Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,

  And shake the green leaves aff the tree?

  O gentle Death, when wilt thou come?

  For of my life I am wearie.

  “Oh!” Janet exclaimed. “Please sing it again. From the beginning, if you know it.”

  “I ken a’ the verses, milady.” Rob proved it, sharing in song the sad tale of a brokenhearted maid. Mrs. Edgar and Gibson quietly cleared the table and trimmed the candles, taking in the rare treat, for none in the Kerr household sang except at kirk.

  When he finished, Janet said with a melodramatic sigh, “Too tragic. Have you no good news for us?”

  “My second gift this term day,” Rob said, folding his hands behind his back. “News from England.”

  Marjory sat up, clearly interested. “Do tell us what you’ve learned.”

  “Aye, do,” Elisabeth urged him, thinking only of Donald.

  “The reports are a day auld or mair,” he cautioned, “but I’ll give ye whatsomever news I can. The prince leads his men on foot, they say, as strong and as brave as ilka soldier on the field. Whan they crossed the Tweed, the leddies o’ Jedburgh flocked into the street to kiss the prince’s hand. But none o’ their men joined oor army.” Rob shook his head. “Would that they had, for I’ve heard as monie as a thousand Hielanders have deserted the prince.”

  Though Marjory gasped at the number, Elisabeth was not surprised. “’Tis too far south,” she said. “Too close to the English.”

  “Aye. Whan the prince heard some were lagging behind, planning to desert, he mounted a horse and rode to the rear, spurring them forward.” His countenance darkened. “But ithers crept o’er the hills in the gloom o’ nicht, headed for hame.”

  Marjory eyed Elisabeth. “Are men not shot for this?”

  “Some have been severely punished,” he admitted. “For ithers, ’tis enough to threaten them with burning their hooses and crops.”

  Elisabeth watched Marjory’s expression change, as if envisioning Tweedsford in flames. A wave of sympathy washed over her. Her mother-in-law had two sons bearing arms and two properties to manage. A worthy reminder, Elisabeth decided, for the days when Marjory’s complaints grew tiresome.

  “On Friday last,” Rob was saying, “the prince and his men crossed the border to England. Alas, whan the Hielanders unsheathed their broadswords to shout their huzzahs, Cameron o’ Lochiel cut his hand on his blade.”

  Elisabeth saw the problem at once. “’Tis a bad omen.”

  Rob nodded grimly. “Ye can be sure his men thocht sae.”

  “Did you say you had a third gift, Mr. MacPherson?” Her mother-in-law sounded impatient. Or simply tired.

  “Indeed I do.” Rob reached inside his waistcoat and produced a letter. “For Leddy Kerr.” His dark gaze met hers. “From Lord Kerr.”

  “Oh!” Elisabeth could not hide her excitement, nearly tearing the paper as she broke the seal. “I feel quite certain he means us all to hear it.”

  Marjory brightened at once.

  “Ye’ll not want to trust your letters to the Post Office,” Rob cautioned them. “They’ve taken to reading the letters o’ Jacobites, scrawling Treason or Rebel across the page, then delaying the letters a fortnight or mair.”

  “How perfectly dreadful,” Janet said, making a face.

  “You alone are to see our letters delivered,” Marjory told him.

  “As ye say, mem.”

  Elisabeth thought of the letter she’d given Rob on Monday last, even as she skimmed through the one in her hands. “Now, then. Let us see what Lord Kerr has for us.”

  To My Beloved Family

  Wednesday, 6 November 1745

  I trust this letter finds its way to you and finds you in good health.

  “Rather formal,” Janet remarked, though Elisabeth thought she detected a faint note of envy in her sister-in-law’s voice since there was no letter from Andrew.

  Marjory quickly came to Donald’s defense. “His writing must be circumspect, for all our sakes. Continue, Lady Kerr.”

  We have this day arrived in Jedburgh. It is difficult to be so close to home and yet not have the opportunity to call upon our factor.

  “When the throne is won and peace returns, we should all visit Tweedsford,” Marjory said emphatically. “In the spring, perhaps. ’Tis quite pleasant.”

  Elisabeth tried to cover her astonishment. Since her marriage to Donald, his mother had never made such a suggestion. “I would very much like to see it,” Elisabeth told her before returning to his letter.

