Here Burns My Candle
Page 26
Lucy’s voice taunted her. I’ve a gentleman waiting for me at White Horse Close.
Was Donald that gentleman? If so, then he’d not changed at all, breaking his vow within an hour of making it. Unless Lucy Spence meant someone else, some other gentleman…
Elisabeth rose to her feet, weary of knowing too little, even wearier of knowing too much. Studying the letter once more, she committed each of their names to memory. Do not bind them to your heart. Donald knew nothing about the workings of a woman’s mind. Elisabeth would see these names and imagine their faces for the rest of her life.
But she would indeed destroy the letter. No hiding place was dark enough, no secret drawer secure enough to conceal such a brutal record of betrayal. She leaned over the fireplace and touched a corner of the letter to a glowing hot coal.
When the flame began to lick the edges, Elisabeth let his unsigned letter slip from her hands into the grate and watched Donald’s sins turn to ash.
Forty-Five
For who, alas! has lived,
Nor in the watches of the night recalled
Words he has wished unsaid
and deeds undone.
SAMUEL ROGERS
I shall return no later than eight o’ the clock,” Marjory informed her daughters-in-law, who were both settled close by the fire, books in hand. Since the abrupt departure of the tailor’s son that morning, Elisabeth had grown strangely quiet and had spent most of the day in seclusion, sewing. Janet, on the other hand, had not stopped talking and had followed Marjory about the house, filling the air with lively, meaningless chatter.
“Well, I shall reappear far later than eight,” Janet was saying now, looking rather like a cat with its paw on a mouse’s tail. “Lord and Lady Dalziel are famous for their supper parties. And the guestlist promises to be even more delicious.” A glittering young couple in Edinburgh society, the Dalziels shed their radiance on any they drew into their circle, Janet and Andrew included.
Marjory smiled at her older daughter-in-law, thinking of next summer. A nursemaid would be required. Mrs. Gullane of nearby Carruber’s Close might suffice. And they’d need a wee cradle fashioned from oak to match Andrew’s bedchamber furnishings. Mr. Blyth in Chamber’s Close could manage that. Marjory knew she was getting ahead of herself, but she couldn’t help imagining her sons back home and a grandson newly arrived.
At present she was not entirely pleased with the fit of her velvet gown. She consulted her looking glass yet again and shook her head. Too snug in the bodice, too short in the waist. Had Miss Callander erred? Or had Mrs. Edgar’s biscuits taken their toll? Marjory lifted her chin and pulled back her shoulders, drawing in her stomach. If she stood just so, Lady Falconer’s guests might not notice the poor fit. Most of them would be dear friends who’d seen her wearing this gown before and would hardly notice.
Marjory glanced at the elegant card once more. Swirls of black ink covered the crisp white stock with gilding round the edges. A musical evening at the home of Lady Joanna Falconer in Pearson’s Close. On the first of November at five o’ the clock. The invitation had arrived the week Donald and Andrew enlisted and so was promptly mislaid. Had Elisabeth not found it by accident that forenoon, propped on the drawing room mantelpiece behind a neglected stack of books, Marjory would not be eying the clock now, dressed and eager to be off.
Of late she’d begun to miss her tea-table companions and her whist-playing friends, all of whom were sure to be in attendance: Lady Woodhall, Lord Dun, Lady Glassie, Mrs. Forbes, Lady Northesk, and, alas, Lady Ruthven. Marjory would avoid Charlotte as gracefully as she could, knowing the others would make her welcome.
“’Tis a shame Lady Falconer did not include you in her invitation,” she told Elisabeth, who would spend the evening alone. “Unfortunately, her drawing room is small and her list of acquaintances rather long.” At nearly seventy years of age, Lady Joanna Falconer was one of Marjory’s wisest and kindest of friends. Joanna would never exclude someone for the sheer pleasure of doing so. Not even a friend’s Jacobite daughter-in-law.
“Had she invited me, I could not attend,” Elisabeth reminded her, touching her black gown. “I shall be quite content to sew.”
“Use all the candles you need,” Marjory told her, feeling generous. “Shall we go, Gibson?”
