“Six years, Bess.” He held her tight against his chest. “I feared I’d niver see ye again.”
“And I, you,” Elisabeth whispered, her mind flooded with childhood memories. Clambering o’er the ruins of Kindrochaide Castle. Fishing for brown trout in the Clunie Water. Weeping at their father’s grave. Laughing round their mother’s table. Simon, dear Simon!
Finally she eased away from him, then straightened her straw hat and dried her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Forgive me,” she murmured, certain she’d embarrassed him.
“Nae, my sister,” he said gruffly. “Ye’ll not apologize to me.”
She looked at his unkempt hair. His dark, scruffy beard. His features carved from stone. He was the Simon she’d always known and yet he was not. “You’re taller than I remembered,” she finally said, keeping the rest to herself. “And broader.”
He dragged a hand over his beard, his brown eyes studying her. “Ye’ve changed as weel, Bess.”
She smiled at his gentle taunting. “I hope those changes are for the better.”
“If ye mean yer fine gown, ’tis naught but cloth. And ye’re a guid deal older.”
“Now, Simon,” she chided him. “No woman enjoys having her attire so easily dismissed. And I’ll thank you not to mention my advancing years.”
“Four-and-twenty,” he reminded her. “Like blackbirds in a pie.”
“Simon!” she scolded him. He’d proclaimed her age loudly enough anyone might hear. No gentleman would do such a thing. But her brother wasn’t a gentleman. He was a weaver’s son. And you, Bess, are a weaver’s daughter. Her years of education fell away like scales, and she saw herself as Simon did: a simple Highland lass in borrowed splendor. Older but no wiser.
Angus cleared his throat. “Leddy Kerr, ye’ll be wanting to introduce yer husband, aye?”
Composing herself, Elisabeth stepped back to take Donald’s arm. “Lord Kerr, may I present my brother, Simon Ferguson.”
Neither man moved nor spoke, taking measure of each other.
Elisabeth implored Simon with her eyes. Please, dear brother. He’d yet to acknowledge the introduction. Do something, say something. Simon had indeed changed. A look of insolence had replaced his boyish mischief. She hadn’t noticed it earlier through her tears. Now the change was unmistakable.
Finally Simon tugged at his forelock, an ill-mannered excuse for a bow. “Lord Kerr.”
Elisabeth sensed the tautness in Donald’s body, though he offered a slight nod in response. Relieved, she reached for a safe question to ask her brother. Anything to prompt a civil conversation. “We’ve been following the prince’s movements,” she began. “Reports in the broadsheets, news in the street. Do tell us what it was like to march with him from Perth.”
“’Twas a grand adventure,” Simon admitted, “fording the River Forth and marching in a lang column, three abreast.” He leaned back against the abbey wall, wincing as he shifted his weight. “I twisted my leg in a ditch while tramping round Stirling Castle.”
Elisabeth glanced down at his right leg, propped at an uncomfortable-looking angle. However great his pain, Simon would not welcome her sympathy. “Yet here you are, still on your feet,” she said, hoping to bolster his spirits.
“I was little use at Corstorphine,” he confessed, “though my strength grows by the hour.” He took a few halting steps to prove it. “Whan the time comes to rout Johnnie Cope, I’ll not be left behind.”
“Weel said, lad.” Angus beamed at him. “The prince is fortunate to have ye. Cope’s men canna hope to match yer smeddum.”
“I’m curious.” Donald rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Was any man here ever loyal to King George?”
Seventeen
All truths are not to be told.
GEORGE HERBERT
E lisabeth held her breath. Donald, remember where you are. Angus, Rob, and Simon turned as one to face him. Hundreds more might have done the same, had they heard Donald’s question. As it was, several men nearby regarded the Kerr party with marked interest, ears cocked and gazes narrowed.
“We’re a’ leal to the king,” Simon answered evenly, his brown eyes reduced to pinpoints. “The rightfu’ one across the water. Divinely appointed.”
Elisabeth looked to her husband. Please, Donald.
To her great relief, he slowly lowered his hands to his side. “I’ve no quarrel with you, lad. If God has chosen James Stuart to rule the country, and Charles Stuart after him, then rule they will.”
