Part 16 (1/2)

A knock at the stair door brought them both to their feet. ”Simon!” she cried, hastening toward the entrance hall, her concerns forgotten. Marjory and Janet emerged from their bedchambers to see who'd come to call even as Gibson, ever dutiful, was already greeting their visitor.

But it was not Simon after all.

Elisabeth stepped back in surprise when Tom Barrie crossed the threshold. ”Lord Kerr, look who's come to see us! Our friend Mr. Barrie, returned from Gladsmuir.” She ushered the veteran soldier into the dim entrance hall with its single window. His exhaustion was evident in the slump of his shoulders. ”Simon will be along shortly, aye?”

When Tom raised his head to meet her gaze, his skin was ashen, and his eyes were wet with tears.

A knot of fear tightened round her throat. ”Whatever is the matter, Mr. Barrie?” Then she saw the folded cloth in his arms.

A Braemar plaid. Stained with blood.

Twenty-Seven.

Tears are the silent language of grief.

VOLTAIRE.

E lisabeth could hardly form the words. ”Is Simon... Is he... dead?”

Tom's lower lip began to tremble.

”'Tis not possible,” she whispered even as she received her brother's plaid.

Donald quietly slipped his arm round her shoulders. ”Elisabeth...”

”Nae!” she moaned, clutching the plaid to her heart. ”'Tis not possible, don't you see?” Nae Simon and nae Ferguson. ”Gibson said... His name...” She tried to breathe, tried to speak. ”His name...was not...” She pushed against Donald's firm embrace. Nae, nae, nae! ”Simon cannot be dead. He cannot!”

”Come, dearest.” With some effort her husband guided her to an upholstered chair in the drawing room while the household watched, shocked expressions on their faces.

Elisabeth sank into the cus.h.i.+ons, holding Simon's plaid on her lap. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Not my Simon. Not my dear brother.

”Forgive me, Bess.” Tom Barrie pulled off his tattered bonnet and knelt beside her, his wrinkled hands capturing hers. ”I tried, but I couldna save the lad...”

Elisabeth bowed her head, not quite listening as she carefully traced the pattern woven by their father. When she finally looked into the older man's eyes, she found a sorrow to match her own. ”Tell me about Simon.”

”The charge was sounded just afore dawn. Yer brither was one o' the first to fire his musket. Och, he was sae brave! But then I...” Tom bowed his gray head, and his hands dropped to his side.

”Please, Mr. Barrie.” She withdrew her handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her eyes. ”Please, I must know.”

He began again, barely above a whisper. ”The field was newly harvested, covered with stubble. And I...” He choked on the word. ”I... fell.”

Elisabeth touched his shoulder with an unsteady hand. ”'Twas not your fault.”

”Aye, but it was. When Simon reached doon to help me, an Englishman shot him.” He touched his ribs, showing her where. ”Not a fatal wound, ye ken. Not at first.”

Elisabeth closed her eyes, imagining the hot, sharp pain of a musket ball piercing his side. My dear brother! ”Did no one attend him?”

”Oo, aye. Whan the surgeons came from Edinburgh in the forenoon, a Mr. Eccles dressed his wound. But Simon insisted on burying the deid. Not monie soldiers were willing, ye ken.”

Donald frowned. ”Why not?”

”Some Hielanders thocht it beneath them to bury the English,” Tom admitted, his shame apparent. ”And the country folk ran aff in fear. Simon dug graves for the fallen men 'til the gloaming. But his bleeding wouldna stop ...”

Elisabeth looked away, trying to banish the painful image. Simon, dear Simon. Why did you not rest?

Tom sat back on his haunches with a weary sigh. ”By the time we started home on foot this morn, yer brither was burning with fever. And by the time we reached Musselburgh...”

She moaned. ”Simon was gone.”

”Aye, Bess. He didna suffer lang.”

”'Tis some consolation,” Donald said, pulling her closer.

Elisabeth curled over Simon's plaid as a low keening sound rose from deep inside her. ”Where... where is my brother?”

”I buried Simon in a wee corner of a plowed field.” Tom struggled to his feet, brus.h.i.+ng his hands as if dirt still clung to his palms. ”And I built a cairn on his grave sae the farmer would ken 'twas not to be disturbed.”

His grave. Elisabeth shuddered at the thought of Simon's body cold and lifeless in the damp ground, buried beneath a pile of stones. Nae, it cannot be! She pressed into the plaid, the wool scratchy against her skin.

The coppery scent of blood mingled with the faint aroma of heather that still clung to the fabric.

Donald stood, offering Tom Barrie his hand in thanks. ”Such sorrowful news is better heard from a friend than from a stranger.”

”She'll be wanting this as weel.” He gave Donald a folded square of paper. ”A lock o' the lad's hair.”

Elisabeth lifted her head so Tom might see the grat.i.tude in her eyes, though she did not trust herself to speak.

Tom nodded, understanding all she could not say. ”I kenned Simon Ferguson whan he was a bairn. 'Twas an honor to serve with him.” He sighed, then brushed his bonnet against his knee and pulled it over his brow. ”Forgive me, Bess. They'll be leuking for me at Duddingston.”

The men moved toward the entrance hall, leaving her with Marjory and Janet, who'd not said a word since Tom's arrival. The two women stood side by side near the fireplace, still dressed in their gray gowns.

Her sister-in-law spoke first, her voice soft and low. ”Lady Elisabeth, I am truly sorry for your loss.”

The uncommon tenderness of Janet's words brought fresh tears to Elisabeth's eyes. ”Have you a handkerchief?” she asked a moment later, holding up the limp remains of her own.

Marjory produced a clean square of linen at once, a hint of lavender wafting through the air as she pressed it into Elisabeth's hands. ”'Tis the least I can do, my dear.” Her eyes were moist, and her concern, however unexpected, seemed genuine. ”I know what it means to lose someone you love. You have my deepest sympathy. You and your mother.”

Elisabeth's heart sank. Mother. How could she tell Fiona Ferguson that her beloved son was dead?

”Donald, she cannot learn this from a letter.” Elisabeth adjusted her head on the pillows, hoping she might see his expression more clearly in the firelight. The hour was late. A chilling westerly wind blew against the windowpanes and forced its way into their bedchamber, making her s.h.i.+ver.