Here Burns My Candle Part 51

"Do keep reading," Elisabeth urged, giving Janet a withering look.

My mother is frailer than I had hoped. But she is eating

better now that I am cooking for her.

"No surprise, that," Elisabeth said. "My cooking doesn't hold a candle to hers."

"Ye've made a fine broth," Gibson insisted, then downed another spoonful.

I had forgotten the size of our garden and the quietness of village life. We have chestnut and sycamore trees beyond our door. A barn owl hoots at night.

Marjory paused her reading, thinking of Tweedsford with its native woods and abundance of birds. Aye, she was ready for home. More than ready, as Elisabeth said.

I miss each of you and wish you well.

Yours always,

Helen Edgar

Marjory folded the letter, a faint mist clouding her vision. "I am glad she is safely home. Lord willing, we shall say the same of ourselves one week hence. Gibson, while you were out, did you learn any news from the north?"

"The usual blether," he said with a shrug. "Wha can say whan we'll hear? Inverness is sae far awa."

With the sun well set and their last two candles barely dispelling the darkness, the household retired earlier than usual. Marjory was beneath the covers and drifting to sleep within minutes.

At first she thought the booming noise she heard was thunder. But the sound was too loud and too close, rolling down the High Street from Edinburgh Castle, rattling her windowpanes.

Marjory sat up at once. The cannons.

Horrified, she leaped from bed and ran into Elisabeth's bedchamber. "The king's men!" Marjory cried. "They're firing the great guns from the batteries. I fear 'tis a victory salute."

Elisabeth flung back her covers. "Nae, it cannot be!"

Marjory lifted the sash, and they both leaned out. Below them, people were streaming into the High Street, many in their nightclothes with plaids thrown about their shoulders. All were waving, cheering, shouting as another round of discharges echoed the dreaded news.

Seventy-Nine.

Here burns my candle out;

ay, here it dies.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

T he prince's men were defeated in half an hour." Gibson stood in the doorway, still breathing hard from his hasty trip down the stair and back. "Nae quarter was given. A thousand Hielanders lay deid on Drummossie Muir."

"Nae!" Elisabeth moaned. "Not a thousand..."

Marjory closed her eyes, feeling sick. She could not fathom such bloodshed.

Gibson mopped his brow. "The Duke o' c.u.mberland's aide-decamp arrived at the castle with a dispatch at midnight."

Abandoning any hope of sleep, Marjory moved to the fireplace to light a candle. "'Tis past two o' the clock now."

Gibson followed her, keeping his voice low. "There's mair, Leddy Kerr. c.u.mberland's men were ordered to put to death a' the wounded with pistol, club, or bayonet. Them that escaped the field o' battle are being hunted doon and killed. Aye, and their luved ones as weel."

Marjory bent down, touching the wick to the live coal, her hand trembling. "Is there no mercy in c.u.mberland's heart?"

"Nae, mem. Not for them wha supported the Jacobite cause."

As we did. The truth struck a hard blow, knocking the wind from her. Had the king not taken enough? Would his son inflict further punishment still? Pistol, club, or bayonet.

Elisabeth was walking toward them now, her cheeks wet with tears. "Is there news of Rob MacPherson?"

Gibson shook his head. "Nae, milady."

"What's to become of us?" Elisabeth said, her voice like broken gla.s.s.

Without a moment's hesitation, Marjory slipped her arm round her daughter-in-law's waist. "We'll soon be bound for Tweedsford." The farther removed from the Highlands, the better, though she would not confess as much to her daughters-in-law.

Janet's door opened. She yawned and entered the room, rubbing her eyes. "Whatever is the commotion in the street?"

When Marjory told her, Janet's face paled. "Must we wait 'til Thursday to leave?"

Gibson answered her. "Whan I arranged for yer carriage, I was told there were none to be had afore then."

