She was forty when he died, past her childbearing years. When her time of mourning ended, Marjory discovered that any man who looked at her twice—Lord Drummond among them—was counting her money, not courting her favor. Within a few years she decided she did not need a husband. She had her sons, and they had their wives. Come summer, a grandchild would be placed in her arms. Janet had yet to reveal any details. Perhaps her babe would arrive sooner. If so, ’twould be quite small, since Janet’s waist had yet to expand so much as an inch.
Marjory had not been that fortunate. With each of her lads, she’d grown to the size of a sedan chair and moved about with the same lack of grace. Her confinement kept her from public disgrace, but she’d been embarrassed to have Lord John see her in such an ungainly state. With Andrew serving the prince, Janet and he both might be spared those awkward months. Then Andrew could return to find his child born and his wife as he remembered her.
But if Donald and Andrew came home sooner, no one would be happier than Marjory. Nae, not even their wives. As their mother, she’d known them from their very first breaths, with their mouths open wide and their plaintive cries piercing her heart.
My bonny wee lads.
Marjory threw back the covers, cold air putting a swift stop to the renewed threat of tears. But oh, they were dear boys, grown into fine men. The prince and his army were in Glasgow now, less than fifty miles west. To think of her sons so close! She was glad they were in Scotland to greet the new year. If Almighty God still took notice of her, she prayed he might bring her sons home before month’s end.
Marjory located her slippers by feel, not by sight, and exchanged her sleeping jacket for a simple gown that laced up the front. She imagined the time near six o’ the clock, the hour when Lord John died. Wasn’t she the one who’d stopped the pendulum and draped the looking glass and opened the window? Every New Year’s Day since, she’d awakened at the same time as if prompted by some inner voice. She found the annual ritual comforting. It was a quiet, solitary way to honor the father of her sons.
As she tiptoed across her bedchamber, Marjory noticed again how clean everything smelled. Last evening Mrs. Edgar and Gibson worked tirelessly at their Hogmanay tasks: scrubbing every corner of the house, sweeping the coal grates, and carrying out the ashes, making the house ready for the new year.
Marjory found a candle stub at last and bent over her coal fire to light the wick. She wrinkled her nose at the offensive smell of tallow, a constant reminder of their reduced circumstances. When the Rising was over, she would purchase beeswax candles by the pound.
Holding her taper aloft, Marjory walked into the empty drawing room, taking care not to stub her toe on the chair legs. She squinted at the clock. Quarter after six. The table was set for breakfast, though she cringed when she saw wooden plates instead of fine china and horn spoons rather than sterling silver. She had good dishes and silver at Tweedsford, of course, but did not dare bring them to Edinburgh with more royalist soldiers marching into town almost daily. The High Street was thick with them.
Marjory started toward one of the windows overlooking Milne Square when a sharp knock at the stair door made her nearly jump out of her skin. “Gibson!” she cried, her candle shaking as she hastened for the entrance hall, fearing the worst. Not the dragoons. Not again.
Gibson tottered to the door, his fringe of hair mussed, his livery wrinkled from sleep. He pulled open the door, then announced in a gravelly voice, “Mr. MacPherson.”
Marjory glared at the man who filled her doorway, her alarm quickly turning to vexation. “Sir, whatever are you doing calling at this hour?”
Rob bowed, a solemn look on his face. “Meikle guid luck to this hoose,” he said, “and meikle guid luck to this family.”
She recognized the blessing at once, a Hogmanay tradition.
Gibson nodded approvingly. “He makes a verra guid first foot, mem.”
Marjory could not argue the point. Since the ideal “first foot”—the person who first crossed one’s threshold on New Year’s Day—was a dark-haired bachelor, Rob MacPherson more than qualified.
“I waited yestreen,” Rob explained, “thinking to come at midnight, but I didna see a candle in the window, so I couldna knock. Until this morn.”
Had he watched their windows all night? Marjory could not decide if the idea was disconcerting or comforting. “And have you brought the proper gifts?” she asked, guessing the answer.
“Aye.” From inside his greatcoat Rob withdrew a piece of coal, a silver sixpence, a crumbling piece of cake, and a fine bottle of Bordeaux.
