Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  When the door of the kirk flew open, Elisabeth watched in horror as the first parishioners who’d reached the street were knocked to the ground by the human tide. Folk surged past, heading uphill toward the Lawnmarket, shouting and pushing, any sense of decorum forgotten. Was Parliament Close ablaze? The Luckenbooths? Saint Giles?

  A grimy-faced chimney sweep appeared, leaping up and down to be heard. “’Tis not a fire!” the lad cried, his voice hoarse from shouting. “’Tis the Hielanders!”

  Six

  While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb,

  Or whispering with white lips—

  “The foe! they come! they come!”

  GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON

  L ord, preserve us!” Marjory cried out as her legs crumpled beneath her.

  Andrew leaped forward and caught her in his arms. “I’m here, Mother,” he reassured her, supporting her until she could stand on her own.

  The sweep’s report, shouted in the street, fueled the mob’s frenzy even as the fire bell continued to clang. Instead of flames leaping from their rooftops, a deadlier prospect loomed: Highland rebels charging through their doors.

  Sheltered against the rough stone wall, Marjory felt every one of her eight-and-forty years—nae, twice that. Her body ached, and her mouth was as dry as ground oats. “Mr. Kerr,” she said between coughs, “you must see to your wife.”

  Janet slowly walked toward them, leaning on Peg’s arm, her neatly dressed hair coming undone, her countenance ashen.

  “My dear girl.” When Marjory stretched out her hand, Janet was soon beside her: a loyal daughter-in-law whose aristocratic family brought honor to the Kerr name. Hadn’t Marjory chosen Janet herself? Written to Lord and Lady Murray in Dunkeld? Made all the necessary arrangements? Andrew seemed well satisfied. Without question, she was.

  “There, there,” Marjory said, lightly stroking the young woman’s gloved hand. “Even if the rebels have reached our gates, the Lord Provost will not let them enter.” Despite her brave speech, Marjory cast a wary glance downhill toward Netherbow Port, which was not a harbor for ships but one of six fortified gates in the ancient city wall—guarded, she prayed, by a vigilant porter.

  “Lord Kerr is away to the Lawnmarket,” Janet said, drying her eyes.

  Marjory nodded, having seen Donald strike out on foot, a determined expression on his face. “He shan’t rest until he knows how things stand. In the meantime, Mr. Kerr, your place is here.”

  Andrew gazed toward the Lawnmarket and sighed. “Aye.”

  Marjory pretended not to see the wistful look in his blue eyes. Her son was but five-and-twenty, young enough to still be foolhardy. Would that she’d sent his pistols and muskets home to Tweedsford, lest he be tempted to use them. The British army had already refused him a commission, citing insufficient vigor and poor health. But she feared the Gentlemen Volunteers might not be so selective.

  Waiting in the shadow of the Tron Kirk, Marjory took in the distressing scene before her. Some were weeping, others called out for news, while many ran to and fro as if activity alone might calm their fears. Across the broad expanse of the High Street stood Milne Square. Though deceptively close, the Kerrs had little hope of reaching their house without getting bruised, if not trampled.

  Her housekeeper, Mrs. Edgar, was nowhere in sight. “And wherever is Elisabeth?” Marjory wondered aloud, scanning the faces of those nearest the kirk. She caught sight of her daughter-in-law bent over a tearful maidservant, dabbing at the girl’s cheeks with her handkerchief. “Lady Kerr!” Marjory said, more sharply than she intended.

  Elisabeth looked up, then paused to tie the apron strings of a flustered mother with a wriggling bairn as Marjory watched her daughter-in-law in dismay. Did Elisabeth not know her first duty was to her family? Furthermore, she’d ruined her new gown, dragging her lacy sleeves through the muck and staining the satin hem. To what end? Helping some poor, ungrateful souls?

  A line from a psalm, memorized long ago, flitted through Marjory’s mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Do justice to the afflicted and needy. She bristled at the reminder, feeling only a twinge of guilt. Hadn’t she been kind to Elisabeth, allowing her into the Kerr family despite her lowly upbringing? He giveth grace unto the lowly. Marjory turned her head as if she might dislodge the voice nagging at her conscience.

