Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  They sat together by one of the windows facing the square, the noontide sun illuminating the faint lines creasing her brow. Elisabeth had not smiled in days. Not even that morning when he and Andrew had discussed their plans at breakfast. Now that they had the drawing room to themselves, Donald did not hesitate to sit closer than propriety allowed, cradling her face in his hands, lightly rubbing his thumb across her sweet mouth.

  “Bess,” he began, keeping his voice low, “what say you of my enlistment in the prince’s army?” He pulled the printed notice from his waistcoat and laid it on the table beside her, feeling a bit daft for saving it. “You were so quiet at table this morning, I could not be certain.”

  “Oh, Donald.” She drew a long, even breath, then released it with a sigh. “I am proud you’ve chosen to support Prince Charlie. But to give up your freedom… to risk your life…” Elisabeth bowed her head, though she could not hide the tears in her eyes.

  After a moment he reminded her gently, “Simon thought the sacrifice worthwhile.”

  She looked up. “How can you be sure? In his last hours my brother may have rued the day he came out for the prince.”

  “Bess, you know he did not.” Donald brushed back the loose strands of hair that touched her cheek. “Simon fought willingly. And died bravely.” He swallowed hard, watching her eyes fill with fresh tears. “Now, ’tis my turn to take up arms.”

  “For Scotland?”

  “Nae, my love.” He brushed a kiss against her brow. “For you.”

  Thirty-One

  Hope, folding her wings,

  looked backward and became regret.

  GEORGE ELIOT

  E lisabeth lowered her gaze. “Serve the prince because you believe in his cause. But not for me, Donald. Never for me.”

  “Why not, Bess? I thought ’twould please you.”

  The yearning in his voice made her look up. She saw it in his eyes too: some urgent need, some longing far deeper than desire. “You’ve… nothing to prove,” she began, searching for the right word. “Nothing to atone for.”

  “You are wrong, dear wife.” He stood abruptly, showing her his back. “I’ve much to atone for, as you well know.”

  Elisabeth studied his posture, wishing he’d spoken more plainly. Did he mean his affairs before they married? Or something else altogether, something more recent? “Whatever you may be seeking,” she finally told him, “you’ll find naught on a battlefield but death. Simon is proof of that.”

  “On the contrary.” Donald turned to face her, sunlight gilding his hair. “Your brother is proof there are valiant souls in this world. Men who put honor before self.” His voice softened. “Simon laid down his life for what he believed. Will you not let me do the same?”

  “Nae, I will not.” Marjory closed her bedchamber door with a firm bang, startling them both. As she drew near, her gaze narrowed. “’Tis quite as I feared,” she said evenly. “You, Lady Kerr, have corrupted both my sons. And I intend to put a stop to it.”

  Elisabeth rose to defend herself even as Donald protested, “Mother, you cannot—”

  “I can,” the dowager said, “and I will. Within the hour I shall write a letter to this prince of yours and inform him of a certain weakness of your brother’s—”

  “Nae!” Donald balled his fists at his side, his face like flint.

  Elisabeth touched her husband’s arm, hoping to calm him. “Are you speaking of Andrew’s bout with consumption?”

  Donald ground out the words, “We are.”

  His mother jerked her chin at him, as angry as Elisabeth had ever seen her. “You may not remember how your brother suffered, but I do. His fevers, his flushed cheeks, his violent coughing. I feared Andrew would not live to see the spring.”

  “Mother, I—”

  “Listen to me, Donald. You have recovered completely, but your brother has not. The lad cannot even climb the stair without stopping to catch his breath.” His mother sighed, her fury beginning to abate. “Whatever Andrew’s reckless Jacobite convictions, his health will not permit it.”

  Donald growled, “’Tis you who’ll not permit it. You cannot do this to Andrew, Mother. Nae, you will not.”

  When the dowager shrank back at his harsh tone, Elisabeth quickly intervened. “Dearest, your mother means only to protect him.”

  He glared at her. “You would side with her, then, and not with your own husband?”

  Elisabeth turned from mother to son, struck anew by their similar natures. Obstinate. Unbending. “Lord Kerr, I am on your side,” she finally said, “and so is your mother. We both want you and your brother alive and well, safely residing with us in Milne Square.”

