Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Before he could respond, Elisabeth pushed aside her saucer. “What of your heart, Lord Kerr? Have you any sympathy for our cause?”

  Her question took him aback. Well, man? Do you? He’d seldom given much thought to politics. But he could not discount what he had seen in Simon and Tom. Their honor, their bravery struck a chord inside him, one he’d not heard before.

  Donald clasped her hand more firmly. “I am”—he searched for the right word—“intrigued. More than that I cannot promise. But if you’ve noble arguments to offer, I’m obliged to consider them.”

  She leaned toward him, her countenance glowing. “No cause could be nobler than supporting the descendants of Mary, Queen of Scots. If James Stuart is restored to his rightful throne, he’ll let his people worship whom and how they please.” She squeezed his hand. “’Twill be a happy day for Scotland when our king comes o’er the water.”

  Her ardor was undeniable—nae, irresistible.

  By the time they left the coffeehouse and started uphill toward home, she’d filled his head with brave tales from past Jacobite Risings and the heroes who’d championed the cause. Caught up in the moment, Donald squared his shoulders, imagining he marched beside Simon and Tom, a plaid kilted round his legs and one of his brother’s French muskets in hand.

  Elisabeth matched her gait to his. “Methinks you hear the drums, Lord Kerr.”

  “Ah…well…” He varied his steps at once, embarrassed. “Bagpipes at least.”

  Was Elisabeth laughing at him? A quick glance put that concern to rest. It was not amusement he saw on her face but pride. Clearly his support of the Jacobites would please Elisabeth more than any lace-trimmed gown or conch-shell cameo.

  The dowager, of course, would be inconsolable.

  As they walked up the High Street, the skirl of the pipes grew louder. So did the crowd. The formal ceremonies at the mercat cross apparently had ended, with King James VIII of Scotland, England, and Ireland duly proclaimed. As the bells of Saint Giles rang out, many in the crowd sported white cockades or streamers over their shoulders.

  Not every face was jubilant. Donald saw fear, anger, even hatred reflected in the eyes of some who trudged past. Prince Charlie occupied the town, but he’d not yet conquered all her people.

  Elisabeth lifted her straw brim to see ahead. “Ah! Margaret Murray of Broughton. Come, Lord Kerr, for I hear she’s a sight to behold.”

  At the mouth of Carruber’s Close, they met up with the renowned Jacobite woman, surrounded by admirers. Tall in stature, with milky skin and a dark mass of hair, the wife to the prince’s secretary cut an elegant figure on horseback. She wore a fur-trimmed coat and a blue bonnet with a long feather. Her drawn sword was longer still. White ribbon cockades fluttered from her bridle: a bold invitation to all willing to support the cause.

  “Would you have a cockade?” Donald inquired, certain of Elisabeth’s answer. He led the way, weaving through the crowd until the couple reached the woman’s side.

  Though the two were strangers, Mistress Murray gazed down at Elisabeth like an old friend. “I know a Jacobite rose when I see one,” the gentlewoman said, her voice as regal as her posture.

  Elisabeth accepted the offered cockade, expressing her thanks, then stepped aside to give others room. Only when the Kerrs reached the edge of the crowd did she open her hands to reveal not one cockade, but two.

  “For Janet?” Donald guessed.

  “You know better than that,” Elisabeth admonished him. “My sister-in-law may be a Highlander, but she’s no Jacobite. Nae, I had someone else in mind.”

  As she gazed at him, Donald saw the truth in her eyes. “’Tis for me.”

  She tucked the silk flower deep inside his waistcoat pocket. “When the time is right.”

  “If ’tis right,” he said sternly. His faint protest was unconvincing, even to himself.

  Elisabeth used a hairpin to fasten the silk flower inside her sleeve, which belled from her elbow. “I fear your mother would ne’er recover if I strolled through the door with a Jacobite rose pinned to my bodice.”

  He tugged on the lace edging. “So you’re wearing your heart on your sleeve instead?”

  Elisabeth’s smile was bittersweet. “Aye.” She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow and pointed him in the direction of Milne Square, stealing an occasional glance at the silken folds of the little white rose of Scotland brushing against her forearm.

  By the time they crossed the threshold of the Kerr apartments, his mother was already seated at table, a look of impatience on her face. “We were about to start dinner without you.”

