Here Burns My Candle Part 53

She dug several coins out of her pocket, for once not begrudging the expense. These were the widows of her sons. They deserved a chance at happiness, not a lifetime of caring for an aging mother-in-law.

"As for my own journey," she told him, "I cannot afford to send a letter ahead by messenger. Nor would I dare prevail upon a distant relation to pay for my post when it arrives. But if you might travel ahead of me, Gibson, and deliver my letter to Anne Kerr ..."

He bowed. "Whatsomever ye need, mem."

Only then did Marjory realize what she was asking of him. Gibson would have no position waiting for him in Selkirk. She could not employ him nor expect strangers to readily bring another manservant into their household. "Gibson, I am afraid..."

"I ken, mem. Ye'll have nae need o' me whan ye arrive."

"Oh, I shall always need you," she was quick to say. "But I cannot pay your wages nor offer you food or lodging."

He nodded as if prepared for this news. How could he not be in a household where plenis.h.i.+ngs were ravaged, then sold at auction, and a t.i.tle and property were lost in a single afternoon?

"I'll provide a written character," she promised him, "with so glowing a commendation of your services that any of the grand houses in Selkirks.h.i.+re would welcome you through their door. Perhaps even the new owner of Tweedsford..." Her voice faltered.

"Nae," he said firmly. "I canna serve at Tweedsford unless the Kerrs are resident."

Lord Mark's disastrous letter had not brought tears to her eyes. But Gibson's few words did. "G.o.d bless you," she whispered, blinking lest she embarra.s.s them both.

Tuesday morning the women had breakfast earlier than usual, with Gibson standing at the end of the table, ever waiting to be of service.

Marjory had finished her letters, praying they might be well received. She was asking a great deal of a woman she did not know and was more than a little nervous about traveling alone. Reaching for a word of solace, Marjory quickly found it and held it close to her heart. Hide me under the shadow of thy wings.

Elisabeth emerged from the kitchen with Gibson's rough leather bag, ready to be strapped to his back. "I've packed several meals for you," she told him, placing his bag on the table. "Hard cheese, fresh bannocks, and boiled eggs. I trust you'll find a wee burn when you're thirsty."

"Aye, aye." Gibson thanked her profusely, bobbing his head.

Marjory joined them at the foot of the table. "You'll no doubt remember the journey takes four days if you keep a reasonable pace over the Moorfoot Hills." She hesitated, then said what was pressing on her heart. "I am sorry we cannot afford..."

"Nae, mem," he said gruffly. "I nae mair belong in a carriage than Mrs. Edgar." He waved his hand toward the window. "'Tis a fine spring day for a walk. I've a plaid for my bed and a feast for my stomach. Nae doubt a farmer will let me ride in his oxcart. I'll reach Selkirk lang afore ye do."

She nodded. "At least by a day or two." If all goes well. If G.o.d is kind. "You'll not forget to stop by White Horse Close?" Marjory sought his gaze. "To be sure our carriage seats are... properly arranged?"

"I'll not forget, mem."

Nothing remained but to bid Gibson farewell.

All three of them followed him into the entrance hall. Even Janet looked sad to see him leave.

"Ye'll a' be safe?" he asked them.

"We will." Marjory tucked a s.h.i.+lling into the palm of his hand and folded his fingers round it. Her eyes grew moist. "I wish I had more to give you."

He ducked his head, working hard to keep his emotions at bay. "Ye've been sae guid to me, mem. Sae verra guid."

"You are the one who's been good to the Kerr family all these years." Marjory blew her nose into her handkerchief, then laughed a little. "We've no need for tears, have we? Not when we'll see each other again soon. By week's end, Lord willing."

"Aye." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

Marjory patted his waistcoat pocket. "You have both letters? For Cousin Anne and for your future employer?"

"I do, Leddy Kerr."

"I'm no longer to be addressed as lady," Marjory reminded him.

His chin jutted out. "Niver mind what the king says. Ye'll aye be Leddy Kerr to me."

My dear Gibson. She kissed his ruddy cheek before he turned toward the door.

