Here Burns My Candle Part 44

"Let me show you." Elisabeth sat beside her and pretended Marjory was one of Mrs. Sinclair's students, teaching her step by step. Her mother-in-law was a quick study and tied the finis.h.i.+ng knot herself. "You see?" Elisabeth said proudly. "You'll not be daunted by a b.u.t.ton again."

"'Tis my mother's fault," Marjory said, examining her work. "Lady Nesbitt made it clear that a gentlewoman might embroider, but she was never to do common sewing. You've convinced me otherwise."

Elisabeth tried not to let her amazement show. When she asked if she might visit Angus, Marjory surprised her a second time by agreeing at once, though her mother-in-law gave her a list of precautions.

"Cover your face with the hood of your cape, and stay close by Gibson's side. You'll need a ready answer if a dragoon stops you. Tell him you are bound for James Stirling's in the Luckenbooths to fetch a quarter pound of tea."

"Shall I carry two s.h.i.+llings to prove it?"

Marjory eyed her. "You are a canny girl." She pulled two silver coins from her hanging pocket and lent them to Elisabeth. "On your way, then."

Elisabeth followed Gibson down the turnpike stair, her teeth chattering. She'd sent ahead a caddie with a note so Rob would expect her. How odd it felt to step into the square after looking down on it for so many weeks! She followed Marjory's advice to the letter and withdrew inside the folds of her hood, resisting the urge to study every pa.s.serby, wondering if they were friend or foe.

They started up the High Street, facing into the icy wind blowing down from Castle Hill. Elisabeth pretended not to notice the lanes they pa.s.sed along the way: Geddes Close, home to Jane Montgomerie, and Warriston's Close, where Susan McGill lodged. Did they know of Donald's death? The thought of other women mourning the loss of her husband made her ill. Nae, it made her angry. How dare they grieve her beloved Donald! She reached for Marjory's words like a healing balm. You are the only woman he ever loved.

"Almost there, Leddy Kerr." Gibson kept a firm grip on her hand, circled round his elbow. They quickened their steps past the mercat cross, where the latest news regarding the unnatural rebellion in the Highlands was being proclaimed.

Elisabeth still longed to see the Stuarts restored to the British throne. But the farther the prince and his men withdrew from the London road, the less likely victory seemed. The glorious cause had already cost far too much.

When they reached the door to Angus's tailoring shop, her heart sank. The gla.s.s window was newly repaired, but peering inside, she could see the damage wrought by the dragoons' November visit. The long looking gla.s.s was gone, along with Angus's sewing cabinet, and the shelves of fabric seemed vastly depleted.

Here came Rob, answering their knock. "Leddy Kerr," he said, his pleasure at seeing her unabashed. "Gibson, if ye'll not mind, I'll see the leddy hame. I'm sure ye're needed at Milne Square."

His words were not a dismissal, though Gibson's lowered brow suggested otherwise. "Are ye certain, Leddy Kerr? I'll not mind to stay, however lang ye'll be."

Rob was right. Gibson's time would be better spent at home. And her friend could easily walk her down the hill that afternoon. "I'll be home by four," she told Gibson, sending him gently on his way. "'til then, I'm well cared for here."

The manservant took his leave, the bell tinkling as the door shut behind him.

"Ye'll be warm enough by the fire," Rob promised, guiding her through to their lodgings behind the shop. "My faither is eager to visit with ye, Bess. 'Twill do him some guid, I've nae doubt."

Their single room was very tidy, especially for two men. The small beds were covered in beautifully woven plaids, the oak furnis.h.i.+ngs were simple in design yet solidly built-rather like the MacPhersons themselves-and the tallow candles on the hearth and table gave the room a warm glow.

The man seated by the fire was the one she'd come to see. To her dismay he'd aged ten years since they last spoke. "Angus!" she cried softly, hurrying to his side. His skin had a gray pallor, and his hair was now more silver than black.

Angus came to life at her greeting. "Och, my bonny Bess!" He kissed her hand, then hung on tight. "Ye've come to see yer auld freen."

"Not so very old," she chided him. "And I must apologize-"

"Nae, ye must not," he said gruffly. "Ye've been mourning yer husband, and sae ye should. How's yer mither-in-law? This canna be easy for her."

Elisabeth perched on a three-legged stool beside his chair and filled his ear with all the news from Milne Square even as she took careful note of the changes his illness had wrought over the last month. Angus was definitely weaker. His movements were slower and his breathing more strained. She was pleased to find his sense of humor had not diminished. And when Rob served them a dinner of hearty Scotch broth and fresh bannocks, Angus's appet.i.te was as healthy as ever.

"Ye must dine with us mair often," Rob told her at table. "I've not seen my faither eat a second plate o' broth in some time."

