Here Burns My Candle Part 34

The morning sermon proved gentler than the lecture. Reverend Wishart did not rail against the Jacobites or praise King George. Instead, he spoke of the Almighty. "In his days shall the righteous flourish," he promised, "and abundance of peace so long as the moon endureth."

Elisabeth's gasp was so soft no one else seemed to notice. But Marjory did and glanced over at her. Perhaps the mention of peace had touched her daughter-in-law. Or was it the enduring moon?

The moment wors.h.i.+p ended, the Kerrs hastened down the aisle and through the arched door into the quiet High Street. Unlike the Sabbath morn when the surging crowd had nearly trampled them, on this noontide the pedestrians lingered in the street and carriages pa.s.sed at a stately pace.

"Lady Kerr!" a high voice sang.

Hearing their shared t.i.tle, Marjory and Elisabeth both turned to find Effie Sinclair coming toward them. Though she was slowed by her diminutive steps, her eyes sparkled, and her smile was most welcoming.

After the usual courtesies Mrs. Sinclair said in a conspiratorial tone, "How courageous of you three to come this morning." She waved them closer like a tiny wren gathering her chicks beneath her wings. "Many who wore the c.o.c.kade have left the city or remain behind their doors. Others quietly slip round the town, hoping not to be noticed." She turned back the sleeve of her gown long enough to expose a corner of white silk. "If what I heard is true, you three endured a terrible hards.h.i.+p last night. Still you did your Sabbath duty this morn."

"As you say, 'tis our duty." Marjory tried to sound humble but could not hide her pleasure. Effie Sinclair was frugal with her compliments.

"You shall always have my friends.h.i.+p and support," Effie said, then tipped her small head to look up at Elisabeth. "My dear, bring your family next time you come for tea."

Elisabeth smiled down at her schoolmistress with fond affection. "Indeed I shall." The two were soon engaged in conversation about former cla.s.smates from Elisabeth's school days in Blackfriars Wynd, while Marjory and Janet were left to nod and feign interest.

A caddie appeared at Marjory's elbow. Eight or ten years of age, he had a mop of brown hair and a pair of startling blue eyes. "Are ye Leddy Kerr?" he asked in a low voice, looking round as if afraid of being seen in her company. When Marjory nodded, he shoved a sealed letter into her hands. "From the tailor's son, mem."

She produced a ha'penny from her reticule. "Did he ask you to wait for a reply?"

"Nae!" The boy s.n.a.t.c.hed the coin from her hand and darted toward Niddry's Wynd without looking back over his shoulder.

Fifty-Three.

A letter does not blush.

CICERO.

M arjory noticed the mediocre paper quality and inferior sealing wax. From Mr. MacPherson, she imagined. What other tailor's son would take the liberty of writing her? She slipped the letter into her reticule and pulled the drawstrings shut, intending to read it when they returned home.

Once Mrs. Sinclair started for Blackfriars Wynd, the Kerr women were free to cross the High Street, dodging round sedan chairs, carriages, and men on horseback. No one approached them, though Marjory heard their names whispered in pa.s.sing, often with "rebel" or "traitor" or "Jacobite" in the same breath and sometimes with all three.

Mrs. Edgar and Gibson had gone ahead of them after service and so were waiting with dinner when they arrived. Gibson relieved them of their capes and hurried them to table, perhaps to keep them from despairing over the wretched state of their drawing room.

A moment later Mrs. Edgar served hot bowls of Scotch barley broth, even though it was not quite one o' the clock. "'Tis too cauld to stand on ceremony," the housekeeper said, and Marjory agreed.

After cooking on a low fire all night, the soup, made with sheep's head, a bundle of sweet herbs, and a generous measure of barley, was thick and flavorful. The dish was served with crusty bread pulled from the oven well before midnight lest Mrs. Edgar be found baking on the Sabbath.

Marjory made no objection to their simple, two-course meal. They had no company, no one to impress. Rich, hot broth suited the frigid day, especially when followed by cold almond custard baked in little china cups that had escaped yesterday's debacle.

"We're reduced to two candles at table," Marjory admitted. Janet had been squinting as she b.u.t.tered her bread, making rather a show of trying to see.

"With winter upon us, economy should be our rule." Elisabeth's gaze traveled from broken figurines to shattered teacups. "Shall we begin in this room on the morrow?"

