“You are the one who’s been good to the Kerr family all these years.” Marjory blew her nose into her handkerchief, then laughed a little. “We’ve no need for tears, have we? Not when we’ll see each other again soon. By week’s end, Lord willing.”
“Aye.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
Marjory patted his waistcoat pocket. “You have both letters? For Cousin Anne and for your future employer?”
“I do, Leddy Kerr.”
“I’m no longer to be addressed as lady,” Marjory reminded him.
His chin jutted out. “Niver mind what the king says. Ye’ll aye be Leddy Kerr to me.”
My dear Gibson. She kissed his ruddy cheek before he turned toward the door.
Eighty-One
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of Home depend.
HANNAH MORE
T hursday dawned with a moist wind from the west and a dark sky full of low clouds. Not an auspicious day for a journey.
Marjory was bathed and dressed and pacing through the house by five o’ the clock, making very sure naught had been forgotten. Mr. Baillie would oversee the noontide removal of her plenishings by Mrs. Pitcairn’s men. Better not to be on hand, Marjory had decided. Seeing her home of ten years dismantled was more than she could bear.
Their coaches would depart four hours hence—hers to the south, Janet and Elisabeth’s to the north. She’d almost told them of their different destinations, then reminded herself it was wiser to wait. If they’d insisted on going with her, she might have relented, and that would never do. Now the hour was upon them, and the arrangements were made. She could send her daughters-in-law on their way, knowing she’d done her best by them.
For your sake, my beloved Donald. And for yours, dear Andrew.
And for her own sake as well—she could not deny it. If she tried to make a home for her daughters-in-law in Selkirk and failed to do so, she would never recover from the guilt.
Marjory paused by the coal grate, empty since Monday, and pressed one hand to her stomach, wincing. Too little food and even less sleep. Last eve the city had flung open its doors and celebrated the British victory at Culloden with skyrockets exploding from the castle in a vivid array of colors. Kirk bells were rung up and down the High Street, and a bonfire was lit on the Salisbury Crags. Decorative illuminations filled the windows, with W.D.C. for William, Duke of Cumberland, and Deliverer of Great Britain, and scenes with Justice trampling Rebellion, her sword thrust in its heart.
The three of them had watched the festivities with an odd sense of detachment. This was not their victory; this was no longer their home.
Marjory stood in the midst of her bedchamber now, struggling to remember what the room had once looked like. Empty shelves and faded places where paintings once hung spoke of a life that was no more.
I will look unto the LORD. She had nowhere else to turn. He had closed every door; he had fenced every path. Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him. Aye, it had come to that. He had taken everyone and everything she loved. If he took her as well, so be it.
Her eyes were dry but only for the moment. When she looked into Elisabeth’s lovely face, when she sent her daughter-in-law on her way…
Nae. Not yet, not yet.
Marjory heard her stirring in the next room. Might she speak with her alone before Janet awoke? Marjory tapped on the door and waited for a response before entering.
“Good morn,” Elisabeth said, then bent to splash her face with the remaining contents of her water pitcher. She dried her cheeks, eying Marjory round her linen towel, a faint twinkle in her eye. “Will they have hot water in Selkirk, do you suppose?”
“I believe they will,” Marjory answered, already regretting this visit. She did not wish her last words with Elisabeth to be evasive. “The lads will be here for our trunks at seven.”
“Breakfast will not take long. We have one orange to share and a rather hard bannock.” Elisabeth leaned forward to brush her dark hair with long, even strokes, then quickly swept it all into a smooth knot atop her head and pinned it in place with little effort.
“Do you do everything so efficiently?” Marjory asked.
Elisabeth smiled. “You know better.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Marjory said. “You sew and embroider beautifully, you’re a fine cook, and this household would have fallen to pieces without you, especially the last fortnight.”
Her daughter-in-law shrugged slightly. “I’m honored you think so.”
“Surely your mother would feel the same way.” Marjory watched her expression closely. “She’d be very proud to see the woman you’ve become, Bess.”
