Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Having risen to the rank of general, Lord Mark surely understood the appeal of military life. He would know how to speak to her sons and convince them of the very real danger they faced if this Jacobite rebellion failed as others had before it. The Kerr lands and title would be forfeit, if not her sons’ lives. Wasn’t Viscount Kenmure summarily tried, found guilty, and beheaded for supporting the Stuart cause in 1715? And could the same not happen to Donald and Andrew?

  Her stomach clenched at the mere thought. Not my sons. Never my sons!

  “Will ye want a cooked breakfast, Leddy Kerr?”

  “Nae.” Marjory pressed a hand to her waist. “Something lighter. Oatcakes, if they’re fresh. But I’ve a letter that needs writing first. Tell the others I’ll join them in a bit.”

  Alone for the moment, Marjory carried her wooden writing desk across the room and placed it on her tea table, hoping to capture what morning light she could. Once seated, she inked and blotted her sharpened quill, then composed her thoughts, praying for the right words to persuade this man she barely knew but whose assistance she desperately needed.

  To General Lord Mark Kerr, Governor of Edinburgh Castle

  Thursday, 3 October 1745

  My Dear Lord Mark,

  I would never presume to take advantage of the distant relations between your noble family and that of my late husband, Lord John Kerr of Selkirk.

  No doubt Lord Mark would see through her artifice, knowing she fully intended to exploit the family ties that bound them, however thin. She’d met him on a handful of occasions, all of them formal, with little chance for discourse. He would remember her, though; she was certain of it.

  I come to you as an anxious mother of two sons, Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr, whose recent behavior may well dishonor the family name and bring into question our long allegiance to King George.

  She could hardly put things more plainly. Even if Lord Mark did not give a fig what happened to her sons, he would care very much if they soiled the name Kerr.

  Both my sons have imprudently aligned themselves with the Young Pretender. They have enlisted in his service and reside within his camp at Duddingston, where rebellion against the crown is their daily portion.

  Marjory nodded at the paper, pleased with her wording. Identifying Charles Edward Stuart as pretender rather than prince would sit well with Lord Mark. But the news of her sons’ deep involvement would not. She was counting on a heated response that would stir Lord Mark to action.

  A brief letter from your hand impressing upon my sons the gravity of their decision might put a swift and welcome end to things. My own pleas have been ignored, yet I am confident they will heed your advice above all others’.

  Honesty was always the wisest course. Flattery helped too. She closed with a reminder of their familial bond in the meekest words she could think of.

  I will be ever grateful for any courtesy you might extend to these, your relatives and my beloved sons.

  Your faithful, humble servant,

  The Dowager Lady Marjory Kerr

  Milne Square, Edinburgh

  Marjory signed her name with a flourish of ink, then wondered if her sweeping script might negate any claim to humility. She cast a sprinkling of sand across the page and let the ink thoroughly dry before shaking the loose grains into the fireplace.

  “Leddy Kerr?” Mrs. Edgar was at her door. “Ye’ve a caddie here w’ a letter from Duddingston.”

  Marjory quickly sealed her outgoing letter, then hurried to the entrance hall. A young lad in shabby clothes waited for her, as did the rest of the household, eager for news. The caddie held out a folded letter and an open palm, then grinned, his teeth surprisingly white.

  “You’ll wait while I read it?” she asked, depositing a coin in his hand.

  “Oh, aye, mem.” He slipped the ha’penny into his pocket. “I’ve a letter for Leddy Kerr as weel.”

  Elisabeth stepped forward to receive it, offering the caddie a second copper. No letter for Janet, it seemed. She pouted most unbecomingly.

  Marjory moved to the window for more light, praying as she broke the seal. Perhaps Donald had come to his senses. If so, she would not need to beg Lord Mark for assistance. Her son’s familiar hand brought a lump to her throat. God be with you, Donald. She skimmed the lines, looking for some hint of regret, some change of heart. The letter contained no such admission. Instead it was filled with praise for Prince Charlie and the Highlanders in his charge, with many assurances that their meals and sleeping arrangements were satisfactory.

  Cold porridge and watery broth, Marjory feared. And hard, unforgiving ground.

  “Shall I take that for ye?” the caddie asked, nodding at her sealed letter.

