Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Since John Hardy lay nearby, she asked for his help, then winced when she saw how much it cost him to move even a few inches. “Can you use your good hand, John, to hold his compress in place?”

  “Aye, Leddy Kerr,” he said with a faint smile.

  While John helped her, she examined his wound. A heartless dragoon had pierced the skin along freshly formed scar tissue, cutting open John’s thigh nearly to the bone. She was grateful Janet was not with her that morning. Skittish as her sister-in-law was in the presence of blood, and expecting a child besides, Janet would have quickly become her ninth patient.

  Elisabeth lost all track of time as she kept busy kneeling, bending, washing, bandaging, and offering whatever words of comfort came to mind. Black-haired young Grant, in somewhat better shape than the others, hobbled about as her assistant, emptying and refilling the basin with hot water. Donald’s heather soap was soon depleted and replaced with a serviceable bar made from lye.

  It wasn’t until she heard voices in the hall that Elisabeth remembered the splintered wood hanging from the door hinges. “Have a care!” she called out as Mr. Eccles stumbled through the open doorway, supporting another man in worse condition.

  “Lady Kerr,” the surgeon said weakly. “This is Mr. Cunningham. He, too, is a surgeon, though he’ll not be of much help at the moment.”

  Nor, she realized, would Mr. Eccles. One eye swollen, his face and hands badly beaten, the surgeon was in no condition to hold a needle. What was to be done when she had a roomful of men requiring stitches? Thomas MacPadden had an especially bad gash on his forearm, and John Hardy’s thigh was oozing blood.

  Then there was the matter of resetting Alex Baird’s lower leg. He’d passed out on the floor—a blessing, if only to spare him the pain—but the Highlander was too large for her to move on her own. It seemed the surgeons themselves needed attending first.

  “Come and sit, both of you.” Elisabeth guided them to the only chairs that had survived the assault, then bathed their wounds with the last of the heated water. She eyed the long, narrow-necked stoup hanging by the fireplace. The Canongate wellhead was not far from the mansion’s door. Did she dare send Grant Findlay beyond the safety of these walls with the dragoons still abroad?

  The lad followed her gaze and guessed her thoughts. “Ye’ll be needing me to fetch mair water.” He lifted the stoup from its peg. “I’ll not be lang.”

  Mr. Eccles grimaced as she dabbed his head wounds with powdered alum diluted with water. “I am sorry as any man can be, Lady Kerr. You came as an angel of mercy, only to be burdened with the lowest of duties.”

  “I came so I might be useful,” she told him. In truth, she had never felt so alive, as if a glowing branch from the hearth were burning inside her.

  “On behalf of the prince’s men, we are most grateful, madam.” Mr. Eccles closed his eyes while she held a warm cloth to his cheek. “’Tis certain the Almighty sent you.”

  The surgeon’s comment did not go unnoticed. Did God send people about, like caddies in the street, running errands and delivering messages? If so, she had a request. “We’ll be needing surgeons,” she told Mr. Eccles gently, not wanting to offend him. “Whom might I call upon?”

  Mr. Cunningham, silent until now, came to life, lifting his blood-caked head. “You’ll not find a Jacobite surgeon in Edinburgh. The prince took them all to Dalkeith, save us.”

  Her busy hands stilled. No surgeons? Whatever was to be done? These men would die without proper care. Yet ’twas against the law for anyone to practice medicine who’d not been approved by his fellow surgeons.

  Martin Eccles had little interest in legalities, it seemed. He was studying her hands with marked interest. “Have you any skill with a needle? ’Twill be some time before I can be trusted with anything sharp.” The surgeon held up his badly mangled hands. “One of the dragoons thought it sport to use the butt of his pistol like a hammer.”

  She lightly touched his fingers. “I am no surgeon, Mr. Eccles. But I am a seamstress.”

  He looked up, mouth agape. “Surely not by trade?”

  “Not presently,” she said, thinking of the years she’d sewn for Angus’s customers. Then her heart skipped a beat. Rob MacPherson. Aye, he could stitch the men’s wounds. And within the law if Mr. Eccles remained at the patient’s bedside while Rob worked. “Do you know the tailor Angus MacPherson?”

  Mr. Eccles nodded. “A loyal Jacobite. Rode out with the prince.”

