Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Good morning, my love,” Donald said, rejoining her. “Managing your toilette alone, I see.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of bathing myself,” she chided him, then wished she had not. The poor man looked as if he’d not slept a wink.

  “I meant only to compliment you,” he murmured, then bent to kiss the oval birthmark above her heart. No bigger than a thumbprint, the color of café au lait, her faint blemish was easily covered by a judicious use of lace round the neckline of her gowns. The simple linen chemise, however, hid very little.

  Donald lingered over the spot for a moment, then straightened, affection shining in his bleary eyes. “The auld wives would insist your mother must have touched her heart while she carried you, overcome by some strong emotion. Fear or desire, do you imagine?”

  Elisabeth smoothed her fingertips over the mark. “She told me it was love.”

  Voices in the adjoining room drew near. They’d not be alone much longer.

  Her husband sighed. “I shall see to my newspaper before Gibson appears, periwig in hand.” Dressed in a silk nightgown, Donald draped himself across an upholstered settee and unfolded the four-page broadsheet, holding it higher than necessary.

  She knew his actions were a ruse. He’d already scoured every word of Thursday’s Edinburgh Evening Courant. Her husband was merely giving her a moment’s privacy since Janet had absconded with her dressing screen soon after her wedding.

  “I’m newly married,” Janet had said, “and therefore more…ah, modest.” With a toss of her auburn hair, Janet had ordered Gibson to move the tapestry-covered screen to her adjacent bedchamber. There it remained, with their mother-in-law’s blessing.

  Elisabeth told herself it mattered not. As a child she’d dressed behind a linen bedsheet thrown over a wooden beam and slept at the foot of her parents’ bed. Privacy in a Highland cottage? Her mother would laugh at the very notion.

  While Donald pretended to read, Elisabeth reached for her brush. Her dark, elbow-length hair required patient hands and gentle strokes, or the bristles became hopelessly tangled.

  “What news of Prince Charlie?” she asked between brush strokes. From Perth to Stirling to Falkirk, she’d followed Charles Edward Stuart on his journey south. Many Highland folk, her family among them, supported the Stuart cause—a treasonous admission, particularly in the Lowlands. Elisabeth had not revealed her Jacobite loyalties to a soul except her husband, who’d held his index finger to his lips. Shhh.

  Donald had not discovered all her secrets, but he knew that one.

  “According to the Evening Courant,” he said, “we’ve no reason to fear Prince Charlie and his men, however barbaric their reputation. Listen to this.” Donald cleared his throat and held the newsprint closer. “Not one half of them have tolerable arms and as such are a pitiful, ignorant crew.” He lowered the paper long enough to catch her gaze. “Perhaps Andrew should hide his muskets in the same way Mother hides her gold.”

  Elisabeth paused, her brush in midstroke. “Is her money not safely in the bank?”

  “Nae.” He tapped his bare foot on the carpet. “’Tis under the floor of her bedchamber. Have you not heard her in the wee hours of the morn, tiptoeing about, prying up boards, and counting guineas?”

  “You know how soundly I sleep.” Elisabeth gazed at the adjoining door, thinking of the many times she’d walked through her mother-in-law’s room, unaware of the fortune beneath her feet. “Donald, what if the servants learn of it?”

  He chuckled. “’Twas Gibson who first alerted me.” Her husband returned to his broadsheet, clearly unconcerned. “You’ve seen how the staff jumps to do Mother’s bidding. Rest assured, they’ll not breathe a word of her secret to anyone. Nor, my pet, shall we, for ’tis our fortune as well.”

  Hearing a light tapping at the door, Elisabeth straightened the neckline of her thin chemise. “’Tis Peg, come to dress me.”

  “Ah.” Donald lifted his newspaper a bit higher, concealing his face. “I can assure you, I’ll not look.”

  Five

  The Sabbath-day is the savings-bank of humanity.

  FREDERICK SAUNDERS

  J anet Kerr plucked at the Brussels lace on Elisabeth’s new gown while the family gathered in the entrance hall. “This color was quite fashionable last season.”

  “So it was,” Elisabeth agreed, dodging the pointed barb. “How fortunate Lord Kerr enjoys lavender whatever the season.”