  Her mother-in-law gaped at her. “Aye, that’s precisely what we want.”

  “Then I must disappoint you both,” Donald said flatly, motioning Gibson to his side. “Pack a small trunk for me at once,” he ordered, “and bring me a whetstone.”

  Elisabeth’s heart skipped a beat. Nae, Donald. You cannot do this. Not for me. When he moved toward the fireplace to claim his sword, she stepped in his way. “If you truly want to please me, Lord Kerr, you’ll not act in haste.”

  He maneuvered round her as neatly as if they were dancing a minuet, then plucked his mounted sword from the wall. “I’ve given the matter a good deal of thought, Lady Kerr. So has my brother. We’ll not stand by and let other men fight in our stead. The Stuarts are sure to reclaim the throne. We’d be wise to support them.”

  When his mother opened her mouth to protest, Donald stemmed her words with a raised hand. “’Tis my decision alone, Mother. See that you do not blame my wife or her family. The consequences are mine alone to bear.”

  “I shall bear them too,” the dowager reminded him. “So will Elisabeth.”

  At the sound of her Christian name, Elisabeth paused. Seldom did the dowager address her so informally. Or so personally. “Lord Kerr, will you not reconsider?” she pleaded. “There are other ways to support Prince Charlie. Fill his coffers with gold. Sing his praises in the street.”

  “Or march out with his men,” Donald said, more gently this time.

  Gibson reappeared with the whetstone and placed it by the window. “I’ll have yer kist ready afore lang,” he promised, then hastened toward the bedchamber.

  Elisabeth exchanged glances with her mother-in-law. Was there nothing else to be done? A shared sense of helplessness hung in the air. Standing side by side, they watched Donald oil the whetstone, then polish the blade across the surface with slow, measured strokes. Elisabeth knew they dared not speak. Even a momentary distraction might cost him a fingertip.

  When he finished, Donald wiped the blade clean with great care, then hung the sword from a broad leather belt stretched from shoulder to hip. Not a gentleman’s method of wearing a sword, but a soldier’s.

  He already looked the part of a Jacobite officer, Elisabeth realized. His dark blue coat and red waistcoat would suffice until a uniform could be stitched for him, and his buff-colored breeches and boots would serve him well on cold autumn nights.

  “I am proud of what you’re doing,” she confessed in a low voice, not looking at his mother. “Yet I cannot bear to lose you.”

  “Indeed, you’ve sacrificed enough.” He touched her cheek. “’Twill all be resolved by Yuletide. And then I’ll come home to you.”

  Her vision blurred as she smoothed a hand along his sleeve. Please, Donald. Please don’t leave me. No one in the household loved her but Donald. No one cared if she lived or breathed, if she ate or slept. Such selfish thoughts! Yet she could not deny them.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered, unsure whose pardon she sought. Donald’s? Her mother-in-law’s? Whom else had she wronged by urging her husband to support the prince, then begging him to stay?

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” Donald assured her. “Charles Edward Stuart won my allegiance with his victory at Gladsmuir. Despite my mother’s charge, you did not corrupt me.”

  She knew better, remembering a
ll too clearly her words meant to persuade. No cause could be nobler. Donald might not hold her accountable for his decision, but guilt pressed down on her all the same.

  A moment later Gibson deposited a heavy leather trunk at Donald’s feet, then held out a dark blue tricorne. “Yer hat, milord.”

  When Donald pulled a white cockade from the recesses of his waistcoat, his mother let out a soft cry. “Nae!” She clutched his forearm as if to shake the Jacobite symbol from his hand.

  He gripped the silk rosette, pinning it firmly to the upturned brim.

  “You cannot fight for Charlie!” his mother pleaded.

  His gaze bore down on her. “Would you have me fight for Johnnie Cope?”

  “Nae! I would not have you fight at all.” Marjory collapsed onto the nearest chair like a canvas sail bereft of wind.

  Elisabeth knelt beside her mother-in-law, lightly resting her hand on the small of her back. There was nothing she could say or do to comfort her. But she could stand by her.

  The next two hours were a blur of activity as Andrew returned home from Angus’s shop, boasting of the handsome uniforms they would wear and the fine weapons they would carry. If he had any concerns about being fit to enlist, Andrew did not voice them. His mother’s anguished pleas did nothing to dampen his enthusiasm.

