Here Burns My Candle Part 55

"And I am going home with you." Her voice broke. "Please... please do not turn me away. Don't you see? My father and brother are dead, and my mother will not have me. You are my only family now, Marjory. You are all that I have."

"Oh, Bess-"

"Please! 'Tis my duty to go with you. And my calling. Aye, and my joy." Tears spilled down her cheeks. "When I married your son, I left my name and my family behind. I am a Kerr now and always will be."

"But-"

"Nae!" Elisabeth tightened her grip. "I am going with you to Selkirk. Just as you said, 'tis G.o.d's will. Don't you see, dear Marjory? You belong to him. And so do I."

Eighty-Four.

Hope, like the gleaming taper's light,

Adorns and cheers our way.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

M y dear Bess." Marjory could not see her sweet face for the tears clouding her eyes. "'Tis too great a sacrifice."

"Nae, 'tis no sacrifice at all." Elisabeth squeezed her hands. "Not when you love someone."

Marjory could not speak. Could barely swallow. How can she love me, Lord? How can you love me?

"Will the leddy be taking the coach or not, mem?" Mr. Rannie held the door open, his patience wearing thin.

Elisabeth answered for her. "Not this coach." She released Marjory's hands, then pointed to the top, where the luggage was stored. "If you might retrieve my trunk. That small brown one there."

Janet was on her feet at once, sticking her head out the door. "Are you not coming with me?"

Elisabeth shook her head. "You'll be in good hands with Mr. Rannie. He'll see you home to Dunkeld."

Janet glared at him. "You are quite certain I will be safe, sir?"

"Only if you remain seated," Mr. Rannie told her firmly.

With an exaggerated groan, Janet settled back into her seat, making a show of smoothing her skirts. "I suppose Lady Murray will not mind so very much. I am, after all, her only daughter."

"G.o.dspeed," Elisabeth told her, stepping away as other travelers prepared to board the coach.

At Mr. Rannie's curt nod, a lad pulled down Elisabeth's trunk, then stood with it on his shoulder. "Whaur does it go, milady?"

"With my mother-in-law's." Elisabeth pointed to another black carriage with two pa.s.sengers already waiting inside. "See her leather trunk on top? There's just enough room to fit mine next to it."

As her trunk bobbed across the courtyard, Mr. Rannie eyed them both, his expression darkening. "Ye'll not be expecting to have yer shillings returned to ye? The ither seat on the northbound coach is paid for, whether it has a leddy sitting on it or not."

Marjory's heart sank. Oh, Lord, now what's to be done?

But her daughter-in-law wasn't ruffled in the least. "'Tis only fair, Mr. Rannie. You may keep your shillings. I wish you well on your journey."

His brief scowl having vanished, he doffed his hat once more. "Guid day to ye, then, leddies."

"Come." Elisabeth tugged on Marjory's sleeve. "Let's see what can be done. What is our coachman's name?"

"Mr. Dewar," the man said, marching up to them. "And ye, mem, have delayed oor departure." Short and round, stuffed into a broadcloth coat, Mr. Dewar nodded his bald head toward his coach. "I've folk bound for Galashiels wha are anxious to be aff."

"Have you room for another pa.s.senger?" Elisabeth asked him, looking over his shoulder. "I have decided to join my mother-in-law."

"Aye," he said, rubbing his thick hands together. "I have the room if ye have the siller."

Marjory felt her purse, woefully light. She could spare most of it. But it would not be enough. Might he be merciful to two widows? She pulled out her last four shillings, leaving naught but pennies behind.

"'Tis six shillings to Selkirk," Mr. Dewar reminded her. "That's what yer man paid me for yer seat, mem, and what I'll ask for the young leddy's seat as weel."

Marjory looked back at Janet's coach, already turning in the courtyard, heading for the pend and the street beyond. Too late to send Elisabeth north now. Lord, can you not help us?

"Mr. Dewar." Elisabeth was tugging off her gloves. "You say 'tis silver you need?"

"Aye, mem." He shook the four shillings in his hand. "Two shillings mair and ye'll be bound for Selkirk. Aff for a visit, aye?"

"Nae, off for good," Elisabeth said confidently. "I'm told Selkirk has a fine auld kirkyard. I expect I'll be buried there someday."

The stout coachman blanched. "Not onie time soon, I hope."

"Nae. Lord willing, I will have many years with my mother-in-law." Elisabeth smiled down at her, then stretched out her graceful hands. "As you see, Mr. Dewar, I have two silver rings. And very fine rings they are. Broader and thicker than most and made of the finest sterling."

He eyed them with interest. "So they are. Were ye thinking o' paying for yer seat with yer rings? Even with the shillings, they'll not be quite enough."

Marjory watched, aghast, as Elisabeth calmly slipped both rings off her hands. Is there nothing else that can be done, Lord?

Elisabeth studied each silver band carefully, reading the inscriptions inside. "I have already left this one behind." She placed among his shillings the intricately carved ring Marjory had often admired. "But this love will live in my heart forever."

