In her black mourning gown, Elisabeth felt all but invisible, though she would gladly wear a coarse linen shift if it might honor Simon’s memory.
“Lady Kerr!”
When her name floated across the forecourt, she recognized the voice at once. Donald. All three women turned to greet the Kerr heir, a stone’s throw away. He looked taller, though that was quite impossible, and more handsome than ever in his blue officer’s uniform. When Elisabeth spotted the white cockade proudly displayed on his tricorne, tears clouded her eyes. My braw Jacobite.
“I meant to be here sooner,” he explained, then bent to kiss each of their hands in turn, lingering over Elisabeth’s as if they’d been apart for years rather than a fortnight.
When he stood, her skin warmed beneath his gaze. “I’ve missed you,” she said softly so the others would not hear.
“And I’ve missed you, milady. Rather fervently.” His eyes said the rest.
Having patiently waited her turn, the dowager addressed her son. “You look very well,” she told him, her countenance shining with maternal affection. “When shall we expect your brother?”
“Andrew will be along shortly,” Donald assured his mother, then offered his arm. “You’ll be far more comfortable withindoors.” Walking at a stately pace, Donald led them through the entranceway and into the open quadrangle with its classical facades, one for each floor. “Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian,” Donald said proudly as if he’d designed them himself.
“But where is the ball?” Janet asked, her tone shrill.
Donald hid a bemused smile. “Not to worry, Mrs. Kerr. We’ve only to follow the crowd.”
He guided them toward the entrance to the old tower built for King James V. The young prince’s admirers and supporters soon surrounded them, all making their way up a narrow turnpike stair. An occasional torch, mounted high above their heads, lit the way. Everyone spoke at once, their laughter echoing off the masonry walls.
Certain she could not be heard above the din, Elisabeth didn’t attempt to converse with Donald as she slowly climbed the stair, preparing her heart for whatever the evening might hold. Naturally she could not dance while in mourning. But if she met the prince, discharged her duty to Mrs. Sinclair, and enjoyed Donald’s company for a few hours, her night would be well spent.
One by one the invited guests reached the top of the stair and filed into a long candlelit space, their voices swallowed up by the sheer size of the room, with its polished wood floor and lofty ceiling. If there was a far wall at the opposite end, Elisabeth could not see it for the crush of people. Perhaps when daylight poured through the many windows facing the quadrangle, one might easily grasp the dimensions. But at night, lit only by candelabras, the room was a vast universe unto itself, a world without end.
Beside them a well-laid log fire burned brightly in the hearth, although the room was already warm. Somewhere fiddlers were tuning their instruments, and the clinking of glass and silver filled the air. Hundreds of folk were milling about, exchanging greetings, bowing and scraping, hoping to impress. Elisabeth slipped her hand round the crook of Donald’s elbow, grateful to have him by her side.
Donald swept his other arm across the room’s expanse. “You can see why ’tis called the Great Gallery.”
“No other name would do,” Elisabeth agreed. Portraits lined the wood paneled walls, one after another after another. The subjects each displayed a confident stance, their gazes stern, as if daring the artist to make them look anything less than heroic.
“Scotland’s kings and queens, beginning with Fergus Mór,” Donald explained. “More than one hundred of them, all by the same artist.”
Janet arched her brows. “Surely we’ve not had half that many monarchs.” She examined some of the smaller paintings nearby, then shrugged. “’Tis one portrait, painted over and over.”
A familiar chuckle heralded Andrew’s arrival. “Quite right, dear wife.” He removed his tricorne and kissed her cheek in greeting. “I had the same opinion when first I saw them all. From painting to painting, only the attire changes.”
“And so has your own costume, dear boy.” The dowager motioned him closer. “Come, let me have a look at you.”
Andrew obliged his mother, standing at attention while she conducted her inspection. “Do I pass muster, then?”
“Aye,” the dowager said on a sigh, “much as I am reluctant to concede it.”
Janet appraised her husband as well. “Sir, you are a credit to your regiment.”
“As are you, Lord Kerr,” Elisabeth said, pride and fear warring within her. She remembered the first sign of Donald’s interest in the Jacobite cause. I am intrigued. Why had she not been more cautious instead of encouraging him? The dowager would never forgive her if something happened to her beloved heir.
