Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Lady Nithsdale lifted one elegant finger. “Ah, but you did not stand in their way. And now that you’ve met the prince, you understand their zeal.”

  “I do,” Marjory said, then surprised herself by adding, “and I believe I share it.”

  “Well done.” A satisfied look on her face, Lady Nithsdale turned to Elisabeth, who’d been unusually quiet that morning. “No one at this table has made a greater sacrifice than you, Lady Kerr.”

  Elisabeth’s eyes remained dry and her voice steady. “My brother gave his life for a cause greater than himself. I hope my husband will not be required to do the same. Though he is willing—”

  “Indeed.” Marjory quickly changed the subject. “Have you news, Lady Nithsdale, of how long the princes men will tarry in Duddingston?”

  “We cannot be certain,” the countess replied, exchanging glances with her sisters. “Rumor has it the prince will invade England by month’s end.”

  Janet’s eyes widened. “’Tis but a week.”

  “Aye,” Barbara sighed. “We’ll surely soak our handkerchiefs with tears when the officers leave.”

  “Oh, we shall,” her sister Margaret agreed. “They are ever so courageous.”

  Marjory knew the Traquair ladies enjoyed daily forays to the palace, making themselves at home in the Duke of Hamilton’s apartments with Margaret Murray of Broughton, the beautiful Lady Kilmarnock, and the fair-haired Lady Ogilvie.

  Might she be invited to join their illustrious circle? Was that the purpose of this visit?

  Marjory took a quick sip of tea, if only to hide her excitement. Imagine! Mingling with His Royal Highness and his council, who met in the prince’s drawing room each morning to discuss their plans and policies. Everyone knew their names: Gordon, Lochiel, Keppoch, and the rest. Even if ’twere only for a week, Marjory would feast on the memories for a lifetime.

  When she looked up, she found Lady Nithsdale studying her closely.

  “I wonder, Lady Marjory, if we might speak privately? ’Tis a matter of some urgency.”

  “Certainly.” This is it, then. The invitation. Marjory stood, aware of her gestures, her posture, hoping the countess would not find her manners wanting. She asked Elisabeth to entertain their guests, then escorted Lady Nithsdale to her chamber, trying to remain calm.

  Once they were seated in the best of her upholstered chairs, Marjory inclined her head in what she hoped might be a flattering pose and waited for the countess to speak first.

  “Lady Marjory, what I am about to ask of you is quite confidential.”

  “Oh?” She tried to sound nonchalant.

  Her brown eyes glowed. “I can think of only a handful of ladies in all of Edinburgh to whom I might extend such an opportunity.”

  “You are most kind.” Marjory could no longer contain her smile. She would wear her gold damask tomorrow, her dark pink silk on Saturday, and her flowered chintz on Sunday. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

  Lady Nithsdale lightly touched Marjory’s sleeve. “As I am sure you are aware, the prince’s council meets each morning.”

  “Aye.” Marjory beamed. “So my son has told me.”

  “Yesterday their discussion was of particular importance.” The countess lowered her voice. “As you can imagine, mounting a military campaign is very costly.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Marjory said, suddenly not sure of anything. Must she pay for the privilege of sipping tea at Holyroodhouse?

  The countess pressed on. “You’ve no doubt met Lord Elcho, the prince’s aide-de-camp.”

  “I saw him once. At the ball.” Marjory paused, trying to sort out the connection. If Lord Elcho’s approval was required for admission to the prince’s inner chambers, Donald might be of assistance. At the moment she could speak only the truth. “We were not introduced.”

  “Easily remedied.” Another one of her dazzling smiles. “Few people know this, but Lord Elcho met with the prince at Gray’s Mill and presented His Royal Highness with a most worthy contribution.”

  Marjory nodded yet dared not inquire the sum. Money was hardly an appropriate topic of conversation among gentlewomen.

  Then, bold as brass, Lady Nithsdale stated the amount. “Fifteen hundred pounds.”

  Marjory’s eyes widened as a slight gasp slipped out. Fifteen hundred?

  “Aye,” the countess agreed, “a fortune to some. But to those of us with property, a wise investment.” The many rings on the countess’s fingers caught the light, winking at Marjory. “You have chosen well, supporting the prince. Now your gold could ensure victory for the right side. Our side.”