  But she’d learned the words too well. Bound them to her heart. Listened to the holy teachings at her mother’s knee. Held the psalm book in the old preaching house at Selkirk…

  “Mother?” Andrew touched her shoulder.

  Marjory looked up in time to see Elisabeth wrap her best handkerchief round a man’s bleeding hand, knotting the ends with the skill of a surgeon. A moment later she deftly skirted an empty sedan chair, smiling as she drew near. “I beg your pardon, milady. Have you need of me?”

  “Naturally.” Marjory sniffed. Shouldn’t both her daughters-in-law attend her?

  Two spots of color dotted Elisabeth’s cheeks, yet she did not lower her gaze. “I meant only to be helpful.”

  Marjory started to chastise her, then thought better of it. She reach-eth forth her hands to the needy. Wasn’t a charitable heart the mark of a gentlewoman? Softening her tone, Marjory conceded, “Mrs. Edgar may know some means of restoring your gown. In the meantime we shall wait for your husband to return and escort us to Milne Square.”

  “Might I carry ye hame, Leddy Kerr?” An able-bodied chairman, dressed in a tartan uniform, presented himself with a deep bow. “Mr. Henry Schaw at yer bidding.”

  Marjory eyed the worn leather covering his sedan chair. “I suppose you’ll charge the usual sixpence, even for so short a distance?”

  “Nae, mem, I’ll not take a penny.” He held up his hand, bandaged with Elisabeth’s lace handkerchief. “Kindness comes o’ will,” he said with a crooked smile. “It canna be bought.”

  “Very well,” Marjory told him, “if you’ll not require payment.” She glanced at his partner, who stood behind the black sedan chair, holding his end of the carrying poles. “Might you return for my daughters-in-law as well?” she asked.

  “Aye, aye.” Mr. Schaw nodded vigorously. “We’ll be glad to take them. ’Tis an unchancie day for fine leddies to be about.” He reached inside and dusted off the cushioned seat meant for one. “If ye please, mem.”

  “I’ll follow close behind,” Peg assured her, then bent to gather the sweeping hem of her mistress’s gown.

  Marjory climbed inside the sedan chair with its pivoting seat, designed to remain horizontal even on Edinburgh’s steepest inclines. The movable seat made her feel queasy, though the men lifted her with care and proceeded slowly to avoid bouncing her about on the pliant poles.

  She leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves if not her stomach. The interior smelled of boot leather, hair powder, and stale perfume. Inquisitive eyes stared at her through the glass windows as the crowd parted slightly to make room. When they reached the northeast corner of Milne Square, she exhaled in relief.

  Home.

  Located midway between garret and cellar, the Kerrs’ fifth-floor lodgings were the most prestigious in Baillie’s Land. Above and below them resided cobblers, bookbinders, lint merchants, wigmakers, and the unfortunate Mr. Hill, a junior clerk forced to climb all ten stories each evening to reach his inexpensive garret lodging.

  If any souls were in residence that morn, they hid behind their curtains, for the whole of Baillie’s Land appeared deserted. The courtyard, however, teemed with people carrying their household goods on their backs as if preparing to quit the city. The sight made Marjory shudder. Was that her family’s only recourse? To flee for their lives?

  “Aye, and here we are.” The chairman handed her out at the foot of her stair, where Peg waited, no worse for wear after crossing the High Street on her own.

  Preoccupied with her thoughts, Marjory reached for the coins tucked in her hanging pocket, then remembered the chairman’s generous offer.

  Mr.
Schaw already had the carrying poles in hand. “Guid day to ye, Leddy Kerr,” he said with a bob of his head. The two men set off at a trot, weaving their way through the noisy, milling crowd.

  “Come, Peg.” Marjory took her maidservant’s arm. “I’ve need of hot tea and a warm fire.”

  After their long, slow climb, the two were met at the door by Mrs. Edgar in an agitated state. Stray wisps of hair escaped the confines of her white cap, and her gaze darted about the low-ceilinged entrance hall like a bird seeking a safe perch. “Whan the bell started ringing,” she said, “I flew oot the kirk and across the High Street, certain I spied yer brown silk from afar. Then I reached Milne Square and found ’twas not ye…” She rubbed her brow, clearly unhappy with herself. “Begging yer pardon, mem, but I couldna return.”

