Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  A handful of arguments rose to Marjory’s lips and fell just as quickly. Hadn’t one of Lady Falconer’s servants abruptly left that morning? Like rats leaping from a sinking ship, peasantry and gentry alike.

  “I’ll not provide a written character,” Marjory cautioned. Her only weapon, yet one with a dull blade. Any servant could account for an idle month between positions. With some reluctance she pulled a silver coin from her hanging pocket. “As to your wages, I’ll give you the one shilling you’re due and not a penny more.”

  “I canna blame ye, mem.” Peg curtsied longer than necessary, then stood, clutching the single coin and a small bundle of goods to her chest. “’Tis thankrif I am, Leddy Kerr. Ye were kind to take me into yer hame.”

  The maid’s meek demeanor pricked Marjory’s conscience, softening her tongue. “Away with you, then, since I cannot force you to stay.”

  Peg nodded, already inching toward the door. “’Tis a lang road to the sea.”

  “Aye, it is.” Marjory turned, hiding her disappointment. “Gibson will send you with supper.”

  Marjory waited until the two servants slipped into the kitchen, then sought her bedchamber. A dull, relentless pain throbbed beneath her temples. Too much tea and far too much gossip. And now this.

  She paused by the window and stared into the inky expanse below. Torches and lanterns danced about as if borne on the wind. Wars and rumours of wars. How long until she heard the cadence of rebel soldiers marching down the High Street? The sound alone might stir Andrew’s patriotic fervor beyond recanting. Was he enlisting even now, signing his life away and dragging Donald into battle with him?

  As she massaged her aching brow with her fingertips, Marjory glanced at the door to the adjoining bedchamber. Might she find some hint of their whereabouts? Curiosity drew her over the threshold, candle in hand. She was greeted by the distinctive scent of musty paper mingled with the richness of leather. Even shrouded in darkness, Donald’s room revealed his bookish nature. He was a scholar, not a soldier. His place was here, surrounded by great minds and lofty thoughts.

  From the corner of her eye, she spied a small volume on Elisabeth’s dressing table. The Ladies’ Diary: For the Year of our Lord 1745. One of Donald’s many gifts to his wife. Marjory opened the cover and was surprised to find the almanac well used. Notations in Elisabeth’s hand filled the narrow margins.

  Marjory squinted, holding her candle closer. On each page the new moon was marked and another date circled: 27 January. 26 April. 24 July. Keeping track of her courses, perhaps? The next one fell four days hence: 20 September. Marjory would say nothing, merely be mindful of Elisabeth’s changing moods come Friday.

  She’d almost closed the book when she found a line of verse handwritten inside the front cover. Ye moon and stars, bear witness to the truth! Milton? Or was it Dryden? Marjory gazed at the poet’s words, wondering what they signified for her dark-haired daughter-in-law. The moon. The truth. A keeper of secrets, that one.

  Marjory’s attention drifted toward the entrance hall. Were those footsteps on the stair? And familiar voices? She abruptly shut the book and quit the room, her headache forgotten. Gibson had already thrown open the door by the time she reached his side. In a trice the hall was filled with people, all talking at once.

  “We were almost home,” Andrew began, “when the Deputy of Magistracy sent out a coach.”

  “Bound for Gray’s Mill.” Donald handed his cape and gloves to Gibson. “The deputies are meeting with Prince Charlie.”

  Marjory’s breath caught. Gray’s Mill was but two miles away. Were the rebels so near?

  “’Tis not all we’ve learned.” Andrew’s eyes shone, and his skin was flush with excitement. “Sir John Cope and his troops have been spotted off the coast of Dunbar. In a day or two they’ll be marching toward Edinburgh.”

  “Isn’t it thrilling?” Janet slipped her arm round Marjory’s waist. “Oh, the things we’ve seen and heard today! However shall I sleep?”

  “Come, you must tell me everything,” Marjory insisted. “And I’ve news to share as well. Our Peg Cargill has deserted us. Frightened off by the Highlanders.”

  Donald’s eyebrows lifted. “Truly? She said that?”

  “What a shame,” Elisabeth commented, the only one among them who seemed genuinely saddened by Peg’s departure.

  “A maidservant is easily replaced,” Marjory assured her. “A monarch, however, is not. With a rebel prince at our gates, none of us may sleep tonight.”