Her smile faded. “’Tis hard to say. I’ve not seen her in so very long.”
Marjory circled the room lest she blurt out her plans and ruin everything.
Elisabeth began lacing her stays. “Will we be in danger, do you think, traveling by coach?”
This, Marjory could answer. “Our surname should keep us safe. There are many Kerrs in the British army. They’ll not suspect us.”
Elisabeth sighed. “Maybe ’tis just as well our titled days are behind us.”
“For traveling, aye.” Marjory stopped at the window. “Though I confess I’ve been glad to be Lady Kerr for thirty years.”
Elisabeth hurried to her side. “Forgive me. ’Twas not well done to remind you of your losses.”
Marjory turned to her. “But they are your losses too. You and Donald should have moved to Tweedsford long ago. When I think of all you might have been spared…”
“Nae.” Elisabeth met her gaze. “If the Almighty directs our steps, we’ve no need to look back over our shoulders.”
When did you become so wise, Bess? Marjory knew the answer: when her daughter-in-law started reading the Buik and taking it to heart. Aye, and beckoning me to do the same. Could she truly bid this young woman good-bye?
“I will miss my husband every day of my life,” Elisabeth confessed. “Yet I am grateful that God is my refuge. He is enough, Marjory. Truly, he is.”
Across the bedchamber Janet’s door opened. “I am ready,” she announced, waltzing into the room.
Though Janet was dressed for the day, her hair and gown both needed brushing. Marjory dared not suggest it. But Elisabeth did.
“Come, let me be your lady’s maid,” she said smoothly, “and you may do the same for me.” She styled Janet’s auburn hair with a minimum of fuss and brushed the lint and dirt from her black gown while Janet expounded on the gloomy weather.
By the time Elisabeth offered her sister-in-law the brush in turn, Janet had forgotten their exchange of duties and hurried to the looking glass to admire the view. Elisabeth followed her across the room and stood behind her, gazing into the glass. A full head taller than Janet, Elisabeth pressed the brush firmly into her hands. “This won’t take you a moment.”
Janet spun on her heel and began dragging the brush over Elisabeth’s gown, spending more time grumbling than brushing, while Elisabeth praised every stroke.
When at last Janet finished, Marjory led the way into the drawing room, though it was nothing of the sort. All that remained was a collection of furniture, lined against the wall, waiting for the auction room. “Suppose we eat in the kitchen.”
They stood round the dressing table and shared withered orange slices and crumbling pieces of bannock. The water from the pot over the dying coal fire was lukewarm, and so was their weak tea. But it was sustenance. Marjory would give them both two shillings, enough for food and lodging on their trip north, and keep very little for herself since she did not have as far to travel.
Odd to think of Gibson well on his way to Selkirk. Following the winding course of the Gala Water, he might have reached Middleton by now, even Stow, with Galashiels to come and Selkirk not far beyond it. Home. Just picturing it made her orange taste sweeter and her tea stronger.
When the clock chimed seven, all was in read
iness. Mrs. Edgar would be unhappy to know her cooking pots and iron pans were being left for the next tenant, along with an assortment of dishes and glassware. Every bit of linen in the house was packed in their bulging trunks, though, and each woman carried a knife and spoon. Inns and coaching halts expected travelers to provide their own utensils.
Marjory looked at the tall case clock, the hardest of all her possessions to leave behind.
Elisabeth assured her, “The sun will tell us the time of day.”
“When it’s shining.” Janet frowned at the window. It had started to rain.
The half-dozen lads Marjory had hired to carry their trunks came banging at the door. Sturdy boys, perhaps ten or twelve years old, with grimy faces and mischievous smiles, they carted away Janet’s two large trunks, plus three smaller ones filled with Marjory’s and Elisabeth’s few belongings and household goods. Lord John’s papers and the family Bible made the smallest trunk the heaviest. A lad with stout arms and plenty of bravado insisted on carrying that one himself.
