Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs Read Free Book Online Page A

crown. Yet the dreary social life of the Borderland couldn’t compare to Edinburgh’s heady mix of culture, commerce, and political intrigue. Who wouldn’t trade the boredom of the country for the pleasures of the capital? Lord John, for one . Marjory pushed away the reminder before it nagged at her without ceasing.
    “I’m grateful for your patience,” Elisabeth said warmly, gliding back into the room. She’d changed into a pale green silk gown, one of Donald’s favorites. After claiming a seat at the small table, she arranged her skirts about her and reached for her teacup. “You must be quite concerned about Lord Kerr.”
    Marjory made a slight noise of assent, distracted by her daughter-in-law’s graceful gestures. However common her upbringing, Elisabeth had the manners of a gentlewoman. She held her china teacup, which had no handle, with four fingertips lightly touching the rim, her hands poised like birds in flight. Of course, Donald had married Elisabeth for her exceptional beauty alone. No one pretended otherwise.
    “Naturally I am worried about my son,” Marjory finally said, craning her head to see out the window overlooking the square.
    “So am I,” Elisabeth admitted.
    The steady tick of the clock in the nearby drawing room filled the long silence that stretched between them. Marjory did not dislike Elisabeth. For a Highland lass, she was well read and well spoken. But she’d not been to London or Paris, had in fact never been farther south than Edinburgh. And however boundless her love for Donald, she’d failed to conceive the next Lord Kerr.
    “The chairmen have returned with Janet,” Elisabeth said, looking down at the square five floors below. “I’m afraid my brother-in-law appears quite winded.”
    Marjory put aside her empty teacup with a sharp clink, unhappy at any mention of Andrew’s condition. “Can you not see anything else?” She rose from her chair, for once envying Mr. Hill his garret view across the rooftops. In the square below she saw little more than gentlemen in wigs and coats, scurrying about like the mice in her wainscoting.
    The instant she heard Andrew and Janet walk through the stair door, Marjory abandoned Elisabeth to her tea and hurried toward the entrance hall, hands outstretched. “Come, what news?”
    His brow damp with exertion, Andrew delivered his hat and gloves into Peg’s waiting hands. “No news, I’m afraid. And no sign of my brother.”

Seven
And he that does one fault at first,
And lies to hide it makes it two.
ISAAC WATTS
    D onald traveled along the crowded High Street, weaving in and out of the coarse fabric of Edinburgh without getting tangled in its threads. ’Twas not social discourse he sought nor the company of an obliging woman. He simply wanted answers. Who’d rung the fire bell, and why?
    As he made his way uphill, folk surrounded him on every side. A decrepit man, reeking of brandy, stumbled across his path before righting himself. The sharp scent of lye clung to the skirts of a laundress, her teeth badly stained, her muslin cap more so. Men shouted in Gaelic, in English, in Scots, all demanding to be heard, while high above the paved street, mothers and sisters leaned through open tenement windows, waving their arms, pleading for news.
    “Lord Kerr!” a woman called, close behind him. “Will you not wait for me?”
    Donald paused, recognizing her voice. Susan McGill of Warriston’s Close. A widow of surpassing beauty. A woman not easily forgotten. He turned and reached for her gloved hands, if only to steady her. “Whatever is the matter, Mrs. McGill?”
    Susan looked up at him, her green eyes fraught with worry, and her face pinched with fear. “The Gentlemen Volunteers are mustering in the Lawnmarket, summoned by the clang of the fire bell. They’re to join the dragoons. My son…” She gripped his hands. “Oh, Lord Kerr, my dear son marches with them.”
    Donald recalled a bowlegged boy often playing with wooden