Marjory held out her arm to encircle Janet as well. "It seems we are not alone in quitting the capital." When Janet did not step closer, Marjory pretended to brush a fleck of lint from her nightgown, stung by her daughter-in-law's rejection. "We've much to accomplish in the days ahead," she reminded them. "For now, 'tis the Sabbath. I suggest we spend it in prayer."

Though the noise in the street eventually subsided, none in the Kerr household could think of returning to bed. Elisabeth took Marjory's words to heart and read aloud from the Buik through the few remaining hours before dawn, the three of them gathered round Marjory's tea table. "Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when G.o.d preserved me," Elisabeth read. "When his candle s.h.i.+ned upon my head, and when by his light I walked through darkness."

Marjory bowed her head, listening. I remember such days. She had lived without fear, ever aware of G.o.d's presence in her life, s.h.i.+ning brighter than any beeswax taper. When she looked up and saw Elisabeth leaning across the Buik, her eyes glowing and her voice fervent, Marjory fought a twinge of envy. To have that pa.s.sion again! To burn for all that was holy.

Perhaps when she returned to Tweedsford, when she knelt beside her old bed, perhaps then the Almighty would banish the darkness inside her for good.

The Sabbath morning pa.s.sed quietly. The women broke their fast, prayed at length, then gathered at the window when the Tron Kirk rang its bell.

Marjory watched the throng pouring through the kirk doors across the High Street, wis.h.i.+ng she might join her Edinburgh friends once more and wors.h.i.+p the Lord. But the Kerrs were anathema. None would welcome them now.

"Shall we attend services when we live in Selkirk?" Elisabeth asked.

"Every Sunday," Marjory said firmly. The kirk session, charged with keeping a close eye on the morals of their paris.h.i.+oners, would forgive her brief dalliance with the Jacobite cause. She was, after all, the Dowager Lady Kerr.

As the morning wore on, the three women drank watery tea with thin gingersnaps. Elisabeth apologized for their hard texture. "I'm trying to make our b.u.t.ter last until breakfast on Thursday."

Marjory bit into her biscuit and did not let Elisabeth see her wince. The la.s.s was doing the best she could. None could fault her. Except Janet, who b.u.t.tered the top of her gingersnap as if it were toast and then fussed, "Why even bake them if you intend to scrimp on the recipe?"

"So you might have something to complain about," Elisabeth gently said, putting Janet very neatly in her place.

At noontide the bell rang again, and the doors of the kirk opened, releasing the paris.h.i.+oners into the street. Women were dressed in brighter colors than Marjory had seen in some time. A celebration of spring, she imagined; and of victory for King George.

She peered down at two people approaching Milne Square. They reached the open arcade leading into the square before Marjory recognized her old tea-table friend, Lady Woodhall, and her manservant, with his shock of red hair.

Elisabeth saw them too. "Shall I have Gibson prepare fresh tea?"

"Aye." Marjory quickly began gathering dishes. "As strong as he can make it." Her heart was pounding. What would bring Lady Woodhall to her door? 'Twas not a social call. Not on the Sabbath.

Even Janet helped her clear the table and straighten the house. By the time the expected knock came, all three Kerrs were seated in the drawing room, hands folded, as if they had nothing to do but wait upon callers.

When she was announced, Lady Woodhall entered the room with purpose, a silver-capped walking stick in her hand and a steely look in her eye. She did not take the offered seat but stood before them. The Kerrs rose as well, honoring her advanced age and exalted station.

"Lady Marjory," she began, "I shall not mince words. You must leave Edinburgh at once. What I heard this morn after services was enough to freeze my blood."

Marjory felt a chill of her own. "Wh-what did you hear?"

"You, and all who supported the Stuarts, are in mortal danger." Lady Woodhall cast her sharp gaze round the room. "I see you have already been subjected to the army's cruelty. Soon their punishment will grow more severe. There are rumors of firing squads, of homes being burned, of women..." She shuddered. "How soon can you leave the city?"

"We've a carriage for Thursday morn."