  Thirteen

  ’Tis morn. Behold the kingly day now leaps

  The eastern wall of earth with sword in hand.

  JOAQUIN MILLER

  S lowly, quietly Elisabeth eased her legs over the edge of the bed. Something had awakened her, like the sharp cry of a wounded animal. Or had she dreamed that? All was silent now. Beside her, Donald slept undisturbed. She could only guess the hour. Four o’ the clock perhaps. Their bedchamber was bathed in darkness, the coals having long since turned to ash.

  She’d tossed to and fro most of the night, troubled by Rob MacPherson’s whispered news at Parliament Close. “Yer brither has come oot for Prince Charlie.”

  “Simon?” Her heart had leaped to her throat. “Are you certain?”

  “Make nae mistake, Leddy Kerr. He declared his lealty and stands ready to fight, whatsomever patch o’ God’s green grass lies beneath his feet.”

  Simon was barely eighteen, yet a more loyal Jacobite could not be found in Castleton of Braemar nor in the hills and glens round it. All through his youth he’d recited the failings of the foreign Hanoverians and sung the praises of the royal Stuarts—sentiments learned at their father’s table. When James Ferguson died, his son’s zeal only grew stronger.

  Elisabeth knew this day would come, when Simon would fight for the Stuarts. She was proud of him, aye. But she was frightened for him as well.

  Rob had also whispered, “Come to the shop afore daybreak, and dinna tell a soul.”

  She glanced at the inky windows facing the High Street. Did the MacPhersons know her brother’s whereabouts? Was that why they’d summoned her to their shop? If so, she might be reunited with Simon that very hour, before the sun gilded the rooftops.

  Hurry, lass!

  Elisabeth found her way across the darkened bedchamber all the while listening for Donald’s steady breathing. Guilt tightened her stomach. But had she told him of her errand, her husband might have forbidden her to go and that would never do.

  Still, if the town guards stopped her en route, if they thrust out their long wooden poles and snapped the metal hasp round her neck…

  Nae. Elisabeth yanked hard on her stays, refusing to consider such a dire turn of events. She would come and go with the utmost haste, speak to no one except the MacPhersons, and return home before the household lifted their sleepy heads.

  A simple costume was in order. She donned a plain drugget gown, the sort a servant might wear, without hoops or excessive petticoats to encumber her. Her low-heeled shoes were leather, not brocade, and a hooded cape in heathery gray wool concealed her unbound hair and much of her face.

  Having properly disguised herself, she faced another challenge: walking through a slumbering household undetected. Janet and Andrew’s bedchamber came first. Elisabeth tiptoed past the sleeping couple, averting her gaze, grateful for the thick carpet.

  In the kitchen the lingering aroma of lamb stew hung in the air. Mrs. Edgar did not stir when Elisabeth passed by the housekeeper’s makeshift bed beneath the wooden dresser nor when she took a lighted candle from the mantel over the hearth.

  Nor did she wake Gibson, snoring in his folding bed in the gloomy entrance hall. Elisabeth waited until he drew a loud, rumbling breath before she moved the heavy bolt. When he snored again, she pulled open the door and slipped out, then started down the stair, feeling rather than seeing each step.

  The morning damp crept through the folds of her wool cape. She shivered, though not from the cold. Every noise ro
und her was magnified. When a door creaked somewhere below, she nearly lost her footing, so loudly did the hinges complain. A dog barking in the distance sounded near enough to bite her ankles. When at last she reached the deserted square, she cupped the flickering candle with her hand and hastened across the plainstanes.

  Daybreak would not be long in coming. Already the rectangle of sky above her was changing from deepest blue to dark, smoky gray. Gulls sailed over the sleeping town, their cries muted by the moist air. Few folk were abroad at that early hour, and none met her gaze. Such solitude would not last. In another hour merchants would throw open their shutters, taverns would welcome their first patrons, and Edinburgh would greet the day with fear and trembling.

  But not yet.

  Just beyond the Tron Kirk stood the town guardhouse, a low, shabby building erected in the middle of the High Street. The “black hole,” some called it, a disreputable place for all its civic importance. Elisabeth always gave it a wide berth. Several decaying guards usually hung round the door in threadbare uniforms and rumpled tricorne hats, sharing a pint of ale.

  But not this morning.

  Elisabeth’s steps slowed, and her eyes widened. ’Tis not possible.

  A company of soldiers surrounded the guardhouse: armed, silent, and alert. Even in the murky light, she recognized their belted plaids and short coats, their broadswords and targes, their blue bonnets and white cockades. Highlanders.

  Her heart began to thud.

  The prince’s men are here. In Edinburgh.

  Elisabeth could not move, could hardly breathe. For weeks all had waited for the rebels to come charging through the West Port. Now they stood before her on a dark Tuesday morning, having quietly overtaken the town.

  Tears stung her eyes as an ancient pride welled inside her. Think of it! Highland clansmen guarding the capital and a Stuart king returning to the throne. How many Jacobite Risings had there been in years past, with no success? Two? Three? Now it seemed as if there might be a chance.

  Emboldened, she drew close enough to hear the soldiers’ voices, rich with Gaelic. To a man they were built for warfare, with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. No wonder the dragoons had galloped off at the sight of them.

  Her candle, exposed to the capricious morning breeze, was quickly snuffed out. Still, she could see the men well enough. And they could see her. A gruff voice demanded in English, “State yer business, lass.”

  She spoke as boldly as she dared. “I am bound for the tailoring shop of Angus MacPherson.” If they knew of his Jacobite ties, his name alone might keep her safe.

  The men consulted one another, eying her as they did. She heard Angus’s name repeated several times along with that of Lochiel, chief of Clan Cameron. These were his men, it seemed, from the western Highlands.

  Elisabeth studied their ruddy faces, weathered by years on the mountains and moors. Strong, square jaws set off their prominent features. Untamed hair poked from beneath flat bonnets. And a fierce glower darkened each gaze.

  Their spokesman appeared to be an officer, with his greatcoat and tartan trews. When he addressed her again, his voice had lost its rough edge. “Aye, we ken the name MacPherson but canna tell ye whaur to find him.”

  Only then did the thought strike her: Simon might be a stone’s throw away. ’Twas unlikely he was part of Lochiel’s contingent. But if he was. Oh, if he was…

  She braved a second question. “What of my brother, Simon Ferguson, from Castleton of Braemar. Does he stand with you?”

  The officer looked to his men. All were shaking their heads. “Beg pardon, lass. We dinna ken yer brither.”

  Disappointment seeped into her soul, chilling as the morning mist. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”

  “Och! A bonny lass is the best sort o’ trouble,” one of the soldiers called out. The others round him laughed.

  Elisabeth lifted her chin, a retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d not been addressed in so coarse a manner in many seasons. Her title, however, would not serve her well this morn, nor would her pride. She slipped the cooled candle stub and holder in the hanging pocket round her waist and turned to go.

  “Bess!”

  Startled, she spun round to find Rob MacPherson heading toward her, a looming mass in dark brown serge with a broadsword strapped to his side. His club foot altered his gait but did not slow his steps.

  Elisabeth hurried to meet him. “Mr. MacPherson, did you know—”

  “Aye,” he admitted, taking her arm and steering her away from the guardhouse. “An hour ago my faither waited on this side o’ the Netherbow Port for a detachment o’ the prince’s army approaching from the east. The porter, as daft as they come, opened the gate to let a carriage through.” Rob grinned. “Nae Hielander worthy o’ his plaid would’ve missed such a chance.”

  “How many men?” she asked.

  “Two dozen at the gate with nine hundred on their heels. Captain Macgregor led them through the port with drawn swords and a frichtsome shout.”

  Elisabeth nodded as the pieces fell together. “Their battle cry woke me.”

  Rob looked up at the rows of shuttered windows. “Still the toun slumbers.”

  “But you’ve not slept.”

  He shrugged, his eyes bleary, the shadow of a beard darkening his cheek. “Wha could on such a nich?”

  As they started downhill together, Elisabeth asked, “Have you any news of Simon?” When he shook his head, she explained, “I thought that might be why your father summoned me to the shop.”

  “Aye…weel…” Rob cleared his throat, his face turning ruddy. “’Twas not my faither’s idea.”