Eighty-One.

On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,

The almost sacred joys of Home depend.

HANNAH MORE.

T hursday dawned with a moist wind from the west and a dark sky full of low clouds. Not an auspicious day for a journey.

Marjory was bathed and dressed and pacing through the house by five o' the clock, making very sure naught had been forgotten. Mr. Bail-lie would oversee the noontide removal of her plenis.h.i.+ngs by Mrs. Pitcairn's men. Better not to be on hand, Marjory had decided. Seeing her home of ten years dismantled was more than she could bear.

Their coaches would depart four hours hence-hers to the south, Janet and Elisabeth's to the north. She'd almost told them of their different destinations, then reminded herself it was wiser to wait. If they'd insisted on going with her, she might have relented, and that would never do. Now the hour was upon them, and the arrangements were made. She could send her daughters-in-law on their way, knowing she'd done her best by them.

For your sake, my beloved Donald. And for yours, dear Andrew.

And for her own sake as well-she could not deny it. If she tried to make a home for her daughters-in-law in Selkirk and failed to do so, she would never recover from the guilt.

Marjory paused by the coal grate, empty since Monday, and pressed one hand to her stomach, wincing. Too little food and even less sleep. Last eve the city had flung open its doors and celebrated the British victory at Culloden with skyrockets exploding from the castle in a vivid array of colors. Kirk bells were rung up and down the High Street, and a bonfire was lit on the Salisbury Crags. Decorative illuminations filled the windows, with W.D.C. for William, Duke of c.u.mberland, and Deliverer of Great Britain, and scenes with Justice trampling Rebellion, her sword thrust in its heart.

The three of them had watched the festivities with an odd sense of detachment. This was not their victory; this was no longer their home.

Marjory stood in the midst of her bedchamber now, struggling to remember what the room had once looked like. Empty shelves and faded places where paintings once hung spoke of a life that was no more.

I will look unto the LORD. She had nowhere else to turn. He had closed every door; he had fenced every path. Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him. Aye, it had come to that. He had taken everyone and everything she loved. If he took her as well, so be it.

Her eyes were dry but only for the moment. When she looked into Elisabeth's lovely face, when she sent her daughter-in-law on her way...

Nae. Not yet, not yet.

Marjory heard her stirring in the next room. Might she speak with her alone before Janet awoke? Marjory tapped on the door and waited for a response before entering.

"Good morn," Elisabeth said, then bent to splash her face with the remaining contents of her water pitcher. She dried her cheeks, eying Marjory round her linen towel, a faint twinkle in her eye. "Will they have hot water in Selkirk, do you suppose?"

"I believe they will," Marjory answered, already regretting this visit. She did not wish her last words with Elisabeth to be evasive. "The lads will be here for our trunks at seven."

"Breakfast will not take long. We have one orange to share and a rather hard bannock." Elisabeth leaned forward to brush her dark hair with long, even strokes, then quickly swept it all into a smooth knot atop her head and pinned it in place with little effort.

"Do you do everything so efficiently?" Marjory asked.

Elisabeth smiled. "You know better."

"I'm not sure I do," Marjory said. "You sew and embroider beautifully, you're a fine cook, and this household would have fallen to pieces without you, especially the last fortnight."

Her daughter-in-law shrugged slightly. "I'm honored you think so."

"Surely your mother would feel the same way." Marjory watched her expression closely. "She'd be very proud to see the woman you've become, Bess."

Her smile faded. "'Tis hard to say. I've not seen her in so very long."

Marjory circled the room lest she blurt out her plans and ruin everything.

Elisabeth began lacing her stays. "Will we be in danger, do you think, traveling by coach?"

This, Marjory could answer. "Our surname should keep us safe. There are many Kerrs in the British army. They'll not suspect us."

Elisabeth sighed. "Maybe 'tis just as well our t.i.tled days are behind us."

"For traveling, aye." Marjory stopped at the window. "Though I confess I've been glad to be Lady Kerr for thirty years."

Elisabeth hurried to her side. "Forgive me. 'Twas not well done to remind you of your losses."