  My gold. Marjory’s gaze was drawn to the corner of her woolen carpet where four hundred guineas lay beneath the floor. And there, under the mahogany washstand, another four hundred. Leather purses filled with gold were hidden all over the room. Perhaps she could spare one or two for the prince.

  “You have already given your greatest treasure,” Lady Nithsdale reminded her gently.

  My sons. Marjory stood, then slowly walked toward the nearest loose board, as if in a trance. What was money compared to Donald and Andrew?

  “When Lord Elcho shared his fifteen hundred pounds, the prince immediately made him his aide-de-camp. Think what His Royal Highness might do for your sons if you made a similar gift to the cause. Think, Lady Marjory!”

  Marjory closed her eyes, longing to rub her temples, which were already beginning to throb.

  If her gold earned the prince’s favor …

  If her gold assured her sons a place of honor …

  If her gold might keep them safe…

  A snippet of truth, learned long ago, flitted through her mind. With favour wilt thou compass him as with a shield. Could the Lord alone protect her sons? Or in time of war, was her trust better placed in gold? Something she could touch. Something of value.

  Lady Nithsdale was standing beside her now, the scent of lavender wafting from the rich folds of her gown. “When victory comes, as it surely will, the prince will repay you, Lady Marjory. ’Tis not a gift, really, but a loan. What say you, madam? For the sake of your sons?”

  A loan. Marjory took her first full breath in many minutes. A good man showeth favour, and lendeth. Aye, that was an easier prospect. She would be investing the family’s gold, not giving it away.

  “Lady Nithsdale, if you will kindly repair to the drawing room, I will take a close look at my resources.” Marjory opened the chamber door for her, inclining her head. “I shan’t be long.”

  The countess laughed, a bright, musical sound. “I believe ’twill be a treasure worth waiting for.”

  Thirty-Six

  O moon, thou climb’st the skies!

  How silently, and with how wan a face!

  SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

  G azing out her bedchamber window, Elisabeth heard the clock chime half past four. Already darkness was falling. On the High Street below, folk walked with their heads bent down, fighting the sharp October wind that blew hard from the west. The coffeehouses, taverns, and oyster cellars overflowed with patrons. Many were singing Jacobite ballads, their off-key voices filled with bravado and soaked in ale.

  In six weeks Charlie had beguiled the capital, body and soul. Edinburgh Castle still remained in the hands of King George’s men, but from its portcullis downward, the town belonged to the bonny prince.

  Elisabeth looked up, searching the eastern sky. Soon the full moon would begin rising, as round and as gold as the dowager’s guineas delivered into the prince’s hands by Angus MacPherson. “’Twould be unthinkable for me to do so in person,” her mother-in-law had explained on Friday last. “I trust Mr. MacPherson to see our gold safely to Holyroodhouse. He’ll make certain Lord Kerr and Andrew are by his side for the…presentation.”

  Whatever Lady Nithsdale had said or done to persuade her, the dowager had been most generous, it seemed. The amount was not mentioned, but Elisabeth saw the look in Angus’s eyes when he began stuffing the many leather purses inside his clothing.
“His Royal Highness will be verra pleased,” he’d said, a bit flustered, his waistcoat bulging. “I’ll send a caddie, bidding Rob to bring my greatcoat. We’ll take care o’ things, Leddy Kerr. Have nae fear.”

  Hours later Angus had returned from the palace with a note from Secretary Murray of Broughton, expressing the prince’s heartfelt gratitude. The dowager had seemed disappointed not to receive a letter in the prince’s hand and even more perturbed that an invitation to morning tea never came from the Traquair ladies. “I cannot simply present myself at the palace door,” she’d fretted all week long. “Who knows what sort of reception I might find?”

  Her agitation was somewhat placated when she learned her sons had advanced in rank, appointed to the prince’s Life Guards under Lord Elcho. Elisabeth was grateful as well. The Life Guards were a prestigious group of gentlemen and merchants assigned to protect the prince. Not only was the position an honorable one; it was also less hazardous. When the time for battle came, they would not lead the charge.

  A brief note from Donald was read aloud last evening at supper.

  Your gift of Kerr gold secured us fine mounts, French uniforms, and some degree of respect. I hope you will not feel the loss of those guineas too dearly, Mother.

