Here Burns My Candle Part 48

Who has not felt how sadly sweet

The dream of home, the dream of home.

THOMAS MOORE.

M arjory stood at the door to Elisabeth's bedchamber, her ear almost touching the wood. Was she mistaken? Or was her daughter-in-law crying herself to sleep again this night? She could not fault the la.s.s. Had she not wept through many a midnight hour? But this was unusual for Elisabeth.

Marjory eased away, honoring her daughter-in-law's privacy. Now that Rob MacPherson had not darkened their door in a fortnight, Elisabeth seemed more at peace. But what were these tears at night? Certainly they weren't shed for the tailor's son. Mrs. Edgar, who'd been listening from behind the kitchen door, said Elisabeth practically threw the man down the stair.

Marjory was only sorry she'd not seen it for herself.

Elisabeth had been right to refuse his proposal. Aye, and to turn him out. The withdrawal of Rob's support was no loss to Marjory, yet she hoped her daughter-in-law was not suffering because of it. He was her childhood friend, and his father was gravely ill.

Still, the terrible accusations Rob had made, the women's names he had spoken with such certainty taunted her by the hour.

A loving husband and a good son. So Elisabeth had a.s.sured her. But what the la.s.s didn't say was more troubling. Donald was faithful. Nae, she'd not said that.

Charlotte Ruthven had been right after all, then. I saw Lord Kerr with Susan McGill. One of the names Rob had spat out. A widow of dubious repute.

Marjory moved to the window, staring into the darkness, sick with the thought of it. Was that why Elisabeth wept at night? Because of Donald's sordid affairs? Her daughter-in-law had apparently known for some time, all the while remaining faithful, guarding his secrets, bearing her pain in silence.

Marjory carried her lighted taper to her bedside, her heart heavy with sorrow and with shame. An adulterer for a son. How could she live with that burden? She had taken him to kirk each Sabbath, read him the psalms, taught him the commandments. How did I fail you, Donald? Was I not a good mother?

When she knelt to pray, Marjory pressed her forehead against the edge of her bed, desperate for answers. "Almighty G.o.d, you know how much I loved my sons." She squeezed her eyes, trying to shut out the pain but could not. Her tears landed soundlessly on the carpet. "Forgive me... forgive me..." No more words came.

She had failed everyone she loved.

Everyone.

She remained there for some time, simply weeping.

When at last she could take a full breath, Marjory stood and dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown. She'd spoken few words. And yet she knew the Almighty was listening. The Lord seeth. The Lord heareth. The Lord knoweth. He always spoke so clearly. Why did she find it difficult to trust him?

She stepped out of her brocade slippers and climbed into bed, utterly spent. A soft April rain was falling. She drew the bedcovers round her neck and burrowed deep into her pillow, already feeling drowsy.

Unbidden, thoughts of home crept through her mind like a gray cat slipping down a lane, soundless and barely noticed, yet beckoning her to follow.

Home, home, home.

Lambing season had begun in the Borderland. The rolling hills were covered with bright green gra.s.s by now, and wildflowers dotted the meadows. Winter's heavy snowfall would mean abundant crops come summer. There was no place lovelier than home in the spring.

Marjory sighed into the empty room, having found her answer. Come Whitsuntide she would return to Tweedsford with her daughters-in-law.

To leave behind a litany of mistakes. To make amends. To start anew.

As if from a distance, Marjory heard a soft tapping on her door.

And then Mrs. Edgar with a plaintive entreaty.

"Come," Marjory called out to her, struggling to sit up.

Mrs. Edgar popped her head round the door, then quietly entered, full of apologies. "I'd hoped to find ye still awake, mem."

"No matter. I only just now fell asleep," Marjory said, tucking her bedcovers round her, then brus.h.i.+ng aside her tousled hair.

Mrs. Edgar stood before her, twisting her ap.r.o.n in her hands. "I'm sorry to trouble you, but..."

Marjory studied the housekeeper more closely. The lines creasing her brow had deepened, and a worried look clouded her gray eyes. "What is it?" Marjory asked, genuinely concerned.

"I've had a letter from my mither in La.s.swade. Ye ken she's a' alone."

Marjory felt a knot tighten inside her. "Is she... unwell?" Is she dead?

"Nae, but she is auld and verra frail."

When the housekeeper fell silent, Marjory prompted her. "And?"

"Ye see, mem..." Mrs. Edgar hung her head. "My mither has begged me to come hame and care for her."

Marjory sat up straighter, hoping she'd misunderstood her. "Do you mean to return home... for good?"

"Aye." She dabbed her eyes with her ap.r.o.n strings. "I would niver do such a thing if 'tweren't my mither asking."

"I'm sure of it," Marjory said, her heart sinking. She tried to picture her household without Helen Edgar and could not.

"Mebbe this wee bit will help." Digging in her pocket, the housekeeper withdrew six s.h.i.+llings, which she carefully counted out. "I ken siller is hard to come by, mem. These are my wages 'til Whitsuntide."