She stared at him in amazement. “The streets are run amuck with the king’s soldiers. However did you manage to land such a prize?”
Rob shrugged. “I ken a free trader or two.”
Marjory had no doubt of that. Jacobites delighted in supporting smugglers, who cheated the king of his excise taxes. “’Tis only right we make you welcome, however early the hour. Gibson, will you take Mr. MacPherson’s coat and see if Mrs. Edgar is stirring?”
“Weel stirred,” the housekeeper assured her, sailing into the entrance hall from the kitchen, patting her white cap in place. “Het pints and black bun will be on the table in nae time, mem.”
Rob’s sober countenance lightened at the mention of the Yuletide staples. “Will your daughters-in-law be joining us?” he asked, following Marjory into the drawing room.
“Lady Kerr often rises before the rest of the household,” Marjory told him, “but I cannot speak for Mrs. Kerr.”
Within the hour all were present, tucking stray hairs in place and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. For good or for ill, the tailor’s son was almost a member of the family now and did not seem to mind if the Kerrs appeared at table a bit disheveled.
Elisabeth was quiet that morning. When het pints were served—spiced ale mixed with eggs, cream, and sugar—she held the warm drink in her hand but barely tasted it. And when black bun was brought forth from the oven—a fragrant cake stuffed with currants and nuts—Elisabeth pinched off a small bite and left the rest.
Rob eyed her closely, but then, he always did. “Too early for such rich fare, Lady Kerr?”
“Perhaps.” She offered a wan smile. “I did not sleep well. Too much commotion in the street.”
“There’ll be meikle mair o’ that,” Rob said grimly, his pint drained and his plate covered with crumbs. He looked round the room as if to be sure all were listening. “I’ve come this morn to give ye news ye’ll not be glad to hear.”
Sixty-One
I feel my sinews slackened with the fright,
and a cold sweat trills down all over my limbs,
as if I were dissolving into water.
JOHN DRYDEN
N ews?” Marjory stared at the tailor’s son, her hands quickly turning to ice. “I thought…that is, I was certain Lord Kerr and his brother were safely in Glasgow. Did you not tell me so yourself, Mr. MacPherson?”
“I did,” he was quick to say, “and they are in Glasgow, for the moment. But ’tis yer ain safety that worries me. On the morrow General Hawley’s men will begin arriving in Edinburgh. And ye must be ready, leddies, for this man’s reputation is worse than the Duke o’ Cumberland’s.”
Marjory looked at her daughters-in-law and saw her own apprehension reflected in their young faces. Royal or not, Cumberland was known to be cruel in his dealings. If Hawley was more contemptuous than his master, Rob was right to be concerned.
“The man’s a bully,” Rob continued. “Henry Hawley fought the Jacobites at Sheriffmuir in the last Rising. He’s carried the stink of it in his nostrils ever since. They say his quarters are decorated with the bones of a deid soldier. And that he’s not above hanging his ain men after a defeat. Mark my wirds, he’ll build a gallows in the toun whan he arrives.”
Marjory sank against the back of her chair, stunned. “If he kills his own men, what must he do to his enemies?”
Rob merely nodded, his silence more frightening than h
is words.
“You said we must be ready,” Janet prompted him.
He leaned forward. “Come the morrow ye must licht candles in a’ yer windows to show yer lealty to King Geordie. If ye dinna do sae, the approaching troops will break a’ the glass.”
Elisabeth gaped at him. “In the dead of winter?”
“Aye. The windows o’ empty houses will be broken as weel. ’Tis why monie folk round the toun are offering the king’s troops a glass o’ spirits, a pound o’ bread—whatsomever it takes to appease them.”
“Surely we are not expected to do the same?” Marjory huffed at the very thought. “I will not be hospitable to any man bent on killing my sons! Furthermore, I have a houseful of women to protect and one of them with child…” Marjory froze. To confess such a thing to a neighbor, and a bachelor at that! Janet appeared about to swoon, and Elisabeth turned the color of ripe strawberries.