  If the dowager missed having so many leather pouches beneath her floor, she did not say so. What she did miss were her sons, which she bemoaned on a daily basis.

  Elisabeth felt quite the same. She’d not seen Donald since her visit to White Horse Close more than a week ago, and then ’twas only for an hour. To stem the growing problem of desertion among his men, the prince insisted they keep to their quarters. Hence, Jacobite officers who were billeted at the inn took turnabout, vacating their cramped sleeping quarters for an hour to accommodate visiting wives. The room was dank and dirty, the bedsheets worse, but at least in that small, windowless room Elisabeth had Donald all to herself.

  Most of the females she passed on the stair weren’t wives at all but tavern maids and servant girls. “The prince is anxious to leave Edinburgh,” Donald told her when last they were together. “If his men remain in town much longer, he fears they’ll be thoroughly debauched by women and drink.” Elisabeth understood those fears. Though Donald seldom drank to excess, women were another matter.

  The note she’d received from him that morning was a terse command rather than a loving request. Tomorrow night at eight. Not a word of endearment, not even a signature. Did her husband miss her as she missed him? Or did he think of her only occasionally, when he lay alone on his narrow bed? If he lay alone…

  Nae. Elisabeth banished the thought before it took root. Tomorrow evening at eight she would sink into his embrace and count herself fortunate to be the wife of Lord Kerr of Selkirk.

  Hearing footsteps approach, Elisabeth turned toward the door.

  “Leddy Kerr?” Mrs. Edgar softly knocked, then entered the bedchamber, balancing a steaming cup of tea and a plate of sweet almond biscuits. She held them up with a tentative smile. “With milk and sugar, the way ye like it.”

  Murmuring her thanks, Elisabeth sat at her dressing table and moved aside her sewing basket to make room for the housekeeper to serve her tea. When Elisabeth noticed her scissors gleaming in the candlelight, an idea came to mind. “Mrs. Edgar, would you kindly snip a lock of my hair?”

  “Nae mair than a lock?” The housekeeper took the scissors to hand, cutting the air to test them. “I thocht whan the moon was fu’, a leddy cut her hair a’ the way round. To make it grow, ye ken.”

  Elisabeth took a sip of her tea and smiled. “Aye, so I’ve heard. But I need just one small curl.”

  “Oo aye.” Mrs. Edgar nodded. “For Lord Kerr.”

  “If you would.” Elisabeth put down her teacup and bowed her head slightly. “’Tis so thick in the back, I’ll hardly miss it.”

  Mrs. Edgar took her time, choosing one spot, then another, until she found what she was looking for. She snipped with great care, then held out her hand, a slender curl nestled in her palm. “Will this do?”

  “It will indeed.” Elisabeth reached for a piece of stationery and Donald’s paper knife. She quickly fashioned a small square and folded it round the lock of hair. Would he think the gesture too sentimental? Or would he keep it in a pocket close to his heart? Perhaps if she gave him something useful along with it, Donald would not find her gift too trifling.

  “Mrs. Edgar, do you know the whereabouts of Lord Kerr’s winter gloves? I’ve looked high and low and not found them.” Made from sturdy lambskin and lined with rabbit fur, the handsome pair was her anniversary gift to him December last. Now that colder weather was upon them, his thin kid gloves would never do. And a Life Guard needed to look his best for the prince.

  “I’ll find them,” the housekeeper assured her as she began searching through his clothes press. She took her time, lifting out each item of clothing, checking his coat pockets, and reaching into the far recesses of the narrow drawers. “There ye are!” Mrs. Edgar’s arm disappeared inside the furniture as she strained to claim the prize. After much effort she pulled out one leather glove, then a second, and grinned as she held them up by the fingers. “A saicret nae mair,” Mrs. Edgar said proudly, giving them a gleeful shake.

  A small white card slipped out and fell soundlessly onto the carpet.

  “What’s this, now?” Mrs. Edgar bent down to collect it and paused only for an instant before slipping the card in her oversized apron pocket. “Och, ’tis nothing.”

  Elisabeth saw the color rising up the housekeeper’s neck and the look of pity in her eyes. “Come, Mrs. Edgar. Is it truly nothing?”

  Her lower lip began to tremble. “Nae.”

