Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Marjory shook her head. “There were so many. Six soldiers. Eight.

  No one could have stopped them.” She turned toward the window, surprised to see rain falling. When had that begun? “Daylight will be gone soon. Have we any candles left?”

  “None, mem.” Mrs. Edgar looked down at the toes of her worn leather shoes as if it were her fault the candles had been taken.

  Rob MacPherson produced a purse full of coins. “John Herriot will have what’s needed.”

  “We cannot allow you to pay for them,” Elisabeth protested, but the money was already in Gibson’s hands, bound for the candle maker in Carruber’s Close. “Tallow will do very well,” Elisabeth called after him.

  Marjory swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Never in all her privileged life had she known the oppressive odor of tallow candles. The thought of mutton and bullock fat instead of fragrant beeswax on her mantelpiece was beyond bearing.

  But she would bear it. Aye, and much worse.

  A brief silence fell over the room. The stair door opened and closed.

  “The candles in their hands were what I noticed first,” Marjory said to no one in particular. “When Gibson answered their knock, the soldiers each held a burning candle. So nothing would be missed, they said.”

  Elisabeth touched her arm. “Do not torture yourself, madam. Mr. MacPherson can inform me of the details.”

  “Aye, he can tell you what he found when he arrived.” Marjory waved her hand listlessly at the silk upholstery cut to shreds and the table lace in tatters. “But he cannot tell you what happened.”

  “I can.” Janet dried her cheeks with her handkerchief. “They poked their candles into every nook of this house on the pretense of searching for arms.”

  Elisabeth turned to look at her. “But your husband gave—”

  “I told them that. Still, they’d heard about the weapons Mr. Kerr displayed on our bedchamber wall. And they were determined to find them.” Janet began to weep again. “Have you seen what’s left of our new oil paintings?”

  “Nae,” Elisabeth said softly, “not yet.”

  Rob MacPherson spoke up. “I wasna here, but their wickit deeds speak loudly enough. Whan the only weapons they found were Lord John’s rusty dagger and Gibson’s dirk, they took what they liked and destroyed what they pleased.”

  “Can nothing be done?” Elisabeth asked.

  “Aye, but not within the law.” Rob’s expression darkened. “The government has marked yer family as traitors to the king. They may do whatsomever they like with yer goods, even with yer lives.”

  Marjory stared at her dressing table. One glass bottle remained. Her powders and perfumes had been emptied onto the floor, ruining the carpet. Her jewelry now lined a dragoon’s pockets.

  How long had it taken? Twenty minutes, a half hour? She’d staggered from room to room, watching them fling open chests and yank out drawers and scatter the contents, using their swords rather than their hands to sort through her belongings. Piercing, cutting, tearing as they went. Without compassion and without apology.

  Cursed be their anger, for it was fierce; and their wrath, for it was cruel. Aye, just so.

  At least they’d not found her gold. Not even when they stomped across the floor of her bedchamber with their heavy boots. They’d asked repeatedly where her guineas were hidden. As if they suspected. Nae, as if they knew. She’d lied to their faces. Told them her money resided at Edinburgh Castle, that she’d sent it there in September when the Royal Bank had moved their effects. She’d held her head high, daring them to doubt her story. “Does that not prove I am loyal to our king?”

  They were unconvinced and settled for Lord John’s prized bottle of Ferintosh whisky and all the claret and brandy they could carry off. As to the Bordeaux she’d been saving for Yuletide, the soldiers passed the bottle round, pouring it down their greedy throats while they ravaged her house. Marjory had never felt so violated.

  She was very grateful Janet was not harmed, nor the babe in her womb. Relieved that she and Mrs. Edgar were not put to shame. And very thankful Elisabeth was absent when the king’s men came, for she would have been a plum too sweet for their filthy hands to resist.

  When Marjory looked up, Mrs. Edgar had returned to the room with two of Elisabeth’s embroidered pillows, the ones Effie Sinclair had praised. Tears filled the housekeeper’s eyes as she held them out. “Leuk,” she moaned, “yer bonny pillows.”

  Elisabeth touched the torn fabric, inspecting the damage. “Put them in my bedchamber. I’ll see what can be done to repair them.”

  “But, milady,” Mrs. Edgar said, “ye’ve not seen yer room.”