Marjory turned to her. "But they are your losses too. You and Donald should have moved to Tweedsford long ago. When I think of all you might have been spared..."

"Nae." Elisabeth met her gaze. "If the Almighty directs our steps, we've no need to look back over our shoulders."

When did you become so wise, Bess? Marjory knew the answer: when her daughter-in-law started reading the Buik and taking it to heart. Aye, and beckoning me to do the same. Could she truly bid this young woman good-bye?

"I will miss my husband every day of my life," Elisabeth confessed. "Yet I am grateful that G.o.d is my refuge. He is enough, Marjory. Truly, he is."

Across the bedchamber Janet's door opened. "I am ready," she announced, waltzing into the room.

Though Janet was dressed for the day, her hair and gown both needed brus.h.i.+ng. Marjory dared not suggest it. But Elisabeth did.

"Come, let me be your lady's maid," she said smoothly, "and you may do the same for me." She styled Janet's auburn hair with a minimum of fuss and brushed the lint and dirt from her black gown while Janet expounded on the gloomy weather.

By the time Elisabeth offered her sister-in-law the brush in turn, Janet had forgotten their exchange of duties and hurried to the looking gla.s.s to admire the view. Elisabeth followed her across the room and stood behind her, gazing into the gla.s.s. A full head taller than Janet, Elisabeth pressed the brush firmly into her hands. "This won't take you a moment."

Janet spun on her heel and began dragging the brush over Elisabeth's gown, spending more time grumbling than brus.h.i.+ng, while Elisabeth praised every stroke.

When at last Janet finished, Marjory led the way into the drawing room, though it was nothing of the sort. All that remained was a collection of furniture, lined against the wall, waiting for the auction room. "Suppose we eat in the kitchen."

They stood round the dressing table and shared withered orange slices and crumbling pieces of bannock. The water from the pot over the dying coal fire was lukewarm, and so was their weak tea. But it was sustenance. Marjory would give them both two s.h.i.+llings, enough for food and lodging on their trip north, and keep very little for herself since she did not have as far to travel.

Odd to think of Gibson well on his way to Selkirk. Following the winding course of the Gala Water, he might have reached Middleton by now, even Stow, with Galas.h.i.+els to come and Selkirk not far beyond it. Home. Just picturing it made her orange taste sweeter and her tea stronger.

When the clock chimed seven, all was in readiness. Mrs. Edgar would be unhappy to know her cooking pots and iron pans were being left for the next tenant, along with an a.s.sortment of dishes and gla.s.sware. Every bit of linen in the house was packed in their bulging trunks, though, and each woman carried a knife and spoon. Inns and coaching halts expected travelers to provide their own utensils.

Marjory looked at the tall case clock, the hardest of all her possessions to leave behind.

Elisabeth a.s.sured her, "The sun will tell us the time of day."

"When it's s.h.i.+ning." Janet frowned at the window. It had started to rain.

The half-dozen lads Marjory had hired to carry their trunks came banging at the door. St.u.r.dy boys, perhaps ten or twelve years old, with grimy faces and mischievous smiles, they carted away Janet's two large trunks, plus three smaller ones filled with Marjory's and Elisabeth's few belongings and household goods. Lord John's papers and the family Bible made the smallest trunk the heaviest. A lad with stout arms and plenty of bravado insisted on carrying that one himself.

Marjory closed the door for the final time, hearing the bang ring through the empty rooms. Though her throat was tight, she did not weep. 'Twas only a house, not a home. For all the joys she'd known in those six rooms, there'd also been sorrow in abundance.

"Are you quite all right?" Elisabeth asked her, waiting on the stair.

Marjory turned round. "I am fine." And she was, for the moment. But not when I bid you good-bye, dear Bess. Not then.

Eighty-Two.

It is only persons of firmness

that can have real gentleness.

FRANCOIS, DUC DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.

J anet walked ten steps ahead of them on the stair, apparently afraid her trunks might take off down the High Street. But Marjory trusted the lads carrying their valuables. They knew they would not be paid until all convened at White Horse Close.