  “Let me see it, please.” Elisabeth held out her hand.

  “Och, Leddy Kerr.” Mrs. Edgar slowly pulled the card from her pocket. “I wish ye wouldna read it.”

  Elisabeth hesitated, so sorrowful was the woman’s expression. But she had to read it, had to know what troubled her housekeeper so. “Whatever words are on this card, you are not to blame, Mrs. Edgar. Not for a moment.”

  “Bliss ye, milady.” She sniffed, her tears coming in earnest. “I wouldna hurt ye for anything.”

  Elisabeth took the small card, surprised to find her hands shaking.

  One side was plain. No embossing, no ink. When Elisabeth turned the card over, Mrs. Edgar looked away.

  The words were few, but they were enough.

  May these gloves warm your hands,

  as your hands warmed me.

  J. M.

  Neat, round letters, penned with care. The writer had weighed every word. Your hands warmed me. Donald, her husband, her love, had touched this woman. Nae, had warmed her.

  J.M.

  “Who is she?” Elisabeth whispered, pinching the card as if to make it speak. Jean? Jessie? Jo?

  “I dinna ken,” Mrs. Edgar said, wringing her apron strings, her face a picture of misery. “Half the toun has a family name beginning with M. Is it McDonald, mebbe? McKenzie? Mitchell? Och, milady, I canna say wha she might be.” Her brow darkened. “Though I ken a wird or two would suit her verra weel.”

  Elisabeth lifted her head, an image dancing before her eyes. The widow at Assembly Close. A handsome woman several years older than she. Jane Montgomerie. When she looked down at the card, there she was.

  J.M.

  The letters began to swim as Donald’s voice whispered inside her. You alone have my heart.

  “Nae!” With a soft cry she threw the card into the fireplace. “’Tis not true. I do not have your heart, Donald. I do not. I do not!” She fell to her knees, crushing her black gown against the carpet.

  Mrs. Edgar knelt beside her. “Is there anything I can do, milady?”

  Elisabeth shook her head, her face awash in tears.

  They remained there, lady and maid, until every trace of light in the windows disappeared. At last Mrs. Edgar rose and helped Elisabeth to her feet and gently seated her at her dressing table before finding two clean handke
rchiefs.

  “Thank you,” Elisabeth murmured, embarrassed to be seen in such a state.

  She watched Mrs. Edgar fasten the shutters round the room, then light fresh beeswax candles, filling the air with the scent of honey. Muted sounds floated up from the street below. A man laughing. The clip-clop of a horse. A mother calling to her children. Elisabeth listened but did not truly hear so disjointed were her thoughts.

  Finally Mrs. Edgar stood before her, hands folded at her waist. “Have ye niver wondered why Peg flitted like she did?”

  “Peg Cargill?” Elisabeth dabbed at her eyes. “I believe she feared the Highlanders.”

  “Nae, milady. She feared yer husband.”

  Elisabeth stared at her in disbelief. Not one of our own servants. Not Peg.

  “She didna tell a soul but me,” Mrs. Edgar said grimly. “Mind ye, he didna misuse her. He leuked, but he didna touch. Still, ’twas mair than the puir lass could bear.”

  “I see.” Indeed, Elisabeth saw it all quite clearly: the hunger on his face, the desire in his eyes. “You’re certain Peg told no one else?”

  “She promised me she wouldna. And I’ve not breathed a wird, not even to Gibson.”

  Elisabeth glanced toward the door, thinking of the household. “No one must be told, Mrs. Edgar. Especially not the Dowager Lady Kerr.”

  She frowned at that. “Should a mither not ken what her son is capable o’ doing?”

  Elisabeth sighed, shaking her head. “Naught would be gained by it. Either she would count your story as false and hold it against you. Or she would discover it to be true and suffer endlessly from the shame.” She stood, taking Mrs. Edgar’s chapped hands in hers. “I must apologize on Lord Kerr’s behalf.”

  “Och, milady. I kenned what kind o’ man ye married. The gossips are not aye right, but they’re not aye wrong.” Mrs. Edgar’s voice softened. “Dinna blame yerself. Ye ken what the Buik says. ‘A faithful man wha can find?’”

  I thought I’d found one. Elisabeth gently released her. “I’m afraid I’ve kept you from your duties.”