  “His son is here in Edinburgh. I’m sure he would come at once and serve you well.”

  “We’d be glad for his help,” Mr. Cunningham admitted. “Might you call upon him, Lady Kerr? We’re neither of us fit for the High Street.”

  Mr. Eccles frowned at him. “You ask too much of the lady, sir.”

  “Not at all.” Elisabeth untied her apron, casting a wistful gaze round the room. Much as she wanted to nurse each of them to health, they needed a strong man with capable hands, someone who could move them onto their beds and stitch their gaping wounds. If he was willing, Rob was the man for the task. “I shall take a chair to the Luckenbooths,” she told the surgeons, uncertain how that might be managed. Mr. Fenwick had no doubt come and gone by now.

  “Take great care in the street,” Mr. Eccles cautioned her. “The dragoons know which families support the prince. And some of them have seen your courage. Even now they may be waiting for you, Lady Kerr.”

  Forty-Nine

  Idle rumors were also added to well-founded apprehensions.

  LUCAN

  A shiver ran down Elisabeth’s spine as if the cold point of a knife were being dragged from the nape of her neck to the curve of her waist. “I shall hide beneath my hooded cape,” she promised the surgeon, “and not emerge from the chair until I reach Mr. MacPherson’s shop.”

  Her answer seemed to satisfy him, though she’d not entirely convinced herself. Janet’s words rang more true by the hour. Whatever has happened to our city?

  “Here’s young Findlay with our water.” Mr. Eccles gestured toward the splintered remains of the doorway. “Have you brought a report for us as well?”

  “Aye.” The lad emptied the water into an iron pot and swung it over the fire, then hung the stoup on its peg. “Half the toun is blethering on their stairs.”

  Elisabeth knew where the other half could be found: hiding behind their doors, Marjory and Janet among them.

  “What news, then?” Mr. Cunningham prompted him.

  The curtain of black hair across his face did not hide the lad’s discouragement. “The dragoons found Cameron o’ Lochiel’s wife at hame and abused her harshly. Spat in the guid leddy’s face and called her wirds I darena say.” The lad shot a furtive glance in Elisabeth’s direction.

  She’d seen the sort of men they were. Their cruel words were not hard to imagine.

  “They’ve been to Holyroodhouse as weel,” Grant continued. “Tore doon the silk whaur the prince laid his head, broke all the fine gilded glasses, and took whatsomever they liked from the Duke o’ Hamilton’s rooms. In the Great Gallery they slashed the paintings.” His countenance darkened. “Queen Mary’s worst o’ a’.”

  The surgeons exchanged glances, then Mr. Eccles said, “We’ve another errand for you, lad. Hail a sedan chair for our Lady Kerr, if you please. ’Tis not safe to have her tarrying in the street.”

  “Aye, sir.” Grant hastened to the door, trying to disguise his limp with a jaunty gait.

  A moment ago Elisabeth had been loath to depart. Now she was clearly needed elsewhere. No home was safe from these marauders, not even her own.

  She slipped off her bloodstained apron, intending to leave it behind. Mrs. Edgar would understand. Scooping a bowlful of lukewarm water from the pot, she bathed her hands and face, then unpinned her sleeves, drenched as expected. Once she reattached the ruffles, at least her forearms were spared the feel of damp fabric.

  When she fastened her wool cape, the white cockade caught her eye.

  Mr. Cunningh
am grunted. “You’ll want your rose well hidden, much as it grieves me to say it.”

  Elisabeth turned away from the men and pinned the cockade safely inside her bodice, where no dragoon would find it. Then with a heavy heart she made her rounds, bidding each soldier farewell, wishing she had a healing salve or soothing tincture to put things aright.

  Alex Baird was last, still stretched across the hardwood floor with a bundle of clean rags for a pillow. As she bent down to speak to him, she begged the surgeons to set his injured leg before she left. “I cannot bear to think of you suffering a moment longer,” she told the braw Highlander, using one of the rags to wipe his damp brow. “On behalf of my husband, thank you for guarding my virtue.”

  “Lord Kerr is a fortunate man,” Alex said, his eyes unfocused from the pain. “And Gilbert Elliot got what he deserved. Now, whisky, if ye please. And dinna watch, milady, for ’twill not be a bonny sight.”

