Elisabeth murmured her thanks as she moved to the washbowl, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The last time she’d worn mourning clothes was after her father’s death. She’d stitched a plain gown from her father’s own finely woven wool, dyed in fresh sorrel and birch ashes. This time her gown would be fashioned of black silk with very little lace, no ribbons or bows, and no embroidery. She would gladly wear such dreary attire for six months to honor Simon’s memory. Nae, she would wear it the whole of her life if it might somehow bring him back to her.
Elisabeth bathed in silence, mingling the soapy water with her tears.
Across the room Mrs. Edgar fussed over the dark gray satin Elisabeth would wear until her mourning gown was ready. With obvious reluctance, the housekeeper snipped off the elegant bow that decorated the bodice. “Och! It doesna leuk the same without it,” she fretted. “Ye can wear only pearls. Naught with a shine to it. Still, best to do what’s proper.”
“Aye.” Elisabeth slipped on a clean chemise, then donned the gray gown. Standing before her looking glass, she knew her husband would find it difficult to say the color flattered her skin. Marjory and Janet, with their auburn hair and peach complexions, both wore gray well. But against her pale skin and dark brown hair, the dull hue robbed her of any vibrancy. It mattered not. “For Simon,” Elisabeth said, reaching for a clean lace handkerchief to tuck in her sleeve.
Mrs. Edgar fastened the last of her buttons, glancing toward the window as she did. “’Tis a dreich day. As lead colored as yer gown.” She touched a comb to Elisabeth’s hair, poking at it with more determination than skill. “A fitting day for mourning,” she observed, then lowered her voice. “I put oot bread and water should yer brither’s spirit come leuking for it.”
Elisabeth nodded, thinking of the auld Scottish customs that would not be observed because Simon had died on a lonely country road rather than beneath their roof. The tall case clock would continue to measure the hours, and her looking glass would not be draped in black. But her heart would. Aye, and her body.
Marjory’s bedchamber was vacant as Elisabeth passed through to the drawing room with Mrs. Edgar in her wake. “Whilst ye were sleeping, Lord Kerr and the ithers slipped aff to see to their errands,” the housekeeper explained, “but they’ll not be lang. I’ll bring yer tea, milady.”
Elisabeth circled the drawing room while she waited, feeling unsettled. Incline your ear. She’d drifted to sleep with those words ringing inside her. Not like a deid bell in the hands of a beadle, clanging out mournful news, but like the gill bells of Saint Giles, sweetly playing at noontide. Come unto me. How gently the voice had resounded within her. Was she willing to listen?
Mrs. Edgar served her tea with a slice of seedcake. “’Tis the custom,” she said, sympathy in her eyes.
Elisabeth bit into the sweet cake and pronounced it delicious, sending Mrs. Edgar back to her kitchen a happy woman. Alone once more, Elisabeth edged the rich food aside and sipped her tea in silence.
Her brother’s plaid, left in her chair by the fireside, stirred another memory of Simon, seated beside his father at the loom, learning to throw the shuttle back and forth across the stretched wool. How can you be gone, Simon? How can you be dead? She reached for her linen handkerchief to catch the first tear before it fell.
A knock at the door drew her attention, then familiar voices echoed in the hall: Angus MacPherson and Rob as well, come to pay their respects.
“Visitors to see ye, Leddy Kerr.” Gibson stood aside as the two tailors entered the drawing room.
She stood to greet them, her knees shaking. The moment their eyes met, Elisabeth could not hold back her tears. Angus looked stricken as well. Only Rob remained dry-eyed, though his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as if it was an effort to keep his composure.
“I canna say how sorry I am, Bess.” Angus patted her hand while she dabbed at her swollen eyes. “Victory for our cause came at a great expense. None greater than the loss o’ young Simon.”
She nodded, her throat tight. Would every soul who paid her a visit affect her so? Nae. Beyond these walls few in Edinburgh meant more to her than Angus MacPherson.
“Yer brither was a hero,” Angus assured her, “and I’ve proof of it.” He drew from his coat pocket two letters on thick stationery, sealed in black wax, the color of mourning. “One for ye and one for yer mither. From the hand o’ Charles Edward Stuart.”