  Marjory glanced at the closed door, wishing she might spare her daughter-in-law. “You should not face this alone. Perhaps Mr. MacPherson—”

  “Aye, mem.” The tailor’s son stepped forward at once. “Come, Leddy Kerr.” He took Elisabeth’s left hand in his, then slipped his right arm behind her waist, as if they were preparing to dance the allemande. Marjory knew better. He was anticipating Elisabeth’s reaction when she opened the door.

  As the two crossed the room, Marjory dispatched Mrs. Edgar to begin setting the kitchen to rights, though Marjory had no appetite for supper and suspected no one in their household did. She also urged Janet to rest for a bit in her bedchamber. “’Twill do you good to have your feet up.” Janet offered no protest and followed Mrs. Edgar through the drawing room door.

  Gibson had put the table and chairs back in place, but there was no hope for the shattered drinking glasses or the broken china. Most of her silver had been carted off in Lord John’s leather trunk.

  Marjory remained seated, too weary to stand, too heartbroken to think about all that must be done. Much as she longed to lie down for a moment, the soldiers had carved up her bedding with their swords, then sullied her pillows with ashes from the coal grate.

  She’d chosen the one clean spot on her bed. There would she wait while Elisabeth discovered what their loyalty to the prince had cost them.

  Fifty-One

  I can see nothing but ruin and destruction.

  CHARLES EDWARD STUART

  E lisabeth stared at her bedchamber. “What have they done?”

  “What the English do best,” Rob said bitterly, tightening his hold round her waist. “Ance they kenned this was Lord Kerr’s room, they showed nae mercy.”

  Elisabeth could not take it all in, so thorough was the devastation. She made herself look at one corner, then another as the memory of her elegant bedchamber faded into a cold reality.

  Her silk bed curtains hung like battered streamers. Feathers, torn from the mattress, littered the entire room. No shutters remained on any of the windows, having been brutally ripped off their hinges and discarded in a pile. Her writing table was in pieces, her fine stationery everywhere, and the toppled inkpot had drained onto the carpet, leaving an ugly black stain.

  “Why?” she cried softly, bending to retrieve an ivory comb at her feet.

  Rob remained by her side, a solid anchor amid the storm. “Wha kens why men destroy a’ that is bonny and guid? Vengeance for their loss at Gladsmuir, I’ll wager. And a warning to yer husband. Ye’ll see what they’ve done with his papers.”

  When her gaze landed on Donald’s mahogany secretary, her stomach lurched. The shelves and pigeonholes were completely bare. Not a map, not a ledger, not an atlas. “Oh, Rob,” she moaned as she picked her way across the room, lifting her skirts, watching where she stepped. “Donald’s fine maps. He gave some to the prince, but there were many others.”

  Rob followed close behind her, then took her hand when they reached her husband’s desk. “Thank ye,” he said in a low voice.

  Confused, she turned to look at him. “Should I not be thanking you for coming to our rescue? I’ve done nothing for you, I’m afraid.”

  His dark eyes glowed. “Ye called me Rob. I thocht I might not niver hear ye speak my name.”

  Only now did she notice the warmth of his ha
nd clasping hers. Embarrassed, she said, “I should not have spoken so freely.”

  “Nae, but ye should.” Rob tugged her one step closer. “We’re freens, are we not?”

  Broad as he was, he blocked her view of the room. For a moment there was no destruction; there was only Rob, standing too close in the fading afternoon light.

  “Aye, we are friends.” Elisabeth squeezed his hand, then gently pulled hers free. “As it happens, I came home byway of your shop.”

  “Hame from whaur?” he asked. “Yer mither-in-law wasna sure whaur ye went this morn, or I’d have come for ye.”

  Elisabeth wrinkled her brow. “Did I not say Queensberry House?”

  “a’ she told me was the Canongate. But she was in quite a state whan I arrived. Mebbe she didna remember.”

  “I cannot blame her.” Elisabeth glanced at the adjoining door. Poor Marjory. These were her furnishings, her valuables that were broken or stolen and all for a cause she’d only recently embraced.

  Rob tipped his head. “Why were ye leuking for me, Bess?”

  All at once her heart was lifted from the ruins at her feet and reminded of the wounded soldiers who needed their care. “Your services with a needle are required at Queensberry House this very hour. The dragoons wreaked a different sort of havoc there.”

  When she described how they’d treated the injured soldiers, Rob was furious, as she knew he would be. “I’ll do my best to help oor men,” he assured her, “but God help those wha hurt them. If they cross my path, they’ll not take anither step.”

  Angry as Rob was, Elisabeth was glad she’d not mentioned her would-be assailant, lest Rob insist on avenging her honor. She’d seen enough blood this day. “Martin Eccles is expecting you. A good man.”

  Rob nodded thoughtfully as though sorting things out in his mind.

  “I’ll leave whan Gibson returns.” The room was bathed in shadows now without a single candle to dispel the gloom. Rain still pelted the windows and all the louder without her wooden shutters to muffle the sound.

  “I ken verra weel the dragoons will not spare oor shop or lodgings. ’Tis only a matter o’ time.” He glanced toward the far corner of the room. “I wish I didna have to say this, Bess, but ye’ve yet to see the worst.” He lightly placed his hands on her shoulders, then turned her toward the mantelpiece and stepped aside.

  Her eyes widened. “They didn’t …”

  “Aye, Bess. They did.”

  She stumbled toward the hearth, still faintly glowing. Even in the dim light, she could see the fuel they’d burned instead of coal.

  Books.

  Donald’s entire collection.

  His beloved Thomson. Barbour with its fine, thick binding. Thomas Boston with the ribbon still marking the page where they’d last read. The Pilgrim’s Progress with young Donald’s own sketches in the margins. All the plays of Shakespeare bound in morocco leather. Poetry. History. Theology. Her husband’s precious books torn asunder, then tossed onto the grate until they spilled over in a massive heap. Set on fire, then left to burn.

  How would she ever tell him?

  Elisabeth bent down, not caring if her skirts dragged through the soot. “The Gentle Shepherd,” she said in a broken voice, picking up the charred remains of Ramsay’s play. The pages, still warm, fell apart in her hands. “Donald and I often read this aloud together.” Her eyes filled with tears. “He would be Patie, and I would be Peggy.”

  Rob crouched beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder. In a voice low and tender, he quoted the much-loved pastoral. “I greet for joy, to hear thy wirds sae kind.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. “How could anyone be this cruel?”

  “I dinna ken, Bess. Men do what is richt in their own e’es.” He slowly rose, bringing her up with him. “I see the Buik was spared.”

  She followed his gaze to the mantelpiece, where the Bible lay on its side, untouched.

  Picking it up with one hand, Rob hefted the thick volume with a look of satisfaction. “Even men with evil in their hearts canna destroy this.”

  Elisabeth had a strong urge to take the book in her arms and hold it close—whether to protect it or to draw strength from it, she could not say. But her hands were covered with soot, and she dared not soil its sacred pages.

  “Leddy Kerr?” Gibson stood in the doorway. “I bought candles but not sae monie as I’d hoped.” He held them up. “Mr. Herriot sold me only a pound, and his scolding tongue came with it.”

  Rob frowned. “’Tis begun, then. Royalists turning their backs on onie folk with a whiff o’ Jacobite air about them.”

  Gibson fished out a handful of coins from his pocket and deposited them in Rob’s free hand. “Yer siller, Mr. MacPherson. Now I must see if there’s a candlestick left in the hoose.” He departed the way he’d come, through Marjory’s room, leaving Elisabeth alone with Rob once more.

  A lengthy silence settled between them as Rob placed the Bible on the mantelpiece. “I should go,” he said at last, though he sounded reluctant to do so.

  “You must,” she agreed. “The men at Queensberry House are counting on us both.”

  Rob offered her a wry smile. “They’ll not be blithe to see me walk through the door instead of ye.” His features, lit only by the glow of the smoldering fire, were more striking than she’d realized. Not handsome, like her husband’s, but strong.

  “Once you stitch their wounds, they shall call you blessed,” she assured him. “In truth, I wish I were going with you—”

  “Then come, Bess.” His eyes shone. “Come with me. ’Twould gladden their hearts.”

  “And sadden my family’s, I’m afraid.” She looked about the room, wondering where she would sleep, how she would bathe, or what the morrow might bring. “I must stay and be useful here,” she told him, “though part of my heart will travel to the Canongate with you.”

