Here Burns My Candle Part 30

The older woman stepped closer and in a low voice confessed, "I do not envy you, Lady Kerr, for you have chosen a difficult path. You will find the city much changed come the morrow when the castle opens its gates, and the wrath of King George is loosed on Edinburgh."

Marjory cringed. And my wrath shall wax hot. She'd not fully weighed the consequences of supporting the Jacobite cause. None of them had.

"All is not lost, madam." Lady Falconer reached for the Edinburgh Evening Courant on her hall table and pressed the broadsheet into Marjory's hands. "Read the notice from George Wade. There is hope for your sons, though they must not delay."

Dazed, Marjory clasped the folded newspaper. What recourse might a British field marshal offer her Jacobite sons? Nothing they would be willing to consider, she feared.

Hearing the clink of sterling against china and the strings of a fiddle being tuned, Marjory lifted her gaze to peer over her friend's shoulder. Her heart yearned to be among her friends and peers as if nothing had happened. As if she and her sons were still faithful to the crown and no one in her household was an enemy of their sovereign king. Marjory could not stop herself from asking, "Might I still join you this evening? You can be sure the prince will never be mentioned."

Lady Falconer looked genuinely distraught. "For the sake of my guests... for your own sake, Lady Kerr... I bid you good night." With the slightest of bows, she withdrew into the shadows as Chisholm slowly closed the door.

Forty-Six.

He's turn'd their heads, the lad,

And ruin will bring on us a.

CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY NAIRNE.

M arjory slumped into Gibson's arms.

He righted her at once. "Now, now, mem. Dinna take what the leddy said to heart. In a week 'twill a' be richt again."

Marjory heard the doubt behind his words. Society would not quickly forget her family's loyalty to the prince, and they both knew it very well. "Take me home," she begged him.

Gibson escorted her down the forestair, handling her with such care that tears sprang to her eyes. At least her household remained faithful even if her friends did not. Mrs. Edgar would be waiting with supper. Elisabeth and Janet would offer their sympathy. And her sons, when they learned of it, would fight all the more valiantly, defending a mother sent away in shame.

Overcome, Marjory nearly lost her balance on the stair. She'd supported her sons, had she not? And their prince? "I did what I could," she said under her breath, gripping the stair rail for support. "I did what seemed right."

Gibson patted her arm. "I ken ye did, mem."

Home beckoned like a sanctuary. None would judge her there. None would call her traitor.

As they retraced their steps through Pearson's Close, the bells of Saint Giles chimed the half hour. The evening air had grown colder and the fog thicker, as the muted sound of the bells proved.

The broadsheet Lady Falconer had given her in parting was still clutched in Marjory's hand. There is hope for your sons. Could it be true? Marjory let that hope grow inside her like a seedling after the rain. If something could be done to rescue their reputation. If her sons' lives and fortunes might both be spared. If it was not too late.

When they reached the High Street and started past the mercat cross, she pulled at Gibson's sleeve, making his lantern bob about. "This cannot wait until we're home."

He did not protest, merely held the lantern aloft while she unfolded the Evening Courant with trembling hands. The notice was quickly found-dated the thirtieth of October-but the small print was not so easily read in the murk. She held the page a handbreadth away from her eyes and squinted at the lines of ink, urging Gibson to bring the lantern closer.

It seemed Field Marshal George Wade had posted the notice on behalf of King George. A few words were hard to sort out in the meager light, but those she read pierced her heart like a sharpened dirk.

... his subjects inhabiting the Highlands of Scotland and others who've been seduced...

"That's the truth of it," Marjory breathed. "My sons were seduced by the prince and his cause. We all were."

... to take arms and enter into a most unnatural rebellion...

"Aye, aye," she said, nodding at the broadsheet as if Wade himself were present. However persuasive the Stuart claims, opposing the sovereign who held their t.i.tle and lands was not only unnatural; it was patently unwise. Why were these things so difficult to see in the midst and so easy to see from a distance?

... all such who shall return to their habitations on or before the twelfth day of November next and become available to his Majesty and his government shall be objects of his Majesty's clemency...

"My sons will be forgiven!" In her excitement and relief, she clamped her hand on Gibson's arm, nearly knocking his lantern to the ground. "We have only to bring them home, and the king's clemency is a.s.sured."

"Is that a', mem?" He frowned at the paper. Unlike Mrs. Edgar, he could not read more than a few rudimentary phrases.

Marjory skimmed the words again and realized that was not all the king required. "Ah, I see. Donald and Andrew would fight for the government rather than for the prince." A simple exchange of uniforms. Aye, and of loyalties, but they would not be the first men to do so. She'd heard stories of Scotsmen who'd fought for the British at Gladsmuir and then deserted to join the prince's army. And Lowlanders who had come out for the prince, then changed their minds and enlisted in support of the king.

Would her sons be willing to make such a sacrifice if it meant saving their t.i.tle and lands and securing their safety? Surely there was still time.

Lady Falconer's words grew louder inside her. They must not delay.

"What if the lads willna agree?" Gibson prompted her. "What does Wade say to that?"

... if they shall continue in their rebellion, they will be proceeded against with rigor suitable to the nature of their crime.

