“Though I cannot be certain,” Janet began, slowly turning back to look at them. “There is a chance… quite a good chance…”
“I thought so.” Marjory beamed at her daughter-in-law as if Janet had just given birth to three sons. “Your secret is very safe with us. Isn’t that so, Lady Kerr?” The dowager briefly exchanged glances with Elisabeth, then focused all her attention on the apparent mother-to-be. “Andrew must be very proud.”
Janet’s face clouded. “He is more concerned with bearing arms than my bearing his child.”
“Nae,” Elisabeth protested gently. “Even the most zealous Jacobite would rejoice at such news.”
The cloud across Janet’s face turned stormy. “You are the true Jacobite among us, Lady Kerr. If ’twere not for you, our husbands would still be living in Milne Square instead of riding for England.”
Elisabeth chafed beneath her accusation. “Were you not the one writing poetry in honor of the prince?”
“Ladies, that’s quite enough,” Marjory insisted. “My sons have chosen to support the Stuarts, and so have I.” She abruptly stood, ending further discussion. “Donald and Andrew are brave and noble men, virtuous in every regard. We shall send them off with naught but praise for their courage. Are we agreed?”
“Aye,” they both said, though not quite in unison.
Noble. Virtuous. Elisabeth knew Donald would ever remain so in his mother’s eyes.
She rose and bid Marjory and Janet good night, then passed through the door into her empty bedchamber. The room was noticeably cooler than Janet’s, the fire reduced to dying embers. At least her thick tapestries held the late autumn winds at bay and contained whatever heat remained.
Mrs. Edgar tapped on the door, then entered with a steaming cup of tea. “Ye leuk a wee bit dwiny yerself, milady.” While helping Elisabeth out of her gown, the housekeeper said nothing about her poorly laced stays or her crooked chemise, her tousled hair or her soiled stockings. Mrs. Edgar was especially gentle with soap and cloth, toweling Elisabeth dry as if she were made of porcelain.
She murmured her thanks, certain Mrs. Edgar understood all she could not say. He took his pleasure. Then he broke my heart.
When she was alone once more, Elisabeth finished her tea, then blew out the last candle and slipped beneath the covers, waiting for a soft blanket of sleep to settle over her. Tears came instead.
However would she face the day ahead with its twin heartaches? She’d never done anything so difficult before. And she would have to do them both at once.
Forgive her husband, yet bid him farewell.
Trust him, and then let go.
Forty-One
The parting of a husband and wife
is like the cleaving of a heart;
one half will flutter here, one there.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
T he gloaming would not linger, not on the last day of October when a biting wind blew round every corner and thick, gray clouds scuttled across the early evening sky.
Elisabeth stood in the midst of the prince’s Life Guards, their uniforms crisscrossed with leather bags, their horses saddled and restless. The dowager and Janet had hurried off to find Andrew in the crowded palace forecourt, giving Lord and Lady Kerr a few moments alone. To settle accounts. To say good-bye.
Astride his chestnut gelding, Donald already had the mien of a veteran soldier. His sword hung from a broad tartan belt strapped across his chest, and Gibson had polished his master’s black riding boots until they shone.
“How fine you look,” Elisabeth said, gazing up at her husband.
He touched the brim of his gold-laced tricorne, an intent expression on his clean-shaven face. “May I return the compliment, milady?”
“You may.” She offered him a faint smile, though her heart was anything but light. Within the hour the prince would ride east to Musselburgh with Lord Elcho’s Life Guards and Lord Pitsligo’s regiment, more than four hundred men and their mounts. And my Donald.
Elisabeth looked down, lest he mark her distress. She’d returned home last night with her heart in tatters, seeking the strength to forgive him. For all of it. Whether she had the courage to do so remained to be seen.
“Lady Kerr?” Her husband dismounted with ease, the brass buttons on his coat catching the last bit of light. “I would know your thoughts.” He stood before her, one hand loosely holding the reins, the other touching her cheek, his winter gloves a painful reminder of truths spoken and unspoken.
“My thoughts are scattered to the winds,” she finally admitted, not ready to say more.
