Here Burns My Candle Part 9

Charlotte tugged her gloves back in place. "Our paths will soon cross again. I trust your family will see you home."

The moment the widow took her leave, Elisabeth stepped round to Marjory's side, an eager expression on her face. "Could we tarry a bit longer? The prince may show himself at the tower window, perhaps even speak to his people."

"We are not his people," Marjory said evenly. "Remain here with Lord Kerr if you're determined to do so. The others can escort me to Milne Square."

"'Tis a long walk," Andrew advised, "and all uphill. Suppose I hire a sedan chair for each of us."

"There's a good lad," she said, taking his arm. "Escort me to the foot of the Canongate. We'll find chairmen eager for our sixpence."

All at once a tradesman's voice rang out from the crowd. "If it isna Lord Kerr!"

Marjory looked round to find Donald's tailor approaching their party, his son close behind, impeded by a slight limp. The two were dressed in the manner of their trade, without wigs or hats to distinguish their appearance.

"I've a wird for Leddy Kerr," the tailor said. "A private wird, if I may."

Marjory bit her tongue, lest she lash out at the man. Private? The very idea!

"If you insist," Donald said, stepping aside. "Milady, I shall be a stone's throw away if you need me."

Marjory watched Elisabeth swiftly turn and greet the men in a too-familiar manner. Why, their bowed heads were nearly touching! "Lord Kerr," Marjory fretted, "an intimate conversation between a gentlewoman and two tradesmen is not at all appropriate."

"Angus MacPherson has known Elisabeth since childhood," Donald reminded her. "Let the man speak his piece. 'Twould seem to be good news."

Marjory glanced over her shoulder. Whatever the tailor was saying, her daughter-in-law's face beneath her straw hat shone like a candle. Nae, like a chandelier.

Sixteen.

Do not think that years leave us

And find us the same!

EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON.

M y brother is here?" Elisabeth looked from father to son. "You are certain?"

Angus smoothed back the hair from his brow. "We've yet to speak with the lad, but 'twas Simon Ferguson we saw and none ither."

Her heart felt ready to burst. "Please, tell me whatever you can."

Rob leaned closer, his broad shoulders casting a shadow across her.

"We saw the lad enter the King's Park through a breach in the wa' this forenoon."

She gazed toward the expanse of land south of Holyroodhouse. "Did he look well?"

"I suppose," Angus said after a lengthy pause.

She frowned, uncertain of his meaning. "Has he been wounded, then?"

"Yer brither was limping a bit," Rob admitted, "but 'twas the change in his face we noticed. Something to do with the leuk in his e'e."

Elisabeth pictured Simon as she last saw him: a lad of twelve, green as the pastures in May. He was standing at their cottage door, watching her ride off to Edinburgh. Chocolate brown hair, like hers. Mischievous eyes. Coltish legs. And a wistful smile.

Alas, that Simon was grown and gone.

Angus clapped a hand on Rob's shoulder. "Come, Son. 'Tis cruel to keep Leddy Kerr waiting, with Simon sae near the palace. Let us awa."

Rob looked toward Donald, his features hardening. "What o' Lord Kerr?"

"I shall ask him to join us," Elisabeth said, thinking to make amends for her predawn outing. She wove through the milling crowd, her eye on her husband.

"News of Simon?" Donald asked the moment she reached him.

"Aye. He's been seen." She studied his face, trying to gauge his reaction. "Will you escort me to him?"

Donald offered his arm without hesitation. "'Twould be an honor, milady."

The martial cadence of a pibroch brayed through the air as the foursome crossed the palace grounds. Elisabeth ignored the knot in her stomach and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Soon she would hold Simon's hands in hers. Soon she would know what Rob had seen in her brother's eyes.

The MacPhersons led the way through the crowd, gesturing toward a battalion gathered in the shadow of Holyrood Abbey, adjoining the palace. "Simon wore a belted plaid," Angus said. "Ye'll nae doubt ken the weave."