"They will be charged with treason," Marjory said in a low voice. Marshal Wade did not elaborate on the punishment. He did not need to. The penalty for treason was death. Donald, as a t.i.tled peer, would be beheaded, which was considered a merciful sentence. Andrew, as a second son, would be hanged, drawn, and quartered.

"Nae, it cannot be!" Marjory stared at the paper in horror. Why had she let them enlist? Why had she let them go? "Take me home," she whimpered, fearing she might be sick and add to her shame. "Home, I must get home."

A gnarled hand clutched hers as Gibson hurried her along the street, aided by the downward slope. "Dinna fash yerself, Leddy Kerr. Yer sons are canny enough to see what must be done."

I hope so. Oh, I pray so. Marjory pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, afraid to speak.

When they reached Baillie's Land, the turnpike stair made her feel even more nauseous. She nearly fell through the door into the arms of Mrs. Edgar, who helped her to her bedchamber, then made her presentable again when the worst was over. Marjory had never been so sick to her stomach nor had a better reason. My sons, my dear sons.

Elisabeth was waiting for her in the drawing room, her expression filled with concern. "I'm so sorry you were taken ill. Was it something you ate at Lady Falconer's?"

Before Marjory could respond, Janet hurried in from her bedchamber. She was dressed for an evening with Lord and Lady Dalziel, though her hair was not yet styled nor her face powdered. "Whatever has happened, madam? You look a sight."

Marjory sank into a chair, her head throbbing and her stomach still queasy. "I've much to tell you, none of it good." Both young women joined her by the fire, their faces anxious, their mood sober.

Marjory was too drained to paint a gentle picture. "Lady Falconer did not receive me."

"Surely not!" Janet gaped at her in disbelief. "Why would she be so uncivil?"

"Because we have turned our backs on the king." Marjory's voice was flat, pressed down with grief. "Because it is an act of treason. Edinburgh society will have nothing to do with us now."

Her daughters-in-law were shocked into silence.

When she found the strength to do so, Marjory continued. "We should have... Nae, I should have known better. One does not oppose a king without consequence."

"Is there any remedy?" Elisabeth asked.

"Aye, but 'twill be a difficult pill for my sons to swallow." She held out the broadsheet, folded open to Marshal Wade's notice. They read it in turn while Marjory watched their expressions. Irritation wrinkled Janet's brow. Elisabeth's eyes bore a hint of despair.

"What is to be done?" Janet wanted to know. "Shall we write to them, beg them to come home?"

Elisabeth slowly shook her head. "As Life Guards, Donald and Andrew would never desert the prince, for there is no honor in that. And Lord Elcho would have them shot for desertion. We cannot ask them to return home. We cannot even wish it."

Marjory sank against the back of her chair, barely conscious. I have lost my sons. For an instant it seemed there were no candles in the room, no fire in the grate. Only shadows swirling round her.

She heard Janet conversing with Elisabeth, their voices low. Heard a coach pa.s.s by on the High Street, harnesses jingling in the hollow night air. Heard the clock chime the hour of six.

And then Marjory heard a phrase from long ago echo in her heart.

Return unto me.

She well remembered the words and who'd spoken them.

"Help me," she whispered so softly no one could hear but the Almighty. Was he listening? Did he still watch over her as he once had?

Marjory closed her eyes and opened her heart ever so slightly. My sons are all I have, Lord. Please.

Forty-Seven.

Morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps in amice gray.

JOHN MILTON.

E lisabeth emerged from the murky interior of her sedan chair into the pale morning light. "You'll return for me at noontide, Mr. Fenwick?"

"Aye," the chairman a.s.sured her, pocketing his sixpence. "Leuk for me whan Saint Giles plays her last tune." He headed back whence he came, toward the town proper. With the prince's men gone from Duddingston and Holyroodhouse deserted, few travelers would be found at the foot of the Canongate.

The sun had been up for less than an hour. Elisabeth drank in the fresh, cold air as she eyed the crowstepped gables and wooden dormers of the Canongate. The homes were altogether grander and not nearly so tall as the dizzying lands of the High Street. Beneath her feet oblong paving stones were meant to give a horse purchase on the sloping street, and above her stretched a colorless sky without a hint of sun or a threat of rain.

By employing the dependable Mr. Fenwick as her chairman, Elisabeth had overcome her mother-in-law's halfhearted protest. "Visiting injured soldiers? Are you certain 'tis wise?" Marjory had fretted. "A charitable deed, to be sure, but..."

Neither Marjory nor Janet understood why Elisabeth had ventured out that morn. She could hardly explain it herself. "I need to do something useful," she'd told them. That was the truth, so far as it went. Elisabeth also longed to be on her own. Away from Milne Square with its confining walls of wood and stone. Away from the Kerrs, if only for a few hours.

Marjory had been inconsolable last evening despite Elisabeth's attempts to lift her spirits. "If the prince and his men are as victorious in England as they were at Gladsmuir, your worries will be for naught," she'd a.s.sured her mother-in-law, though it did not seem to help.