  His dark gaze searched hers. “Will it, Bess?”

  She looked down, lest he see something that was not there. “Mr. MacPherson—”

  “Nae,” he said gruffly, lifting her chin, forcing her to look at him. “’Tis Rob now. We’ll not go back.”

  “All right. Rob, then. But only when we’re alone.”

  “Verra weel.” Desire, like the morning sun, rose in his eyes.

  She took a small step backward, unsure of her footing in the cluttered room. “Thank you for caring for my family on such a dreadful day.”

  Rob quickly closed the gap between them. “’Tis not yer family I care for.” He spoke so softly she had to incline her ear. “’Tis ye, Bess. I’ll not pretend otherwise.”

  She turned her head. “Rob, I am a married woman.”

  “Aye. Married to a man wha has niver been leal to ye.”

  Elisabeth’s heart sank. Had Donald confessed his infidelity to Rob? Or had her friend merely heard the blether in the street? She faced him once more. “What have you learned?”

  “The truth.” His voice was steady and so was his gaze. “I’ve nae doubt Lord Kerr loves ye. But he doesna care how oft he hurts ye. And I care verra much.”

  “Please, Rob. Do not say such things.” She lifted her hand near his mouth, meaning to silence him even as she felt the warmth of his breath on her fingertips. “I am Lady Donald Kerr. Whatever my husband has done, I shall always be faithful to him. Always.”

  “And I shall aye be leal to ye.” Rob boldly kissed the palm of her hand. “Guid eve, milady.”

  Fifty-Two

  Reason bears disgrace,

  courage combats it,

  patience surmounts it.

  MARIE DE RABUTIN-CHANTAL, MARQUISE DE SÉVIGNÉ

  T he Tron Kirk was as cold as a tomb. Dank, bone-chilling air seeped through Marjory’s cape and gloves, leaving her shivering in the pew even with her daughters-in-law seated on either side to keep her warm.

  They’d slept the same way last night, crowded onto a single mattress like poor women in a garret hovel. Janet’s bed was the only one the dragoons had not demolishe
d, perhaps because she’d been weeping beneath the bedcovers when they burst into her chamber. Instead of dragging her to the floor, they’d slashed her many gowns into ribbons and her oil paintings as well—paintings Marjory had yet to pay for, having only just received the bill from the auction room in Writer’s Court.

  Other debts would come to roost on Martinmas, a day of feasting and of reckoning, when bills were settled and servants paid their wages. For the first time in her life, Marjory feared she might reach for the leather purses beneath her floor and come up wanting. With the prince’s army on the move and the countryside plagued with highwaymen and thieves, she could not safely send for the quarterly rents from her Tweedsford factor, Mr. Laidlaw. Her only recourse was to count her gold and pray the tally was sufficient.

  The three Kerr women stood as Reverend Wishart began his opening prayer. Odd to be in church without her sons. Odd to be in church at all after six idle weeks while the prince held court at Holyroodhouse. Mrs. Edgar had managed to feed the Kerr women a cold breakfast that morn and dress them in whatever gowns had survived. Nothing could be done about their house. Not on the Sabbath. The morrow was soon enough to begin such an onerous task.

  Before the congregation resumed their seats, several neighbors turned round to look at the Kerrs, the daggers in their eyes sharpened to a fine point. The entire southeast parish knew of their disgrace. Perhaps all of Edinburgh knew by now. Marjory did not lower her gaze. She was Sir Eldon’s daughter and Lord John’s widow. Let them stare. She would not cower in shame.

  “I believe James Hogg is gloating,” Janet whispered, nodding at the Tron Kirk’s lecturer.

  The staunch royalist ascended the pulpit bearing a smug expression, then firmly closed the pulpit door. He barely glanced at the Scriptures before reciting his memorized text. “I have counsel and strength for the war. Now on whom dost thou trust, that thou rebellest against me?”

  Marjory knew this was not her imagination: Mr. Hogg was speaking directly to her. His long, pointed nose was aimed at their pew like an arrow tautly drawn, and his narrow gaze even more so. For the next half hour, Marjory chafed beneath his stern instruction. Aye, her sons were rebelling against King George, however unwisely. But they were not rebelling against the Almighty.