My sin is ever before me. Aye, so it was—morning, noontide, and night.
Donald inched away from the beautiful widow on his arm and vowed to concentrate on delivering Susan to her son. “Tell me,” he said as they passed the Luckenbooths, where jewelers, mercers, and clothiers sold their wares. “How might I recognize the lad now that he’s grown?”
“Jamie is tall and broad like his father but with my coloring.” Her shrug was dismissive. “Common as poppies in June.”
There is nothing common about you, madam. He dared not confess his thoughts, but they prodded at him nonetheless. Her hair was the color of honey, her eyes like spring grass, and her generous mouth…
Nae! Desperate to curb his imagination, he shifted their discussion to politics, a decidedly unromantic subject. “Mrs. McGill, it seems you are still a confirmed royalist.”
“Oo aye,” she said emphatically. “You’ll find nary a Jacobite in my household.” She looked at him from beneath her long lashes, then continued with equal fervor. “If my brave son is willing to lay down his life for King George, so should every nobleman.”
Donald wondered if her challenge was innocently spoken or a pointed barb. He had no interest in fighting the rebels, but Andrew would gladly bear arms for any worthy cause. Mother would not hear of it, of course, nor would their physician. Andrew had yet to resign himself to that sad truth.
“Every nobleman who is able,” Donald amended firmly, then sought a fresh topic of conversation, though he was finding it difficult to be heard above the crowd.
The throng grew louder when they reached the Lawnmarket, an expanse as wide as the High Street. Tall lands towered six stories above them, with wooden booths in the first-floor arcades, shuttered for the Sabbath. Seeing an array of muskets poking their steel noses above the crowd, Donald guided Susan toward the head of the West Bow. A precipitous street, shaped like the letter Z, the West Bow was lined with quaint, gabled houses and connected the high, broad Lawnmarket to the broader Grassmarket below.
The youthful Volunteers stood about in haphazard fashion, weapons in hand, while mothers, wives, sisters, and friends hung on their coat sleeves, begging the lads to reconsider. “Willie, ye canna go!” one older woman pleaded, while a young lass wept copious tears. “Brither, if the Hielanders take ye, ye’re a deid man.”
With similar laments filling the air like chimney smoke, Donald leaned down to ask Susan, “Are you here to convince Jamie not to march?”
“On the contrary.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am here to wish him Godspeed. No son of mine will dishonor his father’s name with a show of cowardice.”
Again Donald felt the sting of her words.
“Look!” she cried, surging forward, dragging him with her. “’Tis my Jamie.”
Donald spotted her son, just as she’d described him. Handsome as his mother was beautiful, Jamie McGill stood apart from the other recruits, with their sagging shoulders and frightened expressions. Jamie’s posture was straight, his jaw line firm, his weapon properly held. He was a fine-looking son, whom any father would gladly call his heir.
Father. Donald pulled Susan back, grinding his heels into the muck. “Tarry a moment, madam.”
She spun round, irritation sharpening her features. “What is it, Lord Kerr? Are you afraid Captain Drummond will strap a musket to your shoulder and force you to defend your country?”
Now Donald had his answer. She’d meant to wound him. Since he was the one who’d ended their weekly trysts, this was her subtle revenge, however unplanned.
“I have no fear of George Drummond,” he assured her evenly. “But I’d prefer to avoid an awkward encounter with your son. If by chance he—”
“Jamie was ten.” Susan released her grip on his arm. “I am the only one in my household who remembers your visits.”
By the look on her face, she intended to forget them. Forever.
“’Tis best if you leave me here,” she said, edging away from him. “I’d prefer not to introduce you to my son.”
“Then I bid you farewell.” Donald offered her a deep bow and turned on his heel lest she notice his heated countenance. No woman had ever trampled his pride so thoroughly. Nor so deservedly.
Eight
How slow the tardy moments seem to roll!
What spectres rise of inconsistent fear!
MARY TIGHE
E lisabeth could not ignore the mounting clamor from the street below. Fear lodged itself in her throat like a pinch of stale cake. No matter how firmly she swallowed, ’twould not move. Instinctively she clasped her wedding ring, slowly spinning it round her finger. Come home, Donald. ’Tis not safe in the street.
