Here Burns My Candle Part 42

A jolt went through Marjory. Nae. She pressed her hands tightly to her mouth. Not Donald. Not my son.

Rob crouched down next to her. "My faither and I are verra sorry-"

"Nae!" Marjory turned away from him, feeling faint. "'Tis not possible..."

Rob caught her at once. "Let me help ye, mem." He stood, lifting her up with him.

A moment later Marjory was on the upholstered sofa, not certain how she got there. "Elisabeth," she moaned, stretching out her hand. Rob brought her daughter-in-law to her side. They sat leaning against each other, hands tightly clasped, while Mrs. Edgar spread the abandoned plaid across their legs, quietly weeping as she tucked the wool in place.

"Mrs. Edgar," Rob asked, "will ye bring Mrs. Kerr to us as weel?"

A moment later Janet entered the room, wrapped in a gray shawl, a wary expression on her face. Gibson stood nearby, his eyes dry but his face ashen.

"Tell us," Marjory pleaded. "Tell us... what happened." She did not want to know, but she had to know. Oh, my Donald. Oh, my son.

The men were seated before her, elbows on knees, expressions grim. Angus spoke first, his voice ragged. "I dinna ken whaur to begin..."

"Describe the scene," Rob urged him, "just as ye did for me."

Angus stared into the fire as he spoke. "'Twas late in the afternoon beneath a murky sky. The prince's army held the high ground on Falkirk Muir. Whan our enemy charged o'er the crest, heiven unleashed a tempest, with driving rain and a cauld wind. We dragged the Englishmen aff their mounts by their coattails, then stabbed them with oor dirks."

Marjory felt Elisabeth shudder.

Rob saw it as well. "Mind the leddies," he told his father.

"Aye, aye." Angus sighed, shaking his head. "'Twas anither Gladsmuir. The fury o' the Hieland clans was mair than the English could bear, on horse or on foot. Their gunpowder was wet, their licht was gone, and their courage was flagging. But one wing o' the English army, led by Hawley's aide-de-camp, held their ground and kept firing."

Angus paused and looked up, fixing his gaze on Elisabeth. "Lord Kerr and his brother rode into the fray, swords drawn. They fought like Hielanders. Ye woulda been sae proud." His voice faltered as tears filled his eyes. "But then young Andrew lost his seat..."

Janet gasped. "My husband?"

"Aye. Whan he started to fall, Lord Donald reached for him. A dragoon with a bayonet..." Angus hung his head. "Och, the Englishman was sae close he stabbed them both."

Marjory's mouth went slack. Not Andrew too. Not both my sons.

"Angus..." Elisabeth's voice was barely above a whisper. "You do not mean Lord Donald and his brother were both killed?"

He looked at Janet before he spoke. "I'm afraid I do, leddies. We lost but forty o' the prince's men at Falkirk. Two o' the best were yers."

Janet gave a strangled cry, then crumpled in her chair.

Marjory stared at Angus blankly. "I cannot... You must be...mistaken..."

The sorrow in his face was answer enough. "We took them to the parish kirk, thinking to tend their wounds. But they were gone, mem. We buried them in the kirkyard, along with Robert Munro, Colonel Whitney, and two Stewarts of Appin."

The Highland names meant nothing to Marjory. Only two names mattered. Donald. Andrew.

Numb, she watched Angus draw a small bundle from inside his s.h.i.+rt. He unfolded the soiled cloth, then held up two pairs of gloves.

"I thocht these might be a comfort to ye." He laid the lambskin gloves in her lap. "Yer sons will have nae need o' them in heiven."

Marjory stared at the gloves for a moment, then bent forward, trying to contain her anguish. No words came, only a deep groaning. My sons. My sons. Pain cut through to the marrow of her bones.

Her prayers had not saved them. Her gold had not spared them.

The Englishman stabbed them both.

Marjory covered her head with her arms, rocking back and forth, her heart so ravaged she could not reason, nor could she speak. Tears streamed from her eyes. Take me too. Take me too.

Voices ebbed and flowed round her. None of the words made sense. Any notion of time or place was gone. Only her grief was real and inescapable.

"Help me," she moaned. But no one could. No one could help her. She alone was to blame. She should never have let them go.

With her eyes squeezed shut, she pictured her sons as she had last seen them in the forecourt of the palace. Shoulders squared, heads held high. Smiling down at her.

G.o.d be with you, Mother.

"Nae," she whimpered. He is not with me, Donald. He is not.

