Here Burns My Candle Part 29

The truth. Elisabeth examined the outside of the letter, which bore no name or address. Odd. Even privately delivered letters, which did not travel through the Post Office, were usually addressed in the event they were lost en route.

She edged closer to the window and its meager gray light, then broke the seal and unfolded the single paper, her apprehension growing. Not only was her name not on the outside; it was not on the inside either, though the letter was clearly from Donald. She recognized his hand at once.

Thursday morning, 31 October 1745 Lord willing, we will see each other this evening in the palace forecourt before I depart. Whatever you can or cannot manage to say or do, I am determined to give you a complete accounting-for my sake as a means of confession, but most of all for your sake.

When she saw what followed, Elisabeth sank deeper into her chair. Why, Donald? Why must you tell me this? In his bold, almost careless handwriting he'd scrawled the names of all his conquests. Many women. Stunned, Elisabeth whispered their names aloud.

Susan McGill of Warriston's Close

Maggie Hunter of Brown's Land

Barbara Inglis of Libberton's Wynd

May Robertson of d.i.c.kson's Close

Jane Montgomerie of Geddes Close

Betty Jameson of Boswell's Court

Lucy Spence of Halkerston's Wynd

A blur of faces rose before her. Fair hair, brown hair, red hair, black hair. Some younger, most older than she. They were not among the gentry. She did not know them well. Yet she had stood beside them at the Luckenbooths, eying the gold jewelry at Mr. Low's. Sat across from them at the Tron Kirk on a Sabbath Day. Reached for the same ribbon at Mrs. Auchenleck's millinery.

Nae! How could she see these women in the High Street without weeping, without crying out, without calling them what they were? Hizzies. Limmers. Howres.

Her stomach in knots, she stared down at the letter, desperate for an end to the pain. But Donald had not finished unburdening his conscience.

I am sorry to report there were also a handful of maidservants about the city, whose names I do not recall. And Anna Hart, as you no doubt surmised.

I have a weakness...

More than a weakness. A sickness.

Tears stung her eyes. Not because of the scandalous number, but because of the appalling manner in which Donald Kerr used women and cast them aside. Her hands gripped the letter so tightly her nails dented the paper. You are not the man I married. You are not the man I loved. My Donald was caring and thoughtful and true...

Nae. She was deluding herself still. Her husband was none of those things. With her eyes swimming, she could barely make out the rest.

I would never burden you with this if I did not believe, with all my heart, you would rather know the worst and be done with it.

Did he think this knowledge would somehow put her mind at rest? That knowing the truth would make it easier to bear? Oh, Donald. I do not know which of us is the greater fool.

There are no others. In the months to come, if you hear my name whispered about, you will know what is true and what is false.

You are the false one, Lord Kerr. Angry with herself, angrier with him, Elisabeth yanked the handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her wet cheek. False to me, false to your family.

Please destroy this and do not bind these names to your heart. I have promised to change, and so I shall.

She huffed at his letter as if Donald himself were standing before her. How could he change his ways while riding through English villages full of maidservants who might gladly welcome a handsome Scotsman into their beds? Elisabeth wanted to believe him-what faithful wife would not?-but she had no evidence of change and far too much proof of wrongdoing.

She read the last paragraph, the letters growing smaller as he neared the bottom of the paper.

If you forgave me before I left, now you know the full extent of your mercy. If you have not forgiven me, then we are of the same mind, for I cannot forgive myself.

There was no signature. Any man might have written it. Had the letter fallen into the wrong hands, only the women listed would be at risk of public scandal. Donald, how could you be so heartless? She squeezed her damp handkerchief until her fingers hurt. And how could I have been so blind? Hadn't she ignored the evidence? Dismissed the gossips? Pretended his flirting meant nothing instead of facing the truth unfolding before her eyes? Aye, a hundred times, aye.

You are forgiven.

She'd said the words last night, drawing upon a power not her own, knowing only that Donald had been unfaithful yet ignorant of all the shocking details. But she could not unsay what had been said nor undo what had been done. And what of his conquests, this litany of women? Was she expected to forgive them as well?