The Kerrs sat in a crescent near the glowing fire. A cold Sabbath dinner, prepared the past evening, awaited them on the dining table. Thin slices of mutton, hard cheese, smoked haddocks, a finely ground wheaten bread, and lemon tarts were all covered with linen until one o’ the clock.
When Janet drew her chair closer to Marjory’s, Elisabeth was reminded again of their uncanny resemblance, as if the two were mother and daughter, related by blood rather than by marriage. Except for a few touches of gray in Marjory’s auburn hair, the women mirrored each other in appearance, style, and manner. Wide-set hazel eyes. Pronounced noses and chins, both drawn to a point. Small mouths, gathered in a bow. And all the social graces of their class. No wonder Marjory favored her older daughter-in-law. In Janet, the dowager saw a younger version of herself.
“I’ve learned this much,” Andrew began, shifting forward in his chair. “While we gathered at the Tron Kirk for service, the Gentlemen Volunteers convened in the College Yards and were summarily marched to the Lawnmarket.”
“By whom?” Marjory wanted to know.
“George Drummond.”
“I see.”
Elisabeth wasn’t surprised at Marjory’s sharp tone. One spring Drummond had pursued the dowager with marked interest. Flattered at first, Marjory had welcomed Drummond’s advances until she learned how many other wealthy, available widows he’d courted over the years.
Marjory was frowning now. “Captain Drummond found it necessary to muster his troops on the Sabbath?”
“So he did,” Andrew told her. “Our Volunteer forces are to engage the rebels before they reach Edinburgh.”
Elisabeth’s heart sank. The Volunteers were young, untried, and poorly trained. “How near are the Highlanders?”
“Eight miles hence in Kirkliston. The Lord Provost rang the fire bell to summon reinforcements.”
Janet arched her brows. “And sent us all running into the street.”
“An unfortunate choice for a signal,” her husband agreed. “By now the whole of Edinburgh is at sixes and sevens.”
Elisabeth could bear it no longer. “But what’s become of Lord Kerr?”
Andrew’s features softened. “Forgive me, milady. Truly, I’ve nothing else to report.” He rose and began slowly pacing before the fire. “As you well know, my brother is not easily dissuaded. He won’t return home until he’s certain of the situation. I could, of course, go in search of him—”
“What?” Marjory protested. “And leave the three of us here alone and unguarded?”
“’Tis not so bad as that, Mother.” Andrew paused to consult his watch. “Gibson is here. And the city will be well defended. Hamilton’s dragoons are expected from Leith within the hour.”
Elisabeth pictured Donald’s carefully rendered map of Edinburgh and its environs: the village of Kirkliston to the west, the seaport of Leith to the north. He’d commissioned maps of Berwickshire, of Roxburghshire, of Selkirkshire. But nowhere in the house could be found a map of Aberdeenshire, her own county to the north. Nor a painting of the grass-covered glens she’d loved as a child. Nor a sketch of the lofty hills surrounding Castleton of Braemar, the Highland clachan she’d once called home.
She’d left in haste, and for good reason. Now that all was resolved, she longed to visit her mother’s heather-thatched cottage with i
ts tidy kitchen garden by the door. To clasp the hand of her younger brother, Simon, and climb the steep slopes of Morrone. To meander among the ancient pines and share secrets, as they once had.
Yet each time Elisabeth mentioned the possibility of a journey north, her mother-in-law found some reason to object. The considerable distance. The unpredictable weather. The miserable condition of the roads.
Any suggestion that her family travel south to Edinburgh was met with further resistance—their cramped lodging being the chief impediment. “Wherever would your mother sleep?” Marjory fretted when the subject came up again last month. “I would be the worst of hostesses with only a drawing room to offer her.”
In spite of Elisabeth’s assurances that a pile of blankets near the hearth would suit Fiona and Simon Ferguson very well, Marjory would not hear of it. “Perhaps next summer,” her mother-in-law had said. As she always said. And so Elisabeth dreamed of the hills and glens of home and woke with tears in her eyes, then brushed them away before anyone noticed.
