazes met.

"'Tis not my forgiveness you need, Bess." Even so, mercy shone in her mother-in-law's hazel eyes. Sorrow was there as well, like a thin layer of gauze. And a tender regard she'd never hoped to find.

"I'm grateful for the Lord's mercy," Elisabeth said softly. "And for yours. Promise you will take me with you? For I cannot go home. Truly, I cannot."

The a.s.surance she longed for did not come. Instead her mother-in-law abruptly turned toward White Horse Close. "Ladies, we must not tarry a moment longer. Coachmen favor a prompt departure, Mr. Dewar in particular."

Elisabeth hurried after her with Janet on her heels. Did her sister-in-law wish to return to the Highlands? Or was her heart set on Selkirk too? If only they'd found a moment to speak in private! 'Twas too late now. Too late for many things.

But never too late to pray. Strengthen thou me according unto thy word.

No sooner did her heart lift up her request, than the answer resounded inside her. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee.

As they neared White Horse Close, Elisabeth saw the lads with their leather trunks stationed at the pend, shifting from one foot to the other. The rain had stopped but only to catch its breath. Solid gray clouds promised a thorough soaking along their journey. Elisabeth had worn her light wool cape and packed her heavier one, thinking the air might grow warmer as they headed south.

Now she was going north.

Elisabeth shivered, only in part from the wind. Something had to be done. Might she yet persuade her?

"Come, lads." Marjory's voice echoed off the vaulted walls of the pend. "Carry our trunks to their proper coaches." She walked ahead of them, weaving her way through the crowded courtyard.

Elisabeth and Janet followed her, holding their black skirts above the muck. Porters and stablers, farriers and horse hirers were busy about their work, sending folk on their way to London or Glasgow or Carlisle. The smell of horseflesh and human sweat, of mud and dung and hay and oats was almost overpowering.

Janet looked to the inn door at the far end, her expression pensive. "Nae soldiers on the stair."

As Elisabeth gazed at the second-floor windows, memories a.s.sailed her. Of her last night with Donald in a small, dank room lit by two guttering candles. Of his bold touch, his warm kiss, his lean body next to hers. Of the promises he'd made but had not kept. Of the mercy he'd asked for and received.

"Six months ago..." Janet sighed.

Elisabeth looked round at the jumble of peaked roofs and stone forestairs of White Horse Close. "'Tis difficult to be here and to remember."

"Harder still to leave Edinburgh." Janet sniffed. "When I think of the b.a.l.l.s at a.s.sembly Close, of the friends Andrew and I made ..."

Elisabeth turned and reached for her hand, grateful when her sister-in-law did not pull back. "Janet, I am sorry you and I were not closer."

"How could we be?" Janet asked, a wounded look in her eyes. "You were t.i.tled, and I was not. You were always the bonniest la.s.s in the room, and I..." She started to pull away.

Elisabeth squeezed Janet's hand before she slipped from her grasp. "Those things no longer matter. If indeed they ever did."

"Perhaps," was all Janet said.

Marjory hurried up, rather fl.u.s.tered. "We've little time left," she told them, the hood of her cape pushed back. The rain had turned her auburn hair into a halo of curls and wisps. "Mr. Rannie is your coachman. He will drive you as far as Perth, then hire another carriage for each of you. All has been paid in advance."

Janet's frown deepened. "When did you decide this? And why did you not consult us?"

Marjory sighed. "When Lord Mark's letter arrived and I knew Tweedsford was lost to us." She looked at Janet with compa.s.sion in her eyes. "I did not ask your opinion, because I feared you might object-"

"But we do object," Janet insisted. "You cannot simply cast us aside."

"By no means," Marjory said firmly. "I am sending you home to your mothers because I care for you. And because they can provide for you." She leaned forward and kissed Janet's cheek. "I want only the best for you, my dear. Andrew was fortunate to have you for his wife."

Janet did not respond, merely kissed her cheek in return, then sighed. "'Twould seem I am bound for Dunkeld since you've made all the arrangements."

"So I have." When Marjory pressed two shillings into her hands, Janet's scowl eased.

Elisabeth kept her hands by her side. I don't want your shillings, Marjory. Please don't make me take them.

"Come and meet Mr. Rannie," their mother-in-law was saying. "I've asked him to take special care of both of you." Marjory guided them across the paved courtyard to a well-used black coach pulled by two horses, harnessed and ready for their day's work. "Here they are, sir. My daughters-in-law, Mrs. Donald Kerr and Mrs. Andrew Kerr."

"Leddies." Mr. Rannie doffed his hat, then swung open the narrow door. "If ye will." Not much taller than Marjory, the st.u.r.dy coachman had ginger hair, a close-clipped beard, and years of travel carved into his face. "Nae time to waste."

Her heart pounding, Elisabeth eyed their trunks being hoisted to the top of the carriage, then watched her sister-in-law climb through the narrow door, managing her hoops and skirts with ease.

I am next. Elisabeth could barely breathe. Please, Lord. What am I to do?

"Good-bye, then," Janet said, leaning through the door.

Marjory reached up to touch her cheek. "G.o.dspeed, dear girl. Kindly give my best regards to Lady Murray."

While Janet settled back on the upholstered seat, Marjory turned, looking up at her expectantly. "Now then, 'tis your turn, Elisabeth."

She waited, not moving, not breathing. Help me, help me.

"Elisabeth?" Marjory said again.

"Bess," she whispered at last. "You promised to call me Bess."

"So I did." Marjory pressed her lips together, her chin trembling. "My precious Bess."

Elisabeth clasped her mother-in-law's hands, imploring her with her eyes, with her voice, and with her heart. "Please, Marjory. You must believe me. I cannot go home to Castleton. I cannot."

"But you must," Marjory said, clearly agitated. "Your sister-in-law is going home to Dunkeld-"