"Oh! I wouldn't think of taking it," Marjory protested. "That money is yours."

Mrs. Edgar would not be persuaded. "Take it, mem. If Gibson makes a canny bargain in Fishmarket Close, ye'll have smoked haddies for a fortnight."

Marjory touched the housekeeper's hand, chapped and red from her labors. "I'd rather have you for a twelvemonth."

"I'm sorry, mem. Truly, I am."

"But I'm the one who must apologize. You were due a new gown in January. No wonder you're keen to leave us."

"Nae!" The housekeeper looked up, clearly appalled at the suggestion. "I wouldna leave ye o'er a silly gown. But, mem, 'tis a' we can do to feed the five of us. If I'm not here, there'll be only four mouths to feed."

And no one to cook. Marjory did not wish to heap any guilt on Mrs. Edgar's shoulders. "If your mother needs you, then certainly you must go."

The housekeeper merely bobbed her head, her cheeks wet, her nose running.

Marjory offered her lace handkerchief, her own emotions reeling. She depended upon Helen's faithful service. Trusted her completely. When she'd thought of returning home to Tweedsford, she'd imagined Helen Edgar coming with her. "We'll speak more of this in the morn," Marjory told her.

"I hope to leave this Friday," the housekeeper confessed. "I'll be sure to finish a' my tasks afore I go. I'm sure we can find someone to cook yer meals and a la.s.s to clean ilka week."

"But we'll not find another Mrs. Edgar," Marjory said with a heavy sigh, turning her head so her disappointment would not show.

"I'm verra sorry, mem. I'll bid ye guid nicht for now." The door closed softly behind her.

Marjory did not sleep well, nor did she dream. Instead she stared at the ceiling and whispered the words she knew to be true: The Lord seeth. The Lord heareth. The Lord knoweth.

Friday came too soon.

"The hoose is scrubbed clean from one end to the ither," Mrs. Edgar promised, already wearing her wool bonnet and a thin plaid cape. A small leather bag with her few personal belongings sat by the stair door.

"You've worked very hard this week." Marjory clasped her housekeeper's hands as if she might keep her a bit longer. Elisabeth and Janet stood on either side of her, one with a tender expression and the other with an air of impatience.

"Gibson kens whaur ilka thing can be found," Mrs. Edgar said, nodding at him in the doorway. "He'll do a' the marketing and keep yer coal grates fu' and yer water pitchers too."

Marjory was somewhat comforted by Gibson's fervent nodding. But it was a great deal to ask of one servant. And if Gibson became ill again... Well, she simply could not think of it. Not this day.

"Mrs. Sinclair's maidservant, Betty, will clean ilka Thursday," Mrs. Edgar promised. "But as to wha will cook..." She bit her lip.

"Do not trouble yourself," Marjory told her. "We've made arrangements. Haven't we, Elisabeth?" She looked to her daughter-in-law, hoping she'd not changed her mind.

"We have," Elisabeth said firmly. "None will starve in this house."

"Guid, guid." Mrs. Edgar smiled even as her eyes began to fill. "Weel, then, I must be going." She busied herself with the strings of her cape, already well tied. "'Twill not take me lang to reach La.s.swade. Naught but seven miles. I'll be at my mither's door by three."

Marjory sighed. "I wish I could afford a carriage for you ..."

"Hoot!" She laughed, making her tears spill over. "A hoosekeeper in a coach-and-four? Nae, mem. I'll find a wee family or some dairymaids to walk beside. Dinna fash yerself."

"Promise you will write to us," Elisabeth said, tugging Mrs. Edgar's bonnet in place. "I've put a few leaves of paper in your bag. We'll not mind the pence for your post."

"I read better than I write," the housekeeper admitted, "but, aye, I'll send ye news."

Nothing remained but to say farewell and bid Mrs. Edgar a safe journey. Janet was perfunctory, Elisabeth was warm, and Gibson was too overcome to speak.

Marjory followed her into the entrance hall. "Gibson will walk you to the end of the Canongate." They paused by the door. "Our prayers will go with you to La.s.swade."

Mrs. Edgar bowed her head. "I've been honored to serve ye, Leddy Kerr. To leuk after Lord John...and to care for yer sons..." She broke down, sobbing into her new handkerchief. "I will sorely miss ye, mem."

Marjory placed her hands on the housekeeper's rounded shoulders, her eyes beginning to swim. "And I will miss you. So much." She tried to say more but could not. For one moment Marjory forgot that she was the Dowager Lady Kerr and pulled her beloved housekeeper into her arms. "G.o.dspeed, dear Helen. G.o.dspeed."

Seventy-Five.

But dearest friends, alas! must part.

JOHN GAY.

