Here Burns My Candle Part 18

Meanwhile, the moon

Full-orbed and breaking through the scattered clouds,

Shows her broad visage in the crimsoned east.

When Elisabeth raised her head at the word moon, Marjory narrowed her gaze. Was the pa.s.sage an arbitrary choice on Janet's part? Or was she baiting her sister-in-law? A strand of guilt wound through Marjory's conscience. Perhaps telling Janet about the Ladies' Diary notations had been unwise.

A new arrival in the entrance hall captured everyone's attention, as Gibson announced Mrs. Effie Sinclair.

Elisabeth was on her feet at once, welcoming her boarding school mistress. She had to bend down to do so. No taller than a girl of twelve, Mrs. Sinclair had a wasplike waist and tiny features. "Like a fairy," Lady Ruthven had once observed. If so, a well-bred one, Marjory thought, watching the woman's elegant manners, suited to the granddaughter of Sir Robert.

Effie Sinclair's voice was high and sweet, like birdsong. Her small eyes glistened with tears. "On behalf of all my scholars, Lady Kerr, you have our utmost sympathy."

A chair was quickly produced, and small gla.s.ses of claret served. Marjory had sipped one gla.s.sful since breakfast, trying to be frugal. The hospitality surrounding Sir John's funeral had cost more than two hundred guineas in ale, wine, and meat. She could not afford to drain the family coffers for a Jacobite, however beloved by his sister. Elisabeth abstained completely, but Janet drank to Simon's memory with every guest in turn though she'd never met the young Highlander.

Effie trained her eyes on Elisabeth. "Lady Kerr, I did not have the pleasure of knowing your late brother. Might you tell me something about Mr. Ferguson?"

Marjory listened as Elisabeth described Simon's childhood in Castleton, his skill at the loom, his pa.s.sion for the Jacobite cause, and his brave deeds at Gladsmuir, all the while dabbing her eyes. Marjory found her words quite affecting. Had she ever spoken of her late brother, Henry, so tenderly?

Elisabeth recited the prince's letter by memory, then confided, "Rob MacPherson, the tailor's son, is delivering the sad news to my mother in Castleton. How I wish I might have done so myself."

"Your mother will understand," Mrs. Sinclair a.s.sured her. "'Tis not safe to travel. Mr. MacPherson is to be commended for his service to your family."

Elisabeth agreed. "He is a true friend."

Marjory hid her slight irritation. A true Jacobite, you mean. And a tradesman. But his willingness to carry her daughter-in-law's sad news was commendable.

Mrs. Sinclair put aside her empty gla.s.s, then looked about the room. "Your needle has been busy, I see. This embroidery bears your fine stamp." She plucked a pillow from a nearby armchair and traced the intricate pattern with her fingertips, praising Elisabeth's tiny st.i.tches and her bold use of color. "You are a credit to my school," Mrs. Sinclair told her, "though you arrived at my door with more skills than any young woman I've ever taught."

Elisabeth blushed at her praise, the first color Marjory had seen in her wan cheeks in several days.

"You also have a talent for costume," Mrs. Sinclair said, replacing the pillow. "I trust you are still sewing."

"On occasion," Elisabeth said, though she did not elaborate.

Marjory hastened to add, "Miss Callander in Lady Stair's Close usually fas.h.i.+ons our gowns."

"Miss Callander?" Mrs. Sinclair's voice lifted another half octave. "What a pity when you have such a gifted seamstress beneath your own roof."

Marjory opened her mouth and, having no proper answer, closed it again. She could not deny her daughter-in-law's talents. But Marjory shuddered to think of anyone outside the household knowing that Elisabeth st.i.tched many of her own gowns, let alone that she'd once earned silver with her needle. Heaven forbid!

"I fear I have overstayed my welcome." Mrs. Sinclair was already standing. "Might I ask one favor, my dear Lady Kerr? Several of my scholars have written poetry in honor of His Royal Highness." She produced a narrow roll of writing papers. "You are far more likely than I to have an audience at Holyroodhouse. The young ladies would be most grateful if you delivered their poems to the prince."

After sitting in a gla.s.sy-eyed stupor through most of the conversation, Janet came to life. "Oh! Might I read them?"