“’Tis anyone’s guess how far those winds might travel on Hallowmas Eve.” He turned toward the Salisbury Crags, where the brilliant orange flames of a bonfire leaped upward. “On the last of October in Castleton, did you march round with torches?”
She nodded, vividly recalling her brother chasing after the lads from the neighboring glens with burning bracken, then tossing his torch inside a circle of stones. “Simon was all for building the tallest bonfire in the parish. Our mother feared her thatch might go up in smoke.”
Elisabeth felt the loss of Simon keenly that evening. He should have been in Duddingston mustering with the foot soldiers, preparing to march southeast to Dalkeith. Instead, he lay beneath a cairn in a farmer’s field, lost to her forever.
Donald took her gloved hand in his. “Your brother was a fine lad. And a good soldier.”
“He was indeed.” She looked down at her mourning clothes. Come spring, when Mrs. Edgar wrapped her black gown in wormwood, the memory of her brother would remain in her heart, closer than any silk bodice.
“Lady Kerr,” her husband said firmly, “do not imagine I will share his fate.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I’ll not even consider the possibility.”
“Nor will I.” He nodded toward the palace. “Six weeks in the capital, yet the prince added very few titled gentlemen to his ranks.”
He added you. A thread of guilt tugged at her heart, pulled more tautly by Janet’s accusation. You are the true Jacobite among us, Lady Kerr. Would Donald have taken such a risk without her influence? From childhood Elisabeth had longed for the Stuarts to regain the throne. Then she’d lost Simon. Now Donald was leaving.
Return to me. That’s what she wanted to say to him. Come home.
The bells of Saint Giles began chiming the hour. At five o’ the clock the sky had grown darker than Donald’s midnight blue coat. When the last bell echoed through the air, he surprised her with a song.
The night is Hallowe’en, lady,
The morn is Hallowday.
Recognizing the auld ballad, Elisabeth finished the verse, while Donald listened.
Then win me, win me, and ye will,
For well I know ye may.
He inclined his head. “Shall I indeed win you back, Lady Kerr?”
Only then did she pay heed to the words she’d sung: win me, win me. ’Twas one thing to forgive a man, quite another to surrender to him. She lowered her gaze. You ask too much, Donald.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “I’ll not break your heart again. I can promise you that.”
“You’ve made a great many promises, milord.” Elisabeth regretted the words the moment they were spoken. But when she started to apologize, Donald lightly touched her lips.
“Nae, Bess. What you say is true. I’ve made too many vows and broken most of them. Save one.” Then he kissed her, and in his kiss she tasted tenderness and passion and regret. “I love you, Bess. You alone and no other.”
Because she loved him, she believed him. All that remained was to forgive him.
When he lifted his head, his eyes were dark with a different sort of longing. “Will you—” His horse suddenly stamped the ground, yanking him from her.
Round the forecourt, guardsmen were mounting their horses. She could delay no longer. If Donald meant to ride for England with her forgiveness in his pocket, she alone could place it th
ere.
She glanced up, thinking to look for the waning moon. Nae. The strength to forgive her husband could not be found in the night sky. Nor could she hope to manage on her own. Touching her forehead to Donald’s chest, she closed her eyes. Please. If there were words she was meant to say, she did not know them. Help me.
In the crowded, noisy forecourt, an answer came. Hearken unto me.
Elisabeth stilled. Aye. She’d heard this voice before, comforting her the night she learned of Simon’s death. Hear, and your soul shall live. Every part of her listened now, as if she were taking a long drink of water or a deep breath of air, drawing it in.
Drop by drop the well of silence inside her began to fill. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God. Elisabeth did not fully understand the words. Yet she sensed the truth of them. Great is thy mercy. If this living God offered boundless mercy, could she let it flow through her like water, like wind?
Donald lifted her head until their gazes met. “Please, Bess.” He brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, then gently kissed her brow. “Forgive me?”
In the murky darkness she saw the sheen in his eyes. Or perhaps the tears were hers.
Donald, my sweet Donald.
He was not always honest. He was not always good. Yet he loved her in his own way. And she loved him completely.