Elisabeth leaned back against the upholstery, letting her anger and disappointment and heartache wash over her, too exhausted to wrestle with her feelings any longer. As if from miles away, sounds floated through the house. Marjory and Janet chatting softly in the next room. Mrs. Edgar preparing dinner in the kitchen. Gibson setting their places at the drawing room table.

Unbidden, one of the names from Donald's letter p.r.i.c.ked her memory like a needle. Lucy Spence of Halkerston's Wynd. Elisabeth sat up, her mind clearing. Hadn't she met Lucy on Wednesday eve in Milne Square? The young widow without the beggar's badge, who'd held out her hand for a coin.

Lucy's voice taunted her. I've a gentleman waiting for me at White Horse Close.

Was Donald that gentleman? If so, then he'd not changed at all, breaking his vow within an hour of making it. Unless Lucy Spence meant someone else, some other gentleman...

Elisabeth rose to her feet, weary of knowing too little, even wearier of knowing too much. Studying the letter once more, she committed each of their names to memory. Do not bind them to your heart. Donald knew nothing about the workings of a woman's mind. Elisabeth would see these names and imagine their faces for the rest of her life.

But she would indeed destroy the letter. No hiding place was dark enough, no secret drawer secure enough to conceal such a brutal record of betrayal. She leaned over the fireplace and touched a corner of the letter to a glowing hot coal.

When the flame began to lick the edges, Elisabeth let his unsigned letter slip from her hands into the grate and watched Donald's sins turn to ash.

Forty-Five.

For who, alas! has lived,

Nor in the watches of the night recalled

Words he has wished unsaid

and deeds undone.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

I shall return no later than eight o' the clock," Marjory informed her daughters-in-law, who were both settled close by the fire, books in hand. Since the abrupt departure of the tailor's son that morning, Elisabeth had grown strangely quiet and had spent most of the day in seclusion, sewing. Janet, on the other hand, had not stopped talking and had followed Marjory about the house, filling the air with lively, meaningless chatter.

"Well, I shall reappear far later than eight," Janet was saying now, looking rather like a cat with its paw on a mouse's tail. "Lord and Lady Dalziel are famous for their supper parties. And the guestlist promises to be even more delicious." A glittering young couple in Edinburgh society, the Dalziels shed their radiance on any they drew into their circle, Janet and Andrew included.

Marjory smiled at her older daughter-in-law, thinking of next summer. A nursemaid would be required. Mrs. Gullane of nearby Carruber's Close might suffice. And they'd need a wee cradle fas.h.i.+oned from oak to match Andrew's bedchamber furnis.h.i.+ngs. Mr. Blyth in Chamber's Close could manage that. Marjory knew she was getting ahead of herself, but she couldn't help imagining her sons back home and a grandson newly arrived.

At present she was not entirely pleased with the fit of her velvet gown. She consulted her looking gla.s.s yet again and shook her head. Too snug in the bodice, too short in the waist. Had Miss Callander erred? Or had Mrs. Edgar's biscuits taken their toll? Marjory lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders, drawing in her stomach. If she stood just so, Lady Falconer's guests might not notice the poor fit. Most of them would be dear friends who'd seen her wearing this gown before and would hardly notice.

Marjory glanced at the elegant card once more. Swirls of black ink covered the crisp white stock with gilding round the edges. A musical evening at the home of Lady Joanna Falconer in Pearson's Close. On the first of November at five o' the clock. The invitation had arrived the week Donald and Andrew enlisted and so was promptly mislaid. Had Elisabeth not found it by accident that forenoon, propped on the drawing room mantelpiece behind a neglected stack of books, Marjory would not be eying the clock now, dressed and eager to be off.

Of late she'd begun to miss her tea-table companions and her whist-playing friends, all of whom were sure to be in attendance: Lady Wood-hall, Lord Dun, Lady Gla.s.sie, Mrs. Forbes, Lady Northesk, and, alas, Lady Ruthven. Marjory would avoid Charlotte as gracefully as she could, knowing the others would make her welcome.

"'Tis a shame Lady Falconer did not include you in her invitation," she told Elisabeth, who would spend the evening alone. "Unfortunately, her drawing room is small and her list of acquaintances rather long." At nearly seventy years of age, Lady Joanna Falconer was one of Marjory's wisest and kindest of friends. Joanna would never exclude someone for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Not even a friend's Jacobite daughter-in-law.