Marjory refused to look at her surroundings, savoring her last spoonful of custard, sweetened with rosewater. "Aye," she finally said. "I'll ask Gibson to hire two maidservants. We'll see what can be salvaged and have them sweep up the rest."

Janet and Elisabeth exchanged glances. "What if no one is willing to work for us?" Janet asked.

Marjory bristled at the suggestion. "Our gold is not tainted," she told them. "Mrs. Sinclair shares our sympathies. Perhaps she can suggest someone."

Elisabeth nodded thoughtfully. "Or she may let us borrow one of her maids for the afternoon. I could ask Mr. MacPherson as well."

At the mention of his name, Marjory reached for her reticule. "I'd almost forgotten. Mr. MacPherson wrote me." A very short letter, Marjory discovered. Just two lines and rather nonsensical, she thought, reading them aloud.

Two for larder this day. One for my foot.

Marjory frowned at the paper. "If these words are not misspelled, what can they possibly mean?"

Elisabeth asked her to read them more slowly, then said, "I believe he's sharing information best kept secret and so has written them in a sort of code. 'Two' might mean our two husbands. And 'one' would be his father." Elisabeth sounded out the words several times, then nodded. "'Twould appear Donald and Andrew rode for Lauder. A village in the Borderland, aye?"

Marjory studied the paper. "So it is, en route to Kelso." Clever of Mr. MacPherson to provide such timely news. "But where is 'my foot'?"

Elisabeth smiled. "I believe he means 'Moffat.' It seems the prince has divided his troops to confound the enemy."

"Let us hope he is successful." Marjory drew one of the candles closer to read the second line. Just as there had been no salutation at the top, there was no signature at the bottom. Only a few words, which she read aloud.

I meant what I said. Loyal. Always.

Marjory sighed, irritated by his cryptic prose. "Another mystery you must solve for us, Elisabeth."

Her pale skin bloomed like a rose. "Perhaps the letter was mis-delivered."

"The caddie said it was for Lady Kerr," Marjory said, then realized her mistake. "Ah. He meant you." When she looked at the line again, the words took on a different shade of meaning. "To whom is Mr. MacPherson loyal?"

"He is loyal to... ah, the prince," Elisabeth said. "The MacPhersons have always supported the Stuarts."

"Then why bother to mention their fidelity?" Marjory held out the letter, wis.h.i.+ng to be rid of it and all that it implied. The tone was too secretive, too personal. An unmarried tradesman had no business writing to a married gentlewoman. "All the years you've known this young man, he's been a Jacobite?"

"Oh, aye." Elisabeth quickly folded the letter. "Rob has ever been faithful."

Marjory narrowed her gaze. "Is it 'Rob' now?"

Elisabeth's pink cheeks darkened. "A habit from childhood, nothing more."

Marjory remembered another letter MacPherson had brought to their door the morning after Donald's departure. And the private meeting that followed in Elisabeth's bedchamber. "I've not heard you use his Christian name before."

Janet surprised Marjory by coming to Elisabeth's defense. "An honest mistake."

"Then an honest answer is called for." Marjory stood, casting aside her linen napkin. "Pardon us, Janet. I must speak with your sister-in-law alone."

Marjory led the way, her emotions churning. Elisabeth had known the tailor's son far longer than she'd known her Donald. Was there something illicit between them? Elisabeth had once disappeared in the wee hours of a September morn and, upon returning, said she'd had business with Mr. MacPherson. What sort of business?

By the time Marjory reached the far corner of her bedchamber, she could no longer rein in her temper or her tongue. "Lady Kerr, have you been unfaithful to my son?"

"Nae!" Elisabeth cried, her shock apparent. "I would never... not for a moment!"

Marjory wanted to believe her, if only for Donald's sake. But Elisabeth was far too fl.u.s.tered for an innocent wife. "What is this tailor's son to you that he insists on speaking with you privately?"

Elisabeth's color remained high. "Mr. MacPherson is simply an old friend."

"A friend to your family?" Marjory asked pointedly. "Or to you?" When her daughter-in-law did not answer quickly enough to suit her, Marjory pressed the issue. "I must ask you again, have you honored your wedding vows? I sometimes wonder. Lord Donald has certainly honored his, yet you've still not presented him with an heir."

Elisabeth did not shrink beneath her accusations. In fact, she seemed taller than ever. "From the first hour we met, I have been faithful to your son."

