Here Burns My Candle Part 36

'Twas hard to say who looked more surprised, Elisabeth or Rob.

"Nae plans, mem," he finally said. "o' course, the shop will be closed for the day..."

Marjory smiled. "Then you'll be free to join us for our Martinmas dinner?"

Rob glanced at Elisabeth. "'Twould be a pleasure, mem."

"We'll expect you at one o' the clock." Marjory nodded, a polite dismissal.

He bowed and took his leave. Though Elisabeth followed him to the entrance hall, she kept her distance and did not linger at the door.

Marjory clasped her hands together, strengthening her resolve. If Elisabeth was innocent, 'twould be most unfair to suspect her. But if there was something between them, Marjory would do whatever was necessary to protect Donald's good name. She'd failed him in so many ways as a mother. She would not fail him in this.

Fifty-Six.

It fell about the Martinmas

When nights are lang and mirk.

SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY SCOTTISH VERSE.

E lisabeth lifted the spoon to her mouth, enjoying the rich soup even before she tasted it. Peppercorn, thyme, and bay leaf created a heady aroma, but the pungent oxtail made the dish Donald's favorite on Martinmas.

He was in England now. Whatever his plans for Martinmas, they would not include a meal like this. Elisabeth slowly put down her spoon, the broth having lost its flavor.

Mrs. Edgar was by her side at once. "Is the oxtail not to yer liking, milady?"

"'Tis delicious," Elisabeth a.s.sured her, retrieving her spoon. Mrs. Edgar had labored all morning on their meal, even though the Scottish term day was meant to be free from work. Elisabeth's father never touched his loom on Martinmas, and no wheels spun in the cottages round the hills and glens of Braemar.

"A fine soup," Rob MacPherson announced, his plate already empty.

Elisabeth saw him eying the wheaten bread. Perhaps if Rob were alone at home, he would wipe a thick slice round his plate to soak up the last drop. Simon had often done the same. Donald, with his fine manners, would never have stooped to such behavior at table, though he'd proven to be less than a gentleman in other ways. She could not imagine Simon ever being unfaithful had he married. As for Rob, she could not say.

Aye, she could. I meant what I said. Loyal. Always.

Rob's contribution to their Martinmas feast was a bottle of claret: a welcome gift since the dragoons had depleted their store. Donald's seat remained vacant, a constant reminder of his absence. Elisabeth suspected that Rob was invited solely because her mother-in-law wanted to see them together, side by side, as a test of her fidelity. Rob had yet to say or do anything untoward, for which Elisabeth was grateful.

Marjory motioned Mrs. Edgar to bring the next course. "I hope you'll not mind, Mr. MacPherson, but we'll not be serving haggis."

Elisabeth knew her mother-in-law could not bear the traditional Martinmas dish of chopped meat and oatmeal boiled in a sheep's stomach. A common dish in every Highland cottage but not at all common at the Kerr table.

"I've had monie a plate o' haggis this season," Rob a.s.sured her. "My faither and I have a woman wha cooks for us. Not a week goes by without sheep pluck on oor table."

"'Tis good that you enjoy it, then." Marjory's smile was forced. "We'll be having the usual fish, flesh, and fowl."

"And apple tart," Janet added, antic.i.p.ation s.h.i.+ning in her eyes. If Janet had her way, every meal would begin with something sweet. And end with it too.

Elisabeth, sitting with her back to the windows, had to glance over her shoulder to see if the day remained dry. Not for long, judging by the thickening clouds. The Firth of Forth brought cold air and brisk winds blowing in from the North Sea, vastly changing the weather from one hour to the next. The air was dry for now at least and not so bitterly cold as yesterday morning at the Tron Kirk, where they'd huddled under their wool capes and moved their feet to keep them from growing stiff.

"Haddies," Rob said with a broad smile when Mrs. Edgar served him fish with a brown sauce. As a dinner guest he was easy to please. Few things appeared more often on Edinburgh tables than haddocks. Roasted leg of lamb with oysters came next and then oven-browned pullets with potatoes. Elisabeth ate enough of each course to keep Mrs. Edgar from frowning, while Rob enjoyed two servings of every dish.

Once the tarts were served, their guest was well sated. "I canna remember a finer Martinmas meal than this one, Leddy Kerr," Rob told her.

"Mrs. Edgar will be glad to hear it." Marjory stood, bringing him quickly to his feet. "Will you have coffee by the fire, Mr. MacPherson?"

"Aye," he said, "if ye'll allow me to repay yer hospitality with three gifts."

"The claret was present enough," Elisabeth a.s.sured him, but it seemed he had more in mind.

Gathered in a half circle were four upholstered chairs, each one draped with a plaid to cover its scars. While the women took their seats, Rob remained standing, his elbow propped on the mantelpiece. "Gifts, you said?" the dowager prompted him.

"The first is a verra auld song, meant for the day."

When he cleared his throat and began to sing, his small audience was pleasantly surprised as a rich baritone poured forth, the notes full and the words tender.

Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

And shake the green leaves aff the tree?

O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?

For of my life I am wearie.

"Oh!" Janet exclaimed. "Please sing it again. From the beginning, if you know it."

"I ken a' the verses, milady." Rob proved it, sharing in song the sad tale of a brokenhearted maid. Mrs. Edgar and Gibson quietly cleared the table and trimmed the candles, taking in the rare treat, for none in the Kerr household sang except at kirk.