“You are forgiven,” she whispered, then touched her mouth to his, tasting the salt in his tears.
Forty-Two
There exists no cure for a heart
wounded with the sword of separation.
HITOPADESA
M arjory could not take her eyes off her sons, even though her heart was breaking. Mounted on fine horses, their shoulders squared and their heads held high, Donald and Andrew were as bonny as the young prince they served and every bit as courageous.
My sons.
Had they truly fit in her arms once, their heads nestled in the crook of her elbow? Had they climbed into her lap and pressed their sticky hands against her cheeks? Marjory could barely imagine it, looking at them now.
She sensed their father, Lord John, standing beside her, admiring the fair-haired, blue-eyed lads they’d nurtured to manhood. They look like soldiers, milord. They look like you. Marjory valiantly fought back tears, gladly enduring the cold and the dark for one more minute with her precious sons.
They were hardly alone. A vast throng filled the palace grounds to witness the end of the rebel occupation. Thousands had come on foot, in carriages, on horseback to shout, to cheer, to weep.
Above the clamor rose the voice of her sons’ commanding officer. Not as old as Donald and certainly not so handsome, David Wemyss, Lord Elcho, was nonetheless impressive with his large, dark eyes and smooth brow. At the moment he was directing his men into orderly lines, no doubt anticipating the prince’s appearance and a swift departure for Musselburgh.
“I must go, Mother.” Andrew shifted his seat on his mount. “My brother is a far better correspondent. Look to his letters for news.”
“So I shall.” Marjory gave him a brave smile, reaching up to touch his sleeve. “I will pray for you both,” she promised. Had she not done so every night since their enlistment? Nae, since their birth. Guard them and guide them, according to thy will.
When Janet stepped forward to bid her husband farewell, she was dry-eyed and stoic. “See that you come home, Mr. Kerr.” She lifted up her gloved hand for a parting kiss, then rested her hand on her waist in a none-too-subtle manner.
Janet styled her delicate condition “a possibility,” but Marjory recognized the signs. A summer baby, she’d decided, and bound to thrive. Even though her daughter-in-law would be seven-and-twenty, Janet was in excellent health.
“Mother?” Donald nudged his horse a step closer, then touched the brim of his tricorne. “May I count on you to look after Elisabeth?”
“Aye,” she quickly agreed. Anything to ease his mind. “You’ll write as oft as you can?”
“I shall, though do not expect a letter soon. I’ve little knowledge of our route and even less of our destination,” he confessed. “Some believe we’ll follow the east road toward Northumberland. Others say we’ll cross to the west and take Carlisle.”
Marjory shuddered. Take. The reality of what lay ahead came into sharper focus.
“You will be cautious?” she pleaded, no longer caring if her eyes grew wet with tears. Donald’s musket, his sword, his dirk were not meant for adornment. He would hold them in his hands; he would use them. “Let others engage the enemy in battle,” she begged him, keeping her voice low. “Guard the prince, and you’ll have done your duty.”
When he looked down at her with compassion in his eyes, she realized the absurdity of her request. Did she think her sons would merely ride their horses and sleep beneath the stars? They were soldiers. They would fight.
Donald lightly touched her shoulder. “God be with you, Mother.”
“And with you.” She pressed her handkerchief to her trembling lips. Make them strong. Keep them safe.
Donald inclined his head to look past her. “If I might have a last word with Lady Kerr.”
With a guilty start, Marjory stepped back to make room for Elisabeth, who’d been patiently waiting. Donald’s features softened as he bent down to kiss her. Elisabeth stood on tiptoe, her graceful hands cradling his face.
Marjory tried to look away but could not. How tender they were with each other! Lady Ruthven could gossip all she wished. Donald had but one love.
Elisabeth’s parting words were an ardent plea. “Promise you’ll return to me, Lord Kerr.”
“Nae,” he said with a mock scowl. “You’re to look for a different husband, remember?”
Elisabeth smiled through her tears. “Aye, so I shall.”
Some private understanding, Marjory decided. Though her son would be a changed man when he returned. Andrew too. Her throat tightened.