Elisabeth caressed the seal with her thumb before she gingerly broke it loose and unfolded the letter with care. She held the paper at arm’s length lest a stray tear mar the ink. The prince’s words swirled across the page in elegant loops. Evidently he’d not written in haste nor on the field of battle but seated at a desk with a newly sharpened quill and plentiful ink.
“The prince returned to the Palace of Holyroodhouse yestreen,” Angus said. “Whan the final list o’ casualties was presented to him this morn, he sat doon at ance to write the families.”
She absently rubbed a corner of the paper between her fingers, imagining other grieving parents and siblings who would hold such letters. “How many were lost?”
“Less than forty,” Rob answered, “yet ilka man will be greatly missed.”
My brother most of all. The words swam before her as she began to read.
To Lady Elisabeth Kerr, Milne Square
Monday, 23 September 1745
My Dear Madam,
I pray you will accept my deepest condolences and most sincere appreciation for the life your brother sacrificed on behalf of our cause.
Lord George Murray informed me that Mr. Ferguson demonstrated particular bravery at the initial charge and, despite his injury, continued to engage the enemy with valor.
In the aftermath, when many were unwilling to bury the dead, your brother again proved his loyalty, which I witnessed firsthand.
May these few words convey the gratitude of all who fought beside him at Gladsmuir.
Charles P. R.
She lightly touched the prince’s signature: a bold, slanted script with the l leaping upward from the r like a raised standard. However zealous her father had been for the Stuarts, would he have freely given his only son? And what of her mother? Would she consider Simon’s young life well spent? Nae, nae! No earthly cause was worth so great a sacrifice.
Elisabeth quietly folded her letter, eying the other one. “I must deliver the prince’s letter to my mother. However much his words meant to me, they will signify even more to her.”
Deep furrows lined Angus’s brow. “Ye canna mean to do it in person.” When she did not respond immediately, Angus wagged his finger inches from her nose. “Dinna entertain the notion o’ making such a journey yerself, Bess. ’Tis too dangerous.”
“But who will go on my behalf?”
Angus sighed heavily. “I would gladly ride to Castleton o’ Braemar. Truly, I would. But my duties o’ late claim ilka waking hour. Might Lord Kerr do ye this service?”
“I have not asked him,” Elisabeth admitted. She didn’t voice what she knew to be true: Donald’s mother would never allow it.
Rob MacPherson stepped forward. “Then I’ll go. My faither can spare me and sae can the prince.” He rushed on before Angus could object. “Dinna worry about my foot.”
“You are certain?” Her spirits lifted for the first time since Tom Barrie had crossed their threshold. “The stores in our larder are yours, and we’ve silver for your journey. But…” She paused, needing to be very sure. “You’d be gone a fortnight. Are you truly willing?”
“Mair than willing.” His dark eyes searched hers. “If yer husband canna go, I’ll gladly serve in his place.” He held up the prince’s letter. “Yer mither will want to hear from ye as weel, aye?”
Her mother. The wedding. In her grief Elisabeth had all but forgotten.
“I shall pen a letter at once,” she promised, her hands growing cold at the mere thought of it. “Might you arrive in Castleton by Michaelmas?”
“Six days from now?
” Rob frowned. “I canna promise, but…”
“’Tis a great deal to ask,” she admitted, “but if you might reach her before Sunday, ’twill make all the difference.” More than you can imagine, Rob. More than I can tell you.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Mebbe if I depart this noontide…”
“Could you?” She leaped at the idea before he changed his mind. “Gibson can arrange for a carriage at once, and Mrs. Edgar will gladly pack food for your journey.” When Elisabeth caught their eyes, both servants nodded and hurried off.
Come Marjory’s return, Elisabeth would have much to explain after ordering her servants about and spending her money. But surely her mother-in-law would understand. If not, Donald would. Had he not agreed they must find a way to inform her mother? She had found a way: Rob MacPherson.
Angus piped up, “If ye mean to leave at ance, lad, I’ll pack yer kist and have it delivered to White Horse Close. Save ye time, aye?”
“That would be wonderful,” Elisabeth told him. She bussed his rough cheek before he departed down the stair. A moment later only Rob remained, still standing in their drawing room. “You’ll not mind waiting while I write my mother?”