The walk to Pearson’s Close was not far enough to require a sedan chair, but it was very much uphill. Marjory kept a firm grip on Gibson’s arm, minding her footing on the slippery plainstanes. Though the rain had ended, the air was still damp. Fog creeping up from the Firth of Forth swirled round her cape.
“How empty the High Street is,” she said with a shiver. Doors were closed and shutters were fastened as if ’twere midnight, not a half hour past sunset. Highlanders, with their tartan trews and noisy bagpipes, no longer pervaded the scene. An eerie silence remained in their wake.
“I wonder who our musicians might be this evening,” Marjory said, if only to keep her spirits up. Like the gray and chilling atmosphere, a sense of grimness, of sobering consequences, hung about the town.
“Here we are, mem.” Gibson turned right into Pearson’s Close, holding his lantern high as the narrow walls swallowed up what little light remained.
Marjory stepped over the gutter that ran down the center of the close, holding up her skirts and wishing she might hold her nose as well. Winter was an improvement over summer, but only a little. When they reached the forestair leading up to Lady Falconer’s door, Marjory heard familiar voices and saw the shimmer of candles in the windows. Her heart lifting, she hastened up the stair like a child come home for Yuletide.
Instead of a bell or knocker, the entrance sported an iron ring, which Gibson dragged up and down a notched rod. Though Marjory winced at the grating noise, many an Edinburgh residence had its risp.
She held her breath in anticipation, already picturing Lady Falconer’s snowy hair and bright eyes. When the door opened, Gibson stepped forward to announce her to Chisholm, the butler, whose stern visage made a poor showing for his mistress.
“Leddy Kerr o’ Milne Square,” Gibson said proudly.
But his counterpart frowned. “I dinna believe Leddy Falconer was expecting ye, mem.”
“Not expecting me?” Marjory blinked at him. “But I received an invitation.” She touched her velvet reticule and realized the card was not inside. “It seems I’ve left it at home, but surely the invitation itself is not needed.” Marjory tried to see round him. “Perhaps if I might speak to Lady Falconer in person.”
Chisholm’s frown deepened. “The leddy is presently with her guests.”
“But I am meant to be one of them!” Marjory insisted, her voice rising. “If you please, sir, let me enter.”
Behind him a dozen conversations faded into silence. “Chisholm?” Lady Falconer’s voice floated toward the door. “Have Lady Kerr step into the entrance hall.”
Marjory crossed the threshold, her feet leaden, her heart lodged in her throat. “Lady Falconer, whatever is the matter?”
Her elderly friend approached, pewter-colored taffeta rustling with each step. “I am surprised to see you here, Lady Kerr.” The jewels in her white hair sparkled in the candlelit hall. But her gaze was not welcoming and her voice cooler still.
“Was an invitation sent to me by mistake?” Marjory was determined to find some explanation. “I received it several weeks ago.”
“Much has happened since then,” Lady Falconer said evenly. “In particular, your family’s loyalty to the crown has taken a most unfortunate turn.”
Indignation rose inside Marjory like chimney smoke. “You would banish me from your door for supporting the prince?” When she had no immediate answer, Marjory sputtered, “What of Charlotte Ruthven? She was seen wearing a white cockade in the High Street. Did you turn her away as well?”
Lady Falconer paused as if measuring her words. “Many a titled royalist danced at Holyroodhouse. But they did not send their sons off to fight King George’s army.”
Lady Falconer drew herself up. “Indeed, with their scythes and their broadswords, they cut down hundreds of brave young soldiers, who died for the right cause and the right king.”
Marjory’s righteous anger swiftly turned to dust. The right cause. The right king. If every person in Lady Falconer’s drawing room shared the same sentiments, the Kerrs had no friends left in Edinburgh and no standing whatsoever in society.
A most unfortunate turn. Lady Falconer had all but spoken the word that hung in the air like a rope dangling from the black gallows in the Grassmarket: traitor.
The older woman stepped closer and in a low voice confessed, “I do not envy you, Lady Kerr, for you have chosen a difficult path. You will find the city much changed come the morrow when the castle opens its gates, and the wrath of King George is loosed on Edinburgh.”