Marjory closed the door for the final time, hearing the bang ring through the empty rooms. Though her throat was tight, she did not weep. ’Twas only a house, not a home. For all the joys she’d known in those six rooms, there’d also been sorrow in abundance.
“Are you quite all right?” Elisabeth asked her, waiting on the stair.
Marjory turned round. “I am fine.” And she was, for the moment. But not when I bid you good-bye, dear Bess. Not then.
Eighty-Two
It is only persons of firmness
that can have real gentleness.
FRANCOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
J anet walked ten steps ahead of them on the stair, apparently afraid her trunks might take off down the High Street. But Marjory trusted the lads carrying their valuables. They knew they would not be paid until all convened at White Horse Close.
When she reached Milne Square, Marjory paused for a final look at the ten stories of Baillie’s Land. Few pedestrians were out at that early, rainy hour. Just as well, for the Kerrs did not have time to linger. They turned left and started down the High Street, the lads cavorting round the plainstanes with their heavy leather trunks as if they weighed nothing. Marjory did not bother to scold them.
“Our coach driver will toss them about as well,” Elisabeth said, reading her mind.
When they walked by Halkerston’s Wynd, Elisabeth gazed down the narrow lane but said nothing. Marjory did not ask why.
The rain, no more than a nuisance at first, began coming down harder, and the wind pressing on their backs was more insistent. “If we had a sail, we might be at the foot of the Canongate by now,” Janet said, raising her voice above the elements.
They were indeed moving quickly, already passing Dickson’s Close. Marjory’s heart began to thump at a faster pace. She’d imagined a leisurely stroll through town while she told her daughters-in-law their true destinations. Instead, time was slipping through her hands.
When they reached Blackfriars Wynd and paused for a last look at Effie Sinclair’s fine boardinghouse, Marjory knew she could delay their discussion no longer. She stepped between her daughters-in-law, hooking her arms with theirs so they might all walk together.
“My, this is cozy,” Janet said as they started out, their progress disjointed until they matched their gaits.
Marjory swallowed. Help me say what I must. Help them understand. “I have… something to tell you both.”
When they turned toward her, Marjory met each woman’s gaze in turn: Janet, with her wide-set hazel eyes, and Elisabeth, with her luminous blue ones. “I have given this a great deal of thought,” she continued, wishing she did not have to lift her voice to be heard above the rain and wind. “As much as I long to have you with me in Selkirk, your mothers are the ones who deserve your company.”
Elisabeth’s downcast expression took her by surprise. “Now that my mother has remarried… well, I am not at all sure she would take me back into her home.”
Marjory’s breath caught. “Oh, of course she would. Even now she may be writing to you, pleading with you to come home to Castleton. No doubt Lady Murray feels quite the same.”
Janet pulled them to an abrupt stop. “What are you saying, madam? Is our company abhorrent to you? Would you prefer we not join you in Selkirk?”
Marjory looked from one to the other. Already she’d made a terrible mess of things.
She started again. “What I would prefer is that we be honest with one another.” Marjory eased them forward, drawing them closer. “Although I’ve sent Gibson ahead with a letter for Cousin Anne, I’m not certain she has room for three of us. And if she does not, where else would we stay?” She exhaled, overwhelmed again by the thought of it. “I cannot take that risk.”
“Nor can we abandon you.” Elisabeth’s voice was strained. “Our husbands would surely expect us to care for their mother.”
“But you have,” Marjory insisted. “You’ve loved my sons and mourned them honorably.” She squeezed their arms with genuine affection. “God bless you, my daughters. You’ve shown nothing but kindness to me.”
Janet’s gaze narrowed. “I thought ’twas honesty you were after.”
“But you’re still here, Janet,” Marjory reminded her. “You did not quit Edinburgh after your husband joined the prince nor after our sad news from Falkirk. All through the autumn and winter, and now through the spring, you’ve remained faithful to me.”
For a fleeting instant Marjory saw a hint of warmth in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. Janet heard me, Lord. ’Tis a start.