  Mr. Cunningham produced a silver flask, then gave Alex a leather strap to clamp between his teeth. With some difficulty the two surgeons knelt beside him. Their battered fingers could not stitch a man back together that day, but using palms, forearms, and elbows, they managed to wrest Alex’s leg into place. Elisabeth gave them room to work but did not turn away, standing beside Alex in his travail. Had he not stood by her?

  “Leddy Kerr!” Grant Findlay called from the door, startling her. “I’ve a chair waiting for ye.”

  Mr. Eccles slowly rose, his manners never forgotten, even in a sick room. “I wish you well, milady. Kindly send the tailor’s son if he’ll come. And when the government’s temper is spent, I hope you’ll return.” He nodded at the men round him struggling to lift themselves onto their elbows so they might see her off. “You’ve made many friends here.”

  “Indeed I have.” Elisabeth lifted her hand to each one, not trusting herself to speak.

  Soon she was retracing her steps through the front entrance. How strange it felt to be out of doors after many hours in that small, square room. Had she even heard the bells at noontide? Elisabeth crossed the courtyard, grateful to breathe in air that did not smell of camphor or turpentine. She was nearly at the street before she realized the chairman waiting for her was her own Mr. Fenwick.

  “What a surprise to find you here!” she said. One concern put to rest, at least.

  But Mr. Fenwick was not so sanguine. “I came leuking for ye ilka hour.” He pulled open the door and motioned her inside, all the while glancing up and down the street. “There’s an ill wind blowing o’er the toun.”

  Elisabeth shivered, his words more chilling than the brisk November day. “Take me to the Luckenbooths on an errand first,” she told him, “and then deliver me home. I’ll not mind paying you twice.”

  He shook his head. “’Tis nae yer siller I’m after but yer welfare.” He banged the door closed, then bent to lift the chair, calling out to his partner in the rear. The two men hastened up the Canongate as though Auld Nick was on their heels.

  Elisabeth held on as if her life depended upon it, believing it well might. Having pulled her hood forward, she could not see out the side windows without turning her head. The front window, close enough to touch with her outstretched hand, afforded a sufficient view and an alarming one.

  Royalist soldiers, on foot and on horseback, could be seen coming and going from the closes and wynds—climbing up forestairs, knocking on doors, and accosting citizens in the street. Though these soldiers did not appear so fearsome as the ones who’d called at Queensberry House, not a one bore a smile, and all carried weapons.

  She longed to ask Mr. Fenwick what he’d heard and seen since they parted that morn. Perhaps when he delivered her to Milne Square, with its quieter courtyard, they might have a brief conversation.

  At the Netherbow Port, the sedan chair came to a halt. A week ago a Highlander would have waved them through with nary a second look. But this was a royalist porter returned to his post. He scowled at Mr. Fenwick’s black sedan chair as if it contained a French spy with seditious papers beneath her cloak.

  She held her breath, hoping Mr. Fenwick’s spate of words would drown the fellow’s suspicions. After a very long pause, they took off again, and the Tron Kirk steeple and its clock came into view. Nearly three. Elisabeth moved her hood long enough to eye Milne Square in passing. She noticed a few soldiers gathered in a knot and stabbing at the air with their bayonets. Arguing, she wondered, or pointing? This house. Nae, that house.

  Her heart began to thud in her chest. Had these men knocked on her family’s door? Or kicked it down, as they had at Queensberry House? Nae, the stair door was too thick for that. Would Mrs. Edgar admit them? Loyal as she was to the family, their housekeeper was not a Jacobite. Nor was Gibson. But surely they would protect the dowager. Surely they would guard Janet, even not knowing she was with child. Surely.

  Please, please, please.

  Near tears, Elisabeth leaned forward, prepared to leap from the chair the moment Mr. Fenwick stopped at the MacPhersons’ door. She would not entertain the very real possibility of Rob not being there. He had to be home, had to be willing to help the surgeons at Queensberry House. She could not abandon Will and Alex and John and the others. If it came to it, she’d return and stitch their wounds herself.

  Yet she was also needed at home. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  The sedan chair stopped so quickly she tumbled to the floor, then nearly into the street when Mr. Fenwick flung open the door.

