Here Burns My Candle Part 45

I can change the days to come. Donald had kept his word after all.

"Aye, he turned me awa," Lucy continued, "twice, afore he finally took me to his room."

Elisabeth stared at her, all hope ebbing away. "He ... took you ..."

"Aye. Whan we finished, he had tears in his e'es. I ken they were not for me." She turned to go, then said as an afterthought, "Lord Kerr luved ye, and that's a fact."

Elisabeth watched the widow stroll off, while her own feet seemed frozen to the ground. "Aye," she whispered into the wind, "he loved me."

But not enough.

Seventy.

While shame keeps its watch

virtue is not wholly extinguished from the heart.

EDMUND BURKE.

F orgive me, mem. Oor bill was presented to ye in January. And again in February." Mr. Chapman, the meal seller, tapped his finger on the bill in question. "Now 'tis March."

In all her eight-and-forty years, Marjory had never had a tradesman come to her door to collect payment. Gibson had always paid her bills in person-with trustworthy coins, not paper bank notes-and always on time. From the day the Kerrs arrived in Edinburgh, they'd been favored customers of every merchant in town.

But no more.

The shame of it left her speechless. "Mr.... ah, Chapman," she began, then splayed her very empty hands. "I don't quite... I am not in a position to...pay you."

His eyebrows, the color of the oats he'd sold her, were arched in a look of surprise. "Whan might we expect yer bill to be settled, mem?"

Marjory tried to sound confident. "Whitsuntide. I realize that is several weeks... I mean to say, several months hence. I do hope you'll forgive the delay, Mr. Chapman." Fearing his reprisal, she added in a low voice that begged for sympathy, "We've had two deaths in our family this winter."

"And ye have my condolences, ye surely do. The month o' May, then." He bowed and departed in haste, his coattails flapping as he bolted down the stair.

Marjory closed the door, feeling nauseated. She'd used the loss of her sons to bargain with a tradesman. No wonder he'd fled, embarra.s.sed for her.

Janet appeared in the entrance hall. "Who was at the door, Lady Marjory?"

"Mr. Chapman, the meal seller."

"How very odd," Janet said. "He usually has one of his lads make deliveries."

Marjory turned to her, needing to be truthful with the family at least. "He came hoping to take something with him: payment in full. I had to send him away with naught in his pockets."

Her daughter-in-law looked properly shocked. "Is it so bad as that?"

"Worse." Marjory started for Elisabeth's bedchamber. "The time has come for both of you to be informed of our situation."

"Oh?" Janet walked beside Marjory, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

They found Elisabeth seated close to the window, sewing a man's s.h.i.+rt.

Before Marjory could ask for an explanation, Elisabeth held up the bleached muslin, expertly st.i.tched. "A birthday present for Angus."

"The man is a tailor," Marjory reminded her. "Can he not sew his own s.h.i.+rts?"

Her daughter-in-law tipped her head, appraising her work. "Aye, but it's a welcome change to have someone do it for you."

Perhaps her gift was not so scandalous, Marjory decided. Certainly nothing compared to what she'd just told Mr. Chapman. "At the moment we must speak candidly, the three of us."

Marjory sat by the fire in the least damaged of the upholstered chairs, while Janet chose the second best one, pulling it so close to the fire she risked singeing her new mourning gown. Elisabeth took a chair with most of the brocade torn loose and placed her single candle on the mantelpiece, dispelling a bit of the gloom. In Scotland early March was far from spring.

Marjory struggled with where to begin. "As you know, I've managed Donald's inheritance since the death of his father. The rent from our tenants has provided a steady income. Lord John's own resources were sizable, and I brought a goodly sum of money into our marriage as well." She paused, mustering her courage. "Alas, Mr. Laidlaw could not forward the rents at Martinmas because of the Rising. And I invested most of our guineas in the prince's cause. All of which leaves us in rather dire straits."

Janet frowned. "Is there nothing hidden beneath the floors at Tweedsford that you might send for later?"

"Nae, I regret to say. We brought all our gold to Edinburgh once it became clear...once we decided to stay." When you decided, Marjory. When you all but demanded.

"Surely the Rising will be resolved by Whitsuntide," Elisabeth said, ever the optimist concerning the prince. "Then your income from Tweedsford can safely travel north."

"Aye, but..." Marjory watched their faces. "At the moment we have almost nothing to live on." She pulled out the last leather purse full of coins. Her gold had turned into mere silver and copper. Not by magic-no indeed-but by her own indiscretion. A simple proverb nagged at her. How much better is it to get wisdom than gold! She always learned these things too late.