She was dry-eyed at the moment, though her thoughts were far from easy. Rather than hear Hamilton’s dragoons march through the city, she longed to hear Donald’s footsteps on the stair. She gazed at the coals nestled in the grate, willing her husband home. Please, Donald. Soon.
Janet was still complaining about the morning’s disruptions when the bells of Saint Giles began to ring. And those of the Tron Kirk. And the parish kirk in the Canongate to the east. Elisabeth and the others were on their feet at once, headed for the dowager’s chamber and her windows facing the High Street.
Andrew lifted one sash, then another. “Listen!” Not only bells resounded through the wynds and closes, the winding streets and narrow passageways that branched off the main thoroughfare. Now they also heard the distinctive staccato of drums. “Dragoons!” Andrew breathed, not bothering to hide his excitement.
Elisabeth leaned out as far as she dared, tightly gripping the windowsill. The other Kerrs joined her as all along the street sashes flew up and startled faces appeared. Though she couldn’t see them, Elisabeth heard the clatter of hoofs on the paving stones and the sound of raucous cheers. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” She peered down the High Street, lined twenty deep with citizens. The staccato drums grew louder, the military rhythm more marked. At long last she caught a glimpse of red, a flash of white.
“Aren’t they splendid in their uniforms?” Janet clutched the generous cuffs of Andrew’s coat as she hung out farther still.
“Have a care,” Marjory cautioned, withdrawing into the safer confines of her bedchamber. “They’ll march below our windows shortly.”
Elisabeth lowered her heels and eased her shoulders inside. Without Donald to anchor her, it was perilous to lean out so far. She dropped to her knees, propped her elbows on the low sill, and settled her chin in her hands. Even from a distance she could see the soldiers’ bright red coats, brass buttons parading down the front. Close-fitting white breeches were tucked into polished black boots, cuffed at the knee. And on their heads sat black military hats, proudly cocked, the wavy edges trimmed in gold.
In years past she’d mended her share of officers’ uniforms at Angus’s shop, replacing lost buttons or repairing torn seams. “Just as weel their coats are red,” Angus had observed dryly. “The bluid from a Highlander’s dirk willna show.”
A friend of her late father’s and a fierce Jacobite, Angus MacPherson had guarded her welfare from the first hour Elisabeth had arrived in the capital. The tailor was no doubt roaming the town that afternoon, shadowed by his taciturn son of eight-and-twenty. She still remembered the way dark and brooding Rob MacPherson had watched her whenever she visited his father’s shop, the young man’s eyes like bits of coal, black and hard. Born with a club foot, Rob still had a marked limp, though he managed it well. The lads of Castleton had teased him unmercifully. Perhaps if they saw Rob now, with his broad shoulders and thick arms, they might not be so quick to taunt him.
“Look at that, will you!” Andrew cried, exultant.
Elisabeth looked down in time to see the mounted dragoons clash their swords as if engaged in battle. Each mock skirmish was met with roars of approval from the throng. Louder than the drums or swords were the voices of women, old and young, gentle and common, calling out from their window perches—some with buoyant good wishes, others with unbridled scorn. “Ye’re nae match for the Hielanders!” shouted one.
Picturing a broadsword in the hands of a rugged clansman, Elisabeth feared their sharp-tongued neighbor might be right. When the dragoons passed by, her consternation grew. They, too, were young, and their mounts seemed skittish and unaccustomed to crowds. However fine the soldiers’ uniforms, their beardless faces and slender limbs told a truer tale.
“Mr. Kerr, where are they headed?” she asked.
“Corstorphine,” Andrew told her, “to join Gardiner’s regiment. All told, less than six hundred men.”
So few. Elisabeth gazed toward the Lawnmarket. “Will the Gentlemen Volunteers march out with them?”
He paused before answering. “Aye.”
Elisabeth frowned. Surely Donald would not join their campaign, however great the need. Though his sword dutifully hung by his side, he’d had no military training, nor was he a skilled horseman. Still, with Andrew itching to enlist, might Donald be persuaded?
Or was someone else persuading Lord Kerr that afternoon and in quite another direction? Miss Anna Hart, perhaps, with eyes the color of jade. The young woman’s words jabbed her like a saber, the sharp tip bared. I choose carefully whom I embrace. Had the lass dared to embrace Lord Kerr, on this day or any other? Surely a merchant’s daughter would not be so careless with her virtue nor a husband so thoughtless with his favor.