Aye, she would. For many years Braemar parish had but one weaver-their father, James Ferguson-who dyed his fleeces with lichen and berries, then fastened the color with sorrel. Didn't she keep a length of plaid from home hidden in her clothes press? When she saw the same hues kilted round a young Highlander, she'd recognize her brother, no matter how much he'd changed.

Donald slowed his pace as they neared the company of soldiers. "You've no need to worry," Elisabeth a.s.sured him in a low voice. "Once he sees I'm being well cared for, Simon will gladly call you his brother."

"We shall see what he calls me," Donald muttered.

She examined the men round her, looking for a familiar thatch of brown hair beneath a blue wool bonnet her mother might have st.i.tched. A weaver like his father before him, Simon Ferguson would be well garbed. But for how long? Winter came early to Scotland, and the windswept, barren hills made a cruel bed.

Angus and Rob were deep in conversation when her gaze settled upon a young man wrapped in a Braemar plaid. He was sitting on the ground with his back against the abbey wall, his head bent over a long-branched bayonet stretched across his lap. He had the graceful hands of a fiddler. Or a tailor.

Or a weaver. Like our father.

"Simon?" she whispered, too uncertain to address him.

He looked up. Whether he'd heard her or not, she couldn't say. Nor was she certain it was her brother. The lad sitting before her hadn't shaved that week. Nae, nor any day since Lammas. Though she couldn't make out the shape of his mouth, his long nose resembled the one she saw in her looking gla.s.s.

Then his gaze met hers. And she knew.

"Simon!" She started across the trampled gra.s.s, clutching her skirts.

He leaped to his feet, his weapon forgotten. "Bess? Nae, it canna be!"

"Aye!" With a soft cry, Elisabeth threw herself into his waiting embrace. My dear brother. She buried her face in his shoulder and soaked his wool coat with her tears. Soldiers stood round them on every side-shouting, arguing, cursing-the rank odor of their bodies unavoidable. Yet Elisabeth heard but one soldier, one whose plaid smelled of heather and of home.

"Six years, Bess." He held her tight against his chest. "I feared I'd niver see ye again."

"And I, you," Elisabeth whispered, her mind flooded with childhood memories. Clambering o'er the ruins of Kindrochaide Castle. Fishing for brown trout in the Clunie Water. Weeping at their father's grave. Laughing round their mother's table. Simon, dear Simon!

Finally she eased away from him, then straightened her straw hat and dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Forgive me," she murmured, certain she'd embarra.s.sed him.

"Nae, my sister," he said gruffly. "Ye'll not apologize to me."

She looked at his unkempt hair. His dark, scruffy beard. His features carved from stone. He was the Simon she'd always known and yet he was not. "You're taller than I remembered," she finally said, keeping the rest to herself. "And broader."

He dragged a hand over his beard, his brown eyes studying her. "Ye've changed as weel, Bess."

She smiled at his gentle taunting. "I hope those changes are for the better."

"If ye mean yer fine gown, 'tis naught but cloth. And ye're a guid deal older."

"Now, Simon," she chided him. "No woman enjoys having her attire so easily dismissed. And I'll thank you not to mention my advancing years."

"Four-and-twenty," he reminded her. "Like blackbirds in a pie."

"Simon!" she scolded him. He'd proclaimed her age loudly enough anyone might hear. No gentleman would do such a thing. But her brother wasn't a gentleman. He was a weaver's son. And you, Bess, are a weaver's daughter. Her years of education fell away like scales, and she saw herself as Simon did: a simple Highland la.s.s in borrowed splendor. Older but no wiser.

Angus cleared his throat. "Leddy Kerr, ye'll be wanting to introduce yer husband, aye?"

Composing herself, Elisabeth stepped back to take Donald's arm. "Lord Kerr, may I present my brother, Simon Ferguson."

Neither man moved nor spoke, taking measure of each other.

Elisabeth implored Simon with her eyes. Please, dear brother. He'd yet to acknowledge the introduction. Do something, say something. Simon had indeed changed. A look of insolence had replaced his boyish mischief. She hadn't noticed it earlier through her tears. Now the change was unmistakable.

Finally Simon tugged at his forelock, an ill-mannered excuse for a bow. "Lord Kerr."

