Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Marjory stared down at her. “Is this true?”

  Elisabeth stood, using her height to bolster her courage. “Aye, that was Mr. MacPherson’s proposal.”

  Marjory bristled. “You were married to a peer of the realm. Why would you demean yourself—”

  “Demean, is it?” Rob growled, his brow as dark as a storm. “Yer son demeaned her weel enough. With Jane Montgomerie and Susan McGill and—”

  “Rob!” Elisabeth cried out. “Please don’t do this!”

  He looked at her darkly. “’Tis the truth, Leddy Kerr, as ye verra weel ken.”

  “Nae.” Marjory fell back a step. “These… accusations. They cannot be true. My son was… faithful.”

  “Nae, he was not.” Rob’s voice softened only a little. “A young widow by the name o’ Lucy Spence came to visit Lord Kerr while he lodged at White Horse Close. Thrice I saw them thegither—”

  “Stop!” Marjory sank onto her chair, her hands over her ears. “Do not say such things about my son. Please, Lady Elisabeth… please tell me this slander is not true.”

  Elisabeth knelt beside her. “Lord Kerr was a loving husband and a good son. That is all that matters now.”

  “He was, he was.” Marjory moaned into her handkerchief.

  “Rather too loving,” Janet scoffed. “I’d heard the rumors and hoped they were idle gossip. Now I understand what sort of family I married into.” She stood and turned on her heel, retreating to her bedchamber.

  Elisabeth watched her go, almost relieved. Marjory needed her full attention.

  She rested her hand on her mother-in-law’s shoulder, which shook with her quiet sobs. “Try not to dwell on this,” Elisabeth said gently. Donald’s own words came to mind: Do not bind these names to your heart.

  Rob stood above her now, offering his hand. “Leddy Kerr, if I might have a wird.”

  She looked up at him, seeing him with new eyes. Clearly Rob had taken no small pleasure in ruining Marjory’s good opinion of her son. And to what end? Soothing his trampled pride.

  Elisabeth stood without taking his hand. “Step into the entrance hall, Mr. MacPherson, and speak your piece.” She led the way, not looking over her shoulder, any doubt of her decision banished.

  When they reached the stair door, she turned to look at him, keeping her distance. “Rob, how could you be so thoughtless?”

  His expression was contrite, but his tone was not. “I am sorry, Bess. It needed to be said.”

  “Nae, it did not.” Elisabeth spoke with equal conviction. “Her son is dead. His memory is sacred to her. In truth, ’tis all she has. What you’ve done is unconscionable.”

  Rob suddenly gripped her shoulders, his temper flaring. “Why d’ye defend these people? They dinna love ye as I do. Ye’re a Hielander, Bess, and aye will be to them.”

  “They are my family now—”

  “Nae!” He shook her soundly. “Yer family lives in Braemar.”

  “My mother lives there, aye.” She twisted free of his grasp. “But I left my father and my mother and cleaved unto my husband.”

  “Aye, a profligate,” Rob muttered.

  Elisabeth slapped him. Not hard, but hard enough. “Do not speak ill of my husband.” Tears stung her eyes. “Do not speak of him at all.”

  He covered his cheek, his words low, almost menacing. “Ye were meant to be mine, Bess.”

  “I was never yours.” She flung open the stair door. “I belonged to Lord Kerr. And now I belong to God. I bid you farewell.”

  Seventy-Four

  Who has not felt how sadly sweet

  The dream of home, the dream of home.

  THOMAS MOORE

  M arjory stood at the door to Elisabeth’s bedchamber, her ear almost touching the wood. Was she mistaken? Or was her daughter-in-law crying herself to sleep again this night? She could not fault the lass. Had she not wept through many a midnight hour? But this was unusual for Elisabeth.

  Marjory eased away, honoring her daughter-in-law’s privacy. Now that Rob MacPherson had not darkened their door in a fortnight, Elisabeth seemed more at peace. But what were these tears at night? Certainly they weren’t shed for the tailor’s son. Mrs. Edgar, who’d been listening from behind the kitchen door, said Elisabeth practically threw the man down the stair.

  Marjory was only sorry she’d not seen it for herself.

  Elisabeth had been right to refuse his proposal. Aye, and to turn him out. The withdrawal of Rob’s support was no loss to Marjory, yet she hoped her daughter-in-law was not suffering because of it. He was her childhood friend, and his father was gravely ill.

