Here Burns My Candle

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “He did not,” she hastened to explain. “No one in Edinburgh knew. But I’ve abandoned the auld ways. In truth, I should have done so long ago. You can be certain ’tis finished.” Her courage nearly spent, Elisabeth bowed her head, her eyes fixed on the plainstanes. One thing remained. “Can you possibly forgive me?”

  After a lengthy silence, she felt the touch of Marjory’s gloved hand on her cheek, lifting her face until their gazes met.

  “’Tis not my forgiveness you need, Bess.” Even so, mercy shone in her mother-in-law’s hazel eyes. Sorrow was there as well, like a thin layer of gauze. And a tender regard she’d never hoped to find.

  “I’m grateful for the Lord’s mercy,” Elisabeth said softly. “And for yours. Promise you will take me with you? For I cannot go home. Truly, I cannot.”

  The assurance she longed for did not come. Instead her mother-in-law abruptly turned toward White Horse Close. “Ladies, we must not tarry a moment longer. Coachmen favor a prompt departure, Mr. Dewar in particular.”

  Elisabeth hurried after her with Janet on her heels. Did her sister-in-law wish to return to the Highlands? Or was her heart set on Selkirk too? If only they’d found a moment to speak in private! ’Twas too late now. Too late for many things.

  But never too late to pray. Strengthen thou me according unto thy word.

  No sooner did her heart lift up her request, than the answer resounded inside her. I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee.

  As they neared White Horse Close, Elisabeth saw the lads with their leather trunks stationed at the pend, shifting from one foot to the other. The rain had stopped but only to catch its breath. Solid gray clouds promised a thorough soaking along their journey. Elisabeth had worn her light wool cape and packed her heavier one, thinking the air might grow warmer as they headed south.

  Now she was going north.

  Elisabeth shivered, only in part from the wind. Something had to be done. Might she yet persuade her?

  “Come, lads.” Marjory’s voice echoed off the vaulted walls of the pend. “Carry our trunks to their proper coaches.” She walked ahead of them, weaving her way through the crowded courtyard.

  Elisabeth and Janet followed her, holding their black skirts above the muck. Porters and stablers, farriers and horse hirers were busy about their work, sending folk on their way to London or Glasgow or Carlisle. The smell of horseflesh and human sweat, of mud and dung and hay and oats was almost overpowering.

  Janet looked to the inn door at the far end, her expression pensive. “Nae soldiers on the stair.”

  As Elisabeth gazed at the second-floor windows, memories assailed her. Of her last night with Donald in a small, dank room lit by two guttering candles. Of his bold touch, his warm kiss, his lean body next to hers. Of the promises he’d made but had not kept. Of the mercy he’d asked for and received.

  “Six months ago…” Janet sighed.

  Elisabeth looked round at the jumble of peaked roofs and stone forestairs of White Horse Close. “’Tis difficult to be here and to remember.”

  “Harder still to leave Edinburgh.” Janet sniffed. “When I think of the balls at Assembly Close, of the friends Andrew and I made …”

  Elisabeth turned and reached for her hand, grateful when her sister-in-law did not pull back. “Janet, I am sorry you and I were not closer.”

  “How could we be?” Janet asked, a wounded look in her eyes. “You were titled, and I was not. You were always the bonniest lass in the room, and I…” She started to pull away.

  Elisabeth squeezed Janet’s hand before she slipped from her grasp. “Those things no longer matter. If indeed they ever did.”

  “Perhaps,” was all Janet said.

  Marjory hurried up, rather flustered. “We’ve little time left,” she told them, the hood of her cape pushed back. The rain had turned her auburn hair into a halo of curls and wisps. “Mr. Rannie is your coachman. He will drive you as far as Perth, then hire another carriage for each of you. All has been paid in advance.”

  Janet’s frown deepened. “When did you decide this? And why did you not consult us?”

  Marjory sighed. “When Lord Mark’s letter arrived and I knew Tweedsford was lost to us.” She looked at Janet with compassion in her eyes. “I did not ask your opinion, because I feared you might object—”

  “But we do object,” Janet insisted. “You cannot simply cast us aside.”

  “By no means,” Marjory said firmly. “I am sending you home to your mothers because I care for you. And because they can provide for you.” She leaned forward and kissed Janet’s cheek. “I want only the best for you, my dear. Andrew was fortunate to have you for his wife.”