Mrs. Sinclair hesitated only a moment before placing them in Janet's eager hands. "If you wish."

Elisabeth promised to see them delivered posthaste, even as Marjory shot her older daughter-in-law a pointed look. Whatever had possessed Janet, behaving so rudely? Too much claret, perhaps.

Farewells were said and curtsies exchanged before Gibson escorted Mrs. Sinclair to the door. Marjory and Elisabeth both sank into their upholstered chairs, their energy spent from endless rounds of well-meaning visitors.

"A nap is in order." Janet exited the drawing room without further comment, Effie Sinclair's poems in hand.

When she was well out of earshot, Marjory leaned toward an exhausted Elisabeth. "Do forgive your sister-in-law. She is not accustomed to offering sympathy."

Elisabeth nodded slowly. "You, however, have been a great comfort."

The compliment took her aback. "I am glad," Marjory finally said. "I keep thinking of your poor mother. 'Twould be the saddest hour of a woman's life, losing a son."

"Or losing a husband." Elisabeth's tender voice struck a chord. "You must have suffered greatly when Lord John-"

"Aye." Marjory pressed her lips together, hoping to put an end to the matter. She could speak of many things but not of Lord John.

Gibson appeared at the door to announce a new visitor. "Leddy Ruthven."

Marjory inwardly groaned. Charlotte, of all people. She was in no mood for the woman's gossip. And Charlotte would not be pleased that she'd ignored her letter. Nae, she would not. Whatever friends.h.i.+p they'd once enjoyed had faded into mere tolerance for the sake of society. Few hostesses genuinely welcomed Charlotte's company.

Even Elisabeth was standing near her bedchamber door, poised to make her escape. "Ladies, I hope you will excuse me-"

"Very well." Lady Ruthven sailed across the drawing room, waving her gloved hand. "'Tis your mother-in-law I've come to see, though you have my deepest sympathy. A Jacobite brother. Such a terrible loss."

Elisabeth murmured her thanks and quit the room as Lady Ruthven deposited her scarlet cape in Gibson's hands and smoothed her billowing skirts, festooned with an alarming number of ribbons and bows.

Marjory eyed the clock. "Perhaps you've already had your tea?"

"I have not. Will it be seedcake, then?" Charlotte made herself at home by the fire while Marjory dispatched Mrs. Edgar to prepare a tray. "We missed you at Lady Woodhall's on Monday," Charlotte began, "but of course your place was here."

"It was," Marjory said firmly. "I'm sure the three of you had much to discuss."

"Naturally." Charlotte eased back against the chair cus.h.i.+ons as if settling in for a long afternoon. When the tea tray appeared, Charlotte added a generous dollop of honey to her cup, then let Mrs. Edgar put three slices of seedcake on her plate before feigning her dismay. "Please, 'tis too much."

Marjory took a small bite and chewed it at length. Anything to avoid further conversation. The sweet cake was flavored with nutmeg and laced with brandy. Too rich for Marjory's taste but well suited to Charlotte's.

When they had the drawing room to themselves, Lady Ruthven quickly got to the point of her visit. "I've been expecting to see you at my door. Did you not receive my note?"

Your summons, you mean? Marjory kept her voice even. "Your note was received and read at once. But my family has needed me every hour since." Not every hour perhaps but most of them.

"So you say." Charlotte looked down her none-too-attractive nose.

"If Lord Kerr's reputation does not concern you, I'll not bother you with details."

"Come, come," Marjory scolded her lightly. "Naturally I'm concerned."

"You should be." Charlotte lowered her voice, eying the adjoining doors before she continued. "On the Sabbath before last, I saw Lord Kerr stroll through the Lawnmarket with Mrs. Susan McGill, a widow of dubious repute."

Marjory had heard such tiresome stories before. Invariably a young widow was involved. On the High Street. At a.s.sembly Close. In Mr. Creech's bookshop. Nothing untoward ever occurred. Donald was merely seen in the vicinity of a woman who was not his wife.

"Did he kiss this widow?" Marjory asked her guest bluntly. "Escort her into a tavern? Press her against the tolbooth wall?"