Many minutes pa.s.sed before Marjory noticed Elisabeth's hand resting on her back, a gentle, soothing touch. Then she opened her eyes and saw Mrs. Edgar laying a damp cloth across Janet's brow, murmuring condolences.

I should be comforting them. That was the thought that broke through her pain.

Marjory made herself sit up, ignoring her throbbing head and her churning stomach. She s.h.i.+fted in her seat to face Elisabeth, shocked at what she found.

Elisabeth's skin was as pale as milk, and her cheeks were wet with tears. But her vacant eyes were what truly frightened Marjory, as if her daughter-in-law had faced death and could not look away.

"This is my fault," Elisabeth whispered.

"Nae..." Marjory's voice broke. "'Tis mine."

Sixty-Five.

The day breaks not, it is my heart.

JOHN DONNE.

E lisabeth slowly lifted the window sash. Sometime after midnight the rain had moved out to sea, leaving the morning sky clear and cold.

"My sweet Donald," she whispered, her breath visible in the frosty air. She listened in vain for his tender response. My bonny Bess.

A fresh spate of tears spilled down her cheeks. How could he be lost to her forever? The only husband she'd ever known, the only man she'd ever loved? Such a thing was not possible. He was too young to die. Too handsome, too brave, just as Simon was.

Elisabeth pressed her forehead against the gla.s.s, unsteady on her feet, utterly exhausted. She'd slept alone for some months, but never had her bed felt so empty as it had last night. Instead of sleeping, she'd soaked her pillow by the hour, hoping her sorrow and guilt might ease. They had not.

Simon had chosen to fight for the prince. But Donald had fought for her. Had he not said as much? I thought 'twould please you. Because she was a Highlander. Because she was a Jacobite. Because she'd praised her bonny prince.

Forgive me, Donald. Please, please, forgive me.

Too late for apologies now.

Chilled by the morning air, she closed the sash and moved toward the washstand, reaching for a towel to dry her tears. Her cheeks felt chapped and raw, and the skin round her eyes, bruised and swollen. She splashed her face with care, then bathed and dressed. Barely glancing in the looking gla.s.s, she gathered her hair in a simple knot. Strange to go through her daily routine as if life were unchanged and this Sabbath day were like any other.

Carrying her lone candle into the drawing room, she avoided the chair where she'd heard the news and the place on the floor where she'd collapsed in despair. Those first terrible minutes would be etched in her mind forever. Poor Angus had left their house barely able to stand.

Elisabeth found her seat at the vacant table laden with a cold Sabbath breakfast. Only the tea was hot.

Mrs. Edgar quietly entered the room, coming to fill Elisabeth's cup. "Ye've not slept," the housekeeper said gently.

Elisabeth shook her head, wondering if she might find the energy to speak again. Or eat. Or walk about the room. She wanted only to shutter the windows and hide beneath her bedcovers and weep until she could weep no more.

"The ithers havena slept either," Mrs. Edgar told her. "And wha can blame ye? I'm sorry as can be, milady. Sorry as can be."

Elisabeth nodded, staring at her tea, waiting for the strength to pick up the cup.

When Janet and Marjory joined her at table, they, too, looked unkempt and ill rested. They nodded at one another, then broke their fast in silence. The food tasted like sand, but Elisabeth made herself eat a bite of everything. She would need her strength. They all would.

When her mother-in-law wasn't looking, Elisabeth studied Marjory's downcast expression. They had comforted each other well into the night. Would they do so again this day?

You, Lady Kerr, have corrupted both my sons.

So Marjory had said on the day Donald and Andrew enlisted. Elisabeth had never forgotten the dowager's sharp gaze and sharper words. Marjory had made no such charge last evening. Had, in fact, been more tender-hearted than Elisabeth had ever seen her. But she feared the day when Marjory's grief gave way to anger and the slender tie between them was severed for good.

Elisabeth bowed her head and prayed in silence. Not to the Nameless One but to the One whose name was Holy. Give me hope. Please, give me hope.

Her bannock untouched, her tea cold, Marjory finally broke the silence. "We'll not be expected at the Tron Kirk this morn."

Elisabeth looked up. Not expected? Or not welcome? When her mother-in-law did not elaborate, Elisabeth made a tentative suggestion. "Perhaps we could read from the Scriptures after breakfast?"

Marjory sighed. "Very well."