“Go on,” Rob assured her. “I’ll be here whan ye’re done.”
Elisabeth offered him a grateful nod and repaired to her bedchamber, already composing her letter. When she had pen and ink in hand, she began at once, lest she lose her train of thought. Or lose her nerve.
To Mistress Ferguson, Castleton of Braemar
Monday, 23 September 1745
Dear Mother,
I know Rob will have told you our tragic news. He is a good friend to do our family this kindness. Still, I wish I could be there in his stead and mourn with you.
Her heart tightened at the image of her mother hearing the sad news thrice—from Rob, from the prince, and from her daughter—yet with no one there to hold her, to weep with her, or to dry her tears.
No one except Ben Cromar.
Sickened by the thought, Elisabeth pressed on.
Perhaps you and Mr. Cromar have already wed. But if my letter reaches you before Michaelmas…
She paused, uncertain of her course. Dared she add to her mother’s sorrow the same hour she learned of Simon’s death? Or would it be unthinkable to let her marry Ben Cromar without telling her how violent the man could be? Unless her mother already knew…
Elisabeth squeezed her pen so hard the quill dented her fingers. Where could she turn for wise counsel? None of her family knew the situation. Only Simon knew, and he was gone. My dear brother.
For a fleeting moment she wished the Nameless One were real. That she could cry out for help and know help would come. Not just on the sixth day but every day. But the moon cared nothing for her heartache. She would have to decide for herself.
Aye, Bess. Just tell her.
…I beg you, Mother, do not yoke yourself to Ben Cromar. I left Castleton because he frightened me, and Simon left because of his cruelty. I cannot bear to think of you suffering at his hand.
Elisabeth closed her eyes, remembering the red scar on Simon’s neck. Please, Mother. Don’t let him hurt you.
Or was it too late? Elisabeth sighed, then wrote what she must.
If you have already taken him as your husband, I will ask your forgiveness and entreat the One we know to keep you safe.
She signed the letter in haste, wishing she could say more. Much more. But time was short, and Rob was waiting.
A moment later her sanded and sealed letter was in Rob’s hands. “Before Michaelmas?” she pleaded.
“Dinna fear, milady. I’ll do my best.”
Twenty-Nine
To grief there is a limit;
not so to fear.
FRANCIS BACON
M arjory held out one of her son’s cherished volumes. “I know of no better remedy for heartache than poetry.”
Dressed in their gray gowns, the Kerr women had gathered round the fireplace after the midday meal, Donald and Andrew having escaped to the Netherbow coffeehouse.
Janet took The Seasons from her hand. “Have you some passage in mind?”
“Any will do,” Marjory told her, glancing out the window, surprised to see the sun still shining.
Three days of fine weather had not brightened the melancholy atmosphere of a household in mourning. Elisabeth’s grief was understandable, losing her only brother at the cusp of manhood. Marjory understood. Her one sibling, Henry Nesbitt, was Donald’s age, seven-and-twenty, when he was killed while hunting in the Ettrick Forest. She well remembered the heartache, which time had eased but never erased. She intended to support Elisabeth, despite her Jacobite convictions. Who could say if such a tragedy might not cool her daughter-in-law’s fervor?
After a morning filled with sympathetic callers, Marjory had decided a brief respite from so much sadness was in order. Janet was showing signs of restlessness, yet they could not rightly pass the time playing whist, hazard, or cribbage. Poetry would have to do.
“Here’s something from Autumn.” Janet held the book in one hand and pressed open the pages with the other, pretending not to squint as she read aloud.
Oft let me wander o’er the russet mead,
And through the saddened grove, where scarce is heard
One dying strain—
Marjory cut her short. “Something more cheerful,” she insisted, barely concealing her irritation. Compassion was not Janet’s strong suit. Nor was her older daughter-in-law particularly fond of Elisabeth. But today of all days an effort was called for.
Janet turned to another page. “Ah, here we are,” she said smoothly.
Meanwhile, the moon
Full-orbed and breaking through the scattered clouds,
Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned east.
When Elisabeth raised her head at the word moon, Marjory narrowed her gaze. Was the passage an arbitrary choice on Janet’s part? Or was she baiting her sister-in-law? A strand of guilt wound through Marjory’s conscience. Perhaps telling Janet about the Ladies’ Diary notations had been unwise.