Elisabeth rested her hands on each of their sleeves. “We’ll know soon enough. For now, I hope you’ll behave as brothers-in law since that is what you are.”
The men nodded at each other, a silent truce.
“Begging yer pardon, Leddy Kerr.” Rob MacPherson shifted from one foot to the other, either from discomfort or impatience. “My faither and I are to be at the mercat cross by one o’ the clock.”
Elisabeth nodded, knowing the MacPhersons were busy with Jacobite matters now that the prince and his men occupied the capital. She clasped Angus’s hand with affection. “You’ve done my family a great service this day. We shall see you both in the High Street, I’m sure of it.”
“And I shall see you at the Luckenbooths,” Donald told them, “since I’ve need of a new frock coat.”
Angus regarded him with thinly veiled surprise. “Ye’ll not object to a Jacobite stitching yer seams?”
“Expect my custom before Michaelmas.”
“Verra guid, milord,” Angus replied. After exchanging courtesies, the tailors took their leave, soon disappearing amid a sea of clansmen.
“I must attend to my duties as weel,” Simon told her. “But afore ye go…” He began patting round his wool coat. “I’ve a letter from hame.” He dug in several pockets before producing a tattered square of paper. The creases were filthy, but the seal unopened. “I’ve not read it,” he hastened to say. “Mither bade me give it to ye, should we meet. And that we have.” When a smile flitted across his mouth, Simon became the younger brother she remembered.
Elisabeth looked to her husband. “If I might have a moment alone to read her letter?”
“Your brother and I can manage without you”—he glanced at Simon—“provided we speak of the weather.”
Stepping round a tottery stack of provisions, Elisabeth moved a few feet away. She’d received no more than a handful of letters from home in the six years she’d been gone. No matter how often she wrote her mother, a response seldom came. Bits of wax fell to the ground as the seal crumbled in her hands. Her throat tightened when she saw the familiar handwriting scrawled across the page. The Gaelic was ill formed and the lines uneven. But Elisabeth had only to read the words to hear her mother’s lilting voice.
To Lady Elisabeth Kerr
Monday, 2 September 1745
My Daughter,
If this letter has found you, then so has your brother. I trust he arrived unharmed and in good health. I know you will write to me as soon as ever you can and let me know of his welfare and yours.
Elisabeth looked up to find Simon engaged in spirited discourse with her husband, his hands in constant motion. Aye, he is well, Mother.
When a passing soldier fell against her with a mumbled apology, nearly knocking her over, Elisabeth planted her shoes more firmly in the soft ground and tightened her grip on the paper as she read on.
No one in Castleton of Braemar was surprised when Simon came out for the prince. Yet how can a mother bid her only son farewell with gladness?
Elisabeth swallowed. She could not fathom sending a loved one off to battle, even for the most worthy of causes. Not a father, nor a husband, nor a son. Nae, nor a brother.
Now to the point of this letter, Bess. It seems I am soon to be married. You may remember Mr. Cromar.
Elisabeth stared at the page, certain she’d misunderstood. Mother, you cannot mean this. Not Ben Cromar.
I fear your brother will not be pleased at the news. He does not care for
the man.
Nor do I. Elisabeth swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She had never told her mother. Nae, she had never told anyone what she thought of Mr. Cromar. The bullish, red-haired blacksmith, with his callused hands and his gruff speech, first appeared not long after their father died. Mr. Cromar made himself useful for an hour or two each day, chopping wood or replacing the thatch on their roof. But even as he’d feigned interest in their mother, he’d fixed his dull but predatory gaze on her.
Elisabeth had done everything to avoid him, and still she discovered him lurking about the garden when she hung linens to dry or watching intently as she washed dishes by the hearth. Mr. Cromar never touched her, never spoke amiss to her. But each day his gaze grew bolder. She knew the time would come when he would find her alone in the cottage…
The thought sickened her still.
Oh, Mother, ’tis why I left. To spare us both.
When she looked down at the letter, she could not see the words for the tears in her eyes. She’d run away, thinking to protect her mother, hoping Mr. Cromar would lose interest. When her mother never mentioned his name, Elisabeth had assumed he’d stopped coming round their cottage. But he had not.
Please, Mother. You cannot marry him.
Alas, the letter made her mother’s intentions clear.
We plan to wed at Michaelmas. I should have told Simon before he left home. But once the prince arrived in Perth, your brother was gone almost before I could kiss his cheek. Might you tell him for me, Bess?
She looked at Simon and imagined herself reporting the dreadful news. Mother intends to marry Ben Cromar. How could she say those words, knowing what she knew?
I realize it is a great deal to ask of you, and so I am grateful.
Your mother
Elisabeth slowly folded the letter, wishing her brother had lost it on the march south. Aye, she would tell Simon their mother’s news. She would also share her own grave misgivings.
“Bess?” Simon appeared at her side. “Is something wrong?”
She slipped the letter inside her hanging pocket. “Brother, we must speak. Alone.”
“That may prove difficult, lass.” Her brother sketched an arc round them, encompassing a thousand soldiers or more. “I’ve nae roof o’er my head nor a bed to call my ain. We’ll find nae privacy here.”
Elisabeth nodded, her mind turning over the possibilities. Perhaps a public room, some distance from Milne Square…
“The inn at White Horse Close,” she said at last, relieved to have thought of it. “Not far from here, at the foot of the Canongate. A crowded place, full of strangers. We’ll not be noticed.”
His brow darkened. “I dinna like the sound o’ this.”
“Naught but a bit of family news.” Elisabeth hoped that would appease him for the moment. “When can we meet, lad?”
Simon rubbed his hand on the back of his neck for a moment. “I canna say. On the morrow, mebbe the day after. I’ll send a caddie with a note.” He looked up as a bank of clouds moved across the sun, casting a shadow over the palace. “Mark my wirds, Bess. We’ll be loading oor muskets by week’s end.”
Eighteen
Where’s the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?
SIR WALTER SCOTT
D onald eyed the older man at his elbow. “This isn’t your first rebellion, Mr. Barrie.”
“Nae.” He laughed, revealing several missing teeth. “’Tis not.”
While Elisabeth spoke with her brother, Donald had made the acquaintance of a veteran soldier in Simon’s company. Judging by the slump of the man’s shoulders and the loose skin round his neck, Tom Barrie was seventy years of age or more. But the Highlander’s mind was sharp, and his valor could not be discounted.
“I fought at Sheriffmuir in the ’15,” Mr. Barrie said, the hair beneath his bonnet gray and thin. “A bitter cauld morn with frost on the marshes—”
“And now here you are,” Donald smoothly interjected, “prepared to fight again.” He’d already listened to a lengthy description of the Earl of Mar raising the standard for James Stuart in 1715. Donald couldn’t help admiring the Highlander, with his chin scraped clean and his worn clothing neatly mended.
Mr. Barrie focused his rheumy eyes on Simon. “He learned his faither’s trade, then cared for his widowed mither after Bess flitted to Edinburgh. A fine lad, that one.”
“Aye.” Donald watched Simon walk toward them with Elisabeth on his arm, his head held high, despite his limp. At Simon’s age could he have taken on Cope’s army? And with an injured leg? Donald well knew the answer. Nae.
His wife’s countenance seemed troubled, yet she brightened at seeing Tom Barrie. “Look who’s come to Edinburgh!” she cried, hastening to the man’s side.
“’Tis only richt I march oot with the prince,” he told her, “though I fear I’m too auld for the task.”
“Not at all,” Elisabeth protested. “Simon will see you have food to eat and a warm plaid at night. Won’t you, lad?”
Simon threw his arm round the man’s shoulders. “And ye, Mr. Barrie, are charged with keeping me oot o’ ditches.” To which Tom, fifty years his senior, responded in kind, clamping his arm round Simon.
Donald felt an unexpected twinge of envy. Was it their easy camaraderie he envied? Their courage in the face of daunting odds? Their willingness to die for what they believed? He’d never been part of something larger than himself—a noble cause, a glorious sacrifice. Was this what it looked like?
Maybe the warmth of the crowded park was to blame or the dust from so many footfalls, but the skin beneath his periwig began to itch. The prince’s men wore naught on their heads but flat wool bonnets. Donald found himself longing to return home, toss his wig at Gibson, and go about the house scratching his scalp at will.
Elisabeth looked at him quizzically. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing of consequence,” he said, despite his prickly skin and his nagging conscience. “Milady, we’ve kept these men from their duties long enough.”
Elisabeth gazed at her brother and sighed. “As always, Lord Kerr, you are right.”
He was not always right—was often terribly wrong, in fact—but his wife’s praise was a balm to his soul nonetheless. If she believed him to be a good man, perhaps he might yet become one.
They bade the men farewell and started for home. As Donald guided his wife round the north side of the palace, every soldier in the prince’s army appeared ready to cut him in twain and claim Elisabeth for himself. “You’ve caused quite a stir,” Donald observed, glaring at each man who dared catch her eye. “If you intend to visit Simon while the men are camped here, you’ll not do so alone.”
She paused, as if considering something, then said, “We’re to meet at White Horse Close. I’ll have Gibson escort me. No need to trouble you with such a task when you’ve more important duties.”
Donald could think of no duty more pleasurable than spending time with his wife. Had he told her so of late? Or was he too busy leering at innocent maidservants and slipping through a widow’s door in Halkerston’s Wynd?
A jolt of pain moved through him. Not a physical ache, though it felt real enough.
Elisabeth looked at him askance. “Lord Kerr, are you quite all right?”
He banished the lie that rose to his lips and spoke the truth instead. “Nae, madam. But I am improving.”
Not all battles are waged on grassy fields, he reminded himself, and not every skirmish requires bloodshed. To overcome his base desires, to do away with guilt and shame would be a worthy victory.
They made their way across the uneven cobblestones, navigating through a steady stream of townsfolk heading downhill toward the palace: pie sellers advertising the day’s aromatic offerings; fishwives with baskets strapped to their backs and colorful handkerchiefs tied round their heads; lodging-house keepers wearing dingy aprons full of jangling keys. And everywhere they turned, Highlanders in kilted plaids, looking very pleased with themsel
ves.
Donald nodded toward the sign painted on the wall. “Have we time for coffee at the Netherbow?”
“Aye,” she quickly agreed. “I could do with a cup.”
He ducked his head beneath the crooked lintel of the Netherbow coffeehouse, ushering Elisabeth withindoors. Low ceilinged and dimly lit, the crowded room smelled of strong coffee, bitter ale, and savory meat pies.
The affable Mr. Smeiton led the couple to a small table, where they were served almost before they settled onto wooden benches. “I’ve been here a’ the morn lang,” the proprietor told them while they stirred their hot drinks. His snug waistcoat was tailored with a thinner man’s figure in mind, and his shirt sleeve bore evidence of the rich gravy in his pies. “What news from Holyroodhouse, Lord Kerr?”
While Donald described all they’d seen, Mr. Smeiton listened intently, punctuating each sentence with a nod. “Aye,” he finally said, “Charlie’s a braw lad. Meikle ado at the mercat cross this noontide as weel. Did ye hear the pipers?” He laughed and flapped his hand. “Och, how could ye not? They say Mistress Murray o’ Broughton is sitting on her horse handing oot white cockades.” The proprietor winked. “In case ye need such a thing for yer bonnet.”
Donald merely lifted his coffee cup, a prudent response on a day when political sympathies were shifting like the September breeze, blowing one direction, then the other. As Mr. Smeiton quit their table to welcome the next patron, Donald met Elisabeth’s gaze across her steaming cup. “Your brother’s a bright lad. Unwavering in his opinions.”
She smiled at that. “Simon has always known what he believed and why. Tom Barrie as well. Such men can be very persuasive.”
“Indeed they can.” When Donald laid his hand on the table, palm up, she responded to his unspoken invitation and placed her hand in his. “Bess, I would know your thoughts on this Jacobite business.”
His wife’s blue eyes shone with conviction. “If you’re asking do I believe James Stuart has a rightful claim to the throne, then I do.”
Her answer did not surprise him, only her fervor. Did she fully grasp what a change in monarchy would cost them? Titles, lands, wealth? Those things had never mattered to Elisabeth in the way they mattered to his mother.
Here Burns My Candle Page 10