Half an hour later the breakfast dishes were cleared and the thick Bible lay open on the table between them. Janet had excused herself, murmuring of a headache. Elisabeth did not fault her sister-in-law. Her own brow was tight with pain.

"Shall I read?" Elisabeth smoothed her hands across the pages, hoping she had chosen a proper psalm for the morning. "In the Kirk, they pray before reading. Might you do so?"

Her mother-in-law said nothing, only bowed her head. Elisabeth did the same and waited.

A long silence pa.s.sed, then Marjory spoke, her voice weak and unsteady. "Almighty G.o.d, bless the reading of thy Word." She paused as if she might have more to add, then abruptly said, "Amen."

They lifted their heads in unison. Marjory sat, stiff and silent, as Elisabeth began to read.

"Unto thee, O LORD, do I lift up my soul." She nodded at the familiar picture the words drew, thinking of altars built on hillsides in the Highland fastness. But how could a soul be placed on an altar?

She pressed on. "O my G.o.d, I trust in thee." Trust. That was indeed a sacrifice. To trust in a G.o.d she could not see. To trust, though her heart was shattered. She read aloud the next line. "Let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me."

Marjory spoke up, her chin trembling. "But we have been shamed. And our enemy has triumphed."

Elisabeth was at a loss how to respond. Marjory's complaint rang so true. She hoped some answer would follow. "Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed..." Elisabeth paused. "I am not certain what this means, except we're to wait on the Almighty. Perhaps he banishes our shame?"

When Marjory nodded dully, Elisabeth did not press her but moved on, hoping she'd not chosen the pa.s.sage amiss. She read through the next few verses until she reached one that almost leaped from the page. "Turn thee unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted."

She lightly touched the words, stunned to find her feelings so clearly expressed. Desolate, afflicted, aye, and in great need of mercy. "But I thought we turned to G.o.d," she said softly. "Does he also turn and look upon us?"

When she lifted her gaze, Elisabeth found Marjory had fresh tears in her eyes. "He looked upon me once," her mother-in-law admitted. "Aye, he did." She ducked her head but not before her features crumpled and a faint sob escaped from her lips.

Elisabeth waited for a moment, then slipped a clean handkerchief into Marjory's open hand. "This day will be the hardest," she said, her throat tightening. "Surely the morrow will be better."

Sixty-Six.

Why wilt thou add to all the griefs I suffer?

JOSEPH ADDISON.

M onday alas, was harder still.

The weather was dry, yet bitterly cold, with no sun to lift their spirits. Another restless night with little sleep set the household on edge. Their emotions were brittle, and their conversation bore a note of impatience.

Elisabeth reminded herself of the phrases she'd read yesterday morning-wait on thee, trust in thee-and tried not to make things worse.

Janet was especially pernickitie. "What am I to do for a mourning gown?" She glared at the two dresses borrowed from Marjory's clothes press some time ago, neither of them black. "I'll not have our visitors thinking less of me."

"We cannot afford new gowns," Marjory said. "My dark gray one will suit you for the moment." She sent Mrs. Edgar to fetch it, then turned to study her reflection in Janet's looking gla.s.s. "I had hoped never to wear this again."

Elisabeth could not help noticing the black gown smelled of wormwood and fit too snugly in some places, though it was in all ways proper, unadorned and somber.

When Mrs. Edgar appeared with the gray gown, Marjory and Elisabeth repaired to the drawing room so Janet might dress. It was only nine o' the clock. No callers would knock on their door before eleven. Caddies or menservants might deliver notes of sympathy at any hour, though none had arrived yet.

Marjory was too agitated to sit, pacing the room instead, her taffeta skirts rustling as she walked. "My sons belong with their father in Greyfriars Kirkyard, not miles away in Falkirk."

Elisabeth nodded. Had she not felt the same when Simon was buried in a farmer's field? "Angus would've brought them home to us if he could have," she said gently.

She would never tell Marjory what Rob had confided to her. Other than the handful of officers buried in the kirkyard with Donald and Andrew, the dead from both armies were buried by the townsfolk in a common trench dug into the hill where the men fell. Elisabeth would silently thank Angus every day of her life for seeing Donald laid to rest in hallowed ground.

When Janet joined them in the drawing room, her displeasure with the dowager's gray gown was evident. She yanked at the tight sleeves and moaned about the unflattering style until Elisabeth offered a solution.

"I will gladly sew a mourning gown for you if we can afford the fabric." Elisabeth looked to Marjory for her consent and was surprised when it was quickly offered.