  When dinner was served at one o’ the clock, Elisabeth dutifully moved a small amount of food from fork to mouth but did not taste it. Instead she sat close to her husband, thinking of excuses to brush her hand against his, capturing his gaze whenever possible. They would have very little time together before his departure. A few quiet words, a lengthy embrace, and Donald would be gone from her side.

  At half past the hour, Donald and Andrew were at the stair door, depositing muskets into the arms of two lads dressed in rags, both eager for the coins they would earn that afternoon. The men had already bid farewell to their mother, who’d retired to her bedchamber, a handkerchief pressed to her eyes.

  Mrs. Edgar and Gibson slipped into the kitchen, allowing the couples a moment of privacy. Andrew drew his wife aside, and Donald did the same, wrapping Elisabeth in his embrace and cradling her against his chest.

  After a long moment Donald said softly, “I’m sorry, Bess…” His voice broke. “Sorry for all the ways I’ve failed you as a husband.”

  She stood on tiptoe to press her cheek to his. “You have not failed me, Donald. Not if you love me.”

  With a low groan he pulled her closer still. “I do love you. God help me, I do.” His mouth found hers, and nothing more was said.

  Thirty-Two

  Words are women, deeds are men.

  GEORGE HERBERT

  H olding the book of sonnets in her hand, Marjory carefully guided Donald’s paper knife along the folded edge, letting the curved blade do its work, freeing the page to reveal the printed text. Odd that Donald had not finished opening the leaves himself.

  She’d borrowed his whetstone to sharpen the narrow blade, trying not to let her thoughts dwell on the swords her sons carried. Sharp enough to wound. Sharp enough to kill.

  She quickly laid down the paper knife. Think of something else, Marjory.

  September had ended, and October had begun. In the week since her sons’ enlistment, she’d done nothing but worry. Were they eating well? Were their tents dry and their plaids warm? Were they safe from harm? She’d not slept well since their departure. How could she when her sons lay beneath a moonless sky without wives or servants to attend them?

  Marjory put aside the book of sonnets, too tired to read and too restless to sleep, even at that late hour.

  Janet fled their quiet house each forenoon, seeking the companionship of her young friends. She remained abroad, feasting on teacakes and gossip until the supper hour, then chattered all through the meal and retired early, exhausted from her daily ventures into society. If she pined for Andrew, Janet kept that sentiment entirely to herself.

  Elisabeth was still in deep mourning for her brother. She’d heard nothing from home, and the tailor’s son had yet to return. A sad business, delivering such news. Most days Elisabeth remained withindoors, stationed by the drawing room window, embroidering or sewing from dawn until dusk. Such dreary, solitary work! To her credit, Elisabeth quickly put aside her needle whenever Marjory required attention: to brush the tangles from her hair, to read poetry to her, or to engage in a round of piquet. Elisabeth, an expert player, had far more patience with the French card game than Janet, who grew bored long before they reached the obligatory hundred points.

  Marjory reached for her playing cards whenever she pleased now that public worship on the Sabbath was no longer permitted. Instead, the sanctuaries were filled with soldiers—some wounded, some prisoners. How very strange on Sunday last to drink tea well into the morning, looking out at a deserted square, listening for a kirk bell that never rang.

  As for afternoon tea at Lady Woodhall’s, Marjory couldn’t possibly join them again after her unfortunate exchange with Charlotte Ruthven. Nae, not an exchange. A diatribe and one-sided at that. Marjory felt certain she was the sole topic of conversation on Monday last, served up like shortbread, flavored with scandalous tidbits about her beloved Donald. Just as well she did not attend, though Mondays would never be the same.

  Wrapping her sleeping jacket round her shoulders, Marjory quit her bedchamber and picked up a single burning taper to light her way. When she reached the drawing room, she glanced at Janet’s chamber door in passing and saw no light along the threshold. Sound asleep, then. Gibson, too, was curled up in his folding bed in the entrance hall, snoring too loudly to notice his mistress tiptoe past him.

  When she pushed open the door to the kitchen, Marjory found Mrs. Edgar perched on a stool beside the wooden dresser, a long table used for dressing meat. Scrubbed clean, it doubled as the housekeeper’s desk. She was huddled over the day’s broadsheet, squinting at the small print, holding a candle as close to the paper as she dared.