  Janet did not respond, merely kissed her cheek in return, then sighed. “’Twould seem I am bound for Dunkeld since you’ve made all the arrangements.”

  “So I have.” When Marjory pressed two shillings into her hands, Janet’s scowl eased.

  Elisabeth kept her hands by her side. I don’t want your shillings, Marjory. Please don’t make me take them.

  “Come and meet Mr. Rannie,” their mother-in-law was saying. “I’ve asked him to take special care of both of you.” Marjory guided them across the paved courtyard to a well-used black coach pulled by two horses, harnessed and ready for their day’s work. “Here they are, sir. My daughters-in-law, Mrs. Donald Kerr and Mrs. Andrew Kerr.”

  “Leddies.” Mr. Rannie doffed his hat, then swung open the narrow door. “If ye will.” Not much taller than Marjory, the sturdy coachman had ginger hair, a close-clipped beard, and years of travel carved into his face. “Nae time to waste.”

  Her heart pounding, Elisabeth eyed their trunks being hoisted to the top of the carriage, then watched her sister-in-law climb through the narrow door, managing her hoops and skirts with ease.

  I am next. Elisabeth could barely breathe. Please, Lord. What am I to do?

  “Good-bye, then,” Janet said, leaning through the door.

  Marjory reached up to touch her cheek. “Godspeed, dear girl. Kindly give my best regards to Lady Murray.”

  While Janet settled back on the upholstered seat, Marjory turned, looking up at her expectantly. “Now then, ’tis your turn, Elisabeth.”

  She waited, not moving, not breathing. Help me, help me.

  “Elisabeth?” Marjory said again.

  “Bess,” she whispered at last. “You promised to call me Bess.”

  “So I did.” Marjory pressed her lips together, her chin trembling. “My precious Bess.”

  Elisabeth clasped her mother-in-law’s hands, imploring her with her eyes, with her voice, and with her heart. “Please, Marjory. You must believe me. I cannot go home to Castleton. I cannot.”

  “But you must,” Marjory said, clearly agitated. “Your sister-in-law is going home to Dunkeld—”

  “And I am going home with you.” Her voice broke. “Please… please do not turn me away. Don’t you see? My father and brother are dead, and my mother will not have me. You are my only family now, Marjory. You are all that I have.”

  “Oh, Bess—”

  “Please! ’Tis my duty to go with you. And my calling. Aye, and my joy.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “When I married your son, I left my name and my family behind. I am a Kerr now and always will be.”

  “But—”

  “Nae!” Elisabeth tightened her grip. “I am going with you to Selkirk. Just as you said, ’tis God’s will. Don’t you see, dear Marjory? You belong to him. And so do I.”

  Eighty-Four

  Hope, like the gleaming taper’s light,

  Adorns and cheers our way.

  OLIVER GOLDSMITH

  M y dear Bess.” Marjory could not see her sweet face for the tears clouding her eyes. “’Tis too great a sacrifice.”

  “Nae, ’tis no sacrifice at all.” Elisabeth squeezed her hands. “Not when you love someone.”

  Marjory could not speak. Could barely swallow. How can she love me, Lord? How can you love me?

  “W
ill the leddy be taking the coach or not, mem?” Mr. Rannie held the door open, his patience wearing thin.

  Elisabeth answered for her. “Not this coach.” She released Marjory’s hands, then pointed to the top, where the luggage was stored. “If you might retrieve my trunk. That small brown one there.”

  Janet was on her feet at once, sticking her head out the door. “Are you not coming with me?”

  Elisabeth shook her head. “You’ll be in good hands with Mr. Rannie. He’ll see you home to Dunkeld.”

  Janet glared at him. “You are quite certain I will be safe, sir?”

  “Only if you remain seated,” Mr. Rannie told her firmly.

  With an exaggerated groan, Janet settled back into her seat, making a show of smoothing her skirts. “I suppose Lady Murray will not mind so very much. I am, after all, her only daughter.”

  “Godspeed,” Elisabeth told her, stepping away as other travelers prepared to board the coach.

  At Mr. Rannie’s curt nod, a lad pulled down Elisabeth’s trunk, then stood with it on his shoulder. “Whaur does it go, milady?”

  “With my mother-in-law’s.” Elisabeth pointed to another black carriage with two passengers already waiting inside. “See her leather trunk on top? There’s just enough room to fit mine next to it.”