Janet, who'd gone to sup with the Dalziels at Marjory's urging, had returned home less than an hour later in tears, having found an equally cold reception. "Whatever has happened to our city?" Janet had wailed, throwing herself across her bed, crus.h.i.+ng the gown Mrs. Edgar had spent two hours ironing. "When the prince resided at the palace, we were all Jacobites!"

Were we? Elisabeth had held her tongue but not without effort.

Gazing down the street toward Holyroodhouse, she remembered Janet's heated words from three days past. You are the true Jacobite among us. Would there be many supporters left in Edinburgh now that Prince Charlie and his five thousand Highlanders were gone?

Elisabeth sensed a tidal change coming, a swift and thorough s.h.i.+ft of opinion and practice. The capital would be all for King George now. Ministers would return to their pulpits, magistrates would resume their duties, and the town guard would bang their ten o' the clock drums once more. Edinburgh Castle, no longer under siege, would open its portcullis, and the royalist troops would reclaim the town for King George.

Life would return to normal for most. But for loyal Jacobites, things might never be the same. Marjory and Janet had experienced that firsthand last evening. Elisabeth had little doubt her turn was coming. This morning's mission would leave no doubt of her allegiance to the prince.

Taking in another draught of fresh air, she resolutely walked toward the entrance of Queensberry House, a temporary hospital for Jacobite officers and soldiers injured at Gladsmuir. These were the men who'd fought beside Simon, the ones who'd survived but could not march out with the prince.

She'd pa.s.sed by the makes.h.i.+ft infirmary each time she visited White Horse Close and wished she might stop for a visit. This morning upon waking she'd thought again of these men-strangers, yet true to the cause-who might be feeling rather abandoned just now. For Simon's sake, for their sakes, she would offer what comfort she could.

The residence of a duke, Queensberry House had a suitably impressive exterior. Harled walls, stretched three floors high, were lined with windows and topped with a mansard roof. Two large wings pointed toward the street, creating the open courtyard she was now crossing. Her footsteps echoed between the walls on either side of her. Since she was not expected, Elisabeth had worn her white c.o.c.kade prominently displayed on her cape, hoping she would not be rebuffed at the door.

A man of forty-odd years in waistcoat and s.h.i.+rt sleeves answered her knock. He'd not shaved in days, by the look of him, and wore a flesher's ap.r.o.n streaked with blood. Surgeon or meat dresser, his broad smile boded well as did his hearty welcome.

"What a Jacobite rose is this!" His bow was as ebullient as his speech. "I am Martin Eccles, madam. One of the surgeons, at your service."

"Lady Donald Kerr," she responded, curtsying with a quiet sigh of relief. Now that she was through the door, how best to proceed? "I thought I might be of some use caring for the men. My brother, Simon Ferguson, fought at Gladsmuir-"

"He did indeed." Mr. Eccles escorted her into the entrance hall, with its marble floors, Corinthian pillars, and a rich cornice outlining the high ceiling. Candles flickered in all four corners, illuminating the statuary on the stair. "When the prince called for surgeons, I was the one who dressed your brother's wounds. Fine young man, with the zeal of ten." He shook his head, a sorrowful expression on his weathered face. "I did all that I could for him, Lady Kerr. But..."

"'Twas not your fault." She paused to clear her throat lest the strain in her voice add to his guilt. "My brother died as he lived."

"Courageously," he a.s.sured her, nodding. "Well, madam, you've not come for my benefit but for the lads', aye?" He smoothed a hand over his bare, freckled crown, then pointed her to an open doorway. "This way, if you please."

Elisabeth followed him into a square room with paneled walls, a fine molded chimney piece, and sufficient windows to usher in the much-needed light of day. She counted eight beds, such as they were: wooden planks on stout legs with the thinnest of mattresses. Nonetheless, the soldiers appeared well cared for. Their dressings looked cleaner than she'd feared, and their limbs were set with st.u.r.dy planks.

To a man, they were smiling at her. Nae, grinning.

One lad with wavy black hair and crooked teeth called out, "Is this what the apothecary sent to make us weel?"

Another soldier cried, "I'll take my medicine without complaint."

"Gentlemen," the surgeon cautioned them, "this is Lady Kerr, come to... eh, change your bandages..." He looked at her to be sure, then continued. "And to offer a word of encouragement, nae doubt. Her brother, Simon Ferguson, fought bravely at Gladsmuir. Aye, and died bravely as well."

At this the men pounded on their bedframes with their fists and shouted as one, "Huzzah! Huzzah!"

Their obvious respect for Simon brought tears to her eyes. Why had she not visited his fellow soldiers weeks ago? "Forgive me for not coming sooner," Elisabeth began, slipping off her cape. The men quieted at once, sobered perhaps by the sight of her black gown. She told them, "My husband, Lord Donald, and his brother, Andrew, rode out with His Royal Highness on Thursday eve. Let us see what can be done to heal your wounds and send you off to join them."

The same young lad piped up. "But if ye'll be coming round to see us, milady, we'll none of us want to go." The others laughed, and a roll of bandages was pitched in his direction, along with a few good-natured insults. He protested, "I didna say I wouldna fight!"

Elisabeth plucked the bandages from amid his sheets. "Then I'll be sure to start with you."