Marjory cringed. And my wrath shall wax hot. She’d not fully weighed the consequences of supporting the Jacobite cause. None of them had.
“All is not lost, madam.” Lady Falconer reached for the Edinburgh Evening Courant on her hall table and pressed the broadsheet into Marjory’s hands. “Read the notice from George Wade. There is hope for your sons, though they must not delay.”
Dazed, Marjory clasped the folded newspaper. What recourse might a British field marshal offer her Jacobite sons? Nothing they would be willing to consider, she feared.
Hearing the clink of sterling against china and the strings of a fiddle being tuned, Marjory lifted her gaze to peer over her friend’s shoulder. Her heart yearned to be among her friends and peers as if nothing had happened. As if she and her sons were still faithful to the crown and no one in her household was an enemy of their sovereign king. Marjory could not stop herself from asking, “Might I still join you this evening? You can be sure the prince will never be mentioned.”
Lady Falconer looked genuinely distraught. “For the sake of my guests… for your own sake, Lady Kerr… I bid you good night.” With the slightest of bows, she withdrew into the shadows as Chisholm slowly closed the door.
Forty-Six
He’s turn’d their heads, the lad,
And ruin will bring on us a.
CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY NAIRNE
M arjory slumped into Gibson’s arms.
He righted her at once. “Now, now, mem. Dinna take what the leddy said to heart. In a week ’twill a’ be richt again.”
Marjory heard the doubt behind his words. Society would not quickly forget her family’s loyalty to the prince, and they both knew it very well. “Take me home,” she begged him.
Gibson escorted her down the forestair, handling her with such care that tears sprang to her eyes. At least her household remained faithful even if her friends did not. Mrs. Edgar would be waiting with supper. Elisabeth and Janet would offer their sympathy. And her sons, when they learned of it, would fight all the more valiantly, defending a mother sent away in shame.
Overcome, Marjory nearly lost her balance on the stair. She’d supported her sons, had she not? And their prince? “I did what I could,” she said under her breath, gripping the stair rail for support. “I did what seemed right.”
Gibson patted her arm. “I ken ye did, mem.”
Home beckoned like a sanctuary. None would judge her there. None would call her traitor.
As they retraced their steps through Pearson’s Close, the bells of Saint Giles chimed the half hour. The evening air had grown colder and the fog thicker, as the muted sound of the bells proved.
The broadsheet Lady Falconer had given her in parting was still clutched in Marjory’s hand. There is hope for your sons. Could it be true? Marjory let that hope grow inside her like a seedling after the rain. If something could be done to rescue their reputation. If her sons’ lives and fortunes might both be spared. If it was not too late.
When they reached the High Street and started past the mercat cross, she pulled at Gibson’s sleeve, making his lantern bob about. “This cannot wait until we’re home.”
He did not protest, merely held the lantern aloft while she unfolded the Evening Courant with trembling hands. The notice was quickly found—dated the thirtieth of October—but the small print was not so easily read in the murk. She held the page a handbreadth away from her eyes and squinted at the lines of ink, urging Gibson to bring the lantern closer.
It seemed Field Marshal George Wade had posted the notice on behalf of King George. A few words were hard to sort out in the meager light, but those she read pierced her heart like a sharpened dirk.
… his subjects inhabiting the Highlands of Scotland and others who’ve been seduced…
“That’s the truth of it,” Marjory breathed. “My sons were seduced by the prince and his cause. We all were.”
… to take arms and enter into a most unnatural rebellion…
“Aye, aye,” she said, nodding at the broadsheet as if Wade himself were present. However persuasive the Stuart claims, opposing the sovereign who held their title and lands was not only unnatural; it was patently unwise. Why were these things so difficult to see in the midst and so easy to see from a distance?
… all such who shall return to their habitations on or before the twelfth day of November next and become available to his Majesty and his government shall be objects of his Majesty’s clemency…
“My sons will be forgiven!” In her excitement and relief, she clamped her hand on Gibson’s arm, nearly knocking his lantern to the ground. “We have only to bring them home, and the king’s clemency is assured.”