  As her trunk bobbed across the courtyard, Mr. Rannie eyed them both, his expression darkening. “Ye’ll not be expecting to have yer shillings returned to ye? The ither seat on the northbound coach is paid for, whether it has a leddy sitting on it or not.”

  Marjory’s heart sank. Oh, Lord, now what’s to be done?

  But her daughter-in-law wasn’t ruffled in the least. “’Tis only fair, Mr. Rannie. You may keep your shillings. I wish you well on your journey.”

  His brief scowl having vanished, he doffed his hat once more. “Guid day to ye, then, leddies.”

  “Come.” Elisabeth tugged on Marjory’s sleeve. “Let’s see what can be done. What is our coachman’s name?”

  “Mr. Dewar,” the man said, marching up to them. “And ye, mem, have delayed oor departure.” Short and round, stuffed into a broadcloth coat, Mr. Dewar nodded his bald head toward his coach. “I’ve folk bound for Galashiels wha are anxious to be aff.”

  “Have you room for another passenger?” Elisabeth asked him, looking over his shoulder. “I have decided to join my mother-in-law.”

  “Aye,” he said, rubbing his thick hands together. “I have the room if ye have the siller.”

  Marjory felt her purse, woefully light. She could spare most of it. But it would not be enough. Might he be merciful to two widows? She pulled out her last four shillings, leaving naught but pennies behind.

  “’Tis six shillings to Selkirk,” Mr. Dewar reminded her. “That’s what yer man paid me for yer seat, mem, and what I’ll ask for the young leddy’s seat as weel.”

  Marjory looked back at Janet’s coach, already turning in the courtyard, heading for the pend and the street beyond. Too late to send Elisabeth north now. Lord, can you not help us?

  “Mr. Dewar.” Elisabeth was tugging off her gloves. “You say ’tis silver you need?”

  “Aye, mem.” He shook the four shillings in his hand. “Two shillings mair and ye’ll be bound for Selkirk. Aff for a visit, aye?”

  “Nae, off for good,” Elisabeth said confidently. “I’m told Selkirk has a fine auld kirkyard. I expect I’ll be buried there someday.”

  The stout coachman blanched. “Not onie time soon, I hope.”

  “Nae. Lord willing, I will have many years with my mother-in-law.” Elisabeth smiled down at her, then stretched out her graceful hands. “As you see, Mr. Dewar, I have two silver rings. And very fine rings they are. Broader and thicker than most and made of the finest sterling.”

  He eyed them with interest. “So they are. Were ye thinking o’ paying for yer seat with yer rings? Even with the shillings, they’ll not be quite enough.”

  Marjory watched, aghast, as Elisabeth calmly slipped both rings off her hands. Is there nothing else that can be done, Lord?

  Elisabeth studied each silver band carefully, reading the inscriptions inside. “I have already left this one behind.” She placed among his shillings the intricately carved ring Marjory had often admired. “But this love will live in my heart forever.”

  When Elisabeth added her silver wedding band to the coachman’s coins, Marjory could bear it no more. If her daughter-in-law could make such a sacrifice, could she not do the same? With trembling hands she removed Lord John’s ring and quietly laid it on top.

  “Oh, Marjory.” Elisabeth touched the slender indentation on her ring finger that had taken thirty years to form. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, overcome. Very certain.

  Mr. Dewar cupped his hands round his silver, grinning broadly. “Now I’m satisfied and will be mair sae whan we’re aff. Leddies?”

  Elisabeth stepped back so Marjory might board the carriage first.

  Marjory’s knees barely supported her as she climbed inside. Help me deserve her, Lord. Help me be worthy of her affection. To have such a daughter-in-law caring for her needs was a gift only the Almighty could have provided. Surely he would see to both their needs. Aye, surely he would.

  Marjory sat facing the front of the carriage, grateful the other two passengers had chosen to sit facing the back. She always felt queasy watching the scenery pass in the wrong direction. And she wanted to look forward now. Toward Selkirk. Toward home.

  A moment later Elisabeth was seated beside her, arranging her skirts. “Aren’t we a pair, traveling in our black gowns?” she said gently.

  The two gentlemen seated across from them both lifted their hats. A father and son, Marjory decided.

  “You have our deepest sympathy, ladies,” the older of the two men said. He was perhaps fifty and the other man a few years older than Bess. “Since Mr. Dewar has not introduced us, please permit me to do so. I am Mr. Thomas Hedderwick of Galashiels, and this is my son, William.”

  Marjory nodded. Father and son. Just as I thought.

  “We’re both pleased to meet you,” Elisabeth responded. “I am Mrs. Donald Kerr, and this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. John Kerr.”

  Marjory’s smile tightened at the sound of her new name. Mrs. John Kerr. She was still a lady, she reminded herself. Still a gentlewoman. There were some things even King George could not take away.

  The carriage jolted forward, tossing them about like so much luggage.

  Marjory righted herself, sitting up a bit straighter, all at once feeling rather constrained by her whalebone stays. She would not lace them so tightly on the morrow. Nae, nor the day after that.

  When she took a full breath, a strange and not unpleasant sensation came over her.

  It wasn’t fear. Not this time. It was freedom.

  WHITE HORSE CLOSE

  Author Notes

  Farewell, Edina! pleasing name,

  Congenial to my heart!

  A joyous guest to thee I came,

  And mournful I depart.

  THOMAS CAMPBELL

  O h, Edinburgh. If you only knew how often I think about your narrow, crooked streets and your misty-moisty air and your splendid craggy castle, so close to the sky it’s like something from a fairy tale.

  The Kerr women are eager to leave Edinburgh and rightly so, but I cannot wait to return to this fun, funky, and altogether fascinating city. Though a great deal has changed since Prince Charlie’s arrival in September 1745, it’s astonishing how much of the Old Town remains. All the main thoroughfares are in place: Grassmarket, Lawnmarket, High Street, and Canongate. On opposite ends of the Royal Mile, Edinburgh Castle and the Palace of Holyroodhouse continue to welcome visitors, both royal and common. And on any given afternoon you may hear the skirl of the pipes or spy a braw lad in a tartan kilt and know without a doubt you’re not in Kansas anymore—or in Kentucky, for that matter.

  Alas, Milne Square was swept away when construction on the North Bridge began in 1763.
And though the Tron Kirk still stands, it’s no longer a place of worship. But you can blithely stroll through the pend into White Horse Close or sit on a wooden pew inside Saint Giles or climb atop the Salisbury Crags and imagine Elisabeth Kerr by your side, taking in the fine view.

  For character names I usually turn to kirkyards and census records, but for this novel I had a gem of a resource: A Directory of Edinburgh in 1752, compiled by J. Gilhooley. Since these are fictional folk, I played mix and match with most of the names, but you’ll find a number of historical characters waltzing through the pages of Here Burns My Candle, including Margaret Murray of Broughton with her white cockades; Thomas Ruddiman, the publisher of the Caledonian Mercury; and Mrs.

  Effie Sinclair, who taught the mother of Sir Walter Scott. Allan Ramsay, whose circulating library is mentioned, doesn’t have a speaking role, but here’s the juicy bit: he was secretly a Jacobite.

  By the by, the Sassenachs—that is, the English—called the first battle Prestonpans because of the location, but the Highlanders called it Gladsmuir because of Thomas the Rhymer’s prophecy. In the same way, what the Highlanders called the Jacobite Rising, the English called the Jacobite Rebellion. As with all history, much depends on where you’re standing. Today most folk refer to the last Rising simply as “the ’45.”

  Lord Mark Kerr—pronounced “care” with a wee roll to the r—played an interesting role in the ’45. After Sir John Cope and his troops were humiliated at Gladsmuir, Sir John supposedly fled to Berwick, the northernmost town in England. Lord Mark greeted him with the wry observation that Sir John was the first general in Europe to bring news of his own defeat. Whether the tale is true or simply a Jacobite fable meant to discredit Sir John, the story has stuck to this day, thanks to one verse of the popular Jacobite song “Hey Johnnie Cope”:

  Says Lord Mark Car, “Ye are na blate;

  To bring us the news o’ your ain defeat;

  I think you deserve the back o’ the gate,

  Get out o’ my sight this morning.”

  The ministers mentioned in Here Burns My Candle were also living and breathing folk. Rev. Dr. George Wishart and James Hogg both served at the Tron Kirk in 1745. Thomas Boston, a parish minister in Selkirkshire, was so devoted to his flock that, when his health was in steep decline, he delivered his last sermon from the manse window. His book Human Nature in its Fourfold State, which Elisabeth reads aloud one Sabbath, held a place of honor on many a Scot’s bookshelf. James Thomson, the author of The Seasons, also hailed from the Borderland. When James was sixteen, his minister father died while performing an exorcism. Goodness.