"Our rent is paid through Whitsuntide," she told them, "so we'll not lose the roof over our heads. Mrs. Edgar and Gibson have their wages through May as well. Still, we must look for ways to be frugal. I'm afraid our black gowns will have to do for some time, perhaps a year-"

"A year?" Janet moaned. "I cannot be seen wearing the same gown for a twelvemonth!"

"A widow isn't meant to be seen," Elisabeth reminded her, not unkindly.

"You visit the MacPhersons," Janet shot back.

"Aye, but my friends don't care what gown I'm wearing."

"Well, I care very much! It tarnishes our good name to be-"

"Ladies, if you please." Marjory offered a silent prayer of thanks that she'd borne sons. "There are graver concerns. Food, for example. I cannot ask Mr. Chapman to give us more meal, so porridge and oatcakes will soon disappear from our table."

Janet rolled her eyes but said nothing. "Cottagers food" she'd often called such mainstays of the Scottish diet.

"The flesher and the fishmonger will also become strangers at our door," Marjory warned them, "unless we are very prudent with our pennies and make do with potatoes and turnips on occasion."

Janet started to raise another protest, but Elisabeth quickly intervened. "Mrs. Edgar's tatties and neeps are quite nouris.h.i.+ng. What else might we do, Lady Marjory?"

"We've another two months before the days lengthen and the weather warms. Until then, we must be especially mindful of our candles and coal, or they'll claim much of what's left of our money." Marjory slowly emptied the leather purse into her lap, the coins speaking more loudly than her words. She heard Elisabeth's sharp intake of air and saw Janet's rounded eyes. "Aye. This is all we have."

Elisabeth stood and blew out her candle at once. "Something must be done. Let me ply my needle on our behalf. Angus might have a bit of work for me, or I could see if Miss Callander has need of my services."

"Do you mean to sew for money?" Janet cried, her disgust apparent. "Won't we be the talk of Edinburgh? Lady Elisabeth Kerr... a seamstress!"

Elisabeth looked down at her with a cool gaze. "You seemed well pleased with the gown I st.i.tched for you."

"But that was for family." Janet sniffed. "A different matter altogether."

Marjory was torn, rather liking the idea but not wanting to expose Elisabeth to ridicule. "Perhaps you might teach sewing at Effie Sinclair's school," she proposed. "Nothing unladylike there."

Elisabeth shook her head. "I couldn't ask her to take me on when she has so few students. Now that the streets are overrun with British soldiers, Edinburgh is not the proper place to board a young lady scholar." She sat once more, her expression earnest. "I'm not afraid of work, Lady Marjory. Do at least consider letting me sew."

Janet folded her arms across her bodice. "And what would you have me do? Paint china cups and sell them in the Luckenbooths?"

Marjory tried to smooth her ruffled feathers. "Come, Janet-"

"I'm not meant to work," she said, almost in tears. "I am a gentlewoman!"

"We all are." Marjory reached forward and took both their hands. Elisabeth's skin was warm and dry to the touch, Janet's cool and clammy. "This situation is entirely my fault. Had I not given so much money to the prince-"

"Why did you do such a thing?" Janet demanded, pulling her hand free.

"To protect my sons," Marjory told her. "And because I sincerely believed Charles Edward Stuart capable of regaining the throne for his father."

"But you don't believe it now," Elisabeth said. It was not a question.

Marjory squeezed her hand. "I know the prince's cause has been near to your heart all your life. But those of us who came later to his support are...less certain of the outcome." She could not say more. Not when her sons had died for their beliefs.

Janet stood, her face stark against her black gown, the light from the coal fire throwing her shadow against the wall. Her hands were clenched and her voice low and strained. "You threw away your gold, Lady Marjory. Our gold. You did not protect our husbands. You killed them."

"Janet!" Elisabeth was clearly horrified. "You cannot say such things."

"I thought we were supposed to be honest with one another," Janet retorted and stormed out of the room.

Undone by her cruel words, Marjory stared at the fire, shame crowding out every other emotion. "Your sister-in-law is right."

"Nae, she is not," Elisabeth said firmly. "Lord Donald a.s.sured us it was his decision alone. Do you remember?"

Marjory nodded pensively. "He was always truthful, my Donald. I cannot think of a promise he did not keep. Can you, dear?" When Elisabeth didn't respond, Marjory looked up. Even in the darkened room, she saw the tears in her daughter-in-law's eyes.