  “Aye,” she said, wishing it were not so. “Tell the guard at Edinburgh Castle to see this is delivered to Lord Mark Kerr with haste.” She pressed an extra coin in the caddie’s hand, rather than trouble Lord Mark with the expense. Caddies were remarkably trustworthy. In crowded Edinburgh, where news scurried up and down the closes like mice, messengers could not afford to cheat their customers.

  The lad turned to Elisabeth, a look of expectation on his dirt-streaked face. “Milord said to wait for an answer.”

  As Elisabeth gazed at Donald’s letter, Marjory noted a faint sheen in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. Was the news ill or favorable?

  “Tell my husband I shall not disappointment him,” Elisabeth said at last. “I cannot join in the dancing, but I will proudly stand by his side.”

  “Dancing?” Janet all but snatched the letter from Elisabeth’s hands, then quickly scanned the contents. “Ah! There’s to be a ball at Holyroodhouse. On Friday next.”

  To Marjory’s dismay, Janet waved the letter about as if the handwritten missive was no more personal than the Evening Courant.

  “Kindly inform my husband as well,” Janet sang out. “Tell Mr. Andrew Kerr his wife will gladly attend!”

  Thirty-Three

  Women, like princes, find few real friends.

  LORD GEORGE LYTTLETON

  T he night of the ball was as black as Elisabeth’s gown. All the stars were in hiding, and so was the waxing moon. Iron lanterns with scraped horn windows bobbed up and down the High Street, toted by servants doing their masters’ bidding, and coal fires belched smoke into the foggy air.

  Elisabeth tightly clasped her silk reticule and the poems from Effie Sinclair’s students as her sedan chair bounced and swayed through the Netherbow Port, headed for the Palace of Holyroodhouse. At the dowager’s insistence, Elisabeth had taken the first chair they’d hailed. “You are the one Lord Kerr will be watching for,” her mother-in-law had said. “We’ll not be far behind.” The chairmen momentarily gave way to a noisy contingent bound for Mr. Smeiton’s coffeehouse, then started off again at a trot, eager to deliver their passenger and earn another fare.

  Elisabeth steadied herself, pressing the toes of her kid shoes against the door. Was Rob MacPherson being jostled about in a carriage bound for Edinburgh that night? She expected a visit from him any day, bearing news from home, perhaps even a letter from her mother. Dared she let herself hope?

  Touching her hair, Elisabeth was relieved to find the dowager’s string of pearls still neatly entwined in her topknot of curls. Mrs. Edgar had taken great pains with Elisabeth’s toilette, brushing her dark eyebrows into smooth arcs, powdering her face, neck, and arms, then dabbing her cheeks with rouge. “Ye must leuk yer best for the sake o’ yer brither’s memory.”

  Simon. If only he were waiting for her at the palace. Standing proudly at the entrance. Wearing his Braemar plaid kilted and belted round his waist. Holding out his hand, inviting her to dance. Come, my sister.

  Elisabeth sighed into the narrow confines of the sedan chair. Hail the moon for me, Bess. His last words to her. Though she’d pleaded with the Nameless One, her brother was gone. Now her husband had followed in Simon’s brave footsteps and thrown in his lot with the prince. But not to the same end, beloved. As an officer, Lord
Donald could simply give orders while others took to the field. For that small blessing Elisabeth was most grateful.

  “Yer husband will be pleased to see ye,” Mrs. Edgar had said earlier as she added a faint spray of rose water across her shoulders. “I jalouse ye’re keen to see him as weel.”

  “I am indeed,” Elisabeth had confessed. Very keen.

  Not much longer now.

  Lady Marjory and Janet had dressed for royalty, wearing feathery plumes, rich brocades, and damask slippers. Elisabeth had dressed for Donald. The couple had not seen each other in a fortnight, the longest they’d ever been apart. She missed his company, his literate discourse, his clever smile. Aye, and his touch.

  Her husband’s letters had been rather short and not as descriptive as she’d hoped, but at least he wrote to her. Janet had received only one letter from Andrew, and that a list of forgotten items to be sent to him at the Duddingston camp. Donald’s comments were a bit guarded, as if he feared his letters might be intercepted. King George’s spies lurked everywhere, but there were Jacobite informants too.