  Janet said no more, busily smoothing back a few stray wisps of hair. Small in stature, her sister-in-law piled her auburn locks high on her head, adding a light dusting of powder. People of quality called Janet handsome, and rightly so. Her style and manner were impeccable, her wit sharp. But they did not call Janet beautiful.

  “The first bell has tolled,” Marjory announced, then started down the turnpike stair.

  Elisabeth touched her corseted waist, grateful she’d had only tea and a pinch of bannock to break her fast. She could hardly breathe, so tightly had Peg laced her stays. “We must show your new gown to best advantage,” her mother-in-law had insisted earlier. “And your waist is uncommonly small.”

  A rare compliment, Elisabeth wondered, or yet another reminder of her childless state? “Let us away,” she said, pulling on her gloves. “The dowager does not like to be kept waiting.”

  “Indeed she does not,” Janet murmured.

  Donald, poised on the threshold to the stair, glanced over his shoulder. “Mere months in the family and already our sister-in-law knows the way of things.”

  “Oh, my husband has divulged all your secrets,” Janet remarked coyly, taking Andrew’s arm. “And doesn’t he look handsome this morning in his peacock blue waistcoat?”

  Slender and fair like his brother, though not so tall, Andrew thrust out his chin as if striving to appear worthy of the woman on his arm. “After you, Lady Kerr.”

  Elisabeth turned sideways, navigating her whalebone hoops through the narrow doorway. By fashion’s decree, oval panniers had grown more slender from front to back yet broader on each side. Sitting gracefully required an entire sofa.

  When she joined her husband on the stair, Donald eyed her gown with obvious pleasure. “Just as I’d imagined, the color flatters your skin.”

  “So you always say,” Elisabeth reminded him, smiling. Donald had complimented every gown in her clothes press with precisely the same words. “But they cannot all flatter my skin,” she’d once protested. To which he’d replied, “My dear, ’tis your lovely skin that flatters the fabric.”

  No wonder every woman in Edinburgh found Lord Kerr appealing. No wonder every gossip whispered his name. They were jealous, Elisabeth decided. Wasn’t she the fortunate one to call him her own?

  The couple began the steep descent down the enclosed turnpike stair, following Helen Edgar, a widow of forty-odd years and housekeeper to the Kerrs since their arrival in Edinburgh. Peg led the way, dutifully sweeping aside the worst of the debris, including a litter of mice. “Aff with ye!” the maidservant scolded, shaking her straw broom before tucking it out of sight, lest she be caught laboring on the Sabbath. The Kerrs were not always diligent about honoring the Lord’s Day behind closed doors, but in public the dowager insisted on pious behavior. “No work or recreation, only prayer and meditation,” Donald often grumbled.

  Moments later the Kerr party emerged into Milne Square, where the air was fresher but no warmer. Tall lodging houses, or lands, rose on three sides—Allan’s Land, Baillie’s Land, Oliphant’s Land—topped with a milky blue rectangle of sky, smudged with soot. Men stood about the square, heatedly discussing the approaching Jacobite rebels, while children skipped across the flat paving stones, and women waved dainty handkerchiefs like flags, calling out greetings.

  As Donald stepped aside to speak with a gentleman acquaintance, Lady Woodhall, a venerable member of Edinburgh society, descended a nearby forestair. Her silver hair was fashionably curled and powdered, and her silken plaid matched her russet gown. When the Kerr women
turned as one, Lady Woodhall pinned them in place with her small, sharp eyes. “Good morning, Lady Kerr,” she said, her voice strong despite her advanced years.

  Elisabeth curtsied at once. “And a fine Sabbath to you, madam.” When no response came, she realized Lady Woodhall had addressed the dowager, not her. Before Elisabeth could make amends, both women strolled off with Janet sandwiched between them and Andrew on their heels, abandoning Elisabeth in their wake.

  Dismayed, she stared at their departing backs, hoping none in the square had taken notice. Would society—nae, her own family—never draw her into their circle?

  At once Donald appeared by her side. “Now then, Lady Kerr. Allow me to escort you to kirk.” He offered his arm, his eyes filled with compassion. “Unless you prefer commiserating with Lady Woodhall over lowborn rebels and the high cost of tea.”