  Marjory held her tongue. How could she berate the woman when her plea was so earnest? “I was trapped as well,” she finally admitted, slipping off her cape. “If a chairman hadn’t rescued me, I would be there still.” She gestured toward the stair. “My daughters-in-law and Mr. Kerr will be along soon. I trust you’ll have tea waiting for them. It’s been a very difficult morning.”

  “Oo aye.” Mrs. Edgar dropped a curtsy. “Peg will bring a tray to yer chamber at once.”

  Marjory pulled off her kidskin gloves. Beneath the single, high window in the entrance hall stood her late husband’s mahogany desk, polished to a gleaming finish. She lightly touched the wood in passing. A small vase of fragrant damask roses freshened the stale air with their perfume. On the opposite wall hung Gibson’s folding bed, fastened shut during the day and much of the night. Serving the household as both valet and butler, Gibson was the first to rise and the last to retire.

  She found him in the drawing room, counting the plates for dinner. His livery was neatly pressed, and the silvery fringe of hair circling his balding head was trimmed and combed. He looked up, the relief on his wrinkled face apparent. “Guid to have ye hame, Leddy Kerr.”

  “I feel quite the same,” she told him, then hastened to her bedchamber, thinking only of her porcelain washbowl and a pot of tea.

  Minutes later Marjory lifted a steaming cup to her lips, relishing the fragrant aroma and the strong, sugary taste. Her tea table, dressed in white linen, stood in a well-lit corner facing Milne Square on one side and the High Street on the other. In the capital a family’s wealth was measured in windows, and the Kerrs claimed a sizable number, with six rooms rented for a goodly sum. From this vantage point she could look down on the world through glazed windows and pretend all was well.

  But all was not well. Doors banged above and below, and hurried footsteps sounded on the stair. Voices from the street rose on the autumn breeze—angry, frightened, and confused. Other folk sounded jubilant, wearing their Jacobite sentiments on their sleeves. People with no loyalty to King George. People with nothing to lose.

  When she glimpsed a familiar sedan chair entering the square, Marjory leaned toward the glass for a closer look, then sighed. Elisabeth. The chairmen wasted little time at the stair and were soon moving again, the empty chair bouncing between them.

  Her younger daughter-in-law crossed the threshold moments later, then tarried in the adjacent drawing room chatting with the servants before she finally paused at Marjory’s bedchamber door. “Might I join you, Lady Marjory? Or do you prefer solitude?”

  After a slight hesitation, Marjory caught the housekeeper’s eye. “A second cup, Mrs. Edgar.”

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Elisabeth promised, then proceeded through Marjory’s bedchamber to reach her own.

  As she sipped her tea, Marjory pictured Tweedsford in Selkirkshire with its commodious chambers, high ceilings, and fine view of the countryside. An agreeable place, to be sure, and a generous reward for Lord John’s loyalty to the crown. Yet the dreary social life of the Borderland couldn’t compare to Edinburgh’s heady mix of culture, commerce, and political intrigue. Who wouldn’t trade the boredom of the country for the pleasures of the capital? Lord John, for one. Marjory pushed away the reminder before it nagged at her without ceasing.

  “I’m grateful for your patience,” Elisabeth said warmly, gliding back into the room. She’d changed into a pale green silk gown, one of Donald’s favorites. After claiming a seat at the small table, she arranged her skirts about her and reached for her teacup. “You must be quite concerned about Lord Kerr.”

  Marjory made a slight noise of assent, distracted by her daughter-in-law’s graceful gestures. However common her upbringing, Elisabeth had the manners of a gentlewoman. She held her china teacup, which had no handle, with four fingertips lightly touching the rim, her hands poised like birds in flight. Of course, Donald had married Elisabeth for her exceptional beauty alone. No one pretended otherwise.

  “Naturally I am worried about my son,” Marjory finally said, craning her head to see out the window overlooking the square.

  “So am I,” Elisabeth admitted.

  The steady tick of the clock in the nearby drawing room filled the long silence that stretched between them. Marjory did not dislike Elisabeth. For a Highland lass, she was well read and well spoken. But she’d not been to London or Paris, had in fact never been farther south than Edinburgh. And however boundless her love for Donald, she’d failed to conceive the next Lord Kerr.

  “The chairmen have returned with Janet,” Elisabeth said, looking down at the square five floors below. “I’m afraid my brother-in-law appears quite winded.”

