Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Elisabeth stared into the remains of the fire, numb with a kind of grief. She had always thought herself faithful. But clearly she was not. Not to anyone.

  Nae, lass. You are faithful to Donald.

  Her heart lifted at the thought. Aye, she was a faithful wife who loved her husband completely.

  Elisabeth hastened across the room, needing to be near him, needing to know that Donald was truly hers and that she’d not failed him too. She quietly slid beneath the bedcovers and fitted her body against the warm curve of his back. A deep sense of relief washed over her. Donald, my husband, my own.

  Taking care not to wake him, she slipped her arm round his waist and let her eyes drift shut. Time would answer some of her questions. Another hour of rest might calm her fears. But the man who shared her bed offered her the deepest solace of all.

  “Peace to you, my love,” she whispered and drifted off to sleep.

  Elisabeth’s spoon clattered onto the rim of her china plate, her porridge forgotten, the morning’s peace shattered. “What is it, Gibson? Good tidings or ill?”

  “Dragoons, milady, charging up the High Street!” Red-faced and panting, Gibson stood at the end of their breakfast table. “Four royal lads riding hard from Gladsmuir.”

  “Are they bound for the castle?” Andrew cried, nearly standing.

  “Come, Gibson!” Donald urged him. “You must know something.”

  “Let the man catch his breath,” Elisabeth said, resting her hand on Donald’s. “Just tell us what you can, Gibson. Has the fighting begun?”

  “Aye, milady.” He hastily straightened his livery, then offered a belated bow. “And ended.”

  Janet gasped. “Ended?”

  “I ken verra little,” Gibson said apologetically, “but the dragoons are seeking sanctuary up at Edinburgh Castle.”

  A look of horror filled Marjory’s face. “Do you mean to say… the Highland rebels… have… won the battle?”

  “I canna be sure, mem.” Gibson looked down at the floor as if ashamed to be the bearer of bad news. “But, aye, ’twould seem they did.”

  Elisabeth’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling her cry of joy. Victory! Oh, Simon.

  Donald was already on his feet. “Come, Andrew. We’ll make for Mrs. Turnbull’s and see what other news can be had.”

  Without thinking, Elisabeth grasped the sleeve of his coat. “Might I join you?”

  “Lady Kerr!” Marjory admonished her. “’Tis no place for a gentlewoman—”

  “On the contrary.” In one graceful motion Donald drew Elisabeth from her chair to his side. “My wife’s place is here. With me.”

  Andrew glanced at Janet, seated next to him, but her only response was a petulant sniff. He stood as well, nodding at Donald, his expression stoic. “The three of us, then.”

  They hastened down the stair and into the gray morning light. News had spread quickly, and the square was crowded with folk seeking answers. How had a ragged army of rebels bested King George’s men? Women wept into their aprons while men with unkempt hair and bannock crumbs in their beards stumbled about the square. Boisterous lads chased after one another with wooden sticks, pretending to be soldiers, making their younger sisters shriek with terror and delight.

  Elisabeth took each brother’s arm as they traveled across the High Street toward the tavern next to the Tron Kirk. “’Twill be more crowded withindoors,” Donald warned her, raising his voice lest his words be lost amid the noisy throng. He steered them round the muck and refuse, then quickened their pace at the sound of hooves thundering up the street.

  A small company of dragoons galloped by—their uniforms torn, their faces haggard—and shouted to all who would listen.

  “The rebels cut us down!”

  “Hundreds are dead!”

  “All is lost!”

  However glad she was for a Highland victory, Elisabeth remembered the Sabbath last when the same lads had trotted through the city, polished and proud, engaging in swordplay for sport. “They were so young,” she murmured, imagining the wives and mothers who would see their loved ones no more.

  “Aye,” Donald said grimly, then guided the threesome through the tavern door.

  Crowded as it was, heads turned when the Kerrs entered. Far more men than women filled the long, narrow room with its dearth of windows and abundance of wooden chairs and tables, all spoken for.

  An older fellow with copious whiskers but few teeth bobbed his head in their direction. “Lord Kerr, yer leddy is walcome to my chair.” He brushed off the seat with his bonnet, then bowed and fitted the wool cap back on his head.

  Murmuring her thanks, Elisabeth sat at a well-scrubbed oak table. Two of his friends gallantly sacrificed their places as well so Donald and Andrew could join her.

