Here Burns My Candle Part 21

Thirty-Three.

Women, like princes, find few real friends.

LORD GEORGE LYTTLETON.

T he night of the ball was as black as Elisabeth's gown. All the stars were in hiding, and so was the waxing moon. Iron lanterns with sc.r.a.ped horn windows bobbed up and down the High Street, toted by servants doing their masters' bidding, and coal fires belched smoke into the foggy air.

Elisabeth tightly clasped her silk reticule and the poems from Effie Sinclair's students as her sedan chair bounced and swayed through the Netherbow Port, headed for the Palace of Holyroodhouse. At the dowager's insistence, Elisabeth had taken the first chair they'd hailed. "You are the one Lord Kerr will be watching for," her mother-in-law had said. "We'll not be far behind." The chairmen momentarily gave way to a noisy contingent bound for Mr. Smeiton's coffeehouse, then started off again at a trot, eager to deliver their pa.s.senger and earn another fare.

Elisabeth steadied herself, pressing the toes of her kid shoes against the door. Was Rob MacPherson being jostled about in a carriage bound for Edinburgh that night? She expected a visit from him any day, bearing news from home, perhaps even a letter from her mother. Dared she let herself hope?

Touching her hair, Elisabeth was relieved to find the dowager's string of pearls still neatly entwined in her topknot of curls. Mrs. Edgar had taken great pains with Elisabeth's toilette, brus.h.i.+ng her dark eyebrows into smooth arcs, powdering her face, neck, and arms, then dabbing her cheeks with rouge. "Ye must leuk yer best for the sake o' yer brither's memory."

Simon. If only he were waiting for her at the palace. Standing proudly at the entrance. Wearing his Braemar plaid kilted and belted round his waist. Holding out his hand, inviting her to dance. Come, my sister.

Elisabeth sighed into the narrow confines of the sedan chair. Hail the moon for me, Bess. His last words to her. Though she'd pleaded with the Nameless One, her brother was gone. Now her husband had followed in Simon's brave footsteps and thrown in his lot with the prince. But not to the same end, beloved. As an officer, Lord Donald could simply give orders while others took to the field. For that small blessing Elisabeth was most grateful.

"Yer husband will be pleased to see ye," Mrs. Edgar had said earlier as she added a faint spray of rose water across her shoulders. "I jalouse ye're keen to see him as weel."

"I am indeed," Elisabeth had confessed. Very keen.

Not much longer now.

Lady Marjory and Janet had dressed for royalty, wearing feathery plumes, rich brocades, and damask slippers. Elisabeth had dressed for Donald. The couple had not seen each other in a fortnight, the longest they'd ever been apart. She missed his company, his literate discourse, his clever smile. Aye, and his touch.

Her husband's letters had been rather short and not as descriptive as she'd hoped, but at least he wrote to her. Janet had received only one letter from Andrew, and that a list of forgotten items to be sent to him at the Duddingston camp. Donald's comments were a bit guarded, as if he feared his letters might be intercepted. King George's spies lurked everywhere, but there were Jacobite informants too.

All of Edinburgh followed the prince's daily rounds with rapt attention. After meeting with his morning council, he enjoyed a midday meal with his princ.i.p.al officers in a public place where any citizen might stand about and admire him. Then he rode out to review his army, attended by his Life Guards and a host of elegant spectators in coaches and on horseback. The most fas.h.i.+onable ladies of the town were waiting to be received in his drawing room when the prince returned. A public supper followed, often with music and, as on this night, a ball.

Elisabeth's sedan chair bounced to an abrupt stop. "Here ye be, milady," the chairman announced as he opened the narrow door. She placed her feet carefully on the muddy ground, glad for her pattens. The moment she deposited a sixpence in his open palm, he and his stout-armed partner went on their way, hailed by a gentleman wearing a p.r.o.nounced scowl beneath his full-bottomed wig.

Elisabeth looked over the milling crowd adorned in brightly colored silks and satins, their breaths forming small clouds as they called out to one another. Gaiety and conviviality were the order of the evening. Torches blazed across the grounds, casting bright pools of light, illuminating some faces and shadowing others. However would she find Donald at the appointed hour?

"Leddy Kerr?"

Not Donald's voice, yet one she'd been waiting to hear.