“There you have it, lad.” Donald clapped his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Our mother and wives approve. We need look no further.”
“I approve of your uniforms,” the dowager clarified, “but not your politics.”
“And I’d be happier with a bit more correspondence,” Janet chided her husband. Shorter than the rest of them, she stood on tiptoe, trying in vain to look about the crowded room. “Lord Kerr, have you sufficient influence that you might introduce us to some of the prince’s illustrious guests?”
“I confess there are many gentlemen of rank whose identities we’ve yet to discover. We know Secretary Murray, of course, and Lords Elcho, Ogilvie, Pitsligo, and Nairne. And the Duke of Perth.”
Janet’s eyes brightened. “A duke, you say?”
“So he is,” Andrew boasted. “If there is someone you care to meet, Angus MacPherson is here, and he knows them all.”
Janet frowned at her husband. “What business does a tailor have attending a royal ball?”
“The prince’s business,” Donald said firmly. “Angus MacPherson has made himself… ah, quite useful of late. He’s present this night but not for the dancing. At the moment I’ll wager he’s buttonholing one Highland chief or another, seeking more clansmen for the cause.”
Andrew lifted a cup of ale from a passing tray. Not his first of the night, Elisabeth suspected. “My brother is right,” he said expansively. “Locate Angus MacPherson, and I promise you’ll find the prince at his elbow.”
“Well! I’ve never met a prince.” Janet was the first to move, pulling the rest of them in tow. “Might he dance with me, do you suppose?”
“The prince has more important matters to attend to,” Andrew told her. “If you wish a dancing partner, my dear, look no further than your husband.”
The Kerrs walked a few more steps, weaving past ladies fluttering their fans and gentlemen downing pints of ale, before a familiar voice called out, “Hoot! If it isna Lord Kerr and his bonny wife.”
Angus MacPherson made his way round the couples assembling for the first dance of the evening. “Come, come!” the tailor cajoled them. “’Tis time yer family met His Royal Highness.” He added in a stage whisper, “The prince is in verra guid spirits. Alexandre de Boyer, the Marquis d’Éguilles, has landed in Montrose with money and arms.”
Swept down the length of the room with her family, Elisabeth soon discovered that the Great Gallery did, in fact, have a far wall, where a bank of windows overlooked the gardens. But it wasn’t the dark panes glistening in the candlelight that commanded her attention; it was Charles Edward Stuart.
The bonny young prince sat enthroned before them, with his high, smooth brow and his tightly curled periwig. His posture, his demeanor, even the dignified manner in which he turned to greet them bespoke his royal birth. So did the candelabras standing round him, bathing him with light, and the clan chiefs in their Highland finery, watching over him with a fierce pride.
A month ago she’d seen the prince from a distance entering the forecourt of Holyroodhouse. Now he was close enough to touch, surrounded by fawning ladies and earnest young gentlemen trying to solicit his favor.
The prince smiled at
her and then waved Angus forward. Whispered words were exchanged. Angus stepped to the side, his broad face beaming as he began his introductions. “May I present Lord Donald Kerr o’ Selkirk, one o’ yer newly enlisted men, and his wife, Leddy Elisabeth Kerr.”
She sank into a low curtsy, almost touching the floor with her forehead. A moment later she nearly lost her balance when the prince himself reached down and lifted her to her feet.
His eyes met hers. “My dear Lady Kerr. I know you are in mourning for your brother.” The prince’s English bore a noticeable Italian accent from his years in exile, but his voice was kindness itself. “You have my utmost sympathy. And my deepest gratitude for your sacrifice.”
Elisabeth swallowed the lump rising in her throat, fighting to maintain her composure. Simon, dear Simon! Would she ever think of him without weeping?
“I am honored,” she finally managed to say, then curtsied again. Standing once more, she remembered the small roll of beribboned poetry and held it out to him. “From the young scholars of Mrs. Euphame Sinclair, an esteemed schoolmistress.”
The prince received her offering with aplomb and passed it to another for safekeeping, murmuring his thanks before resuming his seat.
