She nodded, grateful he understood. “Still, I should have taken you with me—”
“Nae, Bess.” He gently dried her tears with the back of his hand. “Ye didna ken. Anyway, ’tis done.”
There was little else to say.
He pushed back the short bench and stood. “I fear I must leave ye, Bess. I’ve been gone too lang as it is.”
“Can you not tarry a few more minutes?” she pleaded.
“I’m sorry.” He offered her his arm. “Walk with me?”
Gibson was waiting for them at the entrance. She nodded, hoping he would know to follow them. At the moment words escaped her.
Simon led her out of doors and down the stair into White Horse Close, a broad courtyard paved in stone and crowded with horses, stablers, and wheeled conveyances. Elisabeth held on to his arm with both hands, slowing her steps as they walked through the vaulted pend that led to the Canongate.
When they reached the main thoroughfare, Simon glanced toward the King’s Park, then turned and took her hands in his. “I luve ye, Bess,” he said gruffly.
She kissed his cheek, though her mouth was trembling. “And I love you, Simon.”
He regarded her at length, as if memorizing every feature of her face. “I canna say whan we’ll meet again.” For an instant, she saw the young boy she’d left behind in Braemar, standing at the door with his heart in his eyes. “Hail the moon for me, Bess?”
“I will.” She could not bear to let him go. Could not bear to say good-bye. “Tomorrow, Simon. I’ll not forget.”
Twenty
Early and provident fear is the mother of safety.
EDMUND BURKE
M arjory flattened her palm against her stomach, willing her dinner to cease its arguing. Mrs. Edgar insisted she’d flavored the spiced salmon with a light hand, yet Marjory could still taste the sharp black pepper and pungent cinnamon. At least she had the house to herself. Unusual for a Friday afternoon.
Seated at the mahogany desk in the entrance hall, Marjory drew the candle nearer, peering at the latest entries in her cashbook.
Mrs. Gow, for six bottles of port: one pound, three shillings.
Mr. Noble, for two bob wigs: two pounds, one shilling.
Mr. Chapman, for ten bolls of meal: five pounds, seven shillings.
After Lord John’s death such bookkeeping duties had fallen to her, since Donald was more interested in words than numbers. The rental income from their Tweedsford tenants, who lived on their estate and worked the land, had to be managed each quarter. And Donald’s inheritance needed careful tending.
“All gold and silver rather turn to dirt,” he’d quoted the last time he’d found her squinting over the cashbook.
“Shakespeare,” she’d answered after a moment’s reflection. “But when that soil surrounds Tweedsford, it is rich dirt indeed.”
Donald had merely smiled, as though their Lowland property was of little concern to him. He was not his father’s son on that score. Lord John spent all his daylight hours walking the estate, dreaming of the gardens and trees he might plant, finding satisfaction in the fertile land and its bounty.
But then he married you, Marjory. A woman who is seldom satisfied.
Stung by the reminder, she scratched at the paper with her quill, nearly tearing the page. Hadn’t she done what she could to make her husband happy? And to please her father as well? Lord John was already forty and graying when her father declared him a suitable match for a baronet’s daughter with a plain face and few prospects. Their betrothal was toasted with glasses of port, a wedding was arranged in haste, and the new Lady Kerr was delivered to Tweedsford near the end of her eighteenth year.
Eight-and-ten. Had she ever been so young?
Marjory held her pen over the ink pot rather than mar the lined page swimming before her eyes. Aye, she’d been young. And impetuous too, insisting her aging husband spend his guineas showing her the world. Paris, London, Amsterdam, Brussels. Each time they’d returned to rural Selkirkshire, she’d complained of their dull life at Tweedsford.
Tedious, she’d called it. Uneventful in the extreme.
After endless cajoling on her part, the Kerrs had finally moved to Edinburgh. One season became two, then three. And then Lord John died.
Because of you.
Marjory gripped her quill. She’d learned, had she not, and so had put her sons’ happiness before her own? She could not undo the past. But if she protected the Kerr inheritance, she might yet honor her husband’s name. She dipped her pen in fresh ink, determined to finish before her sons returned home.