  Her husband pulled the tallow candle closer, the wax nearly spent, the flame guttering. “You’d be the talk of Mrs. Turnbull’s this morning, Lady Kerr, if ’twere not for more pressing matters.” He ordered a small glass of sack for each of them, then called out to John Elder, a shoemaker from Marlins Wynd and a proud Jacobite, seated at the next table. “Mr. Elder, what news have you to share?”

  The shoemaker grunted as he turned in his chair, his posture bent from years of stretching leather over a wooden last. Yet his blue eyes sparkled, and his mind was as sharp as the point of his awl. “I’ll tell ye whatsomever I can, Lord Kerr. A story o’ woe for some, blithe tidings for ithers.”

  Donald gripped him on the shoulder. “None can spin a tale like you, John.”

  He folded his hands, the creases lined with dye, and leaned closer. “The stars still shone bricht in the nicht sky whan the princes men made their way o’er a bog to face the royal army. Their brogues are made o’ soft leather, ye ken, and they had nae horses, so the Hielanders couldna be heard.”

  At that moment Mrs. Turnbull appeared with wine and a fresh candle. “Here ye be, Lord Kerr.” The red-headed proprietor plunked down three glasses without spilling a drop, lit the new candle from the old, fitted it into the candleholder with its puddle of soft wax, then took her leave—all done in the blink of an eye.

  “A model of efficiency, that woman,” Andrew observed, then raised his glass. “To victory.”

  “To victory,” the others responded, though no sides were taken. It was a very public place.

  “The mist was starting to lift,” the shoemaker continued, waving his hands about as he spoke. “The Hielanders pu’d aff their bonnets and prayed to God. Then they sounded their battle cry, and the pipes pierced the morn air.”

  Elisabeth swallowed hard. The rising mist. The skirl of a bagpipe. Had such a scene not awakened her before dawn?

  “The prince’s men discharged their arms, then cast them aff and drew their broadswords and scythes. Och, ’twas a bluidy rout.” He took a long drink of ale, then shook his head. “I canna describe it with a leddy present. It didna take mair than a quarter hour. The dragoons fled, the infantry fell, and the rest o’ Cope’s men surrendered. o’ course, ’tis nae surprise whaur they fought.” John leaned forward, his eyes as bright as buttons. “On Gladsmuir shall the battle be.”

  Elisabeth’s breath caught. What Highlander didn’t recognize the words of Thomas the Rhymer? Here was another medieval prophecy fulfilled. “Between Seton and the sea,” she recited from memory, “many a man shall die that day.”

  “Weel done, Leddy Kerr,” the shoemaker said, offering her a gap-toothed smile. “Gladsmuir sits a bit east o’ the battleground but close enough for the Hielanders to claim ’twas a victory foretold.”

  Elisabeth turned toward the open door, her thoughts ever drawn back to Simon. “What of the prince’s men?”

  “Not monie Hielanders were lost.” John leaned back in his chair. “As for the rest, ye’ll see a few this day, mair on the morrow. Those Hielanders wha think their duty is done will take their bounty hame.” He inclined his head toward the High Street. “Ye’ll not find a surgeon in Edinburgh this morn, for the prince bid the lot o’ t
hem come and leuk after the wounded.”

  If Simon lay among the injured, Elisabeth would insist on tending his wounds at Milne Square. Her mother-in-law could not refuse her brother a clean bed and a warm hearth. Nae, she could not.

  Elisabeth abruptly stood, brimming with conviction. “Lord Kerr, if you will, kindly escort me home. I want everything in readiness for my brother’s return.”

  Twenty-Five

  Uncertainty! Fell demon of our fears!

  DAVID MALLOCH

  D onald had never felt so restless—nae, so useless—in all his seven-and-twenty years. Having delivered Elisabeth to their drawing room, he’d begged her indulgence, then retraced his steps down the stair, no clear destination in mind. Now, on this cool, cloudy morning, he stood in the heart of Milne Square surrounded by neighbors yet longing for solitude.

  “I need a good, bracing walk,” he’d told Elisabeth. He needed far more than that—time to reflect upon his past, time to consider his future—but dared not burden his wife, who had worries of her own. “I’ll not be away more than an hour or two,” he promised. After saying a word to Gibson, Donald had left the house before the dowager could fill his ear with woe or with guilt. She was very good at both.

  He strode toward the High Street, uncertain which direction to turn, so conflicted were his emotions. Out of habit he bore west, heading uphill toward the castle. He’d left Andrew at Mrs. Turnbull’s, drinking sack. Donald paused in the midst of the crowded street, giving thought to rejoining him, when a familiar voice called above the din. “Lord Kerr?”

  He looked up to see his oldest friend in Edinburgh, Patrick Manderson, striding toward him. Heir to a prosperous Milne Square merchant, Patrick resided in nearby Oliphant’s Land. The two had closed many a tavern in their youth and stumbled home at the beating of the ten o’ the clock drum.

  “You’re especially well turned out this morn,” Donald told him, admiring his brown velvet coat with its wide satin cuffs embroidered in gold. “Shall I compliment Angus MacPherson the next time I see him?”

  Patrick made a sour face. “That Jacobite? Nae, ’twas William Reid who took my coin.”

  “Your father’s coin,” Donald corrected him, an old ploy between them.

  Patrick rolled his eyes on cue. “I thought you were the one who freely spent his father’s silver.”

  “You have me confused with my mother,” Donald said, glad for any excuse to smile.

  The two men walked side by side, their light banter giving way to the sense of gloom that hung over the city like a chilling sea fog in winter. “Tell me what you’ve heard from Gladsmuir,” Donald said, “then I’ll do the same.”

  “’Twas a grim business,” Patrick said. “A sharpened scythe in the hands of a Macgregor is a deadly proposition.” He shuddered, pointing toward a knot of women gathered at the mouth of Mary King’s Close. “Please God, those wives and mothers will ne’er be told how their loved ones died.”

  Donald glanced in their direction, then looked away, undone by the abject sorrow on the women’s faces and the tears that flowed unabated. Jacobite or royalist, any loss was tragic. For Elisabeth’s sake he was glad Simon had fought for the prince. Her brother would return to Edinburgh a victor instead of a prisoner.

  Patrick’s steps slowed as they neared Writer’s Court. “I am to meet David Lyon at the Star and Garter. Join us for a wee pint?”

  Donald eyed the busy tavern, tempted not by the ale but by the amiable company and the fresh news he might glean. He would pay a price for it, though: the inescapable noise, the crush of people, the fetid air.

  “Another time, sir.” Donald touched the brim of his hat, bidding his friend farewell before he pressed on. It seemed the solitary walk he’d hoped for could not be had in Edinburgh that day.

  When he found himself at Warriston’s Close, he ignored his nagging conscience and paused at the arched entrance, remembering how many times he’d slipped through the narrow passageway to seek the company of a certain widow. He thought of Susan McGill now for an entirely different reason. Her grown son, Jamie, was all Susan had in this world. Was he among the hundreds who’d fallen beneath a Highlander’s blade?

  Donald gazed down the shadowy close, wondering if he might spy a familiar face. Perhaps a friend or neighbor who knew the McGills. He could not possibly call on Susan, but he might inquire about her son.

  A woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Looking for someone, Lord Kerr?”

  With a guilty start, he turned away from the close. “Ah. Lady Ruthven.” He offered the widow a hasty bow. Charlotte Ruthven was not a person to be taken lightly. She traded in gossip, scandal, and innuendo like Maitland Hart traded in silk.

  She peered round him, her plump face aglow with curiosity. “Imagine finding you here.”

  Donald cleared his throat and stepped farther into the High Street. “I planned to visit the Luckenbooths.” He gestured toward the buildings behind her. Anything to draw her attention away from Warriston’s Close. “I’ve a book in mind to order from Mr. Creech.”

  “My dear Lord Kerr, has no one told you?” The widow rested her hand on his coat sleeve, then tipped her dark head of curls so near she briefly unseated his hat. “The Luckenbooths are indeed locked on this unfortunate day.” She swept round him so the two were facing in the same direction. “Might you escort me to my lodgings in Swan’s Close?”

  “’Twould be an honor.” He did his best to sound sincere for the dowager’s sake. This was one widow whose charms did not tempt him in the least.