When Elisabeth added her silver wedding band to the coachman's coins, Marjory could bear it no more. If her daughter-in-law could make such a sacrifice, could she not do the same? With trembling hands she removed Lord John's ring and quietly laid it on top.

"Oh, Marjory." Elisabeth touched the slender indentation on her ring finger that had taken thirty years to form. "Are you certain?"

She nodded, overcome. Very certain.

Mr. Dewar cupped his hands round his silver, grinning broadly. "Now I'm satisfied and will be mair sae whan we're aff. Leddies?"

Elisabeth stepped back so Marjory might board the carriage first.

Marjory's knees barely supported her as she climbed inside. Help me deserve her, Lord. Help me be worthy of her affection. To have such a daughter-in-law caring for her needs was a gift only the Almighty could have provided. Surely he would see to both their needs. Aye, surely he would.

Marjory sat facing the front of the carriage, grateful the other two pa.s.sengers had chosen to sit facing the back. She always felt queasy watching the scenery pa.s.s in the wrong direction. And she wanted to look forward now. Toward Selkirk. Toward home.

A moment later Elisabeth was seated beside her, arranging her skirts. "Aren't we a pair, traveling in our black gowns?" she said gently.

The two gentlemen seated across from them both lifted their hats. A father and son, Marjory decided.

"You have our deepest sympathy, ladies," the older of the two men said. He was perhaps fifty and the other man a few years older than Bess. "Since Mr. Dewar has not introduced us, please permit me to do so. I am Mr. Thomas Hedderwick of Galashiels, and this is my son, William."

Marjory nodded. Father and son. Just as I thought.

"We're both pleased to meet you," Elisabeth responded. "I am Mrs. Donald Kerr, and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. John Kerr."

Marjory's smile tightened at the sound of her new name. Mrs. John Kerr. She was still a lady, she reminded herself. Still a gentlewoman. There were some things even King George could not take away.

The carriage jolted forward, tossing them about like so much luggage.

Marjory righted herself, sitting up a bit straighter, all at once feeling rather constrained by her whalebone stays. She would not lace them so tightly on the morrow. Nae, nor the day after that.

When she took a full breath, a strange and not unpleasant sensation came over her.

It wasn't fear. Not this time. It was freedom.

WHITE HORSE CLOSE.

Author Notes.

Farewell, Edina! pleasing name,

Congenial to my heart!

A joyous guest to thee I came,

And mournful I depart.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O h, Edinburgh. If you only knew how often I think about your narrow, crooked streets and your misty-moisty air and your splendid craggy castle, so close to the sky it's like something from a fairy tale.

The Kerr women are eager to leave Edinburgh and rightly so, but I cannot wait to return to this fun, funky, and altogether fascinating city. Though a great deal has changed since Prince Charlie's arrival in September 1745, it's astonishing how much of the Old Town remains. All the main thoroughfares are in place: Gra.s.smarket, Lawnmarket, High Street, and Canongate. On opposite ends of the Royal Mile, Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse continue to welcome visitors, both royal and common. And on any given afternoon you may hear the skirl of the pipes or spy a braw lad in a tartan kilt and know without a doubt you're not in Kansas anymore-or in Kentucky, for that matter.

Alas, Milne Square was swept away when construction on the North Bridge began in 1763. And though the Tron Kirk still stands, it's no longer a place of worship. But you can blithely stroll through the pend into White Horse Close or sit on a wooden pew inside Saint Giles or climb atop the Salisbury Crags and imagine Elisabeth Kerr by your side, taking in the fine view.

For character names I usually turn to kirkyards and census records, but for this novel I had a gem of a resource: A Directory of Edinburgh in 1752, compiled by J. Gilhooley. Since these are fictional folk, I played mix and match with most of the names, but you'll find a number of historical characters waltzing through the pages of Here Burns My Candle, including Margaret Murray of Broughton with her white c.o.c.kades; Thomas Ruddiman, the publisher of the Caledonian Mercury; and Mrs.

Effie Sinclair, who taught the mother of Sir Walter Scott. Allan Ramsay, whose circulating library is mentioned, doesn't have a speaking role, but here's the juicy bit: he was secretly a Jacobite.

By the by, the Sa.s.senachs-that is, the English-called the first battle Prestonpans because of the location, but the Highlanders called it Gladsmuir because of Thomas the Rhymer's prophecy. In the same way, what the Highlanders called the Jacobite Rising, the English called the Jacobite Rebellion. As with all history, much depends on where you're standing. Today most folk refer to the last Rising simply as "the '45."

Lord Mark Kerr-p.r.o.nounced "care" with a wee roll to the r-played an interesting role in the '45. After Sir John Cope and his troops were humiliated at Gladsmuir, Sir John supposedly fled to Berwick, the northernmost town in England. Lord Mark greeted him with the wry observation that Sir John was the first general in Europe to bring news of his own defeat. Whether the tale is true or simply a Jacobite fable meant to discredit Sir John, the story has stuck to this day, thanks to one verse of the popular Jacobite song "Hey Johnnie Cope": Says Lord Mark Car, "Ye are na blate;

To bring us the news o' your ain defeat;

I think you deserve the back o' the gate,

Get out o' my sight this morning."