  “I do not,” Elisabeth said firmly, curling her hand round the crook of his elbow. The scent of his wig powder tickled her nose. Mixed with finely ground starch, orrisroot was redolent of warm meadows and dark woods. And Donald.

  She drank in the heady fragrance as they crossed the square, listening to the clamorous bell of the Tron Kirk toll the half hour. “Tell me, Lord Kerr, do you suppose Mr. Hogg will expound this morning on the folly of supporting the Highland rebels?”

  “Aye, though some will resist his lecturing, I daresay.” Donald leaned closer to wink at her. “The ladies of Edinburgh seem rather taken with bonny Prince Charlie.”

  Elisabeth pretended to look shocked. “Surely not, milord!” She knew Donald had little interest in politics and even less in the divine right of kings. Her support of the Jacobite cause did not concern him in the least.

  The square was especially crowded that morning. Countesses and dancing masters, advocates and wigmakers, judges and cobblers all shared the same buildings and, hence, the same stairs, spilling out onto the plainstanes of Edinburgh like buttons from a sewing box—carved horn, enameled brass, ornate silver, and unadorned wood, all jumbled together.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Elisabeth watched a young woman approach them. Miss Hart was a silk merchant’s daughter, though Elisabeth could not recall her Christian name. Emma, was it? Nae, Anna. The diminutive lass wore her flaxen hair gathered into a becoming knot. Her jade green gown, a perfect match for her eyes, swayed rather provocatively for a Sabbath morning.

  Miss Hart slowed as she drew near. Propriety would not allow her to address the Kerrs first. Ever the gentleman, Donald bowed and greeted the young woman, then seemed at a loss for what to say next. “So… Miss Hart,” he began after an awkward silence, “shall you embrace Prince Charlie when he arrives?”

  “Why, Lord Kerr,” the lass trilled, curtsying in such a way that her bosom was amply displayed. “I choose carefully whom I embrace and never tell a soul.”

  “Very wise of you,” Donald murmured. “Of course, you know my wife, Lady Kerr.”

  Anna Hart barely glanced at her. “Indeed.” A second curtsy, more perfunctory. “Yet I confess, Lord Kerr, I know you better.”

  Elisabeth stiffened. She’d grown accustomed to women of all ages flirting with her husband, but this was inexcusable.

  Donald dismissed the young woman’s brazen comment with a curt nod. “Come, Lady Kerr. The bell tolls for us all.”

  He abruptly veered away, taking Elisabeth with him, while the silk merchant’s daughter laughed behind a brightly painted fan.

  Elisabeth walked beside her husband in silence, nettled by the exchange. ’Twould seem Donald was well acquainted with Miss Hart. Had they been introduced at Maitland Hart’s shop? Danced together at a ball? Shared a game of whist? As they neared the High Street, Elisabeth could bear it no longer. “How is it you know Anna Hart?”

  Before Donald could answer, they were rudely pushed aside by two young caddies eager to reach the main thoroughfare. All of Edinburgh, it seemed, had quit their lodging places and were pouring into the busy High Street. Beggars to barbers to booksellers pressed against one another while gentlefolk, dressed in their Sabbath finery, struggled to make their way round sedan chairs and carriages.

  As they moved through the unruly crowd, Elisabeth tightened her grip on Donald’s arm. “The Highland army must be drawing closer.”

  “Aye,” he said grimly, “so ’twould seem.”

  An uneasy murmur filled the air like a piper’s drone as neighbors and strangers alike exchanged words that reeked of fear.

  “The city wa’ shan’t hold, I tell ye.”

  “’Tis no higher than a garden wall—”

  “And falling doon at that!”

  “Whaur stands the Edinburgh Regiment?”

  “Och! Nae mair than two hundred men.”

  Elisabeth lifted her voice above the din. “Is the city’s defense so poor as that?”

  “The government is ill-prepared,” her husband admitted. “Gibson remained at home to guard our effects, should the rebels breach the walls.” Donald surveyed the chaotic scene a moment longer, then tugged her forward. “Come, we’ll find no safer haven than the kirk.”

  Across the High Street rose the square tower of Christ’s Kirk at the Tron, its spire piercing the cloudless sky. Elisabeth held on tight as the Kerrs made for the wooden door. The paved street was more than seventy feet wide, as broad as any marketplace and twice as crowded. Crossing it proved hazardous as careless elbows and knees found their unintentional mark.