  “And now we’re home,” Donald informed her, feeling more headstrong than usual. He was Lord Kerr, was he not? He repaired with Elisabeth to their bedchamber long enough to visit the washbowl, then they joined his brother and mother at table.

  Janet slipped into the drawing room a moment later, her hair in place, her gown freshly brushed. “I am here,” she said, as if giving the household permission to begin.

  Smoked salmon, veal collops, and roasted grouse—fish, flesh, fowl, in true Scots fashion—appeared on Donald’s plate and was consumed just as swiftly. The last course, a generous serving of flummery, hot from the fire and aromatic with rose water and nutmeg, arrived in tandem with a loud and untimely knock at the stair door.

  Gibson nodded at the dowager, then hurried to answer the summons.

  While they waited round the table, a spark flew out of the candle nearest Elisabeth and landed beside her plate.

  “Expecting a letter, are you?” Donald asked, eying the black speck. According to the old custom, such a spark meant news on the wing.

  Gibson reappeared, bearing a sealed note. “For ye, Leddy Kerr,” the manservant said with a bow, giving it to Elisabeth. When the last plate was cleared, she slipped away to their bedchamber, breaking the wax seal as she went.

  Donald tarried by the fire, reading Mondays edition of the Evening Courant, while the others congregated beside a window, discussing the activities below. When Elisabeth did not emerge after several minutes, he could bear the suspense no longer. Donald tossed aside the newspaper and tapped on their chamber door. “Lady Kerr?”

  Elisabeth pulled him into the room, her eyes bright with concern. “’Tis well I did not open this at table.” She held up the letter. “Angus MacPherson has invited me to meet the prince this very night at Holyroodhouse. It seems they’ve arranged a reception.”

  Donald shook his head in disbelief. Hadn’t the Highlanders stormed the Netherbow Port only that morning? “They waste no time, these Jacobites.” Though he spoke begrudgingly, he could not deny being impressed. After the government’s bumbling efforts to defend the town, it was heartening to see what men of action could accomplish.

  “The prince is determined to win every heart in Edinburgh,” Elisabeth said.

  He grimaced. “Aye, and every purse.” Rebel armies seldom had full coffers. “Who else is on the guestlist?”

  “According to Angus, relatives of those bearing arms for the prince. Mothers, wives, daughters. And in particular the prince wishes to include”—Elisabeth consulted the letter, then read aloud—“a great many ladies of fashion.”

  None were more fashionable than his bonny wife. Donald studied her, uncertain of her intentions. “Do you wish to attend?”

  “I would dearly love to, but…” Her lengthy sigh was laden with regret. “Donald, I cannot go without you.”

  “Nae, you cannot,” he said firmly. The mere notion tied his stomach in a knot.

  “But if you escort me, your family will think I’ve poisoned you, turned you against them.” She stepped closer, imploring him with her eyes. “Have I done so, my love?”

  He breathed in her potent scent and drew her into his embrace. “Bess, you’ve done nothing more than honor your family’s convictions.”

  “But you are my family.”

  He swallowed, caught off guard by her tender words. Had he ever thought of her as his fam
ily, equal to his mother and brother? Nae. The bald truth shamed him to the core.

  “’Tis you who matter most to me,” he said at last, for his benefit as well as hers. “If the Jacobite cause is dear to your heart, then I suppose it must become so to mine.”

  Her eyes glistened like stars. “Donald, are you certain?”

  He kissed her, hoping his ardor might suffice for an answer. “We’ve others to persuade as well,” he reminded her. “To that end, tonight’s reception must come and go without us.”

  “There’ll be another,” Elisabeth assured him.

  Donald glanced at the letter in her hand. “For now, ’tis our secret, aye?”

  “Aye.” She smiled, touching the silk cockade hidden within her sleeve.

  Nineteen

  The secret known to two is no longer a secret.

  ANNE L’ENCLOS

  T is a folk can blether about.” Mrs. Edgar laced Elisabeth’s stays as if she were trussing a partridge for roasting. “They say the candles at the palace blazed bricht on Tuesday eve. And ilka leddy curtsied to the prince in turn.” The housekeeper lowered her voice, meeting Elisabeth’s gaze in the looking glass. “Not a’ the lords and leddies o’ the toun were invited, o’ course. Only the Jacobites.”