Seventy-One.

Necessity urges desperate measures.

MIGUEL DE CERVANTES.

H ere's the last o' them, Leddy Kerr." Mrs. Edgar shook out Elisabeth's rose-colored gown and spread the voluminous skirts across her bed. "Eleven gowns in a'."

Elisabeth smoothed her hand over the fine silks and polished satins, the elaborate brocades and soft velvets. A few costumes were her own designs. Miss Callander had st.i.tched the others. "I cannot wear them for another year," Elisabeth said, convincing herself she would not miss them, that the money her gowns might earn was worth more than the pleasure of keeping them in her clothes press. "Perhaps, when my time of mourning ends, we'll be in a position to order a new dress or two."

"Aye, milady." Mrs. Edgar did not sound convinced. Neither was Elisabeth.

The dowager's coin purse was empty. Potatoes and turnips had replaced beef and mutton, and their thick morning porridge was reduced to a thin, colorless broth. Tea leaves were carefully strained and reused until the flavor was faint and the inside of the cup was easily seen through the tea. When Elisabeth suggested using coffee, which was less expensive, she was quickly overruled. "Ladies of quality drink black tea," Marjory had insisted. Biscuits were served with their watery tea only if the miller offered a reasonable price for his flour. Wheaten bread at dinner was a luxury now.

"Have ye told yer mither-in-law about selling yer gowns?" Mrs. Edgar asked her.

Elisabeth heard no judgment in the housekeeper's voice, only a thread of concern. "She agreed Gibson and I might carry them to Miss Callander's in Lady Stair's Close and see what the seamstress will offer for them. I feel certain Lady Marjory will be glad for the money. Perhaps she may decide to sell her gowns too."

Mrs. Edgar did not make a sound, but Elisabeth read the expression on her face. Not likely, milady.

Elisabeth's eye was drawn to one gown in particular: the lavender satin, with its Brussels lace, silk gauze, and gold-dipped sequins. Could she truly sell Donald's gift, worn but twice? When she touched the sleeve, the words from Donald's letter stirred inside her. Now you know the full extent of your mercy. She'd forgiven him that October eve, not realizing what true mercy required: forgiving her husband again and again, each time his sin came to mind, each time the pain surfaced, each time she was tempted to take back her words. You are forgiven.

"Are ye having second thochts, milady?"

Elisabeth began tugging on the shoulders of her lavender gown, slowly pulling it free from Mrs. Edgar's tidy pile. With a cool whisper, the satin pooled at her feet. She picked it up, then held it against her body and turned toward the looking gla.s.s, hearing Donald's words. A rare beauty. Like you, my love.

She confessed, "I cannot part with this one."

Mrs. Edgar took the gown from her without a word and stored the satin folds inside the empty clothes press, her efficient movements almost soundless.

"Do you think me a fool, Mrs. Edgar?"

The housekeeper's guileless gray eyes met hers. "Not for a moment, milady."

Within the hour Mrs. Edgar had wrapped the remaining gowns in a sheet, preparing them for the journey up the High Street to Miss Callander's shop in the Lawnmarket. "Gibson canna manage them alone," she said. "Might Mr. MacPherson help carry yer gowns?"

Elisabeth glanced out the window toward the Luckenbooths. Since their abrupt parting outside the jeweler's shop a month ago, Rob had sent her several notes filled with remorse. I did not mean to offend. My intentions are wholly honorable. I hope you can forgive me, Bess. My father misses you very much. The last note had worn down her resistance. When she'd visited the MacPhersons with Angus's finished s.h.i.+rt, Rob had been on his best behavior. They were back on steadier footing now, friends again.

But she was careful not to be alone with him. "Aye," she agreed, "have Gibson ask Mr. MacPherson. Perhaps he'll not mind helping us this forenoon."

Rob s.h.i.+fted the knotted sheet from one hand to the other. "Ye're certain this is but ten gowns?"

"I know they're heavy," Elisabeth admitted, keeping pace with him as they climbed the bustling High Street. "Miss Callander expects us at eleven o' the clock."

Would it be awkward, this meeting? Elisabeth knew the value of her gowns but not what the seamstress might be willing to pay. If it meant the Kerrs could settle their bills and have meat on their table again, she would gladly accept almost any amount. But since Marjory's gold had paid for the gowns and the fabric to make them, the final decision was hers. "No less than five pounds for the best gowns, four for the others," the dowager had cautioned her.