A new arrival in the entrance hall captured everyone’s attention, as Gibson announced Mrs. Effie Sinclair.
Elisabeth was on her feet at once, welcoming her boarding school mistress. She had to bend down to do so. No taller than a girl of twelve, Mrs. Sinclair had a wasplike waist and tiny features. “Like a fairy,” Lady Ruthven had once observed. If so, a well-bred one, Marjory thought, watching the woman’s elegant manners, suited to the granddaughter of Sir Robert.
Effie Sinclair’s voice was high and sweet, like birdsong. Her small eyes glistened with tears. “On behalf of all my scholars, Lady Kerr, you have our utmost sympathy.”
A chair was quickly produced, and small glasses of claret served. Marjory had sipped one glassful since breakfast, trying to be frugal. The hospitality surrounding Sir John’s funeral had cost more than two hundred guineas in ale, wine, and meat. She could not afford to drain the family coffers for a Jacobite, however beloved by his sister. Elisabeth abstained completely, but Janet drank to Simon’s memory with every guest in turn though she’d never met the young Highlander.
Effie trained her eyes on Elisabeth. “Lady Kerr, I did not have the pleasure of knowing your late brother. Might you tell me something about Mr. Ferguson?”
Marjory listened as Elisabeth described Simon’s childhood in Castleton, his skill at the loom, his passion for the Jacobite cause, and his brave deeds at Gladsmuir, all the while dabbing her eyes. Marjory found her words quite affecting. Had she ever spoken of her late brother, Henry, so tenderly?
Elisabeth recited the prince’s letter by memory, then confided, “Rob MacPherson, the tailor’s son, is delivering the sad news to my mother in Castleton. How I wish I might have done so myself.”
“Your mother will understand,” Mrs. Sinclair assured her. “’Tis not safe to travel. Mr. MacPherson is to be commended for his service to your family.”
Elisabeth agreed. “He is
a true friend.”
Marjory hid her slight irritation. A true Jacobite, you mean. And a tradesman. But his willingness to carry her daughter-in-law’s sad news was commendable.
Mrs. Sinclair put aside her empty glass, then looked about the room. “Your needle has been busy, I see. This embroidery bears your fine stamp.” She plucked a pillow from a nearby armchair and traced the intricate pattern with her fingertips, praising Elisabeth’s tiny stitches and her bold use of color. “You are a credit to my school,” Mrs. Sinclair told her, “though you arrived at my door with more skills than any young woman I’ve ever taught.”
Elisabeth blushed at her praise, the first color Marjory had seen in her wan cheeks in several days.
“You also have a talent for costume,” Mrs. Sinclair said, replacing the pillow. “I trust you are still sewing.”
“On occasion,” Elisabeth said, though she did not elaborate.
Marjory hastened to add, “Miss Callander in Lady Stair’s Close usually fashions our gowns.”
“Miss Callander?” Mrs. Sinclair’s voice lifted another half octave. “What a pity when you have such a gifted seamstress beneath your own roof.”
Marjory opened her mouth and, having no proper answer, closed it again. She could not deny her daughter-in-law’s talents. But Marjory shuddered to think of anyone outside the household knowing that Elisabeth stitched many of her own gowns, let alone that she’d once earned silver with her needle. Heaven forbid!
“I fear I have overstayed my welcome.” Mrs. Sinclair was already standing. “Might I ask one favor, my dear Lady Kerr? Several of my scholars have written poetry in honor of His Royal Highness.” She produced a narrow roll of writing papers. “You are far more likely than I to have an audience at Holyroodhouse. The young ladies would be most grateful if you delivered their poems to the prince.”
After sitting in a glassy-eyed stupor through most of the conversation, Janet came to life. “Oh! Might I read them?”
Mrs. Sinclair hesitated only a moment before placing them in Janet’s eager hands. “If you wish.”
Elisabeth promised to see them delivered posthaste, even as Marjory shot her older daughter-in-law a pointed look. Whatever had possessed Janet, behaving so rudely? Too much claret, perhaps.
Here Burns My Candle Page 16
