The auctioneer touched the silk upholstery, slashed by the dragoons. “Someone with a deft hand mended this.”
“My daughter-in-law,” Marjory admitted. Over the winter months Elisabeth had employed her needle wherever possible, adding clever bits of embroidery to cover her repair work. “She is very skilled.”
“Mmm.” Mrs. Pitcairn spent a few more minutes taking inventory, then scratched a number in her notebook and held it out for her approval. “’Tis my best offer.”
Marjory abruptly sat in the nearest chair. “Is that all?” Lord John had paid ten times that amount.
“I’ll remind ye every piece is used and most are damaged.” Towering over her, Mrs. Pitcairn tapped on the notebook. “Aye or nae, mem?”
Marjory closed her eyes rather than stare at the disheartening sum. “Aye.”
“Sold, then.” Mrs. Pitcairn closed her notebook with a snap. “I’ll auction them on Friday next at the Golden Fan below Blackfriars Wynd.
My men will come round on Thursday at noontide to collect everything. Will that suit?”
Marjory nodded, the decision made for her. They would depart in five days, leaving behind an empty house.
The woman withdrew from her skirt pocket a large leather purse heavy with coins. She counted out the agreed-upon sum, deposited it in Marjory’s hand, then yanked her purse shut. “’til Thursday, then. Shall we wet oor bargain?”
Heat flew up Marjory’s neck. “I’m afraid the dragoons took all our whisky.”
Mrs. Pitcairn clucked her tongue. “Ye’ll shake the dust aff o’ yer feet whan ye leave this toun.”
“So I shall,” Marjory agreed, suddenly very weary of living in the capital. Who could have envisioned such a day? She saw Mrs. Pitcairn to the door, then sat down at Lord John’s mahogany desk in the entrance hall and released a lengthy sigh.
The house was quiet. She’d sent Elisabeth and Janet to Mr. Ramsay’s circulating library for an hour, thinking the whole unseemly process might be more bearable without her daughters-in-law on hand to share her humiliation.
Gibson emerged from the kitchen, steaming cup in hand. “I thocht ye might be needing yer tea, mem.”
The aroma alone revived her. Stirring in a half lump of sugar, she told Gibson, “I’ll tally up the last of our debts and have you settle them for me on Monday.”
Something flickered across his face. Disappointment? Fear?
Marjory reconsidered. There was no reason to wait. “Would you rather call on our creditors this afternoon?”
“Aye,” he said, the relief evident on his face. She knew he took the brunt of any complaints from merchants and would be as glad as she to see their obligations met.
Marjory pulled out her cashbook and the burgeoning stack of unpaid bills, then took a long drink of tea to fortify her. The glistening pile of pounds and shillings would not be hers for long. She began her bookkeeping, praying she would not come up short. She had nothing else to sell. And nowhere else to turn.
Mrs. McIntosh, for washing: one pound, two shillings.
Mr. Stonehouse, for coal: three pounds, one shilling.
Mrs. Dunsmuir, for tea and loaf sugar: one pound, four shillings.
Marjory eyed her teacup. Having given up almost every other indulgence, she refused to feel guilty for maintaining one small habit.
She made a careful list for Gibson, indicating who was to be paid by using simple drawings. He would be making more than a dozen stops that afternoon, including one at White Horse Close to arrange a carriage for Thursday morn. After their bills were accounted for, only a dozen or so shillings remained. Marjory held the coins cupped in her palm, thinking how in days gone by she would easily lose this much at cards and think nothing of it. Now each coin was precious and not to be wasted.
With some reluctance she pressed one more shilling into Gibson’s hand. “Bring us a dozen potatoes,” she told him. “If you find a good price on trout in the Fishmarket, buy that as well. Let the color of the gills and the look of the eyes be your guide. And bacon from Mr. Gilchrist in Fleshmarket Close, if you will.”
“Aye, mem.” He’d hidden all her coins in various pockets. “I’ll return as soon as ever I can.”
Marjory leaned forward, but she could not see the hands on the clock in the next room. He would be home by six o’ the clock, she guessed, in time to assist Elisabeth with their supper.