She whirled round to find Rob MacPherson standing behind her, his broad frame encased in blue wool and a length of tartan fastened over one shoulder with a round silver brooch. "You're home," she breathed.

"Aye, milady." He stepped closer. "Only just now."

Rob's soft voice belied the size of him. Everything about him was st.u.r.dy and thick: head, neck, arms, chest. If not for his foot, Rob MacPherson would be a man to be reckoned with in the pitch of battle.

"Tell me about Castleton," she urged him. "How fares my mother?"

His dark eyes spoke before his words. "She took the news verra hard."

Elisabeth looked away, awash with guilt. Her poor mother, learning of Simon's death from a friend rather than from her own daughter. "I should have made the journey myself, Mr. MacPherson, rather than burden you."

"Nae," he quickly a.s.sured her, "for 'twas nae burden." Unlike some men who looked round when they spoke, Rob kept his gaze fixed on her. "Yer mither was pleased to have the prince's letter. 'Twas a meikle comfort to her."

"What of my letter?" she gently pressed.

Rob s.h.i.+fted his stance. "She read it."

Even in the torchlight Elisabeth could see his cheeks turning ruddy.

"Ye'll not be pleased to hear it, Bess. Yer mither tore yer letter in two. Tossed it in the fire. Said 'twas too late."

"Oh." Her face warmed as well. "I didn't realize you arrived after Michaelmas-"

"Nae, milady," Rob hastened to say. "'Twas Sat.u.r.day morn whan I reached Castleton, the day afore the wedding."

Elisabeth stared at him, hoping she'd misunderstood. "Even after she read my letter she married Ben Cromar?"

"Aye, she did, by the banks o' the River Dee. Not monie folk came. 'Twas a rainy afternoon and the Sabbath besides."

Elisabeth stared at the ground, her emotions reeling. She was hurt, aye, but she was angry too. Did a daughter's opinion count for so little? Was Simon's ugly scar of no consequence? She twisted the silken strings of her reticule, waiting for the threat of tears to subside.

"Ye're not happy with her choice."

"Nae, I am not." At least she'd kept her voice even.

After a moment Rob said gently, "Whatsomever ye think o' Mr. Cromar, the man's not afraid o' hard work. Her cottage is in guid repair. And yer mither seemed blithe to take him as her husband."

Elisabeth swallowed her pride. "'Tis done, then."

He nodded but said nothing more.

In the silence she found the strength to apologize. "Please forgive me for entangling you in family matters."

He lifted her chin, his ungloved hand surprisingly warm in the cool night air. "I've kenned ye a' my life, Bess. And yer family." He withdrew his touch but not his steady gaze. "If ye'll not mind me asking, why have ye not visited yer mither a' these years? Will yer husband not let ye leave his side?" Before she could answer, he added, "Not that I blame his lords.h.i.+p. I'd feel the verra same, were ye mine."

Elisabeth looked away, embarra.s.sed by a question that had no proper answer. "Lord Kerr is a busy man-"

"Aye, sae I've heard." He glanced down at the roll of papers she kept turning round in her hands. "What have ye there?"

"A gift of poetry for His Royal Highness." She held up the offering tied with a royal blue ribbon. "Written by Mrs. Sinclair's young ladies. Perhaps there is someone I might trust to present them to the prince?"

"Ye might trust me," he chided her. "But the prince will gladly take them from the hand of a loosome leddy like yerself." Rob leaned forward, his breath on her cheek. "'Twill be an honor to introduce ye to him, Bess."

She eased back, suddenly aware of the solid warmth of his body and the undeniable heat of his gaze. "I am...ever in your debt, Mr. MacPherson."

"Och, la.s.s." His voice was low, his tone persuasive. "Can ye not call me Rob as ye once did?"

"Nae, I cannot." Elisabeth sank into a low curtsy, bringing their conversation to a swift and necessary end. "Thank you for your service to my family." She waited, head down, until he responded with a curt bow.

"The pleasure's a' mine, Leddy Kerr." Rob turned on his heel and was soon lost in the crowd.

Thirty-Four.

My dancing days are done.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT AND JOHN FLETCHER.

