Though she considered her nose overlong, Donald deemed it patrician. “You’ve the finest profile of any lady in Scotland,” he’d told her only that morning. “To prove it, I shall have a cameo engraved in Paris, carved from the largest queen conch shell my guineas can buy.” Her husband enjoyed making extravagant promises. Sometimes he even kept them.
Elisabeth looked up at her new lavender satin gown, pressed and waiting for the Sabbath and hanging from an ornate hook. It was a belated gift from Donald, meant for her May birthday but not delivered until Wednesday last. The sleeves were generously trimmed with two layers of the finest lace, the pleated embellishments on the bodice were made of silk gauze, and the ivory-trimmed stomacher was richly decorated with tiny buttons.
“’Tis a rare beauty,” Donald had commented. “Like you, my love.”
He’d beguiled her from the first, strolling into Angus MacPherson’s tailoring shop one bright September day, seeking a new velvet coat. She was there by chance, delivering a customer’s waistcoat she’d embroidered to earn a bit of silver. In Donald came, with his regal height and polished manners, a long queue of powdered hair curling down his back. Unwittingly, he’d praised her handiwork. “No man embellishes a buttonhole more cleverly than you do, MacPherson.”
Angus had quickly confessed, “’Tis not my ain skill with a needle that produced those fine stitches. Rather, Miss Ferguson here is to be commended.”
Elisabeth still remembered Donald’s frank appraisal. Some men found her height daunting. Lord Kerr’s reaction was quite the opposite, his approval evident when his level gaze met hers. “You’ve the bearing of a queen, milady. Did I not see you at the Tron Kirk on the Sabbath last, seated with Mrs. Effie Sinclair of Blackfriars Wynd?” When she inclined her head, his smile broadened. “Ah, just as I thought. You are under her tutelage, then. A more respectable lady cannot be found in all of Edinburgh.”
In a few short months Donald had won her heart. Not with his considerable wealth, his impressive title, or his handsome face. Rather, he treated her as an equal, discussing books, music, and society as if Elisabeth had grown up in a gentleman’s household and could manage her end of the conversation. Somehow, she did.
That Yuletide Donald had ignored his mother’s wishes and married her, Elisabeth Ferguson, a humble weaver’s daughter. “Not to spite the Dowager Lady Kerr,” he’d insisted, though he’d certainly done so. “I want you by my side, my bonny Highland Bess. To have and to hold, a wife good and true.”
His tender words had burrowed deep inside her, crowding out the murmured warnings, the whispered concerns voiced by others. Lord Kerr has a mistress. Two, some say. Guard your heart, for he’ll not honor his vows.
Elisabeth’s hands stilled, the pewter button cold beneath her thumb. Doubt crept in once more, pervasive as the evening fog, clouding her thoughts. Donald had changed since then, had he not? This husband she loved and trusted with all her heart?
Season after season she’d pushed aside her fears, ignoring the faint rumors that ebbed and swelled in the street and on the stair, hinting at red-headed widows and comely maids. She’d had no reason to believe them, not when Donald was so attentive. He’d never come home bearing another woman’s scent or tasting of another woman’s kisses. Nor had she found a lady’s handkerchief tucked in his pocket or a suspicious strand of hair caught in the fibers of his waistcoat.
But on Thursday last at Assembly Close when he’d danced the allemande with the Widow Montgomerie, a ripple had moved through the room. Heads turned. Eyebrows lifted. Voices whispered. Elisabeth had feigned indifference, keeping her smile firmly in place from first note to last and reclaiming her husband when the music ended.
She’d said nothing to him, certain the gossips were wrong. Though dalliances were common among the peerage, Lord Donald was cut from a different cloth. If he admired a woman in passing, Elisabeth praised her too, rather than give envy a toehold. When others fluttered their fans at Donald, she drew him closer, reminding herself that, come day’s end, she alone would have the pleasure of his company.
However improper Donald’s behavior might have been before their wedding, he did his duty by her now, did he not? Her skin warmed at the thought. Aye, you certainly do, my love.
While her diminishing candle measured the time, Elisabeth worked at a steady pace and waited for Donald to return. Clearly the dowager needed more attention that evening than Elisabeth had imagined. Or perhaps Donald had wandered off to the kitchen, hungry for a slice of cold mutton.