  “Mrs. Edgar?”

  “Och!” She stood so quickly her tall stool threatened to topple over. “How may I serve ye, mem?”

  Marjory scanned the dimly lit kitchen for some reasonable excuse to offer. Finding none, she spoke the truth. “I couldn’t sleep and thought, if you were awake, you might not object to company.”

  “Weel, then.” Mrs. Edgar curtsied and patted the lone stool, a tacit invitation to sit. “Is it tea ye’ll be wanting? I’ve coriander biscuits, if ye like. And a wee slice o’ hard cheese, if ye’re feeling peckish.”

  A late-night repast was quickly prepared. Mrs. Edgar held up the tray, tipping her head as she asked, “Would ye prefer to sit at yer tea table?”

  Marjory hesitated. She would be more comfortable. But she would also be alone. “Add a second cup and join me,” she finally said, surprising even herself.

  “Aye, mem.” Her housekeeper’s eyes were as round as the dishes on her tray.

  A moment later the two women were sipping tea in her bedchamber. Marjory noticed that Helen sat on the edge of the chair as if she were uncertain of her place. “Mrs. Edgar, I’ve not read the Evening Courant. What news might you share?” Reading was a source of great pride for Helen. Such a discussion might put her at ease.

  “Weel, mem, syne ye asked.” The housekeeper folded her hands in her lap as neatly as any lady. “Monie folk are flitting to the countryside, taking a’ their effects.”

  Marjory had seen the exodus firsthand. “We could do the same,” she admitted, gazing at the dark windows facing the High Street. “Return home to Selkirkshire until the rebellion ends. You’ve not been to Tweedsford, but it’s a fine estate.”

  She’d mentioned the possibility to Donald and Andrew before their departure, but they’d been adamant: Edinburgh was their home now. Under no circumstances was she to think of moving forty miles away, especially not when a brief visit from their wives could sometimes be arranged.

  Their stubbornness chafed at Marjory. When had her sons become so headstrong?
<
br />   “I’ve niver seen the Borderland,” Mrs. Edgar admitted.

  “You’ll find the counties to the south far greener than Edinburgh,” Marjory told her. “The hills are lush and rolling, the rivers and burns are lined with trees, and the gardens rival any in Scotland.”

  Mrs. Edgar gave her a timorous smile. “How loosome ye make it a’ sound, mem.”

  Marjory nodded absently. “I was born there. So was my late husband, and so were our sons.”

  “Hame is kindlier than onie place else,” Mrs. Edgar said, then drained her teacup.

  Home. Marjory seldom thought of it kindly. Too rural, too quiet, too isolated. But with her sons risking the family’s claim on Tweedsford, more drastic measures might be required to guard their estate. She eyed her writing desk across the room. Come the morning she would see what could be done.

  “I’ll leave ye to yer bed, mem.” Mrs. Edgar curtsied, tea tray in hand. “Thank ye for…weel, thank ye.” She curtsied again and left at once, the dainty china cups dancing in their saucers.

  Marjory woke to a sharp autumn chill in her bedchamber. She bathed in haste, grateful for the steaming pitcher of water by her washbowl. Mrs. Edgar had come and gone without waking her. By the sound of it, the housekeeper was busy next door, dressing Elisabeth in her mourning gown.

  Remembering the dreadful twelvemonth that followed Sir John’s passing, Marjory hoped never to wear black again. Even the latest fashion—black silk embroidered with crimson flowers—held little appeal.

  She tapped on the adjoining door, summoning her housekeeper.

  “I’ll not be a moment,” Mrs. Edgar promised, then was as good as her word, slipping through the door before Marjory had finished cleaning her teeth, using a frayed bit of licorice root daubed in cream of tartar. She rinsed the bitter taste from her mouth, then submitted to Mrs. Edgar’s ministrations, donning a simple cranberry-colored gown with only a touch of lace edging the square neckline.

  No need for ribbons and bows when her vital task of the day was to pen a letter. She’d promised her sons she would not write Holyroodhouse informing the prince of Andrew’s health concerns. But she’d made no such vow regarding Lord Mark Kerr, the Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle.