Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Mother?”

  Marjory slowly lifted her head and blinked, trying to make sense of things. The drawing room bathed in shadows. The warmth of the fire. Flickering candles on the mantelpiece. Donald touching her shoulder.

  “You sent the right man,” he said, smiling down at her. “When Gibson found me in the Lawnmarket, he insisted I come home and refused to hear otherwise.”

  “The Lord bless him for it.” Marjory studied Donald’s face. He was paler than usual with a fine sheen on his brow and upper lip and a bruised look to his eyes. Poor lad. He’d had a difficult afternoon. Though Donald no longer suffered as Andrew did, she’d sent Gibson none too soon.

  Relieved to have them both home, Marjory sat up and patted her hair in place, knowing she must look frightful. How had she slept so soundly? When she glanced at the clock, her eyes widened. “Is it past six?”

  “Aye.” Donald nodded toward the window. “The light has long faded.”

  “Now black and deep the night begins to fall.” Marjory paused, waiting to see if he recognized the line of poetry.

  “Much too easy,” he chided her, “or have you forgotten I acquired a new edition of Thomson’s The Seasons?”

  She sniffed. “I know better than to test you after I’ve been napping.”

  Elisabeth spoke from across the room. “Do forgive us for not waking you.” She sat before a tambour frame, embroidering one of Donald’s silk waistcoats, the scarlet thread in constant motion, a bank of candles lighting her tiny stitches. “Lord Kerr mentioned you did not sleep well last night.”

  “On the contrary.” Marjory abruptly stood, ignoring a slight twinge of pain. “I slept very well.” She took a turn round the room, hoping to ease the stiffness in her knees. “What news from the Lawnmarket, Lord Kerr? You’ve no doubt informed the others.” When she paused at one of the windows overlooking Milne Square, Donald joined her, briefly touching her hand, a thoughtful son comforting his mother.

  “I reached the Lawnmarket not far ahead of Hamilton’s dragoons,” he began. “An hour later the Gentlemen Volunteers marched down the West Bow. You know what a winding, zigzag of a street it is, giving men with second thoughts a chance to slip off unnoticed through open doorways or narrow wynds. By the time the Volunteers reached the Grassmarket, only forty soldiers remained.”

  “Forty?” Marjory looked up at him, aghast. “I thought they numbered four hundred.”

  Donald looked out into the deepening twilight. “Family members pulled many aside, convincing them to stay behind. Other men couldn’t find the courage to go on. Then the parish ministers arrived, pleading for the youth of Edinburgh and the hope of the next generation.” He shook his head. “When Reverend Wishart spoke of the lads being made prisoners and maltreated, there was no hope for it. Captain Drummond marched what was left of his company back to the College Yards and dismissed them.”

  Marjory envisioned George Drummond—his long bob wig and short neck, his bushy eyebrows and florid cheeks—and thanked heaven she’d refused his suit. He’d made a fine mess of things this day. “So the dragoons are all that stand between us and the Highlanders?”

  “Aye,” Donald sighed. “Folk say ’twill be decided on the morrow.”

  Despondent, Marjory turned away from the window. If only she’d left Edinburgh with her household that morning—nae, a week ago, a month ago! Now the roads would be unsafe and every horse and carriage spoken for.

  When her gaze landed on Elisabeth, quietly embroidering, a tinder-box inside Marjory ignited. “How can you ply a needle,” she demanded, “when our very lives are at stake?”

  Elisabeth looked up, her hands poised over her work. “The steady rhythm calms me. Perhaps you have something I might embellish—”

  “I have nothing for you,” she retorted.

  “Mother,” Donald said firmly, “Elisabeth meant only to please you.”

  Ashamed of her outburst, Marjory said no more. An uneasy silence fell over the room. The servants’ chatter in the kitchen, barely audible a moment ago, seemed to fill the air while the nearby clock ticked like musketry.

  Marjory took a step backward, regaining her composure. “Sabbath or not, I’m of a mind to play hazard.” Gibson had whittled her a fine pair of dice, so light they danced when she rolled them. “Kindly send Andrew to my chamber.”

  “My brother’s away,” Donald said, glancing at the clock. “He left for Mrs. Turnbull’s an hour ago.” The tavern across the High Street was a favorite haunt.

  Exasperated, Marjory threw up her hands. “Now I must watch for Andrew?”

  “The more stalwart of the Volunteers are convening there,” Donald explained. “A good number plan to offer their services to Johnnie Cope the moment he sails into port.”

  “Sir John Cope,” Marjory amended. As commander of the government forces in Scotland, the gentleman was worthy of his title. “Donald, you don’t think… that is, Andrew has no intention of joining these young men?”

  “I hardly think so.” He stifled a yawn. “When the town guard beats the drum at ten o’ the clock, you can be sure Andrew will appear at our door, damp with fog and reeking of smoke from Turnbull’s fire.”

  Marjory took solace in his words. Donald was nothing if not trustworthy. As for his brother, Gibson would see to the lad’s needs when he returned.

  Within the hour Marjory bid her family good night and repaired to her bedchamber. Peg relieved her of gown and corset, then dressed her in a fine linen nightgown trimmed with a swath of lace.

  “How quiet you are this evening,” Marjory told her. The maidservant usually prattled on while she worked, sharing the latest gossip from the square. “Are you well?”

  “Verra weel, mem.” But she looked down when she spoke.

  Marjory didn’t press her. Who knew what concerns a servant might have? Peg quit the room a short time later, extinguishing the last candle and taking her troubles with her.

  Silence weighed on Marjory like a woolen blanket as she pulled the bedsheet to her chin and stared into the darkened room. Sleep would be hard to come by, especially with her afternoon nap and all the commotion from the street assaulting her ears. Would folk never seek their beds?

  Elsewhere in the house voices were muted and footsteps muffled. The faint glow from the dying coals cast an eerie orange light about the chamber, making Marjory shiver, though the night air was mild.

  When she turned away from the fireplace, thinking to find a more comfortable position, her gaze landed on the empty pillow next to hers. She smoothed her hand across the linen and sighed. Had he truly been gone seven years? Despite the nightly cups of foxglove tea Lord John drank to ease his chest pain, he’d succumbed on a cold winter’s morning, the first of January 1738. It was as if he could not bear another year in the city, another year apart from his beloved Tweedsford.

  Marjory pulled his pillow to her heart, fighting the unexpected wave of loneliness that swept over her. Would that you were beside me this night, John.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, but the painful images persisted: an aging husband, who’d indulged his headstrong bride and reluctantly moved his family to Edinburgh; two pale sons lying in their feather beds, struggling to breathe; and a widow who’d knelt by her husband’s grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard and wept for all she’d lost and the little she’d gained.

  No wonder the Almighty had turned his back on her. Or had she turned her back on him? Marjory was no longer certain. In the morning she would lift her head and face another day, leaving behind such melancholy thoughts. For now, she could only endure them.

  Ten

  But be faithful, that is all.

  ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH

  E lisabeth gazed across the room at her husband, his body relaxed, his head buried in a goose-down pillow. Donald had not stirred when she rose from their bed nor when she lit a candle at the fireplace. But he would not sleep much longer. Not with dawn creeping across the windowsills.

  After quietly moving the perfumes and powd
ers on her dressing table, she reached for her Ladies’ Diary, a slender almanac no bigger than her hand. Each month had its own page, with the phases of the moon across the top, then below them a descending calendar of days. She’d already circled the most important one that month: 20 September. The sixth day of the moon.

  The rest of the almanac was filled with enigmas, rebuses, and charades meant to sharpen a woman’s intellect. Elisabeth turned the pages in search of an engaging query or some clever rhyme, but the lettering was too small and the candlelight too faint to read at that hour.

  In truth, ’twas not her mind but her heart that needed tending.

  She’d waited all evening to claim Donald for herself. But he’d retired earlier than usual, then fell asleep before she could broach the subject that pressed down on her like a millstone. Are you truly mine, Donald, and mine alone?

  The mere thought tied her stomach in knots. Are you mine? How could she say those words aloud? How could she look into her husband’s eyes and repeat the ugly bits of gossip she’d heard over the years? Or ask how intimately acquainted he was with Anna Hart?

  Elisabeth had her own secrets, to be sure. But nothing like this. Much as she dreaded his response, she needed to know the truth, else how could she go on?

  Resolved to seek what help she could find, she pressed open her almanac to the last page, dipped a sharpened quill into the ink pot, and added yet another item to her long list of entreaties for the sixth day of the moon. Unless she wrote them down, she couldn’t hope to remember them all when the time came. She chose her notations with care, lest anyone discover her almanac. A. H. would suffice for the young woman in question.

  Much as she longed to plead with the Nameless One at that very moment, her request would have to wait. “Thou moon of moons,” Elisabeth whispered in Gaelic, glancing at the windows, still veiled in gray. Better a faith riddled with doubt than no faith at all.

  When her husband awakened at cock’s crow, she would ask him straight away before she lost her nerve. Please, Donald. She sprinkled sand across the ink, silently pleading with him. Please tell me the truth.

  A male voice floated across the room. “Writing in your diary, I see.”

  “Oh!” Elisabeth turned in haste, scattering sand across table and floor. “I didn’t hear you rise.”

  “Nor I you.” Seated at the edge of their bed, Donald slowly yawned, dragging a hand over his face.

  She stood, brushing the sand from her lap, summoning every ounce of courage she possessed. “Donald, I wonder if we might discuss something?”

  A sly grin stole across his features. “At this early hour we might do a great many things.”

  “Then let us speak.” She crossed the room and sat beside him on the woolen mattress. Close, but not too close. “Donald…” She swallowed and began again. “Yesterday morning when we stood in Milne Square, a young woman…”

  His smile quickly faded. “You mean Miss Hart.”

  “Aye,” Elisabeth sighed, relieved he’d offered the name first. “She seemed… that is, her comments implied …”

  “Och!” Donald pounded his fist into the mattress. “Anna Hart is a brazen lass who delights in making mischief. Were I her father, I would wrap the girl in a bolt of inferior silk and keep her in the store ’til she acquired some manners.”

  Convincing as his speech was, Elisabeth had to be certain. “But she claimed she…knew you.”

  “Only as a customer of her father’s. I purchased the satin for your lavender gown from Maitland Hart.” Donald clasped her hands, imploring her with his eyes. “Believe me, Bess. We were barely introduced. Miss Hart means nothing to me. Less than nothing.”

  After a long pause Elisabeth said, “I do believe you.” And she did. Anyone would mark the silk merchant’s daughter a coquette.

  But what of the unseemly rumors that swirled round the closes and wynds of Edinburgh from time to time, clinging to her skirts like dust on a warm August day. Could he explain those away so easily?

  Elisabeth gently pulled her hands from his grasp. “Donald, I’ve also heard…” She looked down at the toes of her brocade slippers, searching her heart for the right words. “There have been…reports,” she finally confessed. “Of young widows…” Flushed with embarrassment, she could say no more.

  “My bonny Bess.” He smoothed his hand across her hair, unkempt from a troubled night’s sleep, then lifted her chin until their gazes met. “Why would I seek out another man’s widow when I’m married to the most beautiful woman in Edinburgh? Nae, in all of Scotland.”

  Elisabeth heard the sincerity in his words and saw it shining in his blue eyes. She wanted to believe him. Truly, she did.

  “’Tis idle gossip,” Donald continued, lightly tracing the line of her cheek, then the curve of her neck, then the ruffled edge of her chemise. “Auld women spreading auld news.”

  “But at Assembly Close on Thursday last—”

  He kissed her before she could say more, drawing her into his embrace. “I’ll not lie to you, Bess.” His voice was soft against her ear. “Before we married, I made the acquaintance of many women.” When her breath caught, he pressed his rough cheek against hers. “I am sorry, my love. ’Tis best you know the truth.”

  She closed her eyes but could not stop her ears. Many women. The truth was harder to hear than she’d imagined. Was Jane Montgomerie one of those women? What of the Widow Inglis, who’d smiled coyly at Donald in passing when they visited the Luckenbooths a fortnight ago? Or the Widow Forbes of Trunk Close, who often exchanged glances with him at kirk? Nae! The woman was nigh to his mother’s age.