Donald straightened in his saddle, never taking his eyes off his wife. “I’ll not soon forget the words spoken this night.”
“Nor will I,” Elisabeth assured him, her voice breaking. “Go, beloved. Your prince awaits.”
“Godspeed,” Marjory cried softly. She could say no more.
As Donald and Andrew eased their horses through the crowd and maneuvered into position, she strained to keep an eye on their progress until their blue uniforms were lost among the dozens like them. “Come home to me,” Marjory whispered, pressing her hand to her heart, wishing she might mend it, knowing she could not.
Standing shoulder to shoulder, with Gibson not far behind them, the three Kerr women watched the Life Guards prepare to greet their prince. His carriage drew near, a splendid coach-and-four with glass windows and lanterns made of brass. Charles emerged a moment later to the deafening roar of huzzahs, his countenance more radiant than any torchlight.
Without thinking Marjory waved her handkerchief, overcome with emotion at seeing the young prince again. If only his father, James Stuart, were on hand! Surely the exiled king would be as proud of his son that night as she was of hers.
A familiar face momentarily distracted her.
“Yer lealty is weel placed, mem.” Angus MacPherson bowed, then turned to join them in observing the spectacle. “And sae is yer gold.”
“Mr. MacPherson,” Elisabeth said, patting her cheeks dry. “I expected to find you astride a horse this eve, preparing to ride out with the army.”
“Oo aye, and soon I shall be. At my age I may niver have anither chance. Ance I see the prince’s men on the road to Musselburgh, I’ll join the ithers marching southeast to Dalkeith.” The tailor, dressed in a wool greatcoat and riding boots, rocked back on his heels, unbridled pride shining on his face. “We’ll a’ be gone from the toun by morn.”
Marjory sighed at the sad reminder. Edinburgh society had quickly grown accustomed to the royal suppers and balls at Holyroodhouse. With the onset of winter, the capital would be a very dour place indeed.
“Look,” Janet sa
id, nodding toward the prince, who’d abandoned his carriage to lead his mounted guards on foot. “Will he walk all the way, do you suppose?”
“Aye, weel he might,” Angus replied, “for His Royal Highness likes to set a guid example for his men. He’ll sleep at Pinkie Hoose, whaur he spent the nicht after Gladsmuir. ’Tis but five or six miles east o’ here.”
Marjory remembered the old house with its massive square tower, having once ventured out with Lord John for a day of golf on the Musselburgh links. When the prince retired in warmth and comfort beneath the Marquess of Tweeddale’s roof, would her sons sleep on the cold, damp ground? She shivered beneath her cape, wishing she’d sent them each with another plaid.
Elisabeth tugged her hood tighter round her neck. “Will you close your shop?” she inquired of Angus.
“Nae, Rob will carry on at the Luckenbooths. o’ course, he’d rather go with me, but…” His smile faded. “His foot, ye ken. Rob canna ride weel nor march on rough ground.”
When Elisabeth nodded, Marjory saw the sympathy in her eyes. “How disappointed he must be.”
“Have nae fear,” Angus said, quickly regaining his good spirits. “Rob will be serving the prince in his ain way. And there’s not a finer hand with a needle in Edinburgh.” He tipped his hat. “Excepting yers, Leddy Kerr.”
Marjory bristled at the reference to her daughter-in-law’s former labors. Better those days were long forgotten. Elisabeth was a gentlewoman now.
“I hope ye’ll not mind,” Angus continued, “but I’ve asked Rob to call at yer hoose from time to time. To see that ye’re weel and give ye what news he can.”
Elisabeth nodded. “We’ll be glad for his company, will we not, madam?” She glanced at Marjory as if seeking her consent.
“Your son is welcome to call at Milne Square,” Marjory assured him. They were tradesmen, aye, but they’d duly served the Kerr family.
“Rob kens which messengers are to be trusted with a letter,” Angus said. “He’ll be honored to do whatsomever ye need. The prince is grateful for yer sacrifices, Leddy Kerr.”
Marjory lowered her gaze lest he see the fear in her eyes. Her gold was no real sacrifice. But she would not give up her sons.
Here Burns My Candle Page 24