When Elisabeth stepped back, Angus MacPherson quickly introduced the others. Andrew bowed with great decorum, and Janet was won to the cause the moment the prince inclined his royal head in her direction.
“And now,” Angus said, “may I present the Dowager Lady Marjory Kerr, mither o’ Lord Donald and widow o’ Lord John Kerr o’ Selkirk.”
The prince regarded her mother-in-law with marked interest. “My advisors tell me your late husband did not support my father’s cause. Yet you have shown me great honor, madam, entrusting me with your sons.” He paused, as if inviting an explanation.
“Your Royal Highness.” The dowager curtsied with the grace of a lady half her age. “I ask only that you return my sons to me, for they are all I treasure in this world.”
“Ah, madam.” His smile was so tender the young ladies at his feet nigh to swooned. “Ubi enim est thesaurus tuus, ibi est et cor tuum.”
Elisabeth could almost hear Effie Sinclair whispering in her ear, translating the Latin. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. The prince was correct. Donald and Andrew were indeed a treasure, which the dowager wanted close by her side, like the gold safely hidden beneath her bedchamber floor.
But those sons belonged to Charles Edward Stuart now, and he would not easily let them go. Not with an invasion of England on the horizon.
Thirty-Five
The dangers gather as the treasures rise.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
W hat think you of this one?” Janet held out her third poem of the morning, the ink still fresh.
Marjory took the paper with some reluctance. However elegant her daughter-in-law’s handwriting, Janet’s poetry left something to be desired. Taking care not to let her face give her away, Marjory skimmed the latest offering.
Poem by a Lady on Meeting His Royal Highness
the Prince Regent
O handsome prince! Such warmth, such grace!
When thou looked down to see my face,
My heart did make a solemn vow,
As I beheld thy royal brow.
The rest was equally cloying. Marjory pursed her lips at a loss for how she might respond without hurting her feelings.
“Mr. Ruddiman will no doubt be eager to publish these,” Janet said, smiling as she reached for another sheet of paper. “I believe each one is better than the last.”
“Oh, aye,” Marjory quickly agreed, averting her gaze. Thomas Ruddiman, publisher of the Caledonian Mercury, had printed many a Jacobite verse, penned by various unnamed gentlewomen. Surely he would have the good taste not to put abroad her daughter-in-law’s efforts.
Janet moved her pen swiftly across the page, her hazel eyes alight, her dimples showing. The notion that Janet Kerr had formed an attachment to the prince was astonishing to say the least. Aye, she was a Highlander by birth, but she’d always turned up her nose at the Jacobites. Now she wholly embraced their cause, wearing an entire row of white silk cockades across the bodice of her gown lest anyone doubt her newfound devotion.
Was it Andrew’s resolve to bear arms for the prince that convinced Janet to discard her allegiance to King George? Or had a single evening at the palace, a glittering moment in the presence of royalty, captured her heart?
Marjory fiddled with the lace trim on her sleeves, avoiding the embarrassing truth: the charming young prince had stolen her heart as well. When she’d asked His Royal Highness to send Donald and Andrew home, she’d meant at once, not when the Rising ended. But the prince’s response had been so gallant, she’d pleaded with him no further, swept up in the admiration—nae, adoration—of Charles Edward Stuart.
If such behavior was daft, Marjory was not alone. Even Charlotte Ruthven was seen on the High Street displaying a white cockade on her cape. The ladies of Edinburgh were mad for Prince Charlie, prompting naysayers to decry his “petticoat patronage.” But who better to support him than loyal wives and mothers when his army required brave husbands and sons?
Besides, Marjory had never heard a word from Lord Mark Kerr. Who knew what sort of turmoil the government was thrown into after Gladsmuir? She and her family had chosen the right side. Marjory was certain of it now.
Busy with her writing, Janet paused long enough to shake her feathery quill at Elisabeth, who sat quietly reading by the fire. “Will you not try your hand at poetry, Lady Kerr?”
“I am afraid I have no gift for it,” Elisabeth said, closing her book. “But ’tis a fine day for sewing. I shall be in my bedchamber should anyone have need of me.” She disappeared with a whisper of black silk.