  The weather is tolerable, the food and accommodations are adequate, and the company well shod.

  “At least their horses have shoes,” Elisabeth mused.

  Rob remained standing at the mantelpiece, arms folded across his broad chest. “Yer husband does a fine job of saying what needs to be said with none the wiser. ’Tis a guid skill for a Life Guard.”

  Elisabeth was surprised to hear Rob speak well of her husband, knowing what he thought of Donald. And what he thought of her. When she read the next line, her heart tightened.

  We have heard of an offer being made regarding the twelfth of this month, but no parties here are interested.

  Marjory spoke first, her tone flat. “He knows, then.”

  Rob grunted in response. “King Geordie’s printed notices found their way to the prince’s camp. My faither said they used the paper to start their fires.” He shifted his stance. “D’ye ken a proclamation was read from the mercat cross this day? All able-bodied men are invited to enter into his Majesty’s service. Such men are assured a discharge at the end o’ six months or whan the rebellion is”—he looked ready to spit—“extinguished. That was the wird they used.”

  Elisabeth was only half listening, reading back through Donald’s brief letter. She wished it were longer but was grateful to hold in her hands solid proof that five days ago her husband was alive and well.

  “Has he written anything else?” Marjory asked, leaning closer to look for herself.

  “No more words and no signature.” Elisabeth held out the letter. “Only a few numbers.”

  “Ah.” Marjory left at once and returned a moment later with the family Bible in her arms. “’Twill be one of the psalms. When my sons were wee lads, I taught them to memorize verses by writing the numbers on one side of a card and the words on the other.”

  Elisabeth could not imagine her mother-in-law doing such a thing. Had Marjory’s years in Edinburgh changed her that much?

  Marjory nimbly turned to the passage as if she knew well the landscape of the Scriptures, then read the verse aloud. “For thou hast girded me with strength unto the battle.” She looked up, her eyes glassy. “Aye, I taught Lord Kerr that one. And very long ago it was too.”

  Janet sniffed. “Well, I have never heard my brother-in-law speak so devoutly.”

  “If not, he’ll do sae now.” Rob unfolded his arms and reached for the Bible, which was growing noticeably heavy in Marjory’s hands. “Few men on the field o’ battle dinna cry oot to God.”

  Fifty-Seven

  Through the hush’d air

  the whitening shower descends.

  JAMES THOMSON

  T is snowing.” Marjory peered through Effie Sinclair’s window, certain her eyes were deceiving her. Snow was uncommon in the capital, especially in the middle of November. The sky, the air, and the tall lands across the wynd were all washed in a pale, frosty gray.

  The boarding school mistress joined her guests at the window, the top of her carefully piled hair only reaching Marjory’s shoulder. “We’ve seen many winters without so much as a flurry.” Effie’s warm breath left a circle of steam on the icy pane.

  Elisabeth, too, had abandoned their tea table, leaving behind their empty plates and tea-stained saucers. “Mr. MacPherson told me the prince and his men are soon expected to march south from Carlisle. I do hope the weather is a bit warmer there.”

  The concern in Elisabeth’s voice and her poignant
expression were further assurance of her fidelity. Marjory felt almost guilty for doubting her daughter-in-law’s devotion. She need not have worried. A man like Rob MacPherson, with his poor table manners and rough way of speaking, would hardly turn a lady’s head. Especially one married to a gentleman of Donald’s caliber.

  Still, with his many Jacobite ties, the tailor’s son had kept them informed of the army’s activities, for which Marjory was grateful. He often relayed news the Evening Courant might not report for another week—or not at all if the account favored the prince. The most recent news from Mr. MacPherson was heartening. On Friday last the Duke of Perth took Carlisle, by Saturday the castle was won, and on the Sabbath their bonny prince made his triumphant entry into Carlisle, striking terror in the heart of many an Englishman.

  Marjory turned away from the window to glance at the mantel clock. “Mrs. Sinclair, I fear we are keeping you from your scholars.”

  “Not at all,” Effie assured her. “I have three young ladies in my charge this season. They are having tea at the moment, followed by a writing lesson at four o’ the clock.” She turned to Elisabeth, smiling with her whole face. “Unless I might presume upon my most accomplished seamstress to offer them instruction in sewing.”