Donald and Andrew had adjourned to Mrs. Turnbull’s tavern across the High Street. They’d left behind their swords but undoubtedly not their talk of the rebellion. Donald had spoken of little else since the prince’s unwelcome appearance.
At least she’d heard one bit of good news on the stair. The Jacobite soldiers had departed from Duddingston early that morning, marching east to engage Sir John Cope and his men in battle. Donald believed their numbers were evenly matched, but she was certain Sir John would trample the rustic Highlanders beneath his well-polished boots and arrive in Edinburgh by the Sabbath, standard held high.
With the streets a bit quieter, Janet had slipped down to Carruber’s Close in search of doeskin gloves for winter. Elisabeth had seemed on edge all through dinner, eying the clock, leaving her salmon untouched. Close on the heels of Donald and Andrew, she’d flown out the door at the strike of two, her gray cape swirling round her, a ready excuse on her lips. “With the army gone, I can safely visit Mrs. Sinclair in Blackfriars Wynd,” she’d said. “I’ve not seen her in ever so long.”
Something about her swift departure bothered Marjory. Though she wouldn’t alert Donald until she had proof, she felt certain Elisabeth was a rabid Jacobite. A traitor in her own household! Marjory shut her cashbook, not caring whether or not the ink was dry. She swept through the house, her mind fixed on another book, one she’d discovered earlier that week: Elisabeth’s almanac. Might she find an answer there?
The moment her gaze landed on the Ladies’ Diary, Marjory snatched it from the dressing table. With the midafternoon light pouring through the open shutters, she examined each page. Again she found the monthly record of the sixth day of the moon, including, oddly, this day. But there was nothing else of use. Only some marginal notations in Gaelic, which she could not begin to decipher. And a strange list of letters and abbreviations inked on the final page. The first entry made no more sense than the last: A. H.
Vexed at not uncovering a more telling snippet of information, Marjory circled round to her first notion: that the calendar was marked for Elisabeth’s courses. After nearly three years without a child, her daughter-in-law’s concern was understandable. No gentlewoman discussed such things, of course, but servants were often more informed and less discreet.
“Leddy Kerr?” Mrs. Edgar stood in the doorway, a market basket on her arm.
“Goodness, woman!” Marjory closed the book with a snap.
“Beg pardon, mem. I didna mean to startle ye.” The housekeeper eyed the almanac. “Isna that Leddy Kerr’s buik?”
Marjory lifted her chin. “I am merely trying to ascertain if my daughter-in-law… that is… if I’m to be… a grandmother.”
Mrs. Edgar’s brow knitted for a moment. “Oh, I ken what ye’re saying now. I dinna think sae, mem. Not this month.” Mrs. Edgar dug in her apron pockets until she came up with a letter. “Mebbe this will cheer ye.
Leddy Ruthven’s man bade me deliver it to ye. We met in Fleshmarket Close just now.”
Marjory took the letter with some misgivings. She’d not spoken to Charlotte Ruthven since their paths crossed in the forecourt of Holyroodhouse, but she remembered the woman’s pointed inquiry: “Is all quite well with Lord and Lady Kerr?” Naturally they were well. What a thing to ask!
The woman was an incurable gossip who saw things that weren’t there and revealed more than she knew. But since Lady Ruthven traveled
in the highest circles, Marjory could not ignore her. Not completely.
“We’ll have supper at eight,” she told Mrs. Edgar. Surely her family would return well before then. Ordering one pair of gloves could not take Janet all afternoon, and her sons would eventually tire of the noise and smoke at Mrs. Turnbull’s. Effie Sinclair was known to tarry round her tea table longer than most, but she would send Elisabeth home well before sunset. Even with the Highland rebels gone from town, the High Street was no place for an unescorted woman after dark.
Marjory retreated to her bedchamber to read Charlotte’s letter. The seal opened easily, and the lines were few.
Friday, 20 September
My dear Lady K—
It is imperative that we speak. Your son’s honor is at stake.
Call at my door as soon as ever you can.