Marjory quickly tried to make amends. “I beg your pardon, Mr. MacPherson. I should never have mentioned so…ah, private a matter.”
But Rob was not looking at her. He was looking at Elisabeth with an expression of pure agony.
Marjory saw the truth in his eyes. He thinks Elisabeth is carrying Donald’s child. She saw another truth there as well. He is desperately in love with her.
“I didna ken… about the bairn,” he said, his voice so low she strained to hear him.
“And that is entirely my fault,” Marjory said, this time aiming her words at Janet, whom she’d wronged terribly. But Janet would not meet her gaze.
Marjory tried again to recover from her faux pas. “What I meant to say, Mr. MacPherson, was that we have four women in the house and not a weapon among us.”
Without taking his eyes off Elisabeth, Rob slowly pulled a dirk from his boot and placed it on the table, the lethal blade gleaming amid the crockery. “Now ye do, mem.”
Marjory eyed it for a moment, then gingerly picked it up, surprised by the heft of it. “Are you certain you can spare this?”
Rob’s voice was flat. “I’ve anither at hame.”
Marjory laid the dirk on the table with care as if it might bite, like a serpent. “Once again, sir, you’ve come to our rescue.”
“Indeed you have,” Elisabeth told him.
Marjory studied them both. Was Elisabeth aware of the depth of Rob’s feelings? Only a feebleminded woman could look at the man and not read his heart. And her daughter-in-law was anything but feebleminded. Something would have to be done. If Lord Kerr returned and learned of Rob’s betrayal of their friendship, he would run his sword through the man’s heart.
Nae. Marjory would not let herself dwell on such possibilities. Did she not have enough worries in the here and now without dwelling on events that might never happen?
Janet, at least, had recovered from her embarrassment. “Perhaps residing on the fifth floor will keep us from harm,” she said.
“It didna spare yer hoose the last time,” Rob reminded them. “Soldiers can also break yer windows from the inside oot.”
Marjory refused even to consider it. “We must be ready on the morrow.”
“Aye, for the troops. As to General Hawley himself, leuk for him to arrive in toun on Uphalieday or thereabouts.”
Epiphany, the English called it. Only yesterday morning Marjory had entertained a fleeting hope that her sons might return in time for the last day of Yule. Perhaps she was the one with a feeble mind. Donald and Andrew were coming east, aye, but they were not coming home. A battle larger than Gladsmuir was on the horizon. The prince and his men had faced brief skirmishes in England, but this was something else. She heard it in the angry voices that crept up the stair and saw it on people’s faces at the Tron Kirk on the Sabbath last.
Wars and rumours of wars. Aye, just so.
When she looked up, Rob was on his feet. “If ye’ll forgive me, leddies, I’ll take my leave. The blether on the High Street is thicker than cauld porridge. Mebbe I can learn mair of what’s to come.” While Gibson helped him into his greatcoat, Rob gave the manservant clear instructions. “Licht yer candles, bolt yer door, and open it to none but me.”
“Whatsomever ye say, sir,” Gibson told him, nodding vigorously.
Gibson was no doubt relieved to have a younger, stronger man watching out for their safety. Marjory was grateful for Rob’s help as well. But the tailor’s son could not stake any claim on Elisabeth. Nae, not even in his imagination. When Gibson escorted him out, Marjory noted with satisfaction that Elisabeth did not follow Rob with her gaze.
As soon as the door was bolted shut, Janet touched her sleeve. “I wonder, Lady Marjory, if I might have a word with you.”
“Of course.” Marjory began composing her thoughts as the two walked into her bedchamber. She would begin with a heartfelt apology and see where it led. Perhaps she might be given some hint of when the child could be expected or a sense of how Janet was feeling. In the midst of fear and pain and war, the promise of a wee child was a balm to Marjory’s soul, as it surely would be to the whole household when they learned the happy news.
The two women sat together by the fire, perched on upholstered chairs that had seen better days. Marjory spoke first. “I must apologize once more—”
“Nae.” Janet grabbed her hand rather firmly. “Things are not as they seem.”
Marjory saw the shadow fall across Janet’s face. She has miscarried. “My poor girl—”
“Nae, you do not understand.” Janet looked down. “I am not expecting.”