  All of Edinburgh followed the prince’s daily rounds with rapt attention. After meeting with his morning council, he enjoyed a midday meal with his principal officers in a public place where any citizen might stand about and admire him. Then he rode out to review his army, attended by his Life Guards and a host of elegant spectators in coaches and on horseback. The most fashionable ladies of the town were waiting to be received in his drawing room when the prince returned. A public supper followed, often with music and, as on this night, a ball.

  Elisabeth’s sedan chair bounced to an abrupt stop. “Here ye be, milady,” the chairman announced as he opened the narrow door. She placed her feet carefully on the muddy ground, glad for her pattens. The moment she deposited a sixpence in his open palm, he and his stout-armed partner went on their way, hailed by a gentleman wearing a pronounced scowl beneath his full-bottomed wig.

  Elisabeth looked over the milling crowd adorned in brightly colored silks and satins, their breaths forming small clouds as they called out to one another. Gaiety and conviviality were the order of the evening. Torches blazed across the grounds, casting bright pools of light, illuminating some faces and shadowing others. However would she find Donald at the appointed hour?

  “Leddy Kerr?”

  Not Donald’s voice, yet one she’d been waiting to hear.

  She whirled round to find Rob MacPherson standing behind her, his broad frame encased in blue wool and a length of tartan fastened over one shoulder with a round silver brooch. “You’re home,” she breathed.

  “Aye, milady.” He stepped closer. “Only just now.”

  Rob’s soft voice belied the size of him. Everything about him was sturdy and thick: head, neck, arms, chest. If not for his foot, Rob MacPherson would be a man to be reckoned with in the pitch of battle.

  “Tell me about Castleton,” she urged him. “How fares my mother?”

  His dark eyes spoke before his words. “She took the news verra hard.”

  Elisabeth looked away, awash with guilt. Her poor mother, learning of Simon’s death from a friend rather than from her own daughter. “I should have made the journey myself, Mr. MacPherson, rather than burden you.”

  “Nae,” he quickly assured her, “for ’twas nae burden.” Unlike some men who looked round when they spoke, Rob kept his gaze fixed on her. “Yer mither was pleased to have the prince’s letter. ’Twas a meikle comfort to her.”

  “What of my letter?” she gently pressed.

  Rob shifted his stance. “She read it.”

  Even in the torchlight Elisabeth could see his cheeks turning ruddy.

  “Ye’ll not be pleased to hear it, Bess. Yer mither tore yer letter in two. Tossed it in the fire. Said ’twas too late.”

  “Oh.” Her face warmed as well. “I didn’t realize you arrived after Michaelmas—”

  “Nae, milady,” Rob hastened to say. “’Twas Saturday morn whan I reached Castleton, the day afore the wedding.”

  Elisabeth stared at him, hoping she’d misunderstood. “Even after she read my letter she married Ben Cromar?”

  “Aye, she did, by the banks o’ the River Dee. Not monie folk came. ’Twas a rainy afternoon and the Sabbath besides.”

  Elisabeth stared at the ground, her emotions reeling. She was hurt, aye, but she was angry too. Did a daughter’s opinion count for so little? Was Simon’s ugly scar of no consequence? She twisted the silken strings of her reticule, waiting for the threat of tears to subside.

  “Ye’re not happy with her choice.”

  “Nae, I am not.” At least she’d kept her voice even.

  After a moment Rob said gently, “Whatsomever ye think o’ Mr. Cromar, the man’s not afraid o’ hard work. Her cottage is in guid repair. And yer mither seemed blithe to take him as her husband.”

  Elisabeth swallowed her pride. “’Tis done, then.”

  He nodded but said nothing more.

  In the silence she found the strength to apologize. “Please forgive me for entangling you in family matters.”

  He lifted her chin, his ungloved hand surprisingly warm in the cool night air. “I’ve kenned ye a’ my life, Bess. And yer family.” He withdrew his touch but not his steady gaze. “If ye’ll not mind me asking, why have ye not visited yer mither a’ these years? Will yer husband not let ye leave his side?” Before she could answer, he added, “Not that I blame his lordship. I’d feel the verra same, were ye mine.”

  Elisabeth looked away, embarrassed by a question that had no proper answer. “Lord Kerr is a busy man—”

  “Aye, sae I’ve heard.” He glanced down at the roll of papers she kept turning round in her hands. “What have ye there?”