Finished at last, she draped the damask coat across Donald’s desk chair, hoping he might notice and be pleased. Her bedside candle flickered as the night wind found its way round the shutters. The hour was late indeed. Shivering, Elisabeth slipped beneath the covers and fixed her gaze on the adjoining chamber door, certain Donald would not tarry much longer.
At long last the bedchamber door creaked open. Donald stepped within, the amber light from the hearth gilding his features. Her husband wore his seven-and-twenty years well, with a noble air and a rakish grin.
“Come to bed,” she beckoned him, stretching out her hand as he crossed the room. “The Sabbath dawn is almost upon us.”
“’Tis five hours hence,” he protested, sitting long enough to pull off his boots, then abandoning his clothes on the floor in a heap. He wet his thumb and forefinger and snuffed the candle with a deft touch. “I had in mind how we might spend one of those hours.”
She smiled into the darkness. “Oh?”
In an instant he lay by her side, enveloping her in his warmth. “’Tis all your fault, dear Bess.” His voice was low and as tender as a caress. “I have a weakness for beautiful women.”
“Is that so?” She smoothed her hand across his wheat-colored hair, cropped short to accommodate his wig, and discovered the fine strands were damp and cool, as if he’d been out of doors. Impossible, of course. He’d gone no farther than the kitchen. The familiar scent of him, the welcome sensation of his rough cheek against her skin dismissed any niggling concerns.
“I thought you might never come to bed,” she scolded him lightly. “Did you satisfy her?”
He hesitated. “Beg pardon?”
“Your mother. Did you allay her concerns?”
“Oh, aye.” Donald relaxed at once. “She seems to think Andrew is in danger of taking up arms.”
Elisabeth met his gaze, a handbreadth away. “You’ve no desire to fight the Highlanders?”
“Nae,” he murmured, pulling her closer still, “for I’ve a Highland wife.”
Her eyes drifted shut as he brushed a kiss across her cheek. “No regrets?”
His lips touched the curve of her ear. “Banish any doubt on that score,” he whispered just before his mouth met hers.
Three
No man does anything from a single motive.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
W ould he never sleep? Donald stared at the silk bed curtains draped above him, feeling utterly spent yet maddeningly frustrated. Two hours of solid rest would do him. One, if it came to it. Yet his eyes remained open.
O Sleep, why dost thou leave me?
He grimaced, knowing his mother would recognize the line from Semele at once. William Congreve, a loyal patriot and a middling poet, was one of her favorites. Why the Dowager Lady Kerr took delight in testing him on such things, Donald could not say. A childhood game better left in the nursery. Still, he indulged her.
O Sleep, again deceive me.
Donald exhaled into the darkened room. If he was indeed deceived, ’twas a fair turnabout. Earlier that night after quitting his mothers room, he’d paid a brief visit to young Lucy Spence, the fisherman’s widow in nearby Halkerston’s Wynd. A dangerous practice, so close to home. But wasn’t an element of risk part of the pleasure?
Guilt inevitably followed. Never at the start and seldom in the moment, but afterward his conscience always prodded him. Now, for instance.
When a moment later his stomach growled, Donald sl
owly sat up, taking care not to wake his wife. He’d had little appetite at supper, even with the first oysters of the season on his plate. If he could not sleep, then he would eat. Their cold Sabbath breakfast was already prepared and waiting in the kitchen. A boiled egg would do nicely. Or a slice of bread. Even tea would suffice.
He stood, then pulled on a silk robe and tied it loosely round his waist. Best to go through Andrew’s room since his brother was a sound sleeper. It was also a more direct route to the kitchen than traveling through his mother’s bedchamber, the drawing room, and then the entrance hall, where Gibson lay sleeping. Whoever designed Baillie’s Land had given little thought to nighttime forays.
Donald navigated his bedchamber with caution, avoiding the tottery pile of books stacked by his reading chair. In truth, he’d claimed every flat surface in the room for his growing library. Atlases and almanacs from London covered the writing surface of his mahogany secretary, and parchment maps lay neatly rolled and tucked in its many pigeonholes. He had his mother to thank for such bounty. Whenever a bill arrived from Mr. Creech, his favorite bookseller in the Luckenbooths, she paid the balance without protest.
Donald paused before entering Andrew’s bedchamber, listening for his brother’s labored breathing. He opened and closed the door without making a sound, a useful skill in the wee hours of the morning. Treading softly, he passed by Andrew’s bed and stole a quick glance. The couple was fast asleep, Janet’s arm draped across his brother’s chest. Andrew, always more interested in weapons than in women, had let their mother choose a wife for him. However brief and businesslike their courtship, the two were managing well enough.
Another door to slip through, and he would reach the kitchen. The hinges creaked a bit. Nothing to be done there. In any case Mrs. Edgar would no doubt stir the moment he set foot in her domain. But she did not. Curled up on a long shelf beneath the wooden dresser, the housekeeper lay perfectly still, clearly lost in her dreams. He envied her that.
Only then did he notice Peg, their new maidservant, standing in the corner nearest the hearth. How small she was! “I beg your pardon,” he murmured, easing toward her. “I did not mean to wake you.”
“Nae, nae, milord. I wasna sleeping.” She tried to curtsy and instead fell forward a step, her pale legs showing beneath her nightgown. “Oh!”
In the shadowy corner he could almost feel her blushing, so acute was her embarrassment. “Not to worry,” he said softly, meaning to put her at ease. “I could not sleep either.”
“Oh,” she said again, bobbing her head.
Donald took a step closer. “I confess, I came looking for a bite to eat. Anything you might suggest?”
“W-we’ve fresh cheese, if ye like.” She hurriedly put several slices on a plate, then poured a small glass of ale and gingerly placed them both in his hands. “Will there be anything else, milord?”
A dangerous question, lass.
She stood before him, trembling, her hands clasped behind her back. The light from the hearth burnished her freckled skin and lit her coppery hair until it glowed. Such a pretty little thing. He could not remember how old Peg was. Sixteen, perhaps, yet she had the body of a woman. Her thin cotton nightgown made that fact all too evident.
He looked down at her, unable to resist. “What else might you have to offer me, Peg?”
This time he was certain she was blushing. Her gaze flitted about the room, looking for somewhere to land. His gaze moved as well, slowly tracing every curve and line from her tousled head to her delectable little toes. His hands were occupied, or he might have measured her in a more satisfactory manner.
Or perhaps not. She seemed most uncomfortable.
Donald stepped back. “This will be quite enough,” he assured her, lifting his plate and glass.
“Aye, milord.” She curtsied once more, inching away from him as she did.
Turning toward the door, he realized he could never manage with both hands full. He tossed the ale down his throat, nearly choking on it in the process, then retraced his steps, gripping the plate of cheese, any appetite lost.
Whatever had he been thinking? Making overtures to his own maid in his own kitchen. True, he’d not harmed the lass. Had not laid a finger on her, in fact. But that did not make him innocent. Nae, it did not.
To his great relief, Elisabeth was still sleeping when he reentered their bedchamber. He quietly deposited his plate on the nearest table, then shrugged off his robe, and slipped into bed beside her. Even deep in slumber, Elisabeth Kerr was the most beautiful woman he’d ever clapped eyes on. And far better than he deserved. Far, far better.
Out of habit or necessity, he lightly touched her unbound hair and rubbed the silky strands between his fingers. Forgive me, Bess. A daily request. Sometimes hourly.
At the first faint glow of dawn he rose from their bed and took refuge in the closet. Peg would soon be along with hot water and fresh coals. The lass would never breathe a word about their brief encounter-not to him or to anyone else. Peg had her reputation to consider. And his.
He quietly shut the closet door, not caring that he had no candle. Not caring that the room was as dark as night.
Four
Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps.
JOHN PETER HEBEL
M orning sunlight filtered through the wooden shutters, drawing pale lines on the carpet. Except for the soft blur of voices rising from the street, Milne Square remained blessedly quiet. It seemed even the rebel army feared disturbing the Sabbath.
Elisabeth eyed the empty pillow next to hers and smiled. My sweet Donald.
The rest of the house was stirring as well. Yawning, she stretched her arms and legs, then sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and contemplating the hours ahead.
The night had been too short, and the day would surely be long. At least she would have Donald by her side, at kirk and at home, to ease her mind and heart. Sundays were always difficult. How could they not be when her childhood faith was sorely tested Sabbath after Sabbath?
She touched the broad wedding band on her left hand, a constant reminder of their spoken vows. They twain shall be one flesh. She and Donald shared a home, shared a bed, shared a life, but they did not share the same beliefs. He didn’t know that. But she did.
Then she touched the ring on her right hand: a heavy circle of silver engraved with words hidden against her skin. So long as the moon endureth. Great-grandmother Nessa had worn the ring first. Then her grandmother Jean. And then her mother, Fiona, who’d slipped the sacred ring on Elisabeth’s finger one midsummer night, her eyes glistening with tears.
“Dinna forget the auld ways,” her mother had whispered.
Elisabeth lifted her gaze to the High Street window where she often stood on the sixth day of the moon, hand pressed to the glass, beseeching the Nameless One. Thou moon of moons. Aye, she still recalled the simple rituals and sacred words her mother had taught her. What Elisabeth no longer remembered was why they mattered.
“We worship a heavenly body we can see,” her mother had once said, “rather than a faraway God we canna see.”
With the innocence of a child, she’d responded, “I see the moon, Mother. But does the moon see me?”
The question haunted her still. Not only on the sixth day of the moon but every Sabbath day, when she walked through the doors of the Tron Kirk with her Lowland family. Elisabeth did her best to follow their rituals and repeat their sacred words, yet all the while she was seeking answers. Did their God see her when she took her seat each Sunday? Did he hear her when she sang the gathering psalm or read the words in the Buik?
Above all, did this Almighty God, this Holy One, reach down to his people when they reached up to him? Elisabeth feared the Nameless One did not. Lately she had little sense of being heard and even less hope of being answered.
Her husband knew nothing of the lunar calendar she followed or the engraving inside her silver ring or the monthly entreaties made in secret. She could only imagine
the look of horror on his face if he learned the truth. However great his love for her, it would not stretch far enough to embrace the auld ways.
And the dowager would be terrified. Would no doubt banish Elisabeth from the house and report her to the kirk session. Pointed questions would be asked, and accusations might be made. ’Twas a very real danger in this land of repentance stools in the kirk and wooden gallows in the marketplace. In decades past women were burned at the stake for such beliefs…
Nae. Elisabeth stood, shaking off her fears. In three years no one in the Kerr household had uncovered her secret. Nor would they do so this Sunday.
Breathe, Bess. Just breathe.
While Donald tarried in the water closet that morning, she had the chamber to herself. Better to quickly bathe alone rather than ring for Peg. The water pitcher was freshly filled, was it not? A bar of Castile soap sat by the washbowl, and the fireplace, newly replenished, would keep her warm.
She filled the porcelain bowl with steaming water, then soaked a fresh cloth before rubbing it with soap. Made of pure olive oil, the white soap was fragrant but slippery and splashed into the bowl more than once. Peg handled things more efficiently, but expecting a maidservant to scrub her long, bare limbs each morning seemed vain and self-centered.
Like Janet.
Elisabeth splashed her face with water but could not douse her unkind thoughts. What a spoiled ninny her sister-in-law was! Morning after morning Janet dithered over which gown to wear, tossing freshly pressed clothes onto her bedchamber floor, forcing Mrs. Edgar to iron them again. At mealtime her sister-in-law sat at table, hands folded in her lap, waiting for Gibson to fill her glass when the claret was easily within reach. And how many times had Janet dispatched Andrew on some petty errand, fully aware of how taxing it was for him to climb the stair?
Enough, Bess.
Ashamed of herself, she dried her cheeks more vigorously than necessary, letting her irritation run its course. However demanding her sister-in-law might be, at least Janet never forgot her place in society. She, on the other hand, seldom thought of herself as Lady Elisabeth Kerr. Who could ever live up to such a title? Despite her years at Mrs. Sinclair’s Boarding School for Young Ladies, Elisabeth had spent too many childhood mornings in her mother’s kitchen, too many afternoons round her father’s loom, learning to use her hands, learning to be helpful. ’Twas ill preparation for the idle life she now led. A life which Janet Kerr had mastered and she had not.
Here Burns My Candle Page 2
