No sooner had they taken their seats at table than Elisabeth offered to stand in Gibson’s place, helping Mrs. Edgar serve the meal.
“Lady Kerr!” Marjory scolded her, but her daughter-in-law was already out of her seat and moving toward the kitchen.
“We can hardly ask our guest to serve himself,” Elisabeth reminded her, knowing Marjory could pose no argument.
“It seems we shall be served by a lady,” Marjory said.
Mr. MacPherson smiled, a rare occurrence. “She is indeed that, mem.”
Elisabeth returned bearing plates of mussel brose, though Mrs. Edgar was adamant she would serve the rest. “There are but three of ye,” she said firmly, “and I’m meant to do it.” She soon brought minced collops, flavored with nutmeg. Then roasted onions, hot from the oven. Finally a plate of macaroons and coffee, though Marjory did not suggest moving to sit by the fire, lest they disturb Gibson from his sleep.
From first bite to last Marjory watched Mr. MacPherson court her daughter-in-law. No other word could describe his behavior. He studied Elisabeth’s eyes, her mouth, her hands. When her linen cloth slipped from her lap, he retrieved it almost before it touched the floor. If she said something mildly amusing, his low, rumbling laugh was sure to follow. And if she grew quiet or pensive, he matched his mood to hers.
Marjory took consolation in this: Elisabeth did nothing to encourage him. In fact, she seemed completely unaware of his slavish devotion. Perhaps in time Rob would lose interest, realizing how much Lady Kerr loved her husband. Short of confronting him, Marjory knew there was little she could do.
She was beginning to realize how few things were hers to manage. Not the weather, certainly. Not the furnishings beneath her roof. Not the health of those round her. Not the fate of her sons in battle. And not the faithfulness of the wives they left in Edinburgh.
Marjory looked down, lest anyone see the fear in her eyes. Come home, Donald. Soon.
Fifty-Eight
They that know the winters of that country
know them to be sharp and violent,
and subject to cruel and fierce storms.
WILLIAM BRADFORD
E lisabeth awakened the next morning to find the High Street blanketed with snow. She’d expected the storm to end while the household slept. But the snow kept falling, and the wind blew hard from the west.
Days passed in a white blur. Rumors crept into town from the neighboring villages. A foot of snow. Two foot. Six. “The severest known,” the Evening Courant reported, “the snow in some parts being upwards of twelve foot. Two men perished in the snow near Peebles. They were going home from the mill, and though they knew the road perfectly well, the snow was so deep that they were suffocated.”
The tragic story weighed on Elisabeth’s heart even as her fears for Donald and Andrew grew. Was the weather to the south as severe? Were the brothers strong enough to ride o’er the cold, snowy hills? Or had they succumbed…
Nae, nae, nae. Elisabeth could not let her imagination wander down such murky paths.
Instead she reminded herself daily of the rebel victories on English soil. The Jacobite army had taken Carlisle, then pushed on to Lancaster and Preston, with the prince’s gaze fixed on London. That much they knew. But the farther from home the army marched, the harder it became for Rob to gather any news that could be trusted, so conflicting were the reports from the south. And mail was unbearably slow, sometimes weeks in coming. Her three letters from Donald were hidden beneath her carpet like the dowager’s gold lest a dragoon come looking for them.
Elisabeth could do nothing but wait, keeping her needle busy and her mind occupied as the days grew shorter and the nights colder.
On the first Saturday in December, when the temperature hovered below freezing and the windows were covered with frost on both sides of the glass, Rob MacPherson came knocking on their door.
“The prince has reached Derby,” he announced, pulling off his gloves and hat in the entrance hall and stamping the ice from his boots. Gibson, his health restored except for a lingering cough, ushered Rob into the drawing room. The Kerr women were seated round a card table by the fire, whiling away the frigid afternoon playing omber, a card game designed for three.
Rob cocked his brow at the pile of buttons in the center of the table.
Janet shrugged. “Our mother-in-law insists we cannot afford to gamble even ha’pence.”