Elisabeth sensed the tautness in Donald's body, though he offered a slight nod in response. Relieved, she reached for a safe question to ask her brother. Anything to prompt a civil conversation. "We've been following the prince's movements," she began. "Reports in the broadsheets, news in the street. Do tell us what it was like to march with him from Perth."

"'Twas a grand adventure," Simon admitted, "fording the River Forth and marching in a lang column, three abreast." He leaned back against the abbey wall, wincing as he shifted his weight. "I twisted my leg in a ditch while tramping round Stirling Castle."

Elisabeth glanced down at his right leg, propped at an uncomfortable-looking angle. However great his pain, Simon would not welcome her sympathy. "Yet here you are, still on your feet," she said, hoping to bolster his spirits.

"I was little use at Corstorphine," he confessed, "though my strength grows by the hour." He took a few halting steps to prove it. "Whan the time comes to rout Johnnie Cope, I'll not be left behind."

"Weel said, lad." Angus beamed at him. "The prince is fortunate to have ye. Cope's men canna hope to match yer smeddum."

"I'm curious." Donald rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Was any man here ever loyal to King George?"

Seventeen.

All truths are not to be told.

GEORGE HERBERT.

E lisabeth held her breath. Donald, remember where you are. Angus, Rob, and Simon turned as one to face him. Hundreds more might have done the same, had they heard Donald's question. As it was, several men nearby regarded the Kerr party with marked interest, ears c.o.c.ked and gazes narrowed.

"We're a' leal to the king," Simon answered evenly, his brown eyes reduced to pinpoints. "The rightfu' one across the water. Divinely appointed."

Elisabeth looked to her husband. Please, Donald.

To her great relief, he slowly lowered his hands to his side. "I've no quarrel with you, lad. If G.o.d has chosen James Stuart to rule the country, and Charles Stuart after him, then rule they will."

Elisabeth rested her hands on each of their sleeves. "We'll know soon enough. For now, I hope you'll behave as brothers-in law since that is what you are."

The men nodded at each other, a silent truce.

"Begging yer pardon, Leddy Kerr." Rob MacPherson shifted from one foot to the other, either from discomfort or impatience. "My faither and I are to be at the mercat cross by one o' the clock."

Elisabeth nodded, knowing the MacPhersons were busy with Jacobite matters now that the prince and his men occupied the capital. She clasped Angus's hand with affection. "You've done my family a great service this day. We shall see you both in the High Street, I'm sure of it."

"And I shall see you at the Luckenbooths," Donald told them, "since I've need of a new frock coat."

Angus regarded him with thinly veiled surprise. "Ye'll not object to a Jacobite st.i.tching yer seams?"

"Expect my custom before Michaelmas."

"Verra guid, milord," Angus replied. After exchanging courtesies, the tailors took their leave, soon disappearing amid a sea of clansmen.

"I must attend to my duties as weel," Simon told her. "But afore ye go..." He began patting round his wool coat. "I've a letter from hame." He dug in several pockets before producing a tattered square of paper. The creases were filthy, but the seal unopened. "I've not read it," he hastened to say. "Mither bade me give it to ye, should we meet. And that we have." When a smile flitted across his mouth, Simon became the younger brother she remembered.

Elisabeth looked to her husband. "If I might have a moment alone to read her letter?"

"Your brother and I can manage without you"-he glanced at Simon-"provided we speak of the weather."

Stepping round a tottery stack of provisions, Elisabeth moved a few feet away. She'd received no more than a handful of letters from home in the six years she'd been gone. No matter how often she wrote her mother, a response seldom came. Bits of wax fell to the ground as the seal crumbled in her hands. Her throat tightened when she saw the familiar handwriting scrawled across the page. The Gaelic was ill formed and the lines uneven. But Elisabeth had only to read the words to hear her mother's lilting voice.

To Lady Elisabeth Kerr Monday, 2 September 1745 My Daughter, If this letter has found you, then so has your brother. I trust he arrived unharmed and in good health. I know you will write to me as soon as ever you can and let me know of his welfare and yours.