  “A gift of poetry for His Royal Highness.” She held up the offering tied with a royal blue ribbon. “Written by Mrs. Sinclair’s young ladies. Perhaps there is someone I might trust to present them to the prince?”

  “Ye might trust me,” he chided her. “But the prince will gladly take them from the hand of a loosome leddy like yerself.” Rob leaned forward, his breath on her cheek. “’Twill be an honor to introduce ye to him, Bess.”

  She eased back, suddenly aware of the solid warmth of his body and the undeniable heat of his gaze. “I am…ever in your debt, Mr. MacPherson.”

  “Och, lass.” His voice was low, his tone persuasive. “Can ye not call me Rob as ye once did?”

  “Nae, I cannot.” Elisabeth sank into a low curtsy, bringing their conversation to a swift and necessary end. “Thank you for your service to my family.” She waited, head down, until he responded with a curt bow.

  “The pleasure’s a’ mine, Leddy Kerr.” Rob turned on his heel and was soon lost in the crowd.

  Thirty-Four

  My dancing days are done.

  FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER

  E lisabeth stood alone in the palace forecourt, regretting she’d not handled things better. Like his father, Rob was a caring and trustworthy friend. Had he not willingly traveled many miles bearing the saddest of tidings to her mother? In turn, she’d no doubt misread his intentions, then wounded him with her rebuff. Badly done, Bess. The only remedy was to apologize when their paths crossed again and hope Rob was in a forgiving mood.

  Elisabeth looked toward the road leading to the Canongate, watching for her family members. Whatever had delayed them? With so many persons of rank attending the ball, perhaps the chairmen were busier than usual. Whatever the reason, she was grateful Marjory and Janet had not witnessed her painful exchange with Rob. She would tell them of her mother’s marriage soon enough. But not this night.

  The shifting fog penetrated her wool cape, crawled up her sleeves, and wrapped its cold tendrils round her neck. Autumn had firmly taken up residence in the capital. At least Donald was no longer required to sleep out of doors. Along with many of the Jacobite officers, he was billeted at the inn at White Horse Close, where she’d met with Simon. Her heart tightened, remembering th
e look on his face. I fear I must leave ye, Bess.

  And so you did, dear brother of mine. So you did. She stared into the dark night, wishing she might see him walking toward her, knowing it would never be so.

  Instead, she glimpsed Janet and their mother-in-law emerging from their hired sedan chairs. By the time she reached them, the two women were brushing the dust from their skirts and casting disparaging looks at the plain leather-and-wood conveyances, battered and worn from constant use.

  “Most unsatisfactory,” Marjory grumbled, paying the chairmen nonetheless. She pulled the hood of her cape closer to her chin. “Come, ladies. Lord Kerr promised to meet us at the palace entrance. He’ll think we’ve abandoned him.”

  Once the dowager slipped a gloved hand round each daughter-in-law’s arm, the threesome crossed the forecourt in full sail, their capes billowing from their shoulders. Gentlemen bobbed their heads in recognition, and their ladies were quick to curtsy. It seemed the Kerrs’ daring support of the Jacobite cause had not gone unnoticed.

  Elisabeth eyed the imposing entranceway to the palace, twice the height of a man and broad enough for four to enter abreast. Above it hung a frontispiece of the Royal Arms of Scotland. In the flickering torchlight she could pick out two enormous unicorns on either side. On the crowned cupola a clock marked the hour. She peered through the fog, struggling to see the hands. Almost nine. Donald would not be long in coming.

  Whether from the chilly night air or from anticipation, Elisabeth shivered. Might they move a bit faster?

  Her mother-in-law was quick to protest. “I declare, Lady Kerr, you will have me walking out of my shoes at this pace.”

  “The sooner we are inside,” Elisabeth reminded her, “the sooner you may dispose of your cape and let everyone admire your beautiful new gown.” Her praise was genuine. Miss Callander had outdone herself. The dowager’s burgundy-colored taffeta was a paean to lace, ruffles, flounces, and bows. Janet’s gown was simpler in design, the watered silk in golden maize a fitting complement to her auburn hair. Her plump forearms were encased in elbow-length ivory kid gloves, and a double strand of pearls circled her throat.