Shortly after Gibson departed down the stair, her daughters-in-law returned, their faces sober. “Still no news from Inverness,” Elisabeth said, tugging off her cape, “though an official report cannot be long in coming. The rumors all point to a battle, but precisely where and when…” She shook her head.
“I have already lost my sons,” Marjory reminded them, slipping the remaining shillings in her pocket. “Whatever the outcome, King George can take nothing else away from me. He cannot charge the dead with treason nor take lives already given.”
“But we supported the prince as well,” Elisabeth said softly. “With our coins and our poems and our hearts.”
Janet frowned. “Are you saying we are in danger?”
“I am saying it is not King George who concerns me but his son, the Duke of Cumberland. His reputation marks him as heartless and cruel. He is the reason Mrs. Sinclair left in haste.”
“We’ll not be long behind her,” Marjory promised.
“What of Mrs. Pitcairn?” Janet wanted to know. “Was the woman generous?”
“She was…honest,” Marjory admitted. “At least we’ll not depart Edinburgh in debt. I’ve asked Gibson to arrange for a morning coach on Thursday.”
“Five days,” Janet breathed, as if trying to take it in.
“We should start packing at once.” Elisabeth ducked into the kitchen, then reappeared with three linen aprons. “I’ve a small kist in my room that should hold my few belongings.”
Janet took the apron with obvious disdain. “I cannot believe I must pack my own trunks.”
Marjory snapped back, “And I cannot believe you would expect either of us to do it for you.” When Janet’s mouth dropped open, Marjory felt only a little guilty.
“We’ll all help each other,” Elisabeth suggested. “Suppose we begin in your bedchamber.”
Within the hour two large trunks were filled with Janet’s petticoats, hats, gloves, and shoes. Though the dragoons had spared none of her gowns, Janet did have several pieces of jewelry the men hadn’t found, including an expensive pair of gold and emerald earrings. When no one was looking, Marjory plucked them from Janet’s dressing table and held them to her ears, admiring how the dark green jewels sparkled in the looking glass.
“My father gave me those,” Janet said from the doorway.
Marjory quickly put the earrings back where she’d found them. “Lovely,” she murmured, then returned to folding handkerchiefs. Janet easily owned a dozen, all edged in delicate lace. “We’ll pack my trunk next,” Marjory said. “’Twill not take long.”
While she and Elisabeth labored, lining a small trunk with her nightgowns and stockings, Janet mostly watched. Marjory could not remember what it was about her older daughter-in-law that had once appealed to her. Had Janet changed? Or had she?
Marjory glanced at the window as the clock chimed six. Two more hours of daylight remained for Gibson’s errands, though most shops would have closed by now. When he hadn’t returned by seven o’ the clock, Marjory lost interest in packing and simply stood by the window, looking down at the High Street. And when Elisabeth placed their supper on the table at eight, as the last rays of the sun were fading behind the rooftops, Marjory could barely taste her broth, however highly seasoned.
“He’ll not be much longer.” Elisabeth meant to comfort her, but her words carried little weight. Who knew what might have happened? Gibson was not a young man. He’d left the house with his pockets stuffed with coins. And Edinburgh was rife with strangers.
Marjory put down her spoon. “Should the three of us look for him? Perhaps together…” H
er voice trailed off at the sound of footsteps on the landing. When the door opened, she flew to the entrance hall.
“Och, mem!” Startled, Gibson nearly stumbled back onto the landing.
Marjory gave him room, waving him inside. “Forgive me, but…”
“Aye, nae wonder ye’re worried, late as I am.” He hung his coat on the hook by his bed, then turned to her. “It took a lang time to find a’ the folk. Some were at the mercat cross, ithers at the Star and Garter, and some were having supper behind their shops and couldna hear my knock.” He patted his many pockets, satisfied they were empty. “’Tis done, mem. Yer carriage hame is arranged. And a’ yer debts are paid.”
Marjory almost kissed his brow she was so relieved. “Come, have some broth with us at table.”
His bushy eyebrows drew together. “I should eat in the kitchen …”
“Not this night.” Marjory led him into the drawing room, where Elisabeth had taken her cue and had a place waiting for him.