The rain had eased a bit. All three of them lifted their heads to gaze at the Netherbow Port soaring above them with its round turrets and square clock tower. They were truly leaving the city now, passing through the narrow gate for the last time.
Once they reached the Canongate, Marjory tried a new approach. “It is time you both thought of the future. You’re still young enough to marry again and bear children. And well you should.”
“But we’re in mourning.” Janet’s whining tone had returned.
“Aye,” Marjory agreed. “Come January next, though, you’ll leave your black gowns behind.”
Janet frowned. “And choose a new husband?”
“He might do the choosing,” Marjory reminded her, “or his mother might.” As I chose you, Janet.
She looked up to be sure their young porters were still in sight. It seemed the rain had put a damper on their spirits. They were trudging along now, single file, yet keeping the trunks out of the puddles.
Elisabeth spoke, her tone thoughtful. “Effie Sinclair told us we would honor our husbands best by remaining widows and caring for you.”
“So she did.” Marjory wished the venerable lady had said otherwise. “You’ll not be putting aside your vows to my sons. Their deaths release you to marry again. And I release you from any obligation as well.” Her words no doubt sounded cold, yet she was setting them free for their own good. Surely they could see that.
Elisabeth stopped and turned toward her. “I do not wish to be released. My place is with you, Marjory. You are the one who knows the Almighty.”
For a moment she was speechless. “You would risk everything and come with me… because of my faith?”
“Aye.” Elisabeth’s sincerity only made things worse.
Marjory turned to her other daughter-in-law, hoping for the answer she wanted. “And you, Janet. Is it your intention to join me in Selkirk as well?”
Janet nodded, though with perhaps less conviction. “’Tis my duty, mem.”
Marjory stepped back, nearly throwing her hands in the air in frustration. She’d already paid for their travel on the northbound coach. They couldn’t come with her now even if she wanted them to. And she truly did not. Not with her future so uncertain.
She looked at their dear faces and was undone.
Please, please do not make me hurt your feelings.
Marjory prayed for wisdom and began anew. �
��What do you think you’ll find in Selkirk?” she asked them. “A royal burgh, aye, but with few prospects for marriage. I’m certain I will not marry again. And if I did, would you wait for me to have two more fine sons for you to wed?”
Elisabeth touched her arm. “Marjory, we are not looking for husbands—”
“Not now, perhaps. But when your time of mourning ends, what then? Selkirk has cobblers, weavers, tanners, coopers, and an alehouse keeper. None of them are titled. None will keep you in velvet and silk, as my sons did.”
“But I am the daughter of a weaver,” Elisabeth said. “I would be going home to a rustic cottage in a Highland clachan far smaller than Selkirk.” She leaned down to meet her gaze. “Do you not want to take us with you, Marjory?”
Of course I do. Very much. And yet I do not. For your sakes.
“’Tis God’s will,” Marjory said as firmly as she could. “He has seen fit to humble me. But I cannot do the same to you.” She started downhill toward White Horse Close at a loss for what else to tell them, except the inescapable truth.
They were traveling north. They were going home.
And so was she.
Eighty-Three
Faith is the flame that lifts the sacrifice to heaven.
JAMES MONTGOMERY
E lisabeth followed close behind her mother-in-law, desperate to convince her. “Being poor doesn’t frighten me. Nor does widowhood. But returning to a home where the Almighty is not worshiped, where the Buik is not read… truly, that is my greatest fear.”
Not my only fear, dear Marjory. But the only one that matters.
Marjory slowed her steps. “Are you saying your mother doesn’t believe as we do?”
Elisabeth hesitated, weighing her words. “My mother serves… a different god.” Say it, Bess. Speak the truth. “I once did the same. ’Twas a nameless one and powerless as well.”
There. A secret no more.
She held her breath. Please, Marjory. Please understand.
Beneath her woolen hood a troubled look fell across her mother-in-law’s brow. “Did Donald know of this… different god of yours?”
Here Burns My Candle Page 45