When he finished, Janet said with a melodramatic sigh, "Too tragic. Have you no good news for us?"

"My second gift this term day," Rob said, folding his hands behind his back. "News from England."

Marjory sat up, clearly interested. "Do tell us what you've learned."

"Aye, do," Elisabeth urged him, thinking only of Donald.

"The reports are a day auld or mair," he cautioned, "but I'll give ye whatsomever news I can. The prince leads his men on foot, they say, as strong and as brave as ilka soldier on the field. Whan they crossed the Tweed, the leddies o' Jedburgh flocked into the street to kiss the prince's hand. But none o' their men joined oor army." Rob shook his head. "Would that they had, for I've heard as monie as a thousand Hielanders have deserted the prince."

Though Marjory gasped at the number, Elisabeth was not surprised. "'Tis too far south," she said. "Too close to the English."

"Aye. Whan the prince heard some were lagging behind, planning to desert, he mounted a horse and rode to the rear, spurring them forward." His countenance darkened. "But ithers crept o'er the hills in the gloom o' nicht, headed for hame."

Marjory eyed Elisabeth. "Are men not shot for this?"

"Some have been severely punished," he admitted. "For ithers, 'tis enough to threaten them with burning their hooses and crops."

Elisabeth watched Marjory's expression change, as if envisioning Tweedsford in flames. A wave of sympathy washed over her. Her mother-in-law had two sons bearing arms and two properties to manage. A worthy reminder, Elisabeth decided, for the days when Marjory's complaints grew tiresome.

"On Friday last," Rob was saying, "the prince and his men crossed the border to England. Alas, whan the Hielanders unsheathed their broadswords to shout their huzzahs, Cameron o' Lochiel cut his hand on his blade."

Elisabeth saw the problem at once. "'Tis a bad omen."

Rob nodded grimly. "Ye can be sure his men thocht sae."

"Did you say you had a third gift, Mr. MacPherson?" Her mother-in-law sounded impatient. Or simply tired.

"Indeed I do." Rob reached inside his waistcoat and produced a letter. "For Leddy Kerr." His dark gaze met hers. "From Lord Kerr."

"Oh!" Elisabeth could not hide her excitement, nearly tearing the paper as she broke the seal. "I feel quite certain he means us all to hear it."

Marjory brightened at once.

"Ye'll not want to trust your letters to the Post Office," Rob cautioned them. "They've taken to reading the letters o' Jacobites, scrawling Treason or Rebel across the page, then delaying the letters a fortnight or mair."

"How perfectly dreadful," Janet said, making a face.

"You alone are to see our letters delivered," Marjory told him.

"As ye say, mem."

Elisabeth thought of the letter she'd given Rob on Monday last, even as she skimmed through the one in her hands. "Now, then. Let us see what Lord Kerr has for us."

To My Beloved Family

Wednesday, 6 November 1745

I trust this letter finds its way to you and finds you in good health.

"Rather formal," Janet remarked, though Elisabeth thought she detected a faint note of envy in her sister-in-law's voice since there was no letter from Andrew.

Marjory quickly came to Donald's defense. "His writing must be circ.u.mspect, for all our sakes. Continue, Lady Kerr."

We have this day arrived in Jedburgh. It is difficult to be so close to home and yet not have the opportunity to call upon our factor.

"When the throne is won and peace returns, we should all visit Tweedsford," Marjory said emphatically. "In the spring, perhaps. 'Tis quite pleasant."

Elisabeth tried to cover her astonishment. Since her marriage to Donald, his mother had never made such a suggestion. "I would very much like to see it," Elisabeth told her before returning to his letter.

The weather is tolerable, the food and accommodations are adequate, and the company well shod.

"At least their horses have shoes," Elisabeth mused.

Rob remained standing at the mantelpiece, arms folded across his broad chest. "Yer husband does a fine job of saying what needs to be said with none the wiser. 'Tis a guid skill for a Life Guard."

Elisabeth was surprised to hear Rob speak well of her husband, knowing what he thought of Donald. And what he thought of her. When she read the next line, her heart tightened.

We have heard of an offer being made regarding the twelfth of this month, but no parties here are interested.

Marjory spoke first, her tone flat. "He knows, then."

Rob grunted in response. "King Geordie's printed notices found their way to the prince's camp. My faither said they used the paper to start their fires." He s.h.i.+fted his stance. "D'ye ken a proclamation was read from the mercat cross this day? All able-bodied men are invited to enter into his Majesty's service. Such men are a.s.sured a discharge at the end o' six months or whan the rebellion is"-he looked ready to spit-"extinguished. That was the wird they used."

Elisabeth was only half listening, reading back through Donald's brief letter. She wished it were longer but was grateful to hold in her hands solid proof that five days ago her husband was alive and well.

"Has he written anything else?" Marjory asked, leaning closer to look for herself.

"No more words and no signature." Elisabeth held out the letter. "Only a few numbers."

"Ah." Marjory left at once and returned a moment later with the family Bible in her arms. "'Twill be one of the psalms. When my sons were wee lads, I taught them to memorize verses by writing the numbers on one side of a card and the words on the other."

Elisabeth could not imagine her mother-in-law doing such a thing. Had Marjory's years in Edinburgh changed her that much?