Here Burns My Candle Part 38

Janet shrugged. "Our mother-in-law insists we cannot afford to gamble even ha'pence."

Elisabeth discarded her handful of playing cards, the number of tricks she'd taken all but forgotten. "Please, Mr. MacPherson, tell us the latest news."

He joined them at the small table. "On Wednesday last the army reached Derby, not much mair than a hundred miles from London. The bells were ringing as the vanguard rode into the mercat place followed by Lord Elcho and his Life Guards."

Elisabeth pictured her braw husband astride his mount. "Did the rest of the army enter the town?"

"Aye. With the skirl o' the pipes and their standards flying, they made a bonny show of it. The next morn the clansmen went in search o' cutlers to sharpen their swords, with the Duke o' c.u.mberland close on their heels."

Elisabeth's breath caught. c.u.mberland, the king's second son, was the same age as Prince Charlie but more experienced as a soldier-and more ruthless.

"I dinna ken what happened next," Rob confessed.

Janet tossed her cards onto the table in obvious frustration. "Were they victorious over c.u.mberland or not? Have they marched on to London?"

Rob wagged his head. "We've men riding up and doon the countryside leuking to find oot. There are rumors traveling round ilka tavern from London to Inverness. Some true, some not. We'll ken afore lang."

The truth came in a letter from Donald almost a fortnight later. By then Elisabeth had heard the grim news whispered in the pews at kirk and shouted on the street by pamphleteers. But seeing it written in her husband's hand made it far more real. And far more troubling.

Rob brought Donald's letter to her door on a bleak Tuesday at noontide. "I'm bound for Queensberry Hoose," he said, "to bid the last o' the soldiers farewell."

She closed the door against the wind that howled up the stair. "You've done Martin Eccles a great service," she told him.

Rob held out the letter from Donald. "I'm obliged to help whaur I can."

His gaze was so intense she nearly closed her eyes. Please don't, Rob.

"If ye'll not mind," he said in a low voice, "I'd like to stay while the letter's read. For onie news, ye ken."

She could not refuse him. Donald's letters were meant for the whole household. And wasn't Rob the one who made sure she received them? Though he never used the word, Elisabeth was quite certain Rob served as a spy for the Jacobites, gathering intelligence and disseminating vital information. The tailoring shop was ransacked because of Angus's service on the field. The British never suspected the dark, taciturn son with a marked limp, who remained behind, quietly going about the prince's business.

Marjory was the first to see the letter in her hand. "Gibson, call the others." She waited, hazel eyes s.h.i.+ning, until Janet and Mrs. Edgar quickly joined them. "Now then, Lady Kerr."

Elisabeth unfolded the bulky letter, surprised to find another one nestled inside, addressed to her alone. Five pairs of eyes watched the second letter disappear into her hanging pocket. "'Tis some private matter," she said offhandedly. Had Donald expressed his feelings for her? Or had he penned another sordid confession unburdening further guilt, all the while adding to her shame?

She would know soon enough. First she read aloud his letter for the household.

To My Beloved Family

Friday, 13 December 1745

By necessity I must be brief. I only wish to a.s.sure you I am alive and unharmed. So is my brother.

"Thanks be to G.o.d!" Marjory dropped into an upholstered chair. "They are safe. 'Tis the only news that matters."

"Aye," everyone agreed, nodding at their mistress. Elisabeth dared not point out that the letter was several days old. She read on, knowing Donald could not reveal more than was prudent, though his carefully edited words said enough.

We did not engage the enemy in Derby or proceed to London, but are instead returning to Scotland on a familiar route.

"They're not returning." Rob's voice was low, but sharp as steel. "They're retreating."

"Why?" Elisabeth studied the letter, seeking an answer between the hurried lines of ink. "They've had naught but victories."

"Aye." His expression was as black as Greyfriars Kirkyard at midnight. "The prince was a' for London. But with three English armies afoot, his commanders called for retreat."

Marjory looked at him, the hope in her eyes waning. "Will my sons be coming home, then?"

"We canna be certain," Rob replied and said no more.

Elisabeth continued reading, though the news was not good.

When we marched south in November, the villagers rang their kirk bells and watched in wonder. Now, marching north, we are met with hostility and anger.

She'd overheard grisly stories of Jacobite soldiers being abused, even killed, by violent English mobs. Such tales did not bear repeating, though they bore the sting of truth. Come home, Donald. Soon.

"Is there nothing more?" Marjory asked her.

Elisabeth finished the letter, already thinking of the one in her pocket.

I cannot say where we shall spend Yuletide. Our thoughts and prayers are with each of you, this day and always.

Once again Donald had not signed his letter except with chapter and verse. "Gibson, if you might collect the Scriptures from my chamber. 'Tis Psalm 18:3 we're needing."

He returned shortly and balanced the book for Elisabeth while she found the verse.

"I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised," Elisabeth read. "So shall I be saved from mine enemies."

"May it be so..." Marjory's voice broke. "Please, may it be so..." She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and squeezed shut her eyes, moaning to herself, "My sons, my sons..."