"Ah. I am glad you have planned your escape, but I do wish..." Lady Woodhall cleared her throat. "If you need shelter this week, for you and your household, I hope you will come to my door. We are neighbors, after all. And friends."

"Aye." Marjory offered her hand, wis.h.i.+ng it did not tremble so. "We are."

Lady Woodhall slipped off her glove and clasped Marjory's hand in return, her firm grip belying her years. "I wish you G.o.dspeed. You and your daughters-in-law." She nodded at Elisabeth and Janet as if only now noticing them, then stepped closer, her silver hair catching the firelight. "I was very sorry to hear of your loss, Lady Marjory. No mother should have to bury her children."

"Nae." She pressed her lips together and swallowed.

Lady Woodhall squeezed her hand. "I meant what I said, Lady Marjory. Come at any hour."

Monday dawned cool, gray, and damp. Marjory did not have enough coal to warm the whole house, so she closed the bedchambers and had Gibson fill only the drawing room grate. With a second layer of stockings and wool plaids draped round their shoulders, the women were warm enough. Still, they s.h.i.+vered, and not only from the weather.

The High Street overflowed with British soldiers. An endless river of red streamed from castle above to palace below. The same citizens who'd cheered the bonny prince and his Highland army six months ago now stood in their doorways and leaned out their windows to greet the victors with their bra.s.s b.u.t.tons and their proud chins.

But in the oyster cellars and taverns of Edinburgh, the mood was darker. Rumors from the field of battle traveled about like wisps of chimney smoke. Men were slaughtered. Left naked on the hills. Burned in their cottages. Starved in prison. When Gibson returned from Fishmarket Close with the grim report, Marjory quickly lost her appet.i.te for dinner. "We shall save your haddocks for supper," she told him, "and pack the contents of Lord John's desk instead."

Anything to take their minds off the atrocities.

Anything to hasten Thursday morn.

Still, the afternoon dragged on. All four of them were in the entrance hall, surrounded by papers and covered in dust, when a loud knock at the stair door startled them out of their wits.

"Who can it be?" Janet whispered, her hand on her throat.

Marjory stared at the door. It was not a fist she heard but something harder. The b.u.t.t of a pistol. Then came a voice shouting her name. "Marjory Kerr. Open in the name of His Royal Highness, King George."

She couldn't move, could barely breathe. Had they come for her? Would her household be harmed? Please, Lord. Please help us!

When a second knock came, louder than the first, Gibson unbolted the door, his whole body shaking.

Before a word was spoken, two uniformed British soldiers crossed the threshold, their boot heels striking the wooden floor. Marjory nearly wept at the sight of them. Tall and slender, with fair complexions, they might have been Donald and Andrew.

But they were not.

Their gazes were hard, and the lines of their mouths were drawn with a scornful hand. One of them produced a letter. "For you, madam."

Marjory recognized the elegant handwriting of Lord Mark Kerr. His Royal Highness's seal was pressed into the thick red wax.

The young dragoon spoke again. "'Twas delivered to the castle yesterday morning by Viscount Bury, aide-de-camp to the Duke of c.u.mberland. Will you not take it, Mrs. Kerr?"

Mrs. Kerr. Marjory had never been so addressed in her life. She nodded toward the desk. "There, if you please." She did not want to touch the letter. Not unless she had to. "Have you been commanded to wait for a reply?"

"Nae, madam," the other answered. "Only to see it delivered into your hands."

Elisabeth stepped beside her, their shoulders touching. "Then your duty has been discharged," her daughter-in-law told them in a clear, calm voice. "Good day to you, gentlemen."

They raked her with their gazes but said nothing more. When they retreated to the stair landing, Elisabeth quietly closed the door and bolted it. "They're gone, madam."

Marjory collapsed onto Lord John's chair and threw herself across his desk. "I cannot," she whispered against the sleeves of her gown. "I cannot open it."

The others circled round her. "Would it help if I read it to you?" Elisabeth asked.