“Is that a’, mem?” He frowned at the paper. Unlike Mrs. Edgar, he could not read more than a few rudimentary phrases.
Marjory skimmed the words again and realized that was not all the king required. “Ah, I see. Donald and Andrew would fight for the government rather than for the prince.” A simple exchange of uniforms. Aye, and of loyalties, but they would not be the first men to do so. She’d heard stories of Scotsmen who’d fought for the British at Gladsmuir and then deserted to join the prince’s army. And Lowlanders who had come out for the prince, then changed their minds and enlisted in support of the king.
Would her sons be willing to make such a sacrifice if it meant saving their title and lands and securing their safety? Surely there was still time.
Lady Falconer’s words grew louder inside her. They must not delay.
“What if the lads willna agree?” Gibson prompted her. “What does Wade say to that?”
… if they shall continue in their rebellion, they will be proceeded against with rigor suitable to the nature of their crime.
“They will be charged with treason,” Marjory said in a low voice. Marshal Wade did not elaborate on the punishment. He did not need to. The penalty for treason was death. Donald, as a titled peer, would be beheaded, which was considered a merciful sentence. Andrew, as a second son, would be hanged, drawn, and quartered.
“Nae, it cannot be!” Marjory stared at the paper in horror. Why had she let them enlist? Why had she let them go? “Take me home,” she whimpered, fearing she might be sick and add to her shame. “Home, I must get home.”
A gnarled hand clutched hers as Gibson hurried her along the street, aided by the downward slope. “Dinna fash yerself, Leddy Kerr. Yer sons are canny enough to see what must be done.”
I hope so. Oh, I pray so. Marjory pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, afraid to speak.
When they reached Baillie’s Land, the turnpike stair made her feel even more nauseous. She nearly fell through the door into the arms of Mrs. Edgar, who helped her to her bedchamber, then made her presentable again when the worst was over. Marjory had never been so sick to her stomach nor had a better reason. My sons, my dear sons.
Elisabeth was waiting for her in the drawing room, her expression filled with concern. “I’m so sorry you were taken ill. Was it something you ate at Lady Falconer
’s?”
Before Marjory could respond, Janet hurried in from her bedchamber. She was dressed for an evening with Lord and Lady Dalziel, though her hair was not yet styled nor her face powdered. “Whatever has happened, madam? You look a sight.”
Marjory sank into a chair, her head throbbing and her stomach still queasy. “I’ve much to tell you, none of it good.” Both young women joined her by the fire, their faces anxious, their mood sober.
Marjory was too drained to paint a gentle picture. “Lady Falconer did not receive me.”
“Surely not!” Janet gaped at her in disbelief. “Why would she be so uncivil?”
“Because we have turned our backs on the king.” Marjory’s voice was flat, pressed down with grief. “Because it is an act of treason. Edinburgh society will have nothing to do with us now.”
Her daughters-in-law were shocked into silence.
When she found the strength to do so, Marjory continued. “We should have… Nae, I should have known better. One does not oppose a king without consequence.”
“Is there any remedy?” Elisabeth asked.
“Aye, but ’twill be a difficult pill for my sons to swallow.” She held out the broadsheet, folded open to Marshal Wade’s notice. They read it in turn while Marjory watched their expressions. Irritation wrinkled Janet’s brow. Elisabeth’s eyes bore a hint of despair.
“What is to be done?” Janet wanted to know. “Shall we write to them, beg them to come home?”
Elisabeth slowly shook her head. “As Life Guards, Donald and Andrew would never desert the prince, for there is no honor in that. And Lord Elcho would have them shot for desertion. We cannot ask them to return home. We cannot even wish it.”
Marjory sank against the back of her chair, barely conscious. I have lost my sons. For an instant it seemed there were no candles in the room, no fire in the grate. Only shadows swirling round her.
She heard Janet conversing with Elisabeth, their voices low. Heard a coach pass by on the High Street, harnesses jingling in the hollow night air. Heard the clock chime the hour of six.