Elisabeth discarded her handful of playing cards, the number of tricks she’d taken all but forgotten. “Please, Mr. MacPherson, tell us the latest news.”
He joined them at the small table. “On Wednesday last the army reached Derby, not much mair than a hundred miles from London. The bells were ringing as the vanguard rode into the mercat place followed by Lord Elcho and his Life Guards.”
Elisabeth pictured her braw husband astride his mount. “Did the rest of the army enter the town?”
“Aye. With the skirl o’ the pipes and their standards flying, they made a bonny show of it. The next morn the clansmen went in search o’ cutlers to sharpen their swords, with the Duke o’ Cumberland close on their heels.”
Elisabeth’s breath caught. Cumberland, the king’s second son, was the same age as Prince Charlie but more experienced as a soldier—and more ruthless.
“I dinna ken what happened next,” Rob confessed.
Janet tossed her cards onto the table in obvious frustration. “Were they victorious over Cumberland or not? Have they marched on to London?”
Rob wagged his head. “We’ve men riding up and doon the countryside leuking to find oot. There are rumors traveling round ilka tavern from London to Inverness. Some true, some not. We’ll ken afore lang.”
The truth came in a letter from Donald almost a fortnight later. By then Elisabeth had heard the grim news whispered in the pews at kirk and shouted on the street by pamphleteers. But seeing it written in her husband’s hand made it far more real. And far more troubling.
Rob brought Donald’s letter to her door on a bleak Tuesday at noontide. “I’m bound for Queensberry Hoose,” he said, “to bid the last o’ the soldiers farewell.”
She closed the door against the wind that howled up the stair. “You’ve done Martin Eccles a great service,” she told him.
Rob held out the letter from Donald. “I’m obliged to help whaur I can.”
His gaze was so intense she nearly closed her eyes. Please don’t, Rob.
“If ye’ll not mind,” he said in a low voice, “I’d like to stay while the letter’s read. For onie news, ye ken.”
She could not refuse him. Donald’s letters were meant for the whole household. And wasn’t Rob the one who made sure she received them? Though he never used the word, Elisabeth was quite certain Rob served as a spy for the Jacobites, gathering intelligence and disseminating vital information. The tailoring shop was ransacked because of Angus’s service on the field. The British never suspected the dark, taciturn son with a marked limp, who remained behind, quietly going about the prince’s business.
Marjory was the first to see the letter in her hand. “Gibson, call the others.” She waited, hazel eyes shining, until Janet and Mrs. Edgar quickly joined them. “Now then, Lady Kerr.”
Elisabeth unfolded the bulky letter, surprised to find another one nestled inside, addressed to her alone. Five pairs of eyes watched the second letter disappear into her hanging pocket. “’Tis some private matter,” she said offhandedly. Had Donald expressed his feelings for her? Or had he penned another sordid confession unburdening further guilt, all the while adding to her shame?
She would know soon enough. First she read aloud his letter for the household.
To My Beloved Family
Friday, 13 December 1745
By necessity I must be brief. I only wish to assure you I am alive and unharmed. So is my brother.
“Thanks be to God!” Marjory dropped into an upholstered chair. “They are safe. ’Tis the only news that matters.”
“Aye,” everyon
e agreed, nodding at their mistress. Elisabeth dared not point out that the letter was several days old. She read on, knowing Donald could not reveal more than was prudent, though his carefully edited words said enough.
We did not engage the enemy in Derby or proceed to London, but are instead returning to Scotland on a familiar route.
“They’re not returning.” Rob’s voice was low, but sharp as steel. “They’re retreating.”
“Why?” Elisabeth studied the letter, seeking an answer between the hurried lines of ink. “They’ve had naught but victories.”
“Aye.” His expression was as black as Greyfriars Kirkyard at midnight. “The prince was a’ for London. But with three English armies afoot, his commanders called for retreat.”
Marjory looked at him, the hope in her eyes waning. “Will my sons be coming home, then?”
“We canna be certain,” Rob replied and said no more.
Elisabeth continued reading, though the news was not good.