Angus waved his horn spoon at Rob. "Ye'll not be speaking o' me as if I wasna present," he scolded his son good-naturedly. "But the lad is richt. Having ye here has done my puir heart guid."

"Then I shall come every week," she promised.

Rob eyed her with a steady gaze. "I hope ye will, Bess."

"Come sit by the fire," Angus said, "and I'll tell ye what I ken o' the prince." His scowl was prodigious. "Ye're thinking an auld man locked in his lodgings wouldna ken onie news from afar, aye? Weel, I have my ways, la.s.s, and monie a Jacobite kens whaur I live."

Rob's smile greatly altered his face, softening his hard features and smoothing his brow. "Aye, they come knocking at a' hours o' the day and nicht, bearing tales from the north." He brought a chair from their table. "Dinna sit on the creepie, la.s.s. Ye'll be mair comfortable on this."

She took the offered seat, then inched closer to the fire, wis.h.i.+ng she'd chosen warmer stockings and stouter shoes.

"His Royal Highness split the army in two at Crieff," Angus told her. "Last I heard, the prince was at Dalwhinnie, but that was three days syne."

Elisabeth asked him gently, "Is there hope yet for the cause?"

He grabbed her hands and squeezed them hard, pressing her rings into her fingers. "Och, la.s.s! There's aye hope."

Sixty-Nine.

I will indulge my sorrow, and give way

To all the pangs and fury of despair.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

S till warm from their afternoon spent by the fire, Elisabeth and Rob started downhill toward Milne Square. Though the bitter wind kept most folk withindoors, the plainstanes were free of ice and snow, and the sky hinted at neither.

"Will ye come ilka week, like ye said?" Rob asked.

"I'll do my best." She could see that was not good enough. "Truly, I will, Rob. If my mother-in-law will not mind-"

"Why should she mind?" he grumbled. "Ye've nae need to answer to the leddy for yer time."

"But I do," Elisabeth told him. "I owe her a great deal. She accepted me into her family-"

"Accepted?" Rob moved in front of her, halting their progress. "D'ye hear yerself, Bess? Making excuses for a woman wha calls herself a leddy whan 'tis neither birth nor siller that makes a person guid." Elisabeth started to object, but he pressed his point. "Leddy Kerr hasna treated ye as weel as ye deserve. Nor did her son." His dark countenance said the rest.

"Rob, I'll not have you speak ill of my husband. Or my family."

His tone changed at once. "I'm sorry, Bess. I had nae richt."

She sighed, regretting she'd spoken so directly. "I know you mean only to protect me, Rob."

"Aye, aye," he was quick to say, turning so she might take his arm once more. "That was a' I meant to do." He drew her close as they started walking again. "'Tis my nature to watch o'er folk I care about."

She merely nodded rather than pursue the subject. She knew Rob cared for her a great deal more than he should.

They were nearing Writer's Court when a stranger called out, "Leddy Kerr?"

They turned toward the door of a merchant who was beckoning them into his shop. "Milady, might I have a wee bit o' yer time?"

Elisabeth glanced at the sign painted above the lintel-Patrick Cowie, Merchant, Jewelry and Silver Bought and Sold-then followed Rob within, more than a little curious. She'd never given the jeweler her custom. Whatever could he want with her?

Mr. Cowie's ground-floor shop was as small and poorly lit as the others in the Luckenbooths, but his merchandise appeared of a higher quality than most. A large, gla.s.s-topped case full of beautiful pins, rings, earrings, and necklaces was positioned to catch a woman's eye, her own included.

He was beaming at her now, this red-headed merchant whose thick eyebrows and bushy mustache were engaged in a heated compet.i.tion. "'Tis fortunate ye came along, Leddy Kerr. Your brooch just arrived from Paris. I meant to send a caddie aff with a note-"

"My brooch?"

"Aye. Lord Kerr ordered the piece September last. He was verra specific about the style and color." Mr. Cowie reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small wooden box. "I think ye'll be pleased with the likeness, mem." His hands, covered in fine red hair, deftly opened the lid. "Made o' queen conch sh.e.l.l from the West Indies."

Elisabeth stared at the oval pin exquisitely carved in a creamy peach and ivory sh.e.l.l and encased in sterling silver. I shall have a cameo engraved in Paris. A promise made by her husband on a bright September morn.

The cameo was a woman's face. Her face. Oh, Donald.

Elisabeth gingerly lifted the brooch from its velvet lining, marveling at the intricate swirls and tiny details. "It's lovely," she finally said, placing it back in the box with care, then brus.h.i.+ng away her tears. "I shall look forward to wearing it."