In seasons past Marjory might have objected, insisting a sewing needle belonged in the hands of a servant. Of late she’d begun to see things differently. If her grieving daughter-in-law found solace in hemming a gown or stitching a seam, so be it. Elisabeth had the sense to work in private, offending no one. Nor did she bring out each finished garment, expecting others to applaud.
“Ah!” Janet said, appraising the lengthy verse before her. “I do believe this will be your favorite.”
The sound of unfamiliar voices in the entrance hall provided a timely escape. “’Twill have to wait, I’m afraid.” Marjory quickly rose to investigate.
When Gibson stepped into the drawing room to announce their visitors, he bore a look of surprise. Nae, of shock. “Catherine Maxwell, Countess o’ Nithsdale, and the Leddies Barbara and Margaret Stuart o’ Traquair.”
Marjory instinctively touched her hair, then the neckline of her very ordinary green gown, wishing she looked more presentable. She’d entertained many a lord and lady but never three daughters of the Dowager Countess of Traquair, whose grand estate stood not ten miles from Tweedsford. Whatever had brought them to her door?
“Lady Nithsdale,” Marjory began, offering a deep curtsy. “What an unexpected honor.” Poetry forgotten, Janet stepped beside her to greet their guests as well, hiding her ink-stained fingers behind her back.
“The honor is ours,” Lady Nithsdale said as all three women curtsied.
Impeccably dressed, the Earl of Nithsdale’s wife and her unmarried twin sisters were as handsome as any portrait, with their dark hair and luminous eyes, their oval faces and full features. All three were perhaps a decade younger than she, Marjory decided. Even standing near a well-lit window, their fair complexions were as smooth as porcelain.
“We meant to call a fortnight ago, after the prince’s ball,” Lady Nithsdale said, her expression most sincere. “Can you forgive us, Lady Marjory?”
“Of course,” she said, her mind spinning. Forgive a countess! “Come and have tea, won’t you?” At any hour, in any situation, a pot of black tea was the best recourse. “Janet, kindly invite Lady Elisabeth to join us.” Marjory looked askance at her daughter-in-law’s hands, hoping she understood. Do
something about the ink.
The six were soon seated round the drawing room table, the Traquair ladies having divested themselves of their cloaks, gloves, and hats. However warm the temperature inside, out of doors the weather was cool, rainy, and bleak. Not at all a day for visiting, yet here they were.
Marjory prayed their morning tea would be up to her guests’ expectations. Mrs. Edgar did not disappoint. Wearing her best apron and cap, she served freshly baked treacle scones, still warm to the touch. Marjory knew the housekeeper had baked them for the afternoon, so she thought it very canny of Mrs. Edgar to serve them now. Barbara Stuart dotted her scone with butter, clearly delighted with the rich texture, while her sister, Margaret, praised their housekeeper’s baking talents. Lady Nithsdale merely smiled, as if enjoying a secret known only to her.
All through tea Marjory nodded at Gibson whenever something was needed. Hot water. Fresh linens. More scones. Clean spoons. Each time he followed her pointed gaze, then swiftly did her bidding.
The Kerrs soon discovered Lady Nithsdale’s favorite topic of conversation: her two daughters. “Mary is thirteen, and Winifred, ten,” she explained. “Named after their grandmothers.”
Rather famous grandmothers, as Marjory recalled. Lady Mary gave birth to seventeen children, and Lady Winifred rescued her husband from the Tower of London the night before his execution. Weighty legacies for girls of any age to bear.
“A mother is always happiest with her children beneath her roof,” Marjory said.
Lady Nithsdale sighed expansively. “I do miss them, and their father as well. Still,” she said, brightening, “my sisters and I have a duty to our prince while he is in Edinburgh.” She leaned closer, gently easing aside her empty teacup. “You have done far more than your duty, Lady Marjory. Two sons willing to fight for the cause! Would that I had lads of an age to offer His Royal Highness.”
“I did not offer them,” Marjory was quick to say, wanting no credit for their decision. “Lord Kerr and his brother presented themselves at the palace on their own accord.”
Here Burns My Candle Page 20