When we marched south in November, the villagers rang their kirk bells and watched in wonder. Now, marching north, we are met with hostility and anger.
She’d overheard grisly stories of Jacobite soldiers being abused, even killed, by violent English mobs. Such tales did not bear repeating, though they bore the sting of truth. Come home, Donald. Soon.
“Is there nothing more?” Marjory asked her.
Elisabeth finished the letter, already thinking of the one in her pocket.
I cannot say where we shall spend Yuletide. Our thoughts and prayers are with each of you, this day and always.
Once again Donald had not signed his letter except with chapter and verse. “Gibson, if you might collect the Scriptures from my chamber. ’Tis Psalm 18:3 we’re needing.”
He returned shortly and balanced the book for Elisabeth while she found the verse.
“I will call upon the LORD, who is worthy to be praised,” Elisabeth read. “So shall I be saved from mine enemies.”
“May it be so…” Marjory’s voice broke. “Please, may it be so…” She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and squeezed shut her eyes, moaning to herself, “My sons, my sons…”
Fifty-Nine
The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Y our sons will return,” Elisabeth said softly, knowing it was an empty promise. But she couldn’t watch her mother-in-law suffer and not comfort her in some way. When she took Marjory’s hand, it felt surprisingly small and limp.
Her mother-in-law opened her eyes. Both hope and doubt shone in her tears. “How can you be certain they’ll come home?”
Elisabeth hesitated, not wanting to speak amiss.
Rob MacPherson came to her rescue. “The army is nearing Carlisle, mem. Within the week yer sons may cross the border.” His low voice thrummed with conviction, but Elisabeth heard the word may and knew he was treading with care. The dowager did not forget or forgive easily, especially not broken promises.
“’Tis some consolation,” Marjory agreed, “to think of them in Scotland.” She sniffed, drying her eyes. “As always, Mr. MacPherson, we appreciate your loyal service to our family.”
It was a gentle but firm dismissal, which Rob did not miss. “I bid ye guid day, mem.”
Elisabeth walked him to the door, keeping a slight distance between them, though she could still sense the heat of his body, as if he’d lined his waistcoat with live coals.
“Will ye fast on the morrow?” Rob asked, though surely he knew how she would respond.
King George had proclaimed a public fast to quell the unnatural rebellion, as the English loved to call it. The fast was not a request but a royal command, set to commence on the eighteenth of December. Not everyone in his kingdom was required to fast that day. Only his subjects in Scotland.
“King David humbled his soul afore God with fasting,” Rob said as if testing her.
“I might fast for Almighty God,” Elisabeth said firmly, “but not for King George.”
Rob nodded at that. “Weel said, Leddy Kerr.” His gaze fell to her pocket. “I imagine ye’re eager to read the letter from yer husband.”
“I am,” she admitted. “Monday will be the third anniversary of our wedding.”
The moment the words were spoken Rob’s features darkened. “’Tis unfortunate ye must spend the day alone.”
“Since my husband will do the same, we will be joined in that way if no other.”
Rob frowned but did not comment.
Voices in the drawing room reminded Elisabeth they’d tarried at the door long enough. “I must go,” she said, taking a step back and dropping a curtsy. “If I do not see you before year’s end—”
“Nae, Bess. Ye’ll see me. ’Tis a lang fortnight ’til Hogmanay.” His bow was curt and his exit more so. The door closed before she could bid him good-bye.
Elisabeth waited for the heat in her face to cool and the tension in her body to ease. She touched the letter in her pocket like a talisman. This is the man I love. And the one who loves me.
Mrs. Edgar approached from the kitchen. “Did ye not invite Mr. MacPherson to stay for dinner? ’Tis not but crawfish soup and mutton chops, but I’ve plenty to spare.”
Elisabeth heard the faintly scolding note in her voice. “We’ll invite him to sup with us over Yuletide,” she promised. “At the moment I’ve a letter to read before dinner.”
Seeing the others round the fireplace, Elisabeth slipped through the kitchen and then Janet’s bedchamber to reach her own, avoiding the drawing room. She unfolded the letter, not surprised to find it began without date or address.