  “Donald, how could you?” Elisabeth whispered, turning her head away, sickened at the thought of her husband in another woman’s embrace.

  “But don’t you see, my love?” His persuasive words poured over her like honey. “These… ah, events happened long ago. Before we met. Now I have only to stand near a woman, and a new tale is told. Folk who deal in gossip seldom forget. And never forgive.” He kissed her forehead, then her cheek. “My darling wife, I hope you might find it in your heart to both forgive and forget.”

  “Please, Donald.” She pulled away, needing to breathe, needing to think. “This is very…” Unexpected? Nae. On their wedding night Elisabeth had realized she was not the first woman to share her husband’s bed. But had his affairs truly ended? Were the rumors no more than crumbs of stale bread, fed to ravenous birds?

  She rose and started toward the washstand, unsure of what to think, what to feel now that she knew the truth. Should she pretend his past indiscretions did not matter? Forgive the man and be done with it? Among the gentry of Edinburgh, ’twas mere sport, it seemed.

  The morning light cast a gray pallor across the room. Beyond their bedchamber door the household was stirring. Peg would soon come knocking, bearing fresh coals and hot water. Life would go on, whether Donald was faithful or not. Oh, but let him be faithful! A faint mist of tears clouded Elisabeth’s vision. Please let him belong to me and no other.

  “Bess?” He was standing behind her now, his voice low, his words gentle. “You alone have my heart.”

  She bowed her head, undone by his tenderness. “I want to believe you, Donald.”

  “Then do.” He gently brushed aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck. “Please?”

  She slowly exhaled. Could she trust this husband of hers? And believe his philandering days were over? With no evidence beyond hearsay, ’twas unfair to condemn the man she loved. And she did love him, abundantly so. However many women he’d bedded in the past, Donald had but one woman now.

  Elisabeth closed her eyes and offered a brief entreaty. Strengthen me, thou moon of moons. She knew her plea was in vain. Only on the sixth day of the moon might she be heard. And perhaps not even then.

  A light tapping at the door announced Peg’s arrival. While her maidservant quietly attended to her duties, Elisabeth took her husband’s arm and drew him toward a window overlooking the High Street, hoping
to put behind them the last hour and all its painful revelations.

  A cloudless sky hung over the town. Across the square, shutters were thrown open, ushering in the morning air. Elisabeth wondered aloud, “Whatever shall this Monday bring? Highlanders in the street?”

  “If so, you can be sure all of Edinburgh will be bound for the mercat cross,” Donald told her, then cocked his head. “Shall we share a leisurely breakfast, then join them?”

  Elisabeth kept her voice even. “Just the two of us?”

  “Aye, milady.” His smile was still the devil’s own. “Two is quite enough.”

  Eleven

  In no city in the world do so many people

  live in so little room as at Edinburgh.

  DANIEL DEFOE

  D onald had never seen such a crowd, far worse than yesterday morning. Every tinker, baker, and candle maker in town stood cheek by jowl round the mercat cross. Tall as he was, he couldn’t make out the octagonal building. Only the slender pillar itself, bearing the Scottish unicorn, rose high above the masses. So did an unholy aroma.

  “The flowers of Edinburgh are in full bloom,” he grumbled, sorry he’d recommended they venture out of doors. After three days of chamber pots being emptied into the street and no scavengers appearing at dawn with wheelbarrows to carry off the refuse, the High Street was even more malodorous than usual.

  The incessant clang of the fire bell made discourse nigh to impossible. But he’d promised to bring his wife to the mercat cross, and this was not a day for breaking faith. By some miracle Elisabeth had accepted his glib answer for the never-ending gossip about him. It seemed she’d all but forgiven him, though who could understand the workings of a woman’s heart?

  Discretion was his new byword. No more dancing with former paramours at Assembly Close. No more flirting with unmarried daughters in the street. Losh! Whatever had possessed him? He should have snubbed Anna Hart rather than addressed her. And no more midnight trysts with Lucy Spence, whose door in Halkerston’s Wynd stood tantalizingly close to his own…