Charlotte's mouth dropped open. "Marjory, really! I never-"

"Indeed." Marjory stood so quickly she surprised herself. "I am weary of lies being tattled about by small-minded folk who have nothing but time in their pockets."

"But I-"

Marjory held up her hand, unwilling to hear more. "Lord Kerr is handsome, wealthy, charming, and t.i.tled. Naturally women flock to him, whatever their station. Nonetheless, he is faithful to his wife and a devoted son to me." Hot tears stung her eyes. "If you have finished your tea, Charlotte, I have a grieving daughter-in-law to console. Gibson will see you out."

What have I done?

Marjory leaned against her bedchamber door, her heart in her throat. Lady Ruthven had departed in a state, wool cape swinging, eyes blazing with indignation. Marjory had meant to silence the woman. Instead, she'd likely spurred Charlotte to take her revenge, spreading rumors like marmalade on toast-juicy and thick.

"Mother?" Donald's voice, following a light tap on her door.

Marjory quickly washed her hands, still sticky from the seedcake, then shook the crumbs from her skirts and bid him enter. Her words burst forth before she could contain them. "Donald, I'm afraid Lady Ruthven-"

"I know." A broad grin stretched across his face. "Andrew and I pa.s.sed her on the stair. That is to say, she nearly ran us down. Whatever did you put in the woman's tea?"

Marjory huffed. "She came here not to offer condolences to your wife but to peddle a barrow full of rubbish about you and the Widow McGill."

His eyes widened ever so slightly. "And you sent her packing?"

"I suppose I did." Marjory fell back a step, touching her brow. "I... spoke rather plainly, Donald."

"Well done," he said, though something in his tone suggested otherwise.

Shame warmed her cheeks. "I am not certain what came over me. 'Twill be difficult to show my face at Lady Woodhall's come Monday."

"Perhaps the time has come to expand your social circle." He paused before adding, "The Traquair ladies would gladly make you welcome at Holyroodhouse."

"Those...Jacobites?" Marjory said, appalled at the thought. Only then did she see the Caledonian Mercury tucked under his arm.

Donald held up the broadsheet with a flourish. "Come, let me read to you." Before she could protest, he led her into the drawing room, where Andrew stood by the fire, sipping tea. "Brother, 'tis time our mother heard from the prince himself."

Andrew saluted them with his teacup. "See to it, then."

Stunned, Marjory watched Donald unfold the traitorous newspaper. How had it come to this? Her sons turning their backs on all she held dear?

He read the prince's words with due solemnity, "Gentlemen, I have flung away the scabbard. With G.o.d's a.s.sistance I don't doubt of making you a free and happy people."

"But we're already free and happy," Marjory cried, feeling her sons pulling away from her like s.h.i.+ps no longer anch.o.r.ed to port. "Do we or do we not honor King George in this household?"

"We should honor the rightful king," Andrew said with certainty.

"Aye." Donald slapped the folded paper against his leg. "I, for one, intend to support the king chosen by G.o.d. With my sword, if necessary."

Marjory stared at him in horror. "Son, you cannot... nae, you must not fight."

"We can, Mother," Andrew insisted. "And if our bonny prince will have us, we shall."

Thirty.

Come Donald, come a' thegither

And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king!

CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY NAIRNE.

T he crowd eddied round Donald in the Lawnmarket as he studied the enlistment notice, thrust into his hand by a Jacobite soldier. A fortnight ago he would have crumpled the paper and tossed it into the nearest fire. Now every word seemed written for his benefit.

Abbey of Holyroodhouse, 26 September 1745...

Dated that very day. The printer's ink might yet smear under his thumb.

All those who are willing to take arms...

Staring blankly at the wooden facades lining the street, he searched his heart and mind. Was he willing to take up arms? Andrew certainly was. Donald had left his brother at Milne Square cleaning his French muskets.

To the deliverance of their country...

This phrase gave him pause. Did he mean to fight for Scotland? For Prince Charlie? Or to prove he was a gentleman worthy of his t.i.tle? Donald hadn't yet sorted out his many reasons, but he wanted-nae, needed-to enlist, of that he was certain.

Repair this day at two in the afternoon...