E lisabeth stood alone in the palace forecourt, regretting she'd not handled things better. Like his father, Rob was a caring and trustworthy friend. Had he not willingly traveled many miles bearing the saddest of tidings to her mother? In turn, she'd no doubt misread his intentions, then wounded him with her rebuff. Badly done, Bess. The only remedy was to apologize when their paths crossed again and hope Rob was in a forgiving mood.

Elisabeth looked toward the road leading to the Canongate, watching for her family members. Whatever had delayed them? With so many persons of rank attending the ball, perhaps the chairmen were busier than usual. Whatever the reason, she was grateful Marjory and Janet had not witnessed her painful exchange with Rob. She would tell them of her mother's marriage soon enough. But not this night.

The s.h.i.+fting fog penetrated her wool cape, crawled up her sleeves, and wrapped its cold tendrils round her neck. Autumn had firmly taken up residence in the capital. At least Donald was no longer required to sleep out of doors. Along with many of the Jacobite officers, he was billeted at the inn at White Horse Close, where she'd met with Simon. Her heart tightened, remembering the look on his face. I fear I must leave ye, Bess.

And so you did, dear brother of mine. So you did. She stared into the dark night, wis.h.i.+ng she might see him walking toward her, knowing it would never be so.

Instead, she glimpsed Janet and their mother-in-law emerging from their hired sedan chairs. By the time she reached them, the two women were brus.h.i.+ng the dust from their skirts and casting disparaging looks at the plain leather-and-wood conveyances, battered and worn from constant use.

"Most unsatisfactory," Marjory grumbled, paying the chairmen nonetheless. She pulled the hood of her cape closer to her chin. "Come, ladies. Lord Kerr promised to meet us at the palace entrance. He'll think we've abandoned him."

Once the dowager slipped a gloved hand round each daughter-in-law's arm, the threesome crossed the forecourt in full sail, their capes billowing from their shoulders. Gentlemen bobbed their heads in recognition, and their ladies were quick to curtsy. It seemed the Kerrs' daring support of the Jacobite cause had not gone unnoticed.

Elisabeth eyed the imposing entranceway to the palace, twice the height of a man and broad enough for four to enter abreast. Above it hung a frontispiece of the Royal Arms of Scotland. In the flickering torchlight she could pick out two enormous unicorns on either side. On the crowned cupola a clock marked the hour. She peered through the fog, struggling to see the hands. Almost nine. Donald would not be long in coming.

Whether from the chilly night air or from antic.i.p.ation, Elisabeth s.h.i.+vered. Might they move a bit faster?

Her mother-in-law was quick to protest. "I declare, Lady Kerr, you will have me walking out of my shoes at this pace."

"The sooner we are inside," Elisabeth reminded her, "the sooner you may dispose of your cape and let everyone admire your beautiful new gown." Her praise was genuine. Miss Callander had outdone herself. The dowager's burgundy-colored taffeta was a paean to lace, ruffles, flounces, and bows. Janet's gown was simpler in design, the watered silk in golden maize a fitting complement to her auburn hair. Her plump forearms were encased in elbow-length ivory kid gloves, and a double strand of pearls circled her throat.

In her black mourning gown, Elisabeth felt all but invisible, though she would gladly wear a coa.r.s.e linen s.h.i.+ft if it might honor Simon's memory.

"Lady Kerr!"

When her name floated across the forecourt, she recognized the voice at once. Donald. All three women turned to greet the Kerr heir, a stone's throw away. He looked taller, though that was quite impossible, and more handsome than ever in his blue officer's uniform. When Elisabeth spotted the white c.o.c.kade proudly displayed on his tricorne, tears clouded her eyes. My braw Jacobite.

"I meant to be here sooner," he explained, then bent to kiss each of their hands in turn, lingering over Elisabeth's as if they'd been apart for years rather than a fortnight.

When he stood, her skin warmed beneath his gaze. "I've missed you," she said softly so the others would not hear.

"And I've missed you, milady. Rather fervently." His eyes said the rest.

Having patiently waited her turn, the dowager addressed her son. "You look very well," she told him, her countenance s.h.i.+ning with maternal affection. "When shall we expect your brother?"

"Andrew will be along shortly," Donald a.s.sured his mother, then offered his arm. "You'll be far more comfortable withindoors." Walking at a stately pace, Donald led them through the entranceway and into the open quadrangle with its cla.s.sical facades, one for each floor. "Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian," Donald said proudly as if he'd designed them himself.

"But where is the ball?" Janet asked, her tone shrill.

Donald hid a bemused smile. "Not to worry, Mrs. Kerr. We've only to follow the crowd."

He guided them toward the entrance to the old tower built for King James V. The young prince's admirers and supporters soon surrounded them, all making their way up a narrow turnpike stair. An occasional torch, mounted high above their heads, lit the way. Everyone spoke at once, their laughter echoing off the masonry walls.

Certain she could not be heard above the din, Elisabeth didn't attempt to converse with Donald as she slowly climbed the stair, preparing her heart for whatever the evening might hold. Naturally she could not dance while in mourning. But if she met the prince, discharged her duty to Mrs. Sinclair, and enjoyed Donald's company for a few hours, her night would be well spent.

One by one the invited guests reached the top of the stair and filed into a long candlelit s.p.a.ce, their voices swallowed up by the sheer size of the room, with its polished wood floor and lofty ceiling. If there was a far wall at the opposite end, Elisabeth could not see it for the crush of people. Perhaps when daylight poured through the many windows facing the quadrangle, one might easily grasp the dimensions. But at night, lit only by candelabras, the room was a vast universe unto itself, a world without end.

Beside them a well-laid log fire burned brightly in the hearth, although the room was already warm. Somewhere fiddlers were tuning their instruments, and the clinking of gla.s.s and silver filled the air. Hundreds of folk were milling about, exchanging greetings, bowing and sc.r.a.ping, hoping to impress. Elisabeth slipped her hand round the crook of Donald's elbow, grateful to have him by her side.

Donald swept his other arm across the room's expanse. "You can see why 'tis called the Great Gallery."

"No other name would do," Elisabeth agreed. Portraits lined the wood paneled walls, one after another after another. The subjects each displayed a confident stance, their gazes stern, as if daring the artist to make them look anything less than heroic.

"Scotland's kings and queens, beginning with Fergus Mor," Donald explained. "More than one hundred of them, all by the same artist."

Janet arched her brows. "Surely we've not had half that many monarchs." She examined some of the smaller paintings nearby, then shrugged. "'Tis one portrait, painted over and over."

A familiar chuckle heralded Andrew's arrival. "Quite right, dear wife." He removed his tricorne and kissed her cheek in greeting. "I had the same opinion when first I saw them all. From painting to painting, only the attire changes."

"And so has your own costume, dear boy." The dowager motioned him closer. "Come, let me have a look at you."

Andrew obliged his mother, standing at attention while she conducted her inspection. "Do I pa.s.s muster, then?"

"Aye," the dowager said on a sigh, "much as I am reluctant to concede it."

Janet appraised her husband as well. "Sir, you are a credit to your regiment."

"As are you, Lord Kerr," Elisabeth said, pride and fear warring within her. She remembered the first sign of Donald's interest in the Jacobite cause. I am intrigued. Why had she not been more cautious instead of encouraging him? The dowager would never forgive her if something happened to her beloved heir.

"There you have it, lad." Donald clapped his hand on Andrew's shoulder. "Our mother and wives approve. We need look no further."

"I approve of your uniforms," the dowager clarified, "but not your politics."

"And I'd be happier with a bit more correspondence," Janet chided her husband. Shorter than the rest of them, she stood on tiptoe, trying in vain to look about the crowded room. "Lord Kerr, have you sufficient influence that you might introduce us to some of the prince's ill.u.s.trious guests?"

"I confess there are many gentlemen of rank whose ident.i.ties we've yet to discover. We know Secretary Murray, of course, and Lords Elcho, Ogilvie, Pitsligo, and Nairne. And the Duke of Perth."

Janet's eyes brightened. "A duke, you say?"

"So he is," Andrew boasted. "If there is someone you care to meet, Angus MacPherson is here, and he knows them all."

Janet frowned at her husband. "What business does a tailor have attending a royal ball?"

"The prince's business," Donald said firmly. "Angus MacPherson has made himself... ah, quite useful of late. He's present this night but not for the dancing. At the moment I'll wager he's b.u.t.tonholing one Highland chief or another, seeking more clansmen for the cause."