My Darling Wife,
I miss you every waking hour and pray that you are content.
I would give all I own in this world to hold you in my arms.
Oh, my love. Elisabeth not only heard Donald’s voice; she felt his touch and almost tasted his kiss. Content? Not until he was home. Not until she was in his embrace.
I trust you received a letter shortly after I left and have destroyed it.
The paper was gone but the names remained. Susan McGill, Jane Montgomerie, Lucy Spence. Guilt pierced her heart at the much-rehearsed litany. He did not ask you to remember them, Bess. He asked you to forget.
She looked down at the letter through a veil of tears.
If you have chosen to withdraw your forgiveness, none would fault you, least of all your husband. Until then, I cling to the three words you spoke in the forecourt and pray I may someday deserve them.
You are forgiven. Words she could not take back even if she wanted to. And she no longer wanted to.
Was mercy deserved? Earned? Or simply received? She only knew it was never ending. His mercy lasteth ever. On the Sabbath at the Tron Kirk, the precentor had sung those words over and over. Each time she’d sung them in response, the truth sank in a wee bit deeper. His mercy faileth never.
Only two more lines of Donald’s letter remained. How she wished he might have written page after page! That he wrote to her at all in the midst of an army encampment was a gift that would suffice for many an anniversary to come.
Elisabeth read the last of it, letting each word do the work often.
The anniversary of our marriage approaches. I will spend the day giving thanks for my bonny wife, who was faithful when I was not.
Yours.
“You are mine, beloved,” she whispered, smiling through her tears. “And I am yours.”
When all of Scotland fasted on Wednesday for King George, Elisabeth fasted and prayed for her husband. When royalist troops began to pour into Edinburgh from the west, she strengthened her resolve with a verse from Scripture: Ye shall not fear them: for the LORD your God he shall fight for you. And in late December, when the broadsheets reported the Duke of Cumberland was pursuing the rebel army into Scotland, Elisabeth drew comfort in this assurance: Donald was draw
ing near.
Sixty
Enter upon thy paths, O year!
Thy paths, which all who breathe must tread.
BARRY CORNWALL
T he new year began in silence and in darkness. Marjory shivered in bed, the covers pulled round her neck. She could not tell the time since the dragoons had stolen her mantel clock, but daylight was surely hours away.
Before retiring for the night, Marjory had snuffed all the candles in her bedchamber and instructed the household to do the same. Hogmanay revelers spying even a flicker of light in their windows would have climbed the turnpike stair and come banging on their door, certain they’d be welcomed and served a dram of whisky no matter how late the hour. As it was, the cacophony from the High Street below had kept Marjory awake long past midnight. The skirl of the bagpipes, the ringing of the Tron Kirk bells, and the sounding of ship horns in Leith’s harbor ushered in the year 1746 with the usual uproar.
On her first Hogmanay in Edinburgh, Marjory had leaned out their High Street window, intoxicated with the sheer excitement of it all-Donald on one side of her, Andrew on the other, and a bemused Lord John half asleep in his favorite chair. Two weeks later her sons lay in their beds, struggling to breathe. Two years later Lord John lay in this bed, drawing his last breath.
Marjory had learned to dread January. ’Twas the longest month of the year, with its short days and its endless, frigid nights. The sun seldom shone, the clouds never moved except to spill copious amount of rain or snow or both, and the cold winter fog, called haar, crawled in from the sea and lingered all day. The household burned coal and candles as if they cost nothing to replenish, and a decent cut of fresh beef could not be found in the Fleshmarket, not for all the guineas beneath her floor.
There were precious few coins now. Fewer every day. She could not bear to think what Lord John would say if he knew she’d gambled their fortune on an exiled prince.
Marjory sighed into the pitch-black room. I miss you, John. So very much. She quickly blinked to stem her tears. Ill luck came to those who wept on New Year’s Day. Instead she touched the empty pillow beside her, remembering the many tears she’d cried in seasons past.
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