Lady R—
Marjory stared at the words. Your son’s honor. Whatever was Charlotte suggesting? No son could be more honorable, more faithful than Donald Kerr. Or was it Andrew she meant? Just because he could not serve in the military did not mean her son’s honor was at stake. What kind of woman made such accusations?
Marjory read the letter once more, then thrust it into the nearest candle flame and watched Lady Ruthven’s words turn to smoke.
Twenty-One
How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon
From the slow opening curtains of the clouds.
GEORGE CROLY
E lisabeth stood atop the Salisbury Crags and swept her hands across the eastern sky, wishing she might part the layer of clouds that threatened to obscure her view. She had work to do and little time to spare. Without gloves, her hands were growing cold, and her unbound hair fluttered round her face whenever the capricious winds blew up the mountainside, carrying the briny tang of the sea.
Her ascent that afternoon was easily managed. The grassy slope rose gradually, leading to a rocky path near the summit. To the west lay the city in medieval splendor, the tall lands wreathed in chimney smoke. Due east was Duddingston, the small village where the Highland army was encamped. And far to the north stretched the Highlands, though with so many clouds, she could only imagine those faraway hills.
But she’d not come for the view. She’d come to worship. Nae, she’d come to do her duty.
If she knelt at the proper times, if she repeated the sacred words, might that be enough? She was certain the Nameless One could not see inside her heart. If she no longer trusted, if she no longer believed, would the waxing crescent moon be the wiser?
A chill skipped down her spine. Be careful, lass.
Prodded by her conscience, Elisabeth lifted her eyes, intent on her task once more. On the sixth day the moon trailed across the daytime sky in a low arc. She had yet to catch sight of it. But she knew the moon was there, so she dutifully beckoned it forth, certain her mother was performing the same rituals on the summit of Creag Choinnich, a mossy crag not far beyond their cottage door.
May the moon of moons
Keep coming through thick clouds,
On me and on every woman.
Elisabeth tried her best to sound expectant. Instead, she sounded desperate. So many concerns pressed on her heart. Her brother, her husband, her mother. Aye, and her prince as well. She’d carelessly left her almanac at home and would have to rely on her memory for the long list of entreaties.
But she required no prompting to recall the sacred words Fiona Ferguson had taught her. Elisabeth only needed the courage to say them now that they tasted like dust in her mouth.
Hail to thee, thou new moon
Beauteous guidant of the sky.
The moon was beautiful, aye. But a trustworthy guide?
Come, Bess. She clasped her grandmother’s ring. Do not entertain such doubts. Not here. Not now. Not if you want to help Simon.
The moon would reach its highest point near sunset, but she dared not linger. An hour was needed to pick her way down the grassy slope and reach Blackfriars Wynd. Once there, she would share a cup of tea with her former schoolmistress, just as she’d told Lady Marjory she would. “You always have a place at my table,” Effie Sinclair once said.
But first Elisabeth had a promise to keep. Hail the moon for me, Bess? Aye, she would. Anything for Simon. Anything to make amends.
As she watched, a faint crescent, like a freshly trimmed fingernail, appeared at the edge of the sky. The time had come. Now, Bess. She drew a breath and stretched her hands above her head, palms open. Like a hymn without notes, she lifted up the sacred words.
When I see the moon,
It becomes me to lift mine eye,
It becomes me to bend my knee,
It becomes me to bow my head.
With each line in turn, Elisabeth did what she knew she must. She raised her eyes, just as she’d raised her hands. Then dropped to her knees on the grassy hilltop. Then bowed her head low before the moon, not once but three times.
Now came what truly mattered: her requests, many of them pent up inside her for a full month.
She spoke them aloud. She spoke them to the Nameless One.
Simon came first. Then her beloved Donald. Then her mother, though she hardly knew what to ask for. Yet, after each heartfelt entreaty, she felt nothing from without or within. Not a whisper. Not even a faint stirring.
When her words were all spent, she waited as the minutes crawled by and her knees grew sore and any hope of being heard was lost.
She cried out to the translucent moon, “But what about my dear brother? Will you not help him? Will you not guard him and keep him safe?” Distraught, Elisabeth leaped to her feet and shook her skirts, scattering blades of grass. “Please take care of him. I promised him you would. Please!”