  Elisabeth glanced at the darkening sky. “I would enjoy nothing more, Mrs. Sinclair, but…”

  “’Tis not the hour for it,” Effie was quick to agree. “Some forenoon, perhaps, when the light is more amenable to threading a needle. For the moment I must bid you farewell.” Capes and gloves were quickly donned, then thanks and curtsies offered round.

  No sooner did Effie’s door close than a fierce, biting cold sank its teeth into Marjory’s neck. Shivering, she followed Janet and Elisabeth down the stair until they reached the paving stones of Blackfriars Wynd. A thick veil of snow hung over the dark lane, falling steadily. The occasional candle near a window, diffused by the snow into a faint, shimmering cloud of light, provided the only relief from the blackness before them.

  “This is my fault,” Marjory said, pulling them closer to her sides. “We should have taken our leave the moment I saw the first flurry.”

  Janet withdrew inside the hood of her cape. “At the very least while it was still light.”

  “We’ve not far to walk,” Elisabeth encouraged them. “And we need not worry about dragoons on the High Street. No one will be out on such a night.”

  “As we should not be,” Marjory said with a heavy sigh. Why had she not made some arrangement with Gibson to collect them at four o’ the clock? Elisabeth was right—they did not have far to walk—but the street was uphill and slippery, and the snow fell harder by the minute.

  They locked arms and began the slow trek up the wynd, knowing the High Street was ahead though they could not see farther than their outstretched hands. Marjory prayed Elisabeth was right about the dragoons remaining withindoors. Not only had Edinburgh Castle belched red-coated men like a sickness over the town, but on Thursday last two thousand more foot soldiers and dragoons had entered through the Netherbow Port.

  Clinging to her daughters-in-law, Marjory put one hesitant foot in front of the other. “Our shoes will be ruined,” she said, accepting the blame for that as well.

  “You’ve no need to apologize for the weather,” Elisabeth said. “’Tis not something within your control. ‘For he saith to the snow, Be thou on the earth,’ aye?” She’d surprised them several times of late with a verse of Scripture. Perhaps that was to be expected, living in a house with only one book. “Here is the High Street.” Elisabeth helped them navigate the icy plainstanes as they turned left. “We’re halfway home.”

  Their voices sounded oddly muffled, as if the snow were swallowing their words. In all her years Marjory could not remember a storm this early in the season. When she spied the familiar arcades of Milne Square, she nearly wept with joy.

  The turnpike stair in Baillie’s Land was colder still, and the stone steps treacherous. As soon as they reached their fifth-floor landing, Marjory fell against the door, praying Gibson would hear their knock and unlock the door at once.

  Instead, Rob MacPherson ushered the Kerr women into their house. “We’d hoped ye might remain at Mrs. Sinclair’s for the nicht,” he said, “though ’tis guid yer a’ hame.”

  Marjory pushed back the hood of her cape, staring at him in confusion. “Where is Gibson that you are pressed into service as a footman?”

  Rob quickly closed the door, about to answer her, when Mrs. Edgar came at a run.

  “Leddy Kerr!” Her face was flushed, and her words tumbled over themselves. “Gibson has given us a wee fright. First his head was verra het and now his chest. He’s begun to cough as weel.” She glanced toward the drawing room. “I dared not put him in one o’ yer beds, but his ain was too cauld here by the door.”

  Marjory threw off her cape, the word cough sufficient to capture her attention. “Well done, Mrs. Edgar. Now, licorice and tartar, if you please.” Helen Edgar had helped tend her ailing sons a decade earlier. Between them, they would see the man well cared for.

  Gibson was stretched out on a thick plaid before the fire, his face and neck the color of fresh beetroot. He lifted up a shaky hand. “Och, mem, I’m sorry ye found me sae dwiny.”

  “We’ll have none of that,” Marjory told him, drawing the footstool near so she might sit beside him. “When did this begin?”

  “Yestermorn, though I paid it nae mind.” He shrugged. “I didna want to worry ye.”

  “Too late,” Marjory chided him gently, placing her hand on his brow and cheek and then his chest. Worse than she’d feared: almost as hot as the coals in the grate. She turned to Rob, standing behind her. “Will the apothecary come out in such weather?” she asked. “Perhaps if you simply describe Gibson’s symptoms, Mr. Mercer will know what to send.”