  Elisabeth glanced at the jewelry box where she’d hidden her white cockade. Donald’s remained tucked in his waistcoat safely out of view, yet there nonetheless. The thought of it made her heart leap with joy. Her Lowland husband sympathetic to the cause!

  Mrs. Edgar stepped back, assessing her handiwork. With Peg gone and three Kerr women to dress, the housekeeper’s skills were sorely tested. Elisabeth’s coppery silk gown was poorly ironed and her hair swept into a lopsided knot loosely fastened at the crown. “Och! ’Twill have to do,” Mrs. Edgar said, throwing up her hands.

  “And it will do,” Elisabeth assured her. Simon would neither notice nor care. Fine gowns were naught but cloth, he’d said.

  A moment later Elisabeth found Janet in the drawing room. Lady Marjory and her sons had already had breakfast and gone abroad on various errands, leaving just the two of them. Too restless to eat, Elisabeth joined her sister-in-law at table and sat before an empty plate.

  A caddie had brought round a note from Simon last evening. She would meet him in less than an hour.

  “Think of it!” Janet said, carving the air with her butter knife. “A reception on the prince’s first night at the palace. All the rebel ladies you might expect were there: Lady Balmerino, Miss Blair—you know, the bonny one—Lady Kilmarnock, and that wealthy Miss Christie.”

  Elisabeth could have named another dozen but simply nodded. “Quite a showing of support.”

  “I might have been invited,” Janet said with a sniff. “Lord James Murray, one of the prince’s joint commanders, is, after all, a distant relation of mine.”

  Very distant, Elisabeth knew. Still, if Janet might be won to the prince’s cause, Andrew would surely follow. And if all the Kerrs came round, lending their name and their fortune to the Jacobite effort, imagine what good might be accomplished!

  “If your smile grows any wider, Lady Elisabeth, your face will suffer for it.” Janet was glaring at her. “’Twould appear my family connections amuse you.”

  “Not at all,” Elisabeth hastened to say. “Lord James Murray is vital to the cause and would surely welcome your support.” There. She’d planted the seed and would water it often. “Janet, I confess my mind is elsewhere this morn. I’m to meet with my brother at ten.”

  “Oh. I’d forgotten.” Janet’s voice lost its sharpness. “Simon, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “He was twelve when I left Braemar.”

  “Both my brothers are older,” Janet said, not quite looking at her. “I’ve not seen them since I married.”

  Elisabeth treaded lightly, so mercurial were her sister-in-law’s moods. “They’ve both settled in Dunkeld?”

  “Aye. For good, I imagine.” Janet sighed. “And here’s Gibson to escort you to White Horse Close.”

  He stood at the drawing room door. “Whenever ye say, Leddy Kerr.”

  Elisabeth eyed a vacant table. Even from some distance she heard the great bell of the Canongate Kirk chime ten o’ the clock. “When my brother arrives,” she told the innkeeper, “I shall be waiting for him there.”

  “Will ye, now?” The middle-aged woman squinted, her eyes disappearing in grayish brown folds of skin. “And ye’ll both have a plate o’ green kale, ye say?”

  “Aye, mem,” Gibson told her, then guided Elisabeth to the table she’d chosen, well away from the entrance in a nook all its own.

  Thick, soot-blackened beams hung low across the room, and worn flagstones covered the floor. A few small windows cast enough light to see the rising dust motes. Wooden benches, rather than chairs, were drawn up to a dozen or so tables occupied by travelers, soldiers, tradesmen, and merchants. Not many women among them, Elisabeth realized, and too many male gazes pinned on her.

  She perched on a bench facing the door and hoped Simon would soon appear. When her kale arrived first, she abandoned the watery, flavorless dish after the first spoonful. The round, plate-sized bannock, baked from coarse meal, had more to recommend it. She pinched off one bite, then two, until at last she spied her brother walking toward her, his limp somewhat diminished.

  When Simon reached the table, Gibson said with a parting bow, “I’ll be at the door, Leddy Kerr, if ye need me.”