He sat, then fished something out of his waistcoat. “I stopped by the Post Office.” He held out a letter. “For ye, mem.”
Marjory recognized the hand. Helen Edgar. “From Lasswade,” she announced, opening it at once.
To Lady Marjory Kerr of Milne Square
Saturday, 12 April 1746
I arrived home after a pleasant walk.
Janet rolled her eyes. “Only Mrs. Edgar would consider walking seven miles pleasant.”
“Do keep reading,” Elisabeth urged, giving Janet a withering look.
My mother is frailer than I had hoped. But she is eating
better now that I am cooking for her.
“No surprise, that,” Elisabeth said. “My cooking doesn’t hold a candle to hers.”
“Ye’ve made a fine broth,” Gibson insisted, then downed another spoonful.
I had forgotten the size of our garden and the quietness of village life. We have chestnut and sycamore trees beyond our door. A barn owl hoots at night.
Marjory paused her reading, thinking of Tweedsford with its native woods and abundance of birds. Aye, she was ready for home. More than ready, as Elisabeth said.
I miss each of you and wish you well.
Yours always,
Helen Edgar
Marjory folded the letter, a faint mist clouding her vision. “I am glad she is safely home. Lord willing, we shall say the same of ourselves one week hence. Gibson, while you were out, did you learn any news from the north?”
“The usual blether,” he said with a shrug. “Wha can say whan we’ll hear? Inverness is sae far awa.”
With the sun well set and their last two candles barely dispelling the darkness, the household retired earlier than usual. Marjory was beneath the covers and drifting to sleep within minutes.
At first she thought the booming noise she heard was thunder. But the sound was too loud and too close, rolling down the High Street from Edinburgh Castle, rattling her windowpanes.
Marjory sat up at once. The cannons.
Horrified, she leaped from bed and ran into Elisabeth’s bedchamber. “The king’s men!” Marjory cried. “They’re firing the great guns from the batteries. I fear ’tis a victory salute.”
Elisabeth flung back her covers. “Nae, it cannot be!”
Marjory lifted the sash, and they both leaned out. Below them, people were streaming into the High Street, many in their nightclothes with plaids thrown about their shoulders. All were waving, cheering, shouting as another round of discharges echoed the dreaded news.
Seventy-Nine
Here burns my candle out;
ay, here it dies.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
T he prince’s men were defeated in half an hour.” Gibson stood in the doorway, still breathing hard from his hasty trip down the stair and back. “Nae quarter was given. A thousand Hielanders lay deid on Drummossie Muir.”
“Nae!” Elisabeth moaned. “Not a thousand…”
Marjory closed her eyes, feeling sick. She could not fathom such bloodshed.
Gibson mopped his brow. “The Duke o’ Cumberland’s aide-decamp arrived at the castle with a dispatch at midnight.”
Abandoning any hope of sleep, Marjory moved to the fireplace to light a candle. “’Tis past two o’ the clock now.”
Gibson followed her, keeping his voice low. “There’s mair, Leddy Kerr. Cumberland’s men were ordered to put to death a’ the wounded with pistol, club, or bayonet. Them that escaped the field o’ battle are being hunted doon and killed. Aye, and their luved ones as weel.”
Marjory bent down, touching the wick to the live coal, her hand trembling. “Is there no mercy in Cumberland’s heart?”
“Nae, mem. Not for them wha supported the Jacobite cause.”
As we did. The truth struck a hard blow, knocking the wind from her. Had the king not taken enough? Would his son inflict further punishment still? Pistol, club, or bayonet.
Elisabeth was walking toward them now, her cheeks wet with tears. “Is there news of Rob MacPherson?”
Gibson shook his head. “Nae, milady.”
“What’s to become of us?” Elisabeth said, her voice like broken glass.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Marjory slipped her arm round her daughter-in-law’s waist. “We’ll soon be bound for Tweedsford.” The farther removed from the Highlands, the better, though she would not confess as much to her daughters-in-law.
Janet’s door opened. She yawned and entered the room, rubbing her eyes. “Whatever is the commotion in the street?”
When Marjory told her, Janet’s face paled. “Must we wait ’til Thursday to leave?”
Gibson answered her. “Whan I arranged for yer carriage, I was told there were none to be had afore then.”
Marjory held out her arm to encircle Janet as well. “It seems we are not alone in quitting the capital.” When Janet did not step closer, Marjory pretended to brush a fleck of lint from her nightgown, stung by her daughter-in-law’s rejection. “We’ve much to accomplish in the days ahead,” she reminded them. “For now, ’tis the Sabbath. I suggest we spend it in prayer.”
Though the noise in the street eventually subsided, none in the Kerr household could think of returning to bed. Elisabeth took Marjory’s words to heart and read aloud from the Buik through the few remaining hours before dawn, the three of them gathered round Marjory’s tea table. “Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me,” Elisabeth read. “When his candle shined upon my head, and when by his light I walked through darkness.”
Marjory bowed her head, listening. I remember such days. She had lived without fear, ever aware of God’s presence in her life, shining brighter than any beeswax taper. When she looked up and saw Elisabeth leaning across the Buik, her eyes glowing and her voice fervent, Marjory fought a twinge of envy. To have that passion again! To burn for all that was holy.
Perhaps when she returned to Tweedsford, when she knelt beside her old bed, perhaps then the Almighty would banish the darkness inside her for good.
The Sabbath morning passed quietly. The women broke their fast, prayed at length, then gathered at the window when the Tron Kirk rang its bell.
Marjory watched the throng pouring through the kirk doors across the High Street, wishing she might join her Edinburgh friends once more and worship the Lord. But the Kerrs were anathema. None would welcome them now.
“Shall we attend services when we live in Selkirk?” Elisabeth asked.
“Every Sunday,” Marjory said firmly. The kirk session, charged with keeping a close eye on the morals of their parishioners, would forgive her brief dalliance with the Jacobite cause. She was, after all, the Dowager Lady Kerr.
As the morning wore on, the three women drank watery tea with thin gingersnaps. Elisabeth apologized for their hard texture. “I’m trying to make our butter last until breakfast on Thursday.”
Marjory bit into her biscuit and did not let Elisabeth see her wince. The lass was doing the best she could.
None could fault her. Except Janet, who buttered the top of her gingersnap as if it were toast and then fussed, “Why even bake them if you intend to scrimp on the recipe?”
“So you might have something to complain about,” Elisabeth gently said, putting Janet very neatly in her place.
At noontide the bell rang again, and the doors of the kirk opened, releasing the parishioners into the street. Women were dressed in brighter colors than Marjory had seen in some time. A celebration of spring, she imagined; and of victory for King George.
She peered down at two people approaching Milne Square. They reached the open arcade leading into the square before Marjory recognized her old tea-table friend, Lady Woodhall, and her manservant, with his shock of red hair.
Elisabeth saw them too. “Shall I have Gibson prepare fresh tea?”
“Aye.” Marjory quickly began gathering dishes. “As strong as he can make it.” Her heart was pounding. What would bring Lady Woodhall to her door? ’Twas not a social call. Not on the Sabbath.
Even Janet helped her clear the table and straighten the house. By the time the expected knock came, all three Kerrs were seated in the drawing room, hands folded, as if they had nothing to do but wait upon callers.
When she was announced, Lady Woodhall entered the room with purpose, a silver-capped walking stick in her hand and a steely look in her eye. She did not take the offered seat but stood before them. The Kerrs rose as well, honoring her advanced age and exalted station.
“Lady Marjory,” she began, “I shall not mince words. You must leave Edinburgh at once. What I heard this morn after services was enough to freeze my blood.”
Marjory felt a chill of her own. “Wh-what did you hear?”
“You, and all who supported the Stuarts, are in mortal danger.” Lady Woodhall cast her sharp gaze round the room. “I see you have already been subjected to the army’s cruelty. Soon their punishment will grow more severe. There are rumors of firing squads, of homes being burned, of women…” She shuddered. “How soon can you leave the city?”
“We’ve a carriage for Thursday morn.”
“Ah. I am glad you have planned your escape, but I do wish…” Lady Woodhall cleared her throat. “If you need shelter this week, for you and your household, I hope you will come to my door. We are neighbors, after all. And friends.”
Here Burns My Candle Page 43