Marjory saw the tears in her eyes. Not of shame, she decided, but of conviction. "Lady Elisabeth, I am relieved-"

"Mr. MacPherson is my friend, and Lord Kerr is my husband. You can be very sure I do not confuse them." With that, Elisabeth quit the room with a sweep of her skirts and a firmly closed door.

Fifty-Four.

The only faith that wears well...

is that which is woven of conviction.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

E lisabeth stood alone in her bedchamber, arms folded across her bodice, her cheeks still warm. To be falsely accused of adultery when Donald was the guilty one! How she longed to fling open the door and recite a list of names for his mother's edification. "Susan McGill. Maggie Hunter. And let us not forget Lucy Spence..."

Stop, Bess. Stop punis.h.i.+ng yourself.

Aye, she'd reviewed the list quite enough. And telling Marjory the truth about her profligate son would only sharpen the pain for all of them.

Elisabeth took a long, slow breath. When her face had cooled and her temper with it, she started across the room, stepping over chapters of literature and history torn from their bindings. Last evening she'd been too exhausted, and the room too dark, to do more than make a path through the disarray. Now she had sufficient light, but was reluctant to disregard the Sabbath. The LORD blessed the sabbath day, and hallowed it. Aye, even she knew that one. If she had any intention of embracing this G.o.d, honoring his day might be the place to begin.

How to spend the few remaining hours of daylight, then?

She stood in the middle of her bedchamber, looking at two closed doors, feeling rather trapped. One door led to Janet's room, though her sister-in-law would never let her walk through without an explanation. What is all this about Rob MacPherson? What did the dowager ask you? The other door led to Marjory's room. If Elisabeth went that direction, her mother-in-law would a.s.sume she'd returned to make a confession and so probe more deeply. Were you innocent when you married? Does Donald know of your relations.h.i.+p with the tailor's son?

Nae, she would remain in her bedchamber, at least for the moment.

Reading a book would engage her well enough, but the only volume left untouched by fire or steel was the family Bible. Elisabeth claimed the thick book from the mantelpiece, surprised again at the weight of it. She gathered a handful of pillows closer to the windows, arranged her hoops and skirts about her, and settled down with the Scriptures in her lap.

Reverend Wishart often chose something in the middle, so she did too, letting the Bible fall open where it would. After decades of use the paper had turned the color of weak tea spilled on linen. Each page felt like a well-worn s.h.i.+rt ironed by a firm hand. But the type was still quite black, marching along in neat lines.

Elisabeth was not surprised to find the Bible had opened to Psalms. In the Lowlands children were fed psalms more regularly than porridge. Bending closer, she began to read.

O LORD, thou hast searched me, and known me.

She was struck at once by the intimacy of the words. The author was speaking to the Almighty as if he knew him and clearly was known by him. But first he was searched. She shuddered at the image. Who could bear such a close inspection, having nowhere to hide?

With certain trepidation, she chose another verse.

Thou hast beset me behind and before,

and laid thine hand upon me.

Wasn't that precisely how she felt at the moment, trapped in her ruined bedchamber? She couldn't move forward to Monday and put things back in order, yet she couldn't step backward to Friday, when her room was still her own tidy refuge. Instead, she could only sit in the mess and the muck, pressed down by a sense of loss.

Nae, Bess. She swallowed hard. 'Tis guilt that weighs on you.

Guilt about many things but especially about her husband. If she'd not urged Donald to support the prince, he would still be by her side, and none of this would have happened.

Suddenly uncomfortable, she s.h.i.+fted the Buik on her lap, knowing her guilt went far deeper. If she'd voiced her fears instead of running away from home, her mother might never have married Ben Cromar.

And if she'd returned to Braemar rather than abandoning her brother, she might have spared him years of ill treatment.

Donald. Mother. Simon.

Elisabeth stared at the page, undone.

She could do nothing to make amends. Nothing. She could not even beg their forgiveness. Donald had marched off to war. Her mother had tossed her letter into the fire. And Simon was gone forever.

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the chilly, empty room. Her voice was thin, like a child's. And her heart was breaking.

Tears blurred her vision, dropping onto the page as she bent forward. "Forgive me. Please, forgive me." She feared her pleas were spoken in vain and heard by no one, but she had to say them. Had to.

Forgive me. Forgive me.

It was some time before her tears began to ease. Only then did she realize, looking down at the verse, that nothing was said about being burdened by loss or by guilt.