Here Burns My Candle Part 8

where all is to be lost.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

H ome. Home. Home.

The words pounded in Elisabeth's heart as she fairly flew down the High Street toward Milne Square. She could not delay, or the household might wake to find her gone.

Nae, a hundred times nae!

Only now did the gravity of her situation sink in. A married woman of quality always traveled with a chaperone, not only for her own safety, but also to guard her husband's good name. Yet she'd dashed into the street without giving either concern a pa.s.sing thought. Elisabeth weighed those things now, hastening across the empty courtyard. However would she explain her absence?

Mr. MacPherson sent an urgent summons. No need to mention which MacPherson. With the rebel army upon us, our visit could not wait for dawn. That sounded plausible, did it not? I thought it might concern my Highland family. Surely the Kerrs would be sympathetic, unless the dowager demanded to know where her daughter-in-law's loyalties rested.

The first light of day followed Elisabeth up the forestair: a pale wash of gray lapping at her skirts. She turned at the landing and tarried beside Mr. Baillie's doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darker steps ahead, wishing her candle still burned.

All at once the merchant flung open his door, startling Elisabeth out of her wits.

"Leddy Kerr," he cried, "I thocht ye a bluidy rebel!" Mr. Baillie sank against the doorjamb, knocking his nightcap askew. His gray hair stuck out like pins in a cushion, and his chin bore two days' worth of stubble. "Pardon my appearance, mem. I feared the Hieland army had slipped into toun like reivers in the nicht."

"So they did," she confessed. "A small company took the guardhouse."

Mr. Baillie groaned. "Here at last, then. But are there not thousands o' men?"

Rob MacPherson's tally came to mind, but she thought better of sharing it. Instead, she repeated Donald's words. "Not so many as that."

"Whatever the number, we've an unchancie day afore us." The merchant wagged his head. "'Twas kind o' ye to bring yer auld landlord the news."

Elisabeth fell back a step. Mr. Baillie thought she was abroad for his benefit! How else to account for her appearance at his door? She held her tongue, rather than speak a lie into the cool morning air.

"Awa with ye now, Leddy Kerr." He glanced up the stair with a weary smile. "Ye'll be wanted at hame."

Elisabeth lifted her skirts and dashed up the stone steps, her heart pounding like a bra.s.s clapper, as the bells of Saint Giles tolled the hour of six. Too late, too late. Why had she tarried in the street and on the stair? Gibson and Mrs. Edgar were surely awake by now, though without Peg's a.s.sistance, they might be slower in attending to their morning duties.

When at last she eased open the front door, Elisabeth held her breath. Let the house be dark. Let the Kerrs be sleeping.

But her silent pleas were not answered.

Candles blazed in every corner, and voices echoed in the adjoining rooms. Gibson met her in the entrance hall, his voice as thin as watery porridge. "Leddy Kerr," was all he said as he gave a timid bow. Nearer the kitchen Mrs. Edgar curtsied, her face pallid.

Elisabeth slowly closed the door behind her. "Is Lord Kerr-"

"He is." The dowager stood at the threshold of the drawing room. Her hands were by her side, clenching her skirts.

Elisabeth waited for her mother-in-law to say more. To chastise or scold or belittle. Finally Elisabeth could bear the silence no longer. "I had business with Mr. MacPherson that could not wait." Her rehea.r.s.ed words sounded like nonsense to her now. "Do forgive me-"

"It is not my forgiveness you need." Marjory's features were stony. "Your husband is the one who discovered you'd abandoned his bed without a word of explanation. What were we to think? That you'd run off to Gray's Mill to conspire with the enemy?"

"Nothing of the sort," Elisabeth protested even as a measure of guilt rose inside her. She had spoken with the prince's men, and much closer to home.

Marjory moved forward, her eyes narrowing. "Or was your nighttime outing more personal in nature?"

Elisabeth gasped. "Nae!"

"That's quite enough." Donald entered the room, stepping round his mother as if she were a statue. "My wife is home now. 'Tis all that matters."

Elisabeth felt the hardness of his gaze, the coolness of his touch as he clasped her hand and drew her to his side. "Forgive me, Donald," she murmured, not caring who overheard her informal address. "I meant to return long before this."

Marjory made a st-st sound against her teeth and showed the couple her back, marching into the drawing room with a single command. "Breakfast."

While the servants hurried to do their mistress's bidding, Elisabeth remained in the quiet entrance hall with a husband who had every right to be furious with her. She turned to face him, searching for the right words. "Donald, I-"

He kissed her, his mouth hard against hers, muting her apology. When he finally eased away from her, his eyes bore a faint sheen of tears.