"I've nae doubt," the merchant agreed. Then he added, "I'm sorry for yer loss, Leddy Kerr. Mebbe this will add a sweetness to yer sorrow, aye?" He replaced the lid on the box and proceeded to tie it up with a silk ribbon, making rather a show of it. "Ye'll be wanting to take this with ye?"

"Please." She glanced at Rob, having almost forgotten he was with her, so taken was she with Donald's final gift to her. Rob stood in the corner, sullen and brooding. "We'll leave in a moment," she promised.

The merchant placed the neatly wrapped box in her hands. "Will ye take the bill with ye, or shall I send it round at month's end?"

Her hands grew cold. "The...bill? Did Lord Kerr not already pay for this?"

"Hoot!" he said with a laugh. "'Tis not how it's done, milady. I often order special pieces for my guid customers. Whan they arrive, if they like them, they pay me, and if they dinna, I sell them to anither." He waved his hand at the display case. "Some o' these came into the shop that way. Ithers I buy from leddies whan they tire o' wearing them. Like this jade brooch. Mebbe ye'd like it as weel?"

When he started to lift the gla.s.s, Elisabeth stayed his hand. "Not today." She swallowed. "How much is my cameo?"

The merchant consulted his ledger, then blithely told her the amount.

'Twas enough to feed the Kerr household for a month, if not two. "Oh, Mr. Cowie, I cannot possibly keep it."

His countenance fell. "But yer husband, mem... he meant for ye to have it."

"I know he did." She clutched the box to her breast. My generous Donald! I am so sorry. So very sorry.

Rob stood close behind her, boldly resting one hand on her waist. "Mr. Cowie, if Leddy Kerr and I might have a moment."

"Oo aye." The merchant rubbed his hands together expectantly, then moved toward the door leading to the back of his shop. "I'll not be far," he a.s.sured them.

Elisabeth put down the box. "We do not have... Rob, my family cannot begin to afford this."

He drew closer. She felt the warmth of his body along the length of her back, and his breath against her ear. "I can, Bess."

"Nae, Rob." She turned round and was almost in his embrace. "'Twould not be right. This was my husband's gift to me. And you are...you are..."

"Yer freen." He looked down at her, slipping off his glove to smooth away her tears, his fingers warm and scented with leather. "Yer guid freen, if ye will. And I'll not see yer heart broken again. Not when I can help."

"Rob, please-"

He touched her mouth with his fingertips, stilling her words. "And I can help, Bess. I've had a lang time to save my siller. I've mair than enough to buy yer wee pin."

"'Tis a most charitable offer." She bent her head, undone by the love she saw in his eyes.

"Please leuk at me, Bess."

"I am a widow, Rob. I am in mourning..."

He lifted her chin, not letting her escape his gaze. "I ken what ye are, Bess. And I ken what I feel for ye. Will ye not let me do this one kindness?"

"Nae," she whispered, "I cannot." Cannot, must not, will not. Stepping free of his touch, she fled for the door.

"Leddy Kerr!"

She held up her hand, not looking back. Please, Rob. Let me go.

She slowed her steps only a little when she reached the plainstanes, not wanting to draw the attention of the Town Guard or, worse, a dragoon. But she had to get away from Rob MacPherson. He knew her too well. And he loved her too much. She aimed straight for Milne Square, dodging sedan chairs and wheeled carts and men on horseback and women in fur capes, never once looking over her shoulder to see if Rob was following.

All at once a young woman darted into her path, nearly knocking her off her feet. "I beg your pardon," Elisabeth murmured, though it was not her fault.

The young woman pushed back the hood of her threadbare cape. "Ye dinna remember me, Leddy Kerr?"

Elisabeth stared at the fair-haired la.s.s with the light-colored eyes. A crafty limmer, that one. "You are..." She wet her lips, suddenly gone dry. "You are Lucy Spence of Halkerston's Wynd." The last name on Donald's list.

The young widow smiled. "Aye, ye do remember. And weel ye should, milady." Lucy winked at her. "I took yer coin that eve we met and ran aff to White Horse Close to be with yer husband."

Elisabeth wanted to slap her. Wanted to scream at her.

He did not love you. You were not the only one.

Instead Elisabeth stood her ground and begged for a strength she did not possess. O G.o.d, be not far from me: O my G.o.d, make haste for my help.

But the Widow Spence was not finished with her yet. "Whan I saw ye just now, Leddy Kerr, I wanted to tell ye I was sorry for yer loss." She ducked her head, her blond hair unkempt, her neck raw from the wind. "I lost my husband too. And I ken how ye must feel."

Elisabeth bit down on her lip so hard she tasted blood.

Lucy looked up, her expression almost sincere. "I thocht it might comfort ye to hear that whan I went to White Horse Close on that last nicht, yer husband turned me awa."