"Had she invited me, I could not attend," Elisabeth reminded her, touching her black gown. "I shall be quite content to sew."

"Use all the candles you need," Marjory told her, feeling generous. "Shall we go, Gibson?"

The walk to Pearson's Close was not far enough to require a sedan chair, but it was very much uphill. Marjory kept a firm grip on Gibson's arm, minding her footing on the slippery plainstanes. Though the rain had ended, the air was still damp. Fog creeping up from the Firth of Forth swirled round her cape.

"How empty the High Street is," she said with a s.h.i.+ver. Doors were closed and shutters were fastened as if 'twere midnight, not a half hour past sunset. Highlanders, with their tartan trews and noisy bagpipes, no longer pervaded the scene. An eerie silence remained in their wake.

"I wonder who our musicians might be this evening," Marjory said, if only to keep her spirits up. Like the gray and chilling atmosphere, a sense of grimness, of sobering consequences, hung about the town.

"Here we are, mem." Gibson turned right into Pearson's Close, holding his lantern high as the narrow walls swallowed up what little light remained.

Marjory stepped over the gutter that ran down the center of the close, holding up her skirts and wis.h.i.+ng she might hold her nose as well. Winter was an improvement over summer, but only a little. When they reached the forestair leading up to Lady Falconer's door, Marjory heard familiar voices and saw the s.h.i.+mmer of candles in the windows. Her heart lifting, she hastened up the stair like a child come home for Yuletide.

Instead of a bell or knocker, the entrance sported an iron ring, which Gibson dragged up and down a notched rod. Though Marjory winced at the grating noise, many an Edinburgh residence had its risp.

She held her breath in antic.i.p.ation, already picturing Lady Falconer's snowy hair and bright eyes. When the door opened, Gibson stepped forward to announce her to Chisholm, the butler, whose stern visage made a poor showing for his mistress.

"Leddy Kerr o' Milne Square," Gibson said proudly.

But his counterpart frowned. "I dinna believe Leddy Falconer was expecting ye, mem."

"Not expecting me?" Marjory blinked at him. "But I received an invitation." She touched her velvet reticule and realized the card was not inside. "It seems I've left it at home, but surely the invitation itself is not needed." Marjory tried to see round him. "Perhaps if I might speak to Lady Falconer in person."

Chisholm's frown deepened. "The leddy is presently with her guests."

"But I am meant to be one of them!" Marjory insisted, her voice rising. "If you please, sir, let me enter."

Behind him a dozen conversations faded into silence. "Chisholm?" Lady Falconer's voice floated toward the door. "Have Lady Kerr step into the entrance hall."

Marjory crossed the threshold, her feet leaden, her heart lodged in her throat. "Lady Falconer, whatever is the matter?"

Her elderly friend approached, pewter-colored taffeta rustling with each step. "I am surprised to see you here, Lady Kerr." The jewels in her white hair sparkled in the candlelit hall. But her gaze was not welcoming and her voice cooler still.

"Was an invitation sent to me by mistake?" Marjory was determined to find some explanation. "I received it several weeks ago."

"Much has happened since then," Lady Falconer said evenly. "In particular, your family's loyalty to the crown has taken a most unfortunate turn."

Indignation rose inside Marjory like chimney smoke. "You would banish me from your door for supporting the prince?" When she had no immediate answer, Marjory sputtered, "What of Charlotte Ruthven? She was seen wearing a white c.o.c.kade in the High Street. Did you turn her away as well?"

Lady Falconer paused as if measuring her words. "Many a t.i.tled royalist danced at Holyroodhouse. But they did not send their sons off to fight King George's army."

"Who's to say who'll be our king?" Marjory replied more sharply than she intended. "The Jacobites were victorious at Gladsmuir."

Lady Falconer drew herself up. "Indeed, with their scythes and their broadswords, they cut down hundreds of brave young soldiers, who died for the right cause and the right king."

Marjory's righteous anger swiftly turned to dust. The right cause. The right king. If every person in Lady Falconer's drawing room shared the same sentiments, the Kerrs had no friends left in Edinburgh and no standing whatsoever in society.

A most unfortunate turn. Lady Falconer had all but spoken the word that hung in the air like a rope dangling from the black gallows in the Gra.s.smarket: traitor.