"Please, Donald-"

"Listen to me." His voice was rough with emotion and dangerously low. He pulled her into a corner where the household could not see them. "I know you're a grown woman, capable offending for yourself. But when I woke...when you were gone..." He gripped her shoulders as if he might shake her. "Elisabeth, you cannot imagine... you cannot fathom what I thought."

"Oh, Donald!" she cried softly. "I never meant-"

"Don't you see? I thought I'd lost you."

Her mouth fell open. "Lost me?"

"To the Jacobites. To the Town Guard. To some...lothario, some seducer of women." Donald released her, his expression one of pure agony. "You do not know what men are capable of, Bess. You do not understand."

"But I do." Oh, dear husband, I do. "I am truly sorry I left without telling you. Foolishness on my part, nothing more."

"You are many things, Bess, but foolish is not one of them." After a moment he brushed a kiss across the crown of her head, then lifted the wool cape from her shoulders. "So, what was this vital errand that coaxed you from my bed?"

Elisabeth hesitated, not wanting to anger him afresh. "You'll remember Rob MacPherson approached me in Parliament Close yesterday. He asked me to come to the shop before dawn. And to tell no one."

Donald frowned. "You were most obedient on that count, milady."

"I thought it might be news from home," she hastened to explain. "Simon is eighteen now. Old enough to follow his convictions." Would Donald grasp her meaning? Perhaps she'd best speak plainly. "Simon came out for Prince Charlie."

Donald arched his brows. "Your brother intends to fight?"

"He does. I thought the MacPhersons might know Simon's whereabouts, might take me to him." She touched his arm. "Donald, I had to go, don't you see?"

"Not entirely." His scowl seemed mostly for effect. "Why didn't you let me escort you to MacPherson's door?"

"Because you are Lord Kerr," she said simply. "I thought it best not to involve you in Jacobite matters."

"Guarding my reputation, were you?"

"As it happened, Rob met me near the town guardhouse." Elisabeth paused, certain he'd not heard the news. "I discovered the prince's men there, standing at attention."

Donald's scowl faded into a look of disbelief. "You saw the rebel army?"

"I did." Elisabeth took his arm and nodded toward the drawing room, glad to be back in her husband's good graces. "Suppose we have breakfast, and I'll tell you what's transpired while Edinburgh slept. Auld Scotland is about to have a new king."

Fifteen.

But who the pretender is, or who is King-

G.o.d bless us all-that's quite another thing.

JOHN BYROM.

S tanding in the forecourt of the palace, Marjory longed to cover her ears, so deafening was the drone of the bagpipes. But she could not risk letting go of Donald for fear of being trampled. The music, the shouting, the constant huzzahs made conversation difficult. They could only nod at one another or raise their voices like common folk.

She'd come because her loved ones had insisted. "Royalist or Jacobite, all of Edinburgh will be bound for Holyroodhouse," Donald had a.s.sured her over a hasty breakfast. Unwilling to be left behind, Marjory had reluctantly agreed to join them, though she made certain her family knew this outing was not to her liking.

The Kerrs stood amid the throng awaiting the arrival of the young pretender to the throne. Marjory refused to give him any other t.i.tle. Charles Edward Stuart was by no means her Prince Regent. Thousands filled the grounds. Nae, tens of thousands. The heath-covered Salisbury Crags loomed over the scene, silent and brooding, while all eyes were trained on the masonry palace with its matching pairs of round towers north and south topped with conical roofs.

At least the weather was tolerable. A scattering of thin clouds hung in the forenoon sky, posing no threat of rain, and a light breeze stirred the air. Unkempt heads and tartan-covered shoulders impeded her view, but if she stood just so, she could spy the old king's tower, where the Stuart heir would soon hold court.

Nae, it cannot be. Marjory swallowed hard, trying to grasp the awful truth of it: Jacobites had commandeered the Palace of Holyroodhouse.

The Highlanders crowding the streets hadn't brandished their swords or fired their pistols, but they carried them just the same, reminding the citizenry which side had won the day. Though cannon shots were fired by the royalist forces defending Edinburgh Castle, little else was done to dissuade the rebels who'd overrun their city.

Meanwhile, Marjory's neighbors had spent the morning plying the enemy soldiers with food and drink in an effort to placate them. She'd not followed suit. Meat and ale were too dear. Let the bonny prince fill their bellies. "Where is His Royal Highness?" she fumed, loath to see him, yet impatient as well.

Janet turned round to address her. "You must admit, madam, 'tis a worthy occasion. We've not had a royal visitor in Scotland for sixty years. Not since his grandfather James climbed the great stair at Holyroodhouse."