Only then did Elisabeth recall his whispered endearment. I have a weakness for beautiful women. A compliment, as she’d imagined? Or was it a confession?
Elisabeth slowly rose, brushing the wrinkles from her skirts. Nae, Donald. I’ll not believe it. Not until you tell me so. With a leaden heart, she stood waiting for the others as the dragoons disappeared from sight.
“Beg pardon, Leddy Kerr.” Gibson stood at the bedchamber door, his posture ramrod straight despite his sixty years. “’Tis one o’ the clock.”
“Pour the claret,” Marjory told him, sweeping past the others. “Rebellion or not, dinner is served.”
Nine
Nature’s loving proxy,
the watchful mother.
EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, LORD LYTTON
A ny moment Lord Kerr will breeze through the door like an autumn leaf,” Marjory declared soon after they sat down to their Sabbath dinner. “We’ve no need for concern.” She felt the heat of false bravado rise to her cheeks. Or was it the claret warming her from the inside out?
She hid behind her glass, hoping no one noticed she’d hardly touched her food. What mother could have an appetite with an army approaching and her son amid the fray? For the others’ benefit, she treated Donald’s absence as a trifling matter. For her, it was yet another reason to worry.
Their first winter in Edinburgh both her sons had been weakened by a bout with consumption. Donald had regained his strength, albeit slowly, while his brother still struggled to breathe. Whatever their late father’s wishes, Andrew could never hope to serve in the military, and his older brother had never expressed any desire to do so. But if Donald saw his friends bearing arms and heard the cadence of the dragoons, might he not be tempted? Might he not join the Volunteers?
Holding the glass to her lips, Marjory sent a brief prayer heavenward, then drank deeply, as if sealing a bargain. Bring my son home, Lord, and do not tarry. She waited for the familiar sense of peace that had once followed her prayers. But such assurance did not come; only an empty silence.
As the others dined on lemon tarts and tea, Marjory’s gaze kept returning to the tall case clock in the corner of the drawing room, its brass pendulum counting the seconds. Nearly two o’ the clock and still no word from Donald. W
hen Gibson finished his serving duties at table, Marjory quietly dispatched him to the Lawnmarket, knowing he would return with her son or with news of him.
The afternoon sky was gray but not threatening when the four of them put aside their linen napkins. “Shall we read beside the hearth?” Marjory suggested. Much as she longed to soothe her troubled mind with a game of whist, the Sabbath afternoon was better spent in spiritual pursuits. She sent Elisabeth to collect Reverend Boston’s book from her bedchamber and made herself comfortable by the fireplace.
Her daughter-in-law soon reappeared, the thick volume in hand. “Shall I begin?” Elisabeth offered, opening to the page marked from their last Sabbath reading.
Marjory pursed her lips. ’Twas Andrew’s voice she wished to hear, with the familiar cadence of home. Or Janet’s well-bred accent, honed from her years in Edinburgh society. Elisabeth’s speech, still tainted with a Gaelic air, grated on the ear. Too musical by half and too lively. Human Nature in its Fourfold State deserved a more sober reading.
But Elisabeth had already settled into an upholstered chair, her long feet balanced on a velvet-covered footstool. “Man’s life is a stream,” she read aloud, “running into death’s devouring deeps. They who now live in palaces must quit them…”
Marjory let the words wash over her, keeping only those sentiments that pleased her. “This world is like a great fair or market.” Aye, the High Street especially. “Youth is a flower that soon withers.” Her looking glass proved that. “Christ has taken away the sting of death.” A reassuring thought.
But the vanity of man’s life, the sinfulness of man’s nature, the certainty of man’s demise—Marjory did not dwell on those subjects. The tragic loss of Lord John had taught her all she needed to know of death and more than she wanted to know of guilt. His portrait hung above the marble mantelpiece, a tacit reminder of a marriage ended too soon.
Marjory sank back against the chair, closing her eyes so she might listen without distraction. Elisabeth’s voice played on, like a music box, the sound growing fainter and fainter…
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