  Lady Marjory was shaking and teary-eyed by the time they reached the kirk door. “Mother?” Donald took hold of her shoulders, for she appeared ready to faint. “Shall I deliver you to Lady Glassie in Niddry’s Wynd? She lodges but a few steps hence.”

  “Certainly not.” Marjory stiffened noticeably, and her color returned at once. “Rebel army or no, we’re expected at service.”

  Elisabeth paused while the servants quickly brushed off hems and sleeves, then she followed the others withindoors, skirting long rows of seats until they found their own and settled in. When Donald produced a handkerchief, Elisabeth whispered her thanks, touching the white linen to her brow, then her cheek, then her throat, willing her heart to cease its frantic pace. She’d not forgotten the troubling encounter with Miss Hart. But this was not the time or place for such questions.

  Their gazes drifted upward as the enormous kirk bell rang once more, calling the parishioners to worship. Dozens of nobles lined the galleries above. From her boarding school days in Blackfriars Wynd, Elisabeth had dutifully learned their many names and titles, never dreaming she would one day be counted among them.

  She’d departed the Highlands at eighteen, telling anyone who asked that she meant only to improve her mind and expand her horizons in Edinburgh. “’Tis whaur ye belong,” her mother had agreed, pressing a worn leather purse into her hands. Elisabeth still kept the purse hidden in her jewelry box, a ha’penny tucked in its rough folds. The truth was less sanguine: she’d fled from home for her mother’s sake and her own. Who could have imagined she would marry a worthy husband, far above her station?

  She glanced at Donald, pale but proud, and swallowed the lump rising in her throat. If only she might give him just one son, a fair-haired lad with bonny blue eyes. All the Miss Harts of the world could not compete with such a prize.

  When the precentor stood to lead the gathering psalm, the chattering ceased, and hundreds of voices sang in unison without benefit of a pipe organ. “The LORD is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” By the look on their faces, Elisabeth knew exactly whom the parishioners feared that morning: the bonny prince and his rebel army.

  Women lifted their chins, and men squared their shoulders, daring the enemy to come forth, as they sang more loudly than ever. “Though an host should encamp against me, my heart shall not fear.” Elisabeth envisioned the Highland encampments drawing nigh to the gates and remembered Gibson’s candid description of thieving, naked ruffians. She knew better. The Highland folk of her acquaintance were generous and kind and honest in their dealings—
at least with one another if not always with the English.

  As the psalm drew to a close, the parishioners sang with even more conviction. “Wait on the LORD: be of good courage, and he shall strengthen thine heart.” Elisabeth closed her eyes briefly, letting the words sink in. A strong heart—aye, she would need that.

  In the hallowed silence Reverend Dr. George Wishart, a humble man in his middle years, ascended the steps into the pulpit for his opening prayer. He carried a sword at his waist, prepared to defend his flock if necessary. The minister’s earnest prayer rolled down the center aisle, followed by Mr. Hogg’s half-hour lecture loosely drawn from the book of Isaiah. Later that morning Reverend Wishart’s sermon would be twice as long and half as vitriolic. Until then, James Hogg commanded their attention.

  As Elisabeth had anticipated, Mr. Hogg spoke vehemently against the Jacobites. “For it is a day of trouble,” the lecturer intoned, “and of treading down.” His hearers nodded or shrugged, depending on their political persuasion, but none interrupted the man’s discourse.

  Another psalm followed, longer than the gathering psalm. Only when the last note faded into the air did Elisabeth hear the clang of a distant bell.

  Not a kirk bell, a fire bell.

  “Nae!” Mrs. Millar, a midwife in the parish, leaped to her feet, clutching her reticule to her breast. “My hoose is wood, a’ wood!”

  Pandemonium broke out as young and old, rich and poor abandoned their seats. In a city replete with thatched roofs and oak beams, fire was a constant danger. Who could forget the great fire in the Lawnmarket that had consumed everything it touched?

  Donald gripped Elisabeth’s hand so tightly she feared her bones might break. “Stay with me,” he told her, though she needed no prompting. His mother and Janet remained close on their heels as they fled down the aisle with Andrew not far behind them.