  “I’ll bring the man and his medicines,” Rob promised and was gone.

  Mrs. Edgar appeared a moment later, cup and spoon in hand. “Spanish licorice and salt o’ tartar in boiled water, just as ye asked. ’Tis bluid warm. Two spoonfuls, if ye please, sir.”

  Gibson lifted his head enough to take his medicine, then fell back on the plaid with a groan.

  Janet bent over him. “My, he’s quite red.”

  “Careful!” Marjory shot to her feet, nearly knocking her daughter-in-law over in her haste. “You cannot risk getting so close, dear. Not in your… condition.”

  Janet frowned. “My…oh! Nae, I cannot.” Without another word she fled for her bedchamber. “Do not expect me at supper.”

  Elisabeth and Mrs. Edgar remained, looking as helpless as Marjory felt. Neil Gibson’s sixty years were showing, his skin drawn taut against his bones, his bald crown dotted with brown spots. Though his breathing was even, his color worried her, and his fever more so. She would know better once she heard his cough.

  By the time Rob MacPherson returned with the apothecary, Marjory had heard Gibson cough several times. When she apologized to Mr. Mercer for requiring his services on such a stormy night, the stout man pushed his spectacles in place, then brushed away her concerns.

  “I am only across the High Street. And I could not be sure of what to send until I examined Mr. Gibson for myself. If I might trade places with you, madam?”

  Marjory joined the others gathered behind him while the apothecary poked and prodded in an efficient fashion, making small grunting sounds under his breath as he worked. Gibson gazed up at him through bleary, half-opened eyes.

  Mr. Mercer stood at last, yanking his waistcoat over his round belly with little success. “’Tis not consumption,” he said with some authority.

  Marjory and Mrs. Edgar exchanged relieved glances.

  “For the fever,” Mr. Mercer continued, “make use of the snow and pack it round his neck. You’ll also be wanting Dr. Hardwick’s fever powder.” He produced a brown paper packet. “For the cough, peel and slice a turnip, cover the pieces with coarse sugar, let them stand in a dish until the liquid drains, and gi
ve him a spoonful whenever he coughs.” The apothecary was already in his coat and eying the door. “Unless you have further need of me, I bid you good night.”

  Mrs. Edgar escorted him through the entrance hall, reviewing his instructions, while Rob MacPherson started down the stair ahead of him, wooden pail in hand, intending to bring back a supply of new-fallen snow.

  Only when all of Mr. Mercer’s instructions had been followed and Gibson was sleeping by the fire, his fever beginning to abate, did Marjory think to ask what had brought Rob MacPherson to their door in the first place. “Did Mrs. Edgar send for you?” she asked as the three of them sat on the long sofa.

  “Nae, mem.” Unlike at Martinmas, he’d not been in a talkative mood this evening. “I thocht… that is, I came to tell ye I had visitors this afternoon. The dragoons… ah, searched oor shop.”

  Marjory understood at once. “They did not merely search it. They sacked it, didn’t they?”

  “Aye, sae they did.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “Tore the bolts o’ fabric to shreds. Shattered oor lang leuking glass. Chopped the sewing cabinet into kindling—”

  “Oh, Rob,” Elisabeth moaned, “not the cabinet your father cherished.”

  He looked at her. “Aye, Bess. The verra one.”

  A cold chill moved along Marjory’s forearms. They’d addressed each other by their Christian names. Had she not been sitting between them, Rob might have taken Elisabeth’s hand, so warm was his gaze. If ’twas not longing Marjory saw in those dark depths, it was uncomfortably close to it.

  She stood at once, breaking the spell. “Lady Kerr? ’Tis eight o’ the clock.”

  But Elisabeth mistook her cue. She did not ask the tailor’s son to leave. She invited him to stay. “Mr. MacPherson, will you share our supper?” Elisabeth asked. “The hour is late, and your lodgings are…not what they once were. We’ll not have as elaborate a meal as Martinmas, but you are welcome to sup with us.”

  He dipped his chin, accepting her invitation. “’Twould be a pleasure, milady.”

  Once offered, hospitality could hardly be revoked. Marjory was torn as well, for Rob MacPherson had proven to be a good friend to their family. They’d come to count on him for news. Aye, and for protection. Nothing to be done but watch the man and pray her suspicions were unfounded.