Marjory surveyed the battered stonework, the grimy windows and could only imagine the neglected palace interior. "Does he know the sorry state of his lodgings?"

"If the prince succeeds in reclaiming the throne," Andrew observed, "he'll likely reside in London."

But he cannot succeed. Must not succeed.

Marjory held her tongue, mindful of all the Jacobites within earshot. Surely Elisabeth was not sympathetic to their cause, despite that wretched business this morning. Whatever was her daughter-in-law thinking, stepping out of doors before sunrise with an invading army afoot? Naturally, Donald had defended her. Never was a lad so blinded by beauty.

From the moment they'd departed Baillie's Land, heading downhill through the Canongate, Marjory had watched her daughter-in-law survey the rebels pouring into town as if she were looking for a familiar face.

She studied Elisabeth now, resplendent in her damask gown, and hoped her daughter-in-law hadn't intentionally dressed to match the Highlanders' blue bonnets. Her cheeks were pinker than usual, and her eyes glowed with uncommon zeal. Elisabeth lacked only a white silk c.o.c.kade pinned to her bodice to be counted among the rebels. Most imprudent, la.s.s. Marjory would caution Elisabeth to store her blue gown in aromatic wormwood, at least until Sir John Cope and his troops resolved the Jacobite problem once and for all.

"He comes!" someone cried, diverting her thoughts. A fresh wave of antic.i.p.ation rippled through the forecourt. More bagpipes stuttered to life, and the shouting grew louder. "The prince! The prince!"

Marjory stood on tiptoe, trying to see what she could. When the crowd shifted, she finally spotted the young pretender, mounted on a fine bay gelding, with some seventy or eighty Highland officers following in attendance.

Her first impression was of a tall, slender man in the prime of youth, wearing Highland dress from his tartan short coat to his red velvet breeches. He conducted himself-she could not deny-in a most princely way, generously offering his hand to the many Lowland la.s.sies who ran forward to touch his garments or to bestow him with kisses and handkerchiefs.

But it was his light-colored periwig and fair skin, his elongated face and small mouth that gave Marjory pause. Who could have guessed that Charles Stuart would bear a striking resemblance to Lord Donald Kerr?

"Madam," Janet exclaimed over her shoulder, "I did not realize you had a third son."

"Nor did I," Marjory answered, surprised to find her poor opinion of the prince somewhat altered. It was hard to despise a young man who favored her cherished offspring.

"Lord Kerr is the better looking," Elisabeth insisted, "though the likeness is remarkable."

"One braw lad in the family will do," Donald said, poking his brother's shoulder. "The gentleman on the prince's left is his aide-de-camp, Lord Elcho."

Before Marjory could respond, one of her Monday tea-table companions appeared at her elbow. "A n.o.ble family," Lady Ruthven declared, nodding toward the handsome Elcho heir. "He's a year younger than your Andrew."

Marjory eyed the woman, curious to find her mingling so freely among the prince's admirers. Perhaps Charlotte had shifted her allegiance, just as she'd hinted she might at tea. "What brings you to Holyroodhouse?" Marjory asked, keeping her tone nonchalant.

The younger widow inclined her head, her dark hair swept into a loose knot, her plump mouth curled upward. "I might ask the same of you, madam."

A filthy lad in tattered clothes held up a fistful of white muslin rosettes. "c.o.c.kades for ye, leddies?"

"Certainly not." Marjory brushed away his offering as one might a cloud of midges.

"The prince's faither will be king afore lang," the boy mumbled, trudging away. "Then ye'll change yer tune."

Charlotte glanced at Lord Kerr, then leaned closer to Marjory, an odd light in her eyes. Her voice was low, conspiratorial. "Tell me, dear friend, is all quite well with Lord and Lady Kerr?"

Marjory bristled. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Only that-"

"Leddy Ruthven?" Her manservant had arrived to collect her. Hard of hearing, Trotter could be depended upon to interrupt his mistress at the worst possible moment.

"Coming, coming," she told him, patting her hair. "Well, Lady Kerr, I am bound for the mercat cross, where a host of Highland folk are busy making grand proclamations." She winked at her. "'Tis quite entertaining, I'm told. Care to join me?"

"I've seen enough." Marjory was beginning to wish she'd never come. Mrs. Edgar had done a poor job lacing her stays, and her new brocade shoes pinched her toes until they were numb. And now this strange business of Charlotte Ruthven worrying about Donald's marriage. "Dinner and a comfortable chair sound more to my liking," Marjory told her.