“I am so very sorry,” Marjory said gently. “When did you lose the child?”
Janet cleared her throat. “You cannot lose what you never had.”
Marjory’s heart skipped a beat. “Whatever do you mean, Janet?”
“Only this.” Janet lifted her head. Her eyes were dry. “The last night my husband and I were…together, I told him I was carrying his child”. And I might have been. That is … it was not entirely a fabrication …
Marjory stared at her, speechless.
“I thought if I were expecting it might change his mind about going off with the prince.” Janet sighed, letting go of Marjory’s hand. “Obviously my little ploy didn’t work.”
“You lied… to Andrew? To all of us?”
“Well…” Janet flapped her hand about. “Don’t women sometimes think they are with child and then realize they are not?”
“Aye, but…” Tears stung her eyes. There will not be a child. I will not be a grandmother. “Why did you not tell us when you realized… when you knew?”
Janet had the decency to blush. “I confess I rather liked playing the expectant mother. Everyone fusses over you and brings you wee treats. You can nap whenever you please and have breakfast at noontide. I kept meaning to tell everyone…well, at least to tell you… but the time never seemed right. Until today, when something had to be said.”
“I see.” Marjory was undone. That such a woman lived under her roof and ate at her table and shared her son’s bed was beyond comprehension. A year ago she’d thought her a fine prize for Andrew. Now she knew Janet Murray had been no prize at all.
Her daughter-in-law stood, sighing as if a great burden had been lifted. “I’m afraid you’ll have to straighten out Rob MacPherson before he tells someone. It won’t do to have the neighborhood minding my waistline.”
Marjory watched her quit the room without a backward glance. Only then did she quietly grieve for the grandchild she’d lost yet never had. She dabbed at her eyes, grateful no one came looking for her. They might think her daft or weak, and she could not afford to be either. Not when she needed to be wise in her husband’s stead and strong for her sons.
The first day of this dreaded month and already fear and disappointment had been heaped at her door. None but the Almighty knew what else January might hold.
Sixty-Two
’Tis winter, yet there is no sound
Along the air
Of winds along their battleground.
RALP
H HOYT
A storm was brewing to the south. At three o’ the clock on Friday the seventeenth, the sky was gunmetal gray tinged with purple. It was not cold enough to snow but cold enough, with a stiff wind rattling the panes. Elisabeth gazed down at the High Street, emptier than she’d seen it in days. Townsfolk scurried across the plainstanes, looking over their shoulders, not stopping to chat with neighbors. Frightened.
Elisabeth now had a faint idea of what imprisonment felt like. Although their house at Milne Square bore no resemblance to a squalid tolbooth, she’d spent the last fortnight behind a locked stair door, neither coming nor going, while Edinburgh played host to their enemy.
After menacing the town for a week, General Hawley and his royalist troops had departed through the West Port earlier that week, bound for Linlithgow. Farther west, outside of Falkirk, the prince and his Highland army lay in wait. “Mair than eight thousand strong,” Rob had said with pride, their numbers having grown since their return to Scotland. Elisabeth hoped they were very strong indeed since a new wooden gallows stood in the Grassmarket, compliments of Hangman Hawley, the name his own men whispered behind his back.
Voices drew Elisabeth’s attention to the entrance hall, where her mother-in-law was upset about something. Janet, seated by the fire, looked up as well.
“You must find us more candles.” Marjory was pleading with Gibson as if he were hoarding them beneath his thin mattress.
“Mr. Herriot willna sell them to me.” Gibson sounded forlorn. “Nor will Mr. Watson o’ Libberton’s Wynd.”
Barbara Inglis lives there.
Elisabeth tried to brush away such thoughts as quickly as they surfaced, but they soon returned. Knowing the names and addresses of all Donald’s conquests had begun to color her view of Edinburgh. The closes and wynds she’d traveled for many seasons had a different feeling about them. Warriston’s Close was no longer the home of her favorite baker, Mr. Orr, with his buttery caraway buns; now Warriston’s Close was where Susan McGill lived.
Here Burns My Candle Page 34