  “But—”

  “I meant to be waiting at the foot o’ yer stair,” Rob said in a rush of words. “To escort ye to Netherbow Port so ye might watch the Hielanders enter the toun and mebbe catch sight o’ yer brither. But the army slipped through the gate sooner than we thocht …” He shrugged, clearly embarrassed. “Forgive me, Leddy Kerr. I didna mean for ye to be alone on a murky street with Lochiel’s men.”

  “I was not alone for long,” Elisabeth reminded him.

  Rob glanced back over his shoulder. “Keppoch, Ardshiel, and their clansmen are gathering at Parliament Close. ’Twill be a rude awakening for the magistrates.”

  And for the Kerrs. Elisabeth gathered her cape about her. “I must away, sir.”

  “So ye must.” He glanced up at the sky, growing lighter by the second, then turned his dark gaze on her. “Make haste, milady, or ye’ll be missed.”

  Fourteen

  All is to be feared

  where all is to be lost.

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  H ome. Home. Home.

  The words pounded in Elisabeth’s heart as she fairly flew down the High Street toward Milne Square. She could not delay, or the household might wake to find her gone.

  Nae, a hundred times nae!

  Only now did the gravity of her situation sink in. A married woman of quality always traveled with a chaperone, not only for her own safety, but also to guard her husband’s good name. Yet she’d dashed into the street without giving either concern a passing thought. Elisabeth weighed those things now, hastening across the empty courtyard. However would she explain her absence?

  Mr. MacPherson sent an urgent summons. No need to mention which MacPherson. With the rebel army upon us, our visit could not wait for dawn. That sounded plausible, did it not? I thought it might concern my Highland family. Surely the Kerrs would be sympathetic, unless the dowager demanded to know where her daughter-in-law’s loyalties rested.

  The first light of day followed Elisabeth up the forestair: a pale wash of gray lapping at her skirts. She turned at the landing and tarried beside Mr. Baillie’s doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the darker steps ahead, wishing her candle still burned.

  All at once the merchant flung open his door, startling Elisabeth out of her wits.

  “Leddy Kerr,” he cried, “I thocht ye a bluidy rebel!” Mr. Baillie
sank against the doorjamb, knocking his nightcap askew. His gray hair stuck out like pins in a cushion, and his chin bore two days’ worth of stubble. “Pardon my appearance, mem. I feared the Hieland army had slipped into toun like reivers in the nicht.”

  “So they did,” she confessed. “A small company took the guardhouse.”

  Mr. Baillie groaned. “Here at last, then. But are there not thousands o’ men?”

  Rob MacPherson’s tally came to mind, but she thought better of sharing it. Instead, she repeated Donald’s words. “Not so many as that.”

  “Whatever the number, we’ve an unchancie day afore us.” The merchant wagged his head. “’Twas kind o’ ye to bring yer auld landlord the news.”

  Elisabeth fell back a step. Mr. Baillie thought she was abroad for his benefit! How else to account for her appearance at his door? She held her tongue, rather than speak a lie into the cool morning air.

  “Awa with ye now, Leddy Kerr.” He glanced up the stair with a weary smile. “Ye’ll be wanted at hame.”

  Elisabeth lifted her skirts and dashed up the stone steps, her heart pounding like a brass clapper, as the bells of Saint Giles tolled the hour of six. Too late, too late. Why had she tarried in the street and on the stair? Gibson and Mrs. Edgar were surely awake by now, though without Peg’s assistance, they might be slower in attending to their morning duties.

  When at last she eased open the front door, Elisabeth held her breath. Let the house be dark. Let the Kerrs be sleeping.

  But her silent pleas were not answered.

  Candles blazed in every corner, and voices echoed in the adjoining rooms. Gibson met her in the entrance hall, his voice as thin as watery porridge. “Leddy Kerr,” was all he said as he gave a timid bow. Nearer the kitchen Mrs. Edgar curtsied, her face pallid.

  Elisabeth slowly closed the door behind her. “Is Lord Kerr—”

  “He is.” The dowager stood at the threshold of the drawing room. Her hands were by her side, clenching her skirts.

  Elisabeth waited for her mother-in-law to say more. To chastise or scold or belittle. Finally Elisabeth could bear the silence no longer. “I had business with Mr. MacPherson that could not wait.” Her rehearsed words sounded like nonsense to her now. “Do forgive me—”