  Donald headed downhill at a sprightly pace, pretending not to notice Charlotte’s proprietary grip on his arm. Rumors flowed from her lips in an endless stream. Mrs. Rattray this and Lord Semple that and Mr. Noble something else. Did she speak disparagingly of him too? Lord Kerr thus and so. His mother knew nothing of his indiscretions. Donald prayed the same could be said for Charlotte Ruthven.

  When they reached Swan’s Close, Trotter was waiting for his ladyship inside her stair door, a look of concern on his face. “Beg pardon, Leddy Ruthven, but I didna hear ye leave.”

  “I traveled no farther than the Luckenbooths,” she assured her manservant, “and I had a fine escort bring me home.” She squeezed Donald’s arm before he could untangle himself from her grasp.

  “Good day to you, madam.” Donald strode off in such haste he almost collided with a burly cooper rolling a wooden barrel toward the High Street. Then he dodged a barber’s boy toting a freshly styled wig. Was there nowhere he might go for a moment’s peace?

  When Donald reached the thoroughfare only to be met by a sea of troubled faces, he plunged headlong down the street, bent on reaching Milne Square without further delay. A quiet afternoon spent with his maps in the privacy of his bedchamber suddenly held great appeal.

  He lengthened his stride, like a horse nearing a stable, until he nearly trampled Rob MacPherson coming out of the town guardhouse. Donald stepped back and tipped his hat. “Apologies, sir.”

  The tailor’s son regarded him evenly, his dark eyes unblinking. “’Tis guid we’ve met, Lord Kerr. Might I have a wee bit o’ yer time?”

  Donald stifled a groan. Would he never reach home? “The Duke’s Head Tavern is not far,” he suggested.

  “Nae, a short walk will do.” Rob continued downhill with his lopsided gait. “My faither will be leuking for me at the palace afore lang.”

  Donald matched his voice to Rob’s low pitch. “Is the prince expected?”

  Rob shook his head. “His Royal Highness willna leave the field o’ battle ’til a’ the deid are buried. ’Twill likely be the morrow afore we see him in Edinburgh.”

  An image of Jamie McGill flitted through Donald’s mind. “And the prisoners?”

  “Headed for the tolbooth,” Rob answered bluntly.

  At least Jamie’s mother could visit him there. “Lady Kerr is most eager to see Simon,” Donald told him. “Should he cross your path, please assure my brother-in-law he is welcome at any hour.”<
br />
  “Ye’d shelter a Jacobite?” Rob eyed him closely. “I thocht the Kerrs were the staunchest o’ royalists. On Tuesday last ye stood in the midst o’ the Jacobite army, asking if onie present had once been leal to King Geordie.”

  Donald grunted. “You’ve a keen memory.”

  “It has served me weel.” A hint of a smile crossed Rob’s features, then disappeared. “I’ve reason to believe ye’ve had a change o’ heart.” He glanced up at the Kerr apartments, then fixed his gaze on Donald. “’Tis why I wanted to speak with ye, Lord Kerr.”

  He swallowed, doing his best to sound nonchalant. “Oh?”

  Rob did not mince words. “Have ye and yer brither come round to the cause? Certain men have informed me o’ such, and they’re seldom wrong.”

  “Spies, you mean.”

  Rob shrugged. “If ye like.”

  Plagued with uncertainty, Donald stared at the dirty plainstanes beneath his feet. It was risky to support the prince. Perhaps riskier still not to. “I would speak with my brother first,” he said finally. “When you ask me again, Mr. MacPherson, you shall have your answer.”

  Twenty-Six

  And when the hour strikes, as it must…

  I beg you very gently break the news.

  THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

  E lisabeth could not recall a Sabbath when the pews of the Tron Kirk groaned from the weight of so many parishioners. Some folk sought a respite from the noisy street, crowded with returning soldiers bearing whatever spoils they’d claimed from the field, mostly weapons and supplies. Others longed for solace after a crushing defeat at the hands of the Highlanders. Many despaired for their lives and their families. A few came only for the gossip.

  Since yesterday Elisabeth had waited impatiently for Simon’s safe return. A tear-stained list of fallen and injured Jacobites had traveled round the taverns. Gibson assured her Simon’s name was not among those tallied. “I leuked up and doon the list,” he promised, “and there was nae Simon and nae Ferguson.” Elisabeth wished she’d seen the list herself, just to be certain. Simon would laugh at her for worrying so.