  Marjory put aside her empty teacup with a sharp clink, unhappy at any mention of Andrew’s condition. “Can you not see anything else?” She rose from her chair, for once envying Mr. Hill his garret view across the rooftops. In the square below she saw little more than gentlemen in wigs and coats, scurrying about like the mice in her wainscoting.

  The instant she heard Andrew and Janet walk through the stair door, Marjory abandoned Elisabeth to her tea and hurried toward the entrance hall, hands outstretched. “Come, what news?”

  His brow damp with exertion, Andrew delivered his hat and gloves into Peg’s waiting hands. “No news, I’m afraid. And no sign of my brother.”

  Seven

  And he that does one fault at first,

  And lies to hide it makes it two.

  ISAAC WATTS

  D onald traveled along the crowded High Street, weaving in and out of the coarse fabric of Edinburgh without getting tangled in its threads. ’Twas not social discourse he sought nor the company of an obliging woman. He simply wanted answers. Who’d rung the fire bell, and why?

  As he made his way uphill, folk surrounded him on every side. A decrepit man, reeking of brandy, stumbled across his path before righting himself. The sharp scent of lye clung to the skirts of a laundress, her teeth badly stained, her muslin cap more so. Men shouted in Gaelic, in English, in Scots, all demanding to be heard, while high above the paved street, mothers and sisters leaned through open tenement windows, waving their arms, pleading for news.

  “Lord Kerr!” a woman called, close behind him. “Will you not wait for me?”

  Donald paused, recognizing her voice. Susan McGill of Warriston’s Close. A widow of surpassing beauty. A woman not easily forgotten. He turned and reached for her gloved hands, if only to steady her. “Whatever is the matter, Mrs. McGill?”

  Susan looked up at him, her green eyes fraught with worry, and her face pinched with fear. “The Gentlemen Volunteers are mustering in the Lawnmarket, summoned by the clang of the fire bell. They’re to join the dragoons. My son…” She gripped his hands. “Oh, Lord Kerr, my dear son marches with them.”

  Donald recalled a bowlegged boy often playing with wooden soldiers. “Can the lad be old enough to bear arms?” he asked, incredulous.

  “Aye.” Tears filled her eyes. “Jamie is seventeen now.”

  Seventeen? Donald could not mask his surprise. Had it been so long as that?

  “You and I…” Susan bowed her head and began again, her voice strained. “That is, we’ve not…shared
each other’s company…in some time.”

  Donald merely nodded. They both remembered what had transpired between them during the dark winter months after his father’s death. Susan McGill had been his first lover but hardly his last. From one season to the next, eager young widows had welcomed him into their beds. Jane Montgomerie of Geddes Close, with her azure eyes and graceful step. Red-haired Barbara Inglis of Libberton’s Wynd, whose late husband had worked in the tolbooth. And clever Maggie Hunter of Brown’s Land, who never failed to amuse him.

  None of them was a gentlewoman, of course, yet all were exceedingly discreet, with reputations of their own to protect. Susan in particular had a winsome air about her, as well as a charming face and figure. Even at five-and-thirty she was a bonny sight that morning in her watered silk gown.

  “’Tis good to see you again,” Donald finally said. He gently lifted her chin, relieved to find her tears had subsided. “If you intend to find the lad, you’ll need an escort.” When he offered his arm, she took it willingly. “Jamie, is it?”

  “Aye, after his father.” Susan pressed against Donald’s side, slowing the pace of their steady climb with her pattens and hoops.

  Even through his twilled woolen coat he felt the warmth of her body, the softness of her form. A whiff of lavender greeted him, stirring to life a vivid image of her, wrapped in his embrace…

  Nae. He forced himself to think of something else, anything else. Why did the fairer sex affect him so? No matter how firm his resolve, the women of Edinburgh proved impossible to resist. Only that morning he’d traded innuendos with Anna Hart in Milne Square. Nor was he above seeking a brief interlude with an accommodating maidservant.

  Peg Cargill had not been accommodating, though. Nae, she had not.

  His skin warmed, remembering the frightened look on her face. She’d avoided him all morning, and he’d done the same, consoling himself that he’d not said or done anything improper. Still, his intentions were clear enough.