  Still, the terrible accusations Rob had made, the women’s names he had spoken with such certainty taunted her by the hour.

  A loving husband and a good son. So Elisabeth had assured her. But what the lass didn’t say was more troubling. Donald was faithful. Nae, she’d not said that.

  Charlotte Ruthven had been right after all, then. I saw Lord Kerr with Susan McGill. One of the names Rob had spat out. A widow of dubious repute.

  Marjory moved to the window, staring into the darkness, sick with the thought of it. Was that why Elisabeth wept at night? Because of Donald’s sordid affairs? Her daughter-in-law had apparently known for some time, all the while remaining faithful, guarding his secrets, bearing her pain in silence.

  Marjory carried her lighted taper to her bedside, her heart heavy with sorrow and with shame. An adulterer for a son. How could she live with that burden? She had taken him to kirk each Sabbath, read him the psalms, taught him the commandments. How did I fail you, Donald? Was I not a good mother?

  When she knelt to pray, Marjory pressed her forehead against the edge of her bed, desperate for answers. “Almighty God, you know how much I loved my sons.” She squeezed her eyes, trying to shut out the pain but could not. Her tears landed soundlessly on the carpet. “Forgive me… forgive me…” No more words came.

  She had failed everyone she loved.

  Everyone.

  She remained there for some time, simply weeping.

  When at last she could take a full breath, Marjory stood and dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown. She’d spoken few words. And yet she knew the Almighty was listening. The Lord seeth. The Lord heareth. The Lord knoweth. He always spoke so clearly. Why did she find it difficult to trust him?

  She stepped out of her brocade slippers and climbed into bed, utterly spent. A soft April rain was falling. She drew the bedcovers round her neck and burrowed deep into her pillow, already feeling drowsy.

  Unbidden, thoughts of home crept through her mind like a gray cat slipping down a lane, soundless and barely noticed, yet beckoning her to follow.

  Home, home, home.

  Lambing season had begun in the Borderland. The rolling hills were covered with bright green grass by now, and wildflowers dotted the meadows. Winter’s heavy snowfall would mean abundant crops come summer. There was no place lovelier than home in the spring.

  Marjory sighed into the empty room, having found her answer. Come Whitsuntide she would return to Tweedsford with her daughters-in-law.

  To leave behind a litany of mistakes. To make amends. To start anew.

  As if from a distance, Marjory heard a soft tapping on her door.

  And then Mrs. Edgar with a plaintive entreaty.

  “Come,” Marjory called out to her, struggling to sit up.

  Mrs. Edgar popped her head round the door, then quietly entered, full of apologies. “I’d hoped to find ye still awake, mem.”

  “No matter. I only just now fell asleep,” Marjory said, tucking her bedcovers round her, then brushing aside her tousled hair.

  Mrs. Edgar stood before her, twisting her apron in her hands. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but…”

  Marjory studied the housekeeper more closely. The lines creasing her brow had deepened, and a worried look clouded her gray eyes. “What is it?” Marjory asked, genuinely concerned.

  “I’ve had a letter from my mither in Lasswade. Ye ken
she’s a’ alone.”

  Marjory felt a knot tighten inside her. “Is she… unwell?” Is she dead?

  “Nae, but she is auld and verra frail.”

  When the housekeeper fell silent, Marjory prompted her. “And?”

  “Ye see, mem…” Mrs. Edgar hung her head. “My mither has begged me to come hame and care for her.”

  Marjory sat up straighter, hoping she’d misunderstood her. “Do you mean to return home… for good?”

  “Aye.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron strings. “I would niver do such a thing if ’tweren’t my mither asking.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Marjory said, her heart sinking. She tried to picture her household without Helen Edgar and could not.

  “Mebbe this wee bit will help.” Digging in her pocket, the housekeeper withdrew six shillings, which she carefully counted out. “I ken siller is hard to come by, mem. These are my wages ’til Whitsuntide.”

  “Oh! I wouldn’t think of taking it,” Marjory protested. “That money is yours.”

  Mrs. Edgar would not be persuaded. “Take it, mem. If Gibson makes a canny bargain in Fishmarket Close, ye’ll have smoked haddies for a fortnight.”

  Marjory touched the housekeeper’s hand, chapped and red from her labors. “I’d rather have you for a twelvemonth.”