  “Och, milady!” He helped her stand, then brushed the dust from her cape. “Begging yer pardon.”

  She waved away his concerns. “You’re to wait for me,” she reminded him, then picked up her skirts and hurried toward the door of Angus’s ground-floor shop.

  But the door was closed. And locked, she soon discovered. The windows showed a dark interior with not one candle lit on that gray afternoon. She pressed her nose to the glass, feeling like an intruder. As her eyes adjusted, she could make out the familiar shapes of Angus’s cutting table and his beloved sewing cabinet.

  What she could not see was any sign of life. The MacPhersons had their lodgings behind the shop, yet those windows were dark as well. They had no risp at the entrance, and the tinkling bells that signaled a customer only rang when the door opened.

  She had no choice but to knock. Still there was no answer.

  “’Twould seem he isna here,” Mr. Fenwick said, peering over her shoulder. “We’d best take ye hame, Leddy Kerr.”

  “Aye, aye,” she said, turning away from the door in frustration. Naught to be done but send a caddie with a message for Martin Eccles, begging his forgiveness.

  They reached Milne Square in minutes. Mr. Fenwick gave the knot of soldiers a wide berth and deposited her at the door in such a manner they would not see her alight from the chair. She paid him, thanked him, then took the stair at a run, holding her skirts higher than truly proper. And to think she’d planned to tarry and speak with the chairman in the square! She had little interest in town gossip now. Not when her family might be in jeopardy.

  Just as young Findlay had said, the stair was filled with folk. Servants, mostly. They leaped up to make room for Elisabeth as she tried to get past them without being rude. To a person, they looked at her with wide, curious gazes. Milne Square was home to few Jacobites. No doubt they thought her a novelty to be inspected and then discussed out of earshot.

  When Elisabeth reached the door, she was relieved to find it still solid and well locked. At least this knock would be answered.

  And it was, but not by Marjory or Janet or Gibson or Mrs. Edgar.

  “Leddy Kerr!” Rob MacPherson pulled her within, then shut the door with a forceful bang. The hand on her arm was not gentle, and a muddle of emotions crossed his face: fear, joy, anger, and relief.

  Elisabeth felt quite the same. “Mr. MacPherson, I was just—”

  “Wheesht!” Rob nearly shook her, so abrupt was his release. “Wherever have ye been? D’ye not ken what’s happened?”
>
  Taken aback, she stared at him in the shadowy entrance hall. “I was in the Canongate. And at your shop. Please, tell me—”

  “Nae.” His expression grim, he stepped aside. “Leuk for yerself.”

  Fifty

  My loss is such as cannot be repair’d.

  JOHN DRYDEN

  M arjory heard Elisabeth’s voice in the distance. Only two rooms separated them. And several lost hours. Before. That’s how Marjory would think of this day. Before. And after.

  She called out, thinking she was shouting. “Lady Kerr?” But her throat was too raw and her voice too thin. She was not shouting at all. She was whimpering.

  Speak up, madam. Where is your gold?

  Marjory shifted, her knees beginning to ache, despite the wool carpet beneath them. She sank back on her heels, then slowly leaned forward, until her brow almost touched the carpet. I am bowed down greatly. Aye, she was kneeling but to no avail. All her prayers had gone unanswered.

  Footsteps drew near. Then a cry of dismay. “Oh, my dear lady!”

  Hearing her daughter-in-law’s voice, Marjory slowly lifted her head.

  “Come.” Elisabeth gently pulled Marjory to her feet and then into her arms. “I am sorry,” she whispered in her ear. “So very sorry.”

  Marjory sank into her daughter-in-law’s embrace, too exhausted to resist.

  The others stood round, bereft of words. Janet was still weeping, though an hour had passed, while Mrs. Edgar had wrung her apron to rags. Gibson, who blamed himself, could not meet her gaze. And Rob MacPherson had come too late.

  When Marjory eased away from Elisabeth, she was struck by the anguish in her daughter-in-law’s eyes. She’d seen the drawing room, then. Feeling lightheaded, Marjory sat rather quickly on the edge of her bed. “Lost,” she said mostly to herself. “All is lost.”

  Elisabeth drew a chair beside her and took her hand. “I should have been here. I might have helped…” Her words faded into silence.