Nothing, nothing, nothing was there.
Elisabeth stumbled down the steep hillside, not caring if she fell, thinking only of Simon. Please do not abandon my brother! Not like I did. Not like I did.
Twenty-Two
On such a theme it were impious to be calm;
passion is reason, transport, temper, here!
EDWARD YOUNG
T is his crown by divine right!” Donald pounded his fist on Mrs. Turnbull’s wooden table with such force that their tappit-hens jumped, sending the hinged lids clanking and ale sloshing over the side.
Andrew regarded him through narrowed eyes. “’Twould seem Prince Charlie has won a new adherent to the cause.”
Donald looked round the smoke-filled tavern, his hand gripping the pewter tankard. “Mind what you say, Andrew, and where you say it.” He drank another swig of ale, bolstering his resolve. Had he truly admitted his growing affinity for the Jacobites? Aye, he had, on a Friday afternoon with half of Milne Square convened at Mrs. Turnbull’s.
“The tongue that needs guarding this day is yours.” Andrew held up his tankard toward the boisterous crowd. “Lord Mark is in Berwick at the moment, but our cousin has many a friend in the castle. And who knows how many in the town?”
Donald nodded, swallowing the bitter truth as surely as he’d swallowed too many tappit-hens of ale. Lord Mark Kerr, a distant cousin, was a military man of high rank and no small repute. Though his quick temper had led to several duels, the flamboyant soldier held himself and others to a high standard. And as Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle, his loyalty to King George was unswerving.
“Aye, but what can the man do to us?”
“Do?” Andrew sputtered. “He’s lethal with a blade, for one thing, and his father is the Marquis of Lothian.”
“And our father is dead.” Donald sank back in his chair. “Cousin or not, Lord Mark holds no sway over us.”
Andrew frowned. “You underestimate him, Brother.”
“He hardly knows of our existence,” Donald grumbled, “considering what a trifling mark we’ve made in the world.”
He stared into his glass of ale. Was there a man in Edinburgh who truly respected them? He and his brother were indeed gentlemen, but did they roll up their sleeves at cockfi
ghts, ready to spar with the man who’d bested their gamecock? They did not. Nor did they challenge Patrick Manderson or David Lyon to an impromptu horse race across the Lang Dykes lest Andrew tumble from his mount, unable to breathe, or either of them make a poor showing of it.
Gentlemen, aye, but not truly men.
Susan McGill’s words gnawed at him. If my brave son is willing to lay down his life for King George, so should every nobleman. Even now, this very day, young Jamie McGill was sharpening his bayonet on the moors east of Edinburgh, while Lord Donald Kerr was sending down roots at Mrs. Turnbull’s tavern, exercising only his elbow.
Disgusted with himself, Donald leaned across the table, the sleeves of his coat dragging through the spilled ale. “Do you never grow weary of caution, Andrew?”
“You know I do.” His brother’s sullen expression said more than his words.
“Choose a side, then, and throw yourself into the fray.” He poked his index finger into Andrew’s chest. “Your bedchamber wall is covered with weapons, polished and waiting. Yet what good are they?” Donald flapped his hand in the general direction of Duddingston. “Give the lot to Charlie’s men. They’ll see your French muskets put to proper use.”
Andrew bristled. “I know very well how to handle my weapons.”
“Well, then?” Donald pushed aside his ale, sorry he’d not done so sooner. “Are you strong enough to march uphill with a regiment? Can you match your steel to another man’s as soundly as you match your wits?”
Andrew worked his jaw back and forth, grinding out an answer. “Aye,” he finally said, “with practice, I might make a respectable soldier.”
“You would, Brother.” Donald nodded emphatically. “And so would I. What satisfaction can be found in living an untested life?”
Andrew shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “Brother, I never imagined you, of all people, urging me to take up arms.”
Is that what I’m doing? Goading him into battle? Donald sighed, massaging his forehead, where a headache was brewing. “Perhaps ’tis the ale talking, eh?” He consulted his pocket watch. “Past five o’ the clock. What say we walk for a bit—”
Here Burns My Candle Page 12