  “I’m sorry, mem. Truly, I am.”

  “But I’m the one who must apologize. You were due a new gown in January. No wonder you’re keen to leave us.”

  “Nae!” The housekeeper looked up, clearly appalled at the suggestion. “I wouldna leave ye o’er a silly gown. But, mem, ’tis a’ we can do to feed the five of us. If I’m not here, there’ll be only four mouths to feed.”

  And no one to cook. Marjory did not wish to heap any guilt on Mrs. Edgar’s shoulders. “If your mother needs you, then certainly you must go.”

  The housekeeper merely bobbed her head, her cheeks wet, her nose running.

  Marjory offered her lace handkerchief, her own emotions reeling. She depended upon Helen’s faithful service. Trusted her completely. When she’d thought of returning home to Tweedsford, she’d imagined Helen Edgar coming with her. “We’ll speak more of this in the morn,” Marjory told her.

  “I hope to leave this Friday,” the housekeeper confessed. “I’ll be sure to finish a’ my tasks afore I go. I’m sure we can find someone to cook yer meals and a lass to clean ilka week.”

  “But we’ll not find another Mrs. Edgar,” Marjory said with a heavy sigh, turning her head so her disappointment would not show.

  “I’m verra sorry, mem. I’ll bid ye guid nicht for now.” The door closed softly behind her.

  Marjory did not sleep well, nor did she dream. Instead she stared at the ceiling and whispered the words she knew to be true: The Lord seeth. The Lord heareth. The Lord knoweth.

  Friday came too soon.

  “The hoose is scrubbed clean from one end to the ither,” Mrs. Edgar promised, already wearing her wool bonnet and a thin plaid cape. A small leather bag with her few personal belongings sat by the stair door.

  “You’ve worked very hard this week.” Marjory clasped her housekeeper’s hands as if she might keep her a bit longer. Elisabeth and Janet stood on either side of her, one with a tender expression and the other with an air of impatience.

  “Gibson kens whaur ilka thing can be found,” Mrs. Edgar said, nodding at him in the doorway. “He’ll do a’ the marketing and keep yer coal grates fu’ and yer water pitchers too.”

  Marjory was somewhat comforted by Gibson’s fervent nodding. But it was a great deal to ask of one servant. And if Gibson became ill again… Well, she simply could not think of it. Not this day.

  “Mrs. Sinclair’s maidservant, Betty, will clean ilka Thursday,” Mrs. Edgar promised. “But as to wha will cook…” She bit her lip.

  “Do not trouble yourself,” Marjory told her. “We’ve made arrangements. Haven’t we, Elisabeth?” She looked to her daughter-in-law, hoping she’d not changed her mind.

  “We have,” Elisabeth said firmly. “None will starve in this house.”

  “Guid, guid.” Mrs. Edgar smiled even as her eyes began to fill. “Weel, then, I must be going.” She busied herself with the strings of her cape, already well tied. “’Twill not take me lang to reach Lasswade. Naught but seven miles. I’ll be at my mither’s door by three.”

  Marjory sighed. “I wish I could afford a carriage for you …”

  “Hoot!” She laughed, making her tears spill over. “A hoosekeeper in a coach-and-four? Nae, mem. I’ll find a wee family or some dairymaids to walk beside. Dinna fash yerself.”

  “Promise you will write to us,” Elisabeth said, tugging Mrs. Edgar’s bonnet in place. “I’ve put a few leaves of paper in your bag. We’ll not mind the pence for your post.”

  “I read better than I write,” the housekeeper admitted, “but, aye, I’ll send ye news.”

  Nothing remained but to say farewell and bid Mrs. Edgar a safe journey. Janet was perfunctory, Elisabeth was warm, and Gibson was too overcome to speak.

  Marjory followed her into the entrance hall. “Gibson will walk you to the end of the Canongate.” They paused by the door. “Our prayers will go with you to Lasswade.”

  Mrs. Edgar bowed her head. “I’ve been honored to serve ye, Leddy Kerr. To leuk after Lord John…and to care for yer sons…” She broke down, sobbing into her new handkerchief. “I will sorely miss ye, mem.”

  Marjory placed her hands on the housekeeper’s rounded shoulders, her eyes beginning to swim. “And I will miss you. So much.” She tried to say more but could not. For one moment Marjory forgot that she was the Dowager Lady Kerr and pulled her beloved housekeeper into her arms. “Godspeed, dear Helen. Godspeed.”