  Simon dropped onto the bench without ceremony and sniffed at her plate. “I need mair than green kale if I’m to march to Musselburgh come the morn.” His voice was rough as gravel. Although he’d not changed clothes since she’d seen him on Tuesday, his face was scrubbed and his unruly hair combed.

  When the innkeeper appeared with a second plate of kale, Elisabeth waved it away and ordered a serving of barley broth with mutton instead. “’Twill put meat on your bones,” she promised her brother. She waited until the innkeeper lumbered away before giving Simon her full attention. “What can you tell me of Prince Charlie’s plans?”

  “Verra little,” he confessed. “We’re to quit the toun and spend the nicht in Duddingston, east o’ the crags.”

  She well knew the Salisbury Crags, rising like a fortress overlooking the city. On the morrow she would stand atop those steep, whinstone cliffs and hail the moon, just as their mother had taught her. Number the days and measure the moon. Circle the silver and speak the truth. Simon and their father had always known about their monthly ritual but never joined them. ’Twas a woman’s art.

  When her brother’s rich meat broth appeared, he said nothing for several minutes, his spoon constantly moving from dish to mouth. Fistfuls of bannock followed until the plate was clean and a single gulp of ale remained to wash down the crumbs. A moment later he banged down the cup with a satisfied groan. “What’s on yer mind, Bess? I canna stay lang.”

  She studied the table, uncertain where to begin. “Tell me about home.”

  “Castleton’s the same as ever.” He stretched out his bad leg, wincing as he did. “Hills and glens, cottages and sheep.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I meant, how is Mother?”

  A cloud moved across his features. “She’s weel enough. In guid health and guid spirits.” He lowered his voice. “She and Ben Cromar are behaving like married folk, if ye ken my meaning.”

  Her heart sank. The mother she remembered would never have brought such shame to her door. “No wonder she bade me share her news.”

  “Do they mean to wed?” Simon asked her bluntly. “Is that what this is about?”

  “Aye,” Elisabeth confessed. “’Tis why she wrote me.”

  Simon shook his head, clearly disgusted. “The woman made me carry her letter for a fortnight whan she might have told me herself? Och!”

  Elisabeth could hardly defend their mother’s actions, but she did try to soften the blow. “Whatever her faults, she loves you, Simon. And she knows you don’t approve of Mr. Cromar.”r />
  “Aye, ye could say that,” he muttered. “I’d gladly toss Ben Cromar in the River Dee and watch him drown.”

  Her brother’s words frightened her. His expression even more so. Something to do with the leuk in his e’e. Aye, she saw it too. A wound that refused to heal. A memory he could not erase.

  Elisabeth felt a tightening in her chest. “Simon, did this man… did he hurt you?”

  He looked down. A long silence followed.

  When he spoke, his voice was low, his words broken. “If Prince Charlie hadna come… I’d have left on my ain.”

  “Oh, Simon.” She clasped his hands, not letting go when he tried to pull them away. “Will you not tell me what happened?”

  “’Twas a lang time ago. Best forgotten.”

  “Surely Mother—”

  “She niver kenned. He’s a sly one, that Cromar.”

  “Aye, he is.” Elisabeth waited, giving Simon time, thinking he might explain. Instead, he slowly dropped his chin to his chest, revealing an ugly red scar along the nape of his neck. A burn mark, long and flat, shaped like a blacksmith’s iron bar…

  “Nae!” She squeezed his hands, fighting tears. “When did this happen? Simon, why did you not write to me?”

  He slowly lifted his head. “I was four-and-ten, Bess. How was I to send a letter whan ye were far awa at boarding school?”

  She closed her eyes, feeling sick. “This is my fault. I should have stayed in Braemar. I should have protected you—”

  “Dinna blame yerself, Bess.” He sat up, easing his hands free. “I’m sure ye left hame for a guid reason.”

  Ben Cromar. She made herself open her eyes. Made herself look at the brother she’d abandoned. “Mr. Cromar was the reason I left, Simon.”

  A spark of anger shot through his brown eyes. “Did the man hurt ye as weel? He’ll not live if he did—”

  “Nae, nae, Simon.” She was embarrassed to confess it now. “Ben Cromar only looked at me. Nothing more, only looked.”

  “Oh, aye,” he growled, “I ken the leuk ye mean. Had ye stayed, lass, he’d have done mair than leuk.”