Fifty-Nine.

The holiest of all holidays are those

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

The secret anniversaries of the heart.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Y our sons will return," Elisabeth said softly, knowing it was an empty promise. But she couldn't watch her mother-in-law suffer and not comfort her in some way. When she took Marjory's hand, it felt surprisingly small and limp.

Her mother-in-law opened her eyes. Both hope and doubt shone in her tears. "How can you be certain they'll come home?"

Elisabeth hesitated, not wanting to speak amiss.

Rob MacPherson came to her rescue. "The army is nearing Carlisle, mem. Within the week yer sons may cross the border." His low voice thrummed with conviction, but Elisabeth heard the word may and knew he was treading with care. The dowager did not forget or forgive easily, especially not broken promises.

"'Tis some consolation," Marjory agreed, "to think of them in Scotland." She sniffed, drying her eyes. "As always, Mr. MacPherson, we appreciate your loyal service to our family."

It was a gentle but firm dismissal, which Rob did not miss. "I bid ye guid day, mem."

Elisabeth walked him to the door, keeping a slight distance between them, though she could still sense the heat of his body, as if he'd lined his waistcoat with live coals.

"Will ye fast on the morrow?" Rob asked, though surely he knew how she would respond.

King George had proclaimed a public fast to quell the unnatural rebellion, as the English loved to call it. The fast was not a request but a royal command, set to commence on the eighteenth of December. Not everyone in his kingdom was required to fast that day. Only his subjects in Scotland.

"King David humbled his soul afore G.o.d with fasting," Rob said as if testing her.

"I might fast for Almighty G.o.d," Elisabeth said firmly, "but not for King George."

Rob nodded at that. "Weel said, Leddy Kerr." His gaze fell to her pocket. "I imagine ye're eager to read the letter from yer husband."

"I am," she admitted. "Monday will be the third anniversary of our wedding."

The moment the words were spoken Rob's features darkened. "'Tis unfortunate ye must spend the day alone."

"Since my husband will do the same, we will be joined in that way if no other."

Rob frowned but did not comment.

Voices in the drawing room reminded Elisabeth they'd tarried at the door long enough. "I must go," she said, taking a step back and dropping a curtsy. "If I do not see you before year's end-"

"Nae, Bess. Ye'll see me. 'Tis a lang fortnight 'til Hogmanay." His bow was curt and his exit more so. The door closed before she could bid him good-bye.

Elisabeth waited for the heat in her face to cool and the tension in her body to ease. She touched the letter in her pocket like a talisman. This is the man I love. And the one who loves me.

Mrs. Edgar approached from the kitchen. "Did ye not invite Mr. MacPherson to stay for dinner? 'Tis not but crawfish soup and mutton chops, but I've plenty to spare."

Elisabeth heard the faintly scolding note in her voice. "We'll invite him to sup with us over Yuletide," she promised. "At the moment I've a letter to read before dinner."

Seeing the others round the fireplace, Elisabeth slipped through the kitchen and then Janet's bedchamber to reach her own, avoiding the drawing room. She unfolded the letter, not surprised to find it began without date or address.

My Darling Wife, I miss you every waking hour and pray that you are content.

I would give all I own in this world to hold you in my arms.

Oh, my love. Elisabeth not only heard Donald's voice; she felt his touch and almost tasted his kiss. Content? Not until he was home. Not until she was in his embrace.

I trust you received a letter shortly after I left and have destroyed it.

The paper was gone but the names remained. Susan McGill, Jane Montgomerie, Lucy Spence. Guilt pierced her heart at the much-rehea.r.s.ed litany. He did not ask you to remember them, Bess. He asked you to forget.

She looked down at the letter through a veil of tears.

If you have chosen to withdraw your forgiveness, none would fault you, least of all your husband. Until then, I cling to the three words you spoke in the forecourt and pray I may someday deserve them.

You are forgiven. Words she could not take back even if she wanted to. And she no longer wanted to.

Was mercy deserved? Earned? Or simply received? She only knew it was never ending. His mercy lasteth ever. On the Sabbath at the Tron Kirk, the precentor had sung those words over and over. Each time she'd sung them in response, the truth sank in a wee bit deeper. His mercy faileth never.

Only two more lines of Donald's letter remained. How she wished he might have written page after page! That he wrote to her at all in the midst of an army encampment was a gift that would suffice for many an anniversary to come.

Elisabeth read the last of it, letting each word do the work often.

The anniversary of our marriage approaches. I will spend the day giving thanks for my bonny wife, who was faithful when I was not.

Yours.

"You are mine, beloved," she whispered, smiling through her tears. "And I am yours."

When all of Scotland fasted on Wednesday for King George, Elisabeth fasted and prayed for her husband. When royalist troops began to pour into Edinburgh from the west, she strengthened her resolve with a verse from Scripture: Ye shall not fear them: for the LORD your G.o.d he shall fight for you. And in late December, when the broadsheets reported the Duke of c.u.mberland was pursuing the rebel army into Scotland, Elisabeth drew comfort in this a.s.surance: Donald was drawing near.