  Seventy-Five

  But dearest friends, alas! must part.

  JOHN GAY

  E lisabeth stood in the kitchen, a white apron tied over her mourning gown. At her elbow Scotch collops were stewing in a pan, filling the air with the scent of onions and sweet herbs. Janet pretended not to know who was preparing their meals, while Marjory expressed her gratitude each time they sat at table. “We cannot afford even the most inexperienced scullery maid,” she’d said earlier at dinner, “and yet the Almighty has provided us with the best of cooks.”

  Elisabeth had smiled at that. As if a Highland lass had a choice about learning her way round a kitchen! She had caught and cleaned eel, had perfected the art of smoked venison and salmon, and could fix milled oats in a dozen different ways. For this evening’s supper she’d chosen a simple dish, making do with a single serving of veal for all four of them.

  In the end Marjory had not accepted Mrs. Edgar’s six shillings, even though the housekeeper hadn’t earned them, having departed before the end of her term. “She will need those coins,” Marjory had insisted, “for her mother and for herself.”

  Elisabeth was taken aback. Something was happening to her mother-in-law. Whether it was the loss of her sons or the loss of her fortune, the Dowager Lady Kerr she’d once known seemed to be disappearing, and a real woman—with flesh and bone and heart—was slowly taking her place.

  When a visitor came knocking on the stair, Elisabeth was glad she’d closed the door to her kitchen. Janet was right about this: if their neighbors discovered Lady Kerr in the kitchen, the gossip would never cease. She heard Mr. Baillie in the entrance hall, talking with Gibson. Delivering something, apparently.

  Their landlord departed after a bit, and Gibson appeared in the kitchen, bearing a letter addressed to her. “Mr. Baillie meant to bring this up on Friday. Said he forgot.”

  Much as she longed to read it, the collops were ready to take off the fire and would not improve by stewing a minute longer. She slipped the letter inside her apron pocket and attended to her cooking. The last few minutes of daylight filled the drawing room windows as they sat down to supper at eight o’ the clock. Gibson brought their plates to table, and Elisabeth sat with the others, her apron left in the kitchen.

/>   “Delicious,” her mother-in-law said after two bites. “Will you soon run out of dishes to prepare? Shall we borrow a copy of The Compleat Housewife for you? Perhaps Mr. Ramsay has the book in his circulating library.”

  “I’ll be fine for a month or two,” Elisabeth assured her. But if Mr. Laidlaw, the Kerrs’ factor, did not bring the quarterly rents from Tweedsford soon, she would resort to her many recipes featuring oats.

  Marjory seldom spoke of money now. There simply was none. Yesterday morning Marjory, too, had sold her gowns to Miss Callander, who’d offered only two pounds each. Gibson carried the gowns there himself, two at a time. When Marjory returned with her meager profit, Elisabeth reminded her she had a seamstress for a daughter-in-law. “When we can afford silk again,” she’d told Marjory, “I’ll dress us all in style.”

  Elisabeth produced a treat for dessert. “A fresh orange from Lisbon. Mr. Strachan of New Bank Close was anxious to sell them and gave me a very fair price.” She split open the orange, sending a fragrant mist into the air, then handed each of them a quarter, Gibson included.

  Janet eyed her fruit. “But I thought you had no coins left in your purse.”

  “His daughter fancied my enameled hair comb.” Elisabeth savored one juicy slice of orange, then admitted, “An easy exchange was made.”

  “Has it come to that, then?” Janet savagely tore her quarter into slices, spraying juice everywhere. “Selling all we own or wear?”

  “Aye, it has come to that,” Marjory said simply. “I sent a letter to Mrs. Pitcairn, inquiring of her possible interest in our furniture.”

  “The rouping wife?” Elisabeth was relieved to hear it. The female auctioneer had a reputation for clever dealing and would treat Marjory more fairly than their miserly seamstress had. She looked about the room, wondering how much anyone might be willing to pay for chairs with mended upholstery and missing cushions. She’d done the best she could with her embroidery needle. But held up for auction, piece by piece, their plenishings would make a sad lot indeed.

  Marjory followed her gaze. “I know we’ll not earn a large sum. But I cannot afford the repairs, and we truly don’t need all this.” She waved her hand about. “I sent the letter this morn. We’ll see what she says.”