E lisabeth stood in the kitchen, a white ap.r.o.n tied over her mourning gown. At her elbow Scotch collops were stewing in a pan, filling the air with the scent of onions and sweet herbs. Janet pretended not to know who was preparing their meals, while Marjory expressed her grat.i.tude each time they sat at table. "We cannot afford even the most inexperienced scullery maid," she'd said earlier at dinner, "and yet the Almighty has provided us with the best of cooks."

Elisabeth had smiled at that. As if a Highland la.s.s had a choice about learning her way round a kitchen! She had caught and cleaned eel, had perfected the art of smoked venison and salmon, and could fix milled oats in a dozen different ways. For this evening's supper she'd chosen a simple dish, making do with a single serving of veal for all four of them.

In the end Marjory had not accepted Mrs. Edgar's six s.h.i.+llings, even though the housekeeper hadn't earned them, having departed before the end of her term. "She will need those coins," Marjory had insisted, "for her mother and for herself."

Elisabeth was taken aback. Something was happening to her mother-in-law. Whether it was the loss of her sons or the loss of her fortune, the Dowager Lady Kerr she'd once known seemed to be disappearing, and a real woman-with flesh and bone and heart-was slowly taking her place.

When a visitor came knocking on the stair, Elisabeth was glad she'd closed the door to her kitchen. Janet was right about this: if their neighbors discovered Lady Kerr in the kitchen, the gossip would never cease. She heard Mr. Baillie in the entrance hall, talking with Gibson. Delivering something, apparently.

Their landlord departed after a bit, and Gibson appeared in the kitchen, bearing a letter addressed to her. "Mr. Baillie meant to bring this up on Friday. Said he forgot."

Much as she longed to read it, the collops were ready to take off the fire and would not improve by stewing a minute longer. She slipped the letter inside her ap.r.o.n pocket and attended to her cooking. The last few minutes of daylight filled the drawing room windows as they sat down to supper at eight o' the clock. Gibson brought their plates to table, and Elisabeth sat with the others, her ap.r.o.n left in the kitchen.

"Delicious," her mother-in-law said after two bites. "Will you soon run out of dishes to prepare? Shall we borrow a copy of The Compleat Housewife for you? Perhaps Mr. Ramsay has the book in his circulating library."

"I'll be fine for a month or two," Elisabeth a.s.sured her. But if Mr. Laidlaw, the Kerrs' factor, did not bring the quarterly rents from Tweeds-ford soon, she would resort to her many recipes featuring oats.

Marjory seldom spoke of money now. There simply was none. Yesterday morning Marjory, too, had sold her gowns to Miss Callander, who'd offered only two pounds each. Gibson carried the gowns there himself, two at a time. When Marjory returned with her meager profit, Elisabeth reminded her she had a seamstress for a daughter-in-law. "When we can afford silk again," she'd told Marjory, "I'll dress us all in style."

Elisabeth produced a treat for dessert. "A fresh orange from Lisbon. Mr. Strachan of New Bank Close was anxious to sell them and gave me a very fair price." She split open the orange, sending a fragrant mist into the air, then handed each of them a quarter, Gibson included.

Janet eyed her fruit. "But I thought you had no coins left in your purse."

"His daughter fancied my enameled hair comb." Elisabeth savored one juicy slice of orange, then admitted, "An easy exchange was made."

"Has it come to that, then?" Janet savagely tore her quarter into slices, spraying juice everywhere. "Selling all we own or wear?"

"Aye, it has come to that," Marjory said simply. "I sent a letter to Mrs. Pitcairn, inquiring of her possible interest in our furniture."

"The rouping wife?" Elisabeth was relieved to hear it. The female auctioneer had a reputation for clever dealing and would treat Marjory more fairly than their miserly seamstress had. She looked about the room, wondering how much anyone might be willing to pay for chairs with mended upholstery and missing cus.h.i.+ons. She'd done the best she could with her embroidery needle. But held up for auction, piece by piece, their plenis.h.i.+ngs would make a sad lot indeed.

Marjory followed her gaze. "I know we'll not earn a large sum. But I cannot afford the repairs, and we truly don't need all this." She waved her hand about. "I sent the letter this morn. We'll see what she says."

The letter. Elisabeth only now remembered Mr. Baillie's delivery, left in her ap.r.o.n pocket. She hurried to the kitchen rather than ring for Gibson, who was running his feet off trying to care for three women. She found him heating water brought up from the Netherbow wellhead. In months past they would have paid a caddie to haul water up the stair; now the job fell to Gibson.

Elisabeth quickly found the letter and was about to invite Gibson to join them in the drawing room to hear it read when she looked more closely at the handwriting. Plain, bold strokes of black ink. Rob MacPherson.

Not trusting her legs to hold her, she perched on Mrs. Edgar's old stool. She did not regret turning down Rob's proposal or sending him away, but she did wish she'd done so with more grace. Would his letter be an apology? Or a reproach?

She unfolded the thick paper and smoothed out the creases, then leaned toward the firelight. A longer letter than she'd expected, dated the day Mrs. Edgar quit Milne Square, bound for home.