Part 21 (1/2)
Thirty-Three.
Women, like princes, find few real friends.
LORD GEORGE LYTTLETON.
T he night of the ball was as black as Elisabeth's gown. All the stars were in hiding, and so was the waxing moon. Iron lanterns with sc.r.a.ped horn windows bobbed up and down the High Street, toted by servants doing their masters' bidding, and coal fires belched smoke into the foggy air.
Elisabeth tightly clasped her silk reticule and the poems from Effie Sinclair's students as her sedan chair bounced and swayed through the Netherbow Port, headed for the Palace of Holyroodhouse. At the dowager's insistence, Elisabeth had taken the first chair they'd hailed. ”You are the one Lord Kerr will be watching for,” her mother-in-law had said. ”We'll not be far behind.” The chairmen momentarily gave way to a noisy contingent bound for Mr. Smeiton's coffeehouse, then started off again at a trot, eager to deliver their pa.s.senger and earn another fare.
Elisabeth steadied herself, pressing the toes of her kid shoes against the door. Was Rob MacPherson being jostled about in a carriage bound for Edinburgh that night? She expected a visit from him any day, bearing news from home, perhaps even a letter from her mother. Dared she let herself hope?
Touching her hair, Elisabeth was relieved to find the dowager's string of pearls still neatly entwined in her topknot of curls. Mrs. Edgar had taken great pains with Elisabeth's toilette, brus.h.i.+ng her dark eyebrows into smooth arcs, powdering her face, neck, and arms, then dabbing her cheeks with rouge. ”Ye must leuk yer best for the sake o' yer brither's memory.”
Simon. If only he were waiting for her at the palace. Standing proudly at the entrance. Wearing his Braemar plaid kilted and belted round his waist. Holding out his hand, inviting her to dance. Come, my sister.
Elisabeth sighed into the narrow confines of the sedan chair. Hail the moon for me, Bess. His last words to her. Though she'd pleaded with the Nameless One, her brother was gone. Now her husband had followed in Simon's brave footsteps and thrown in his lot with the prince. But not to the same end, beloved. As an officer, Lord Donald could simply give orders while others took to the field. For that small blessing Elisabeth was most grateful.
”Yer husband will be pleased to see ye,” Mrs. Edgar had said earlier as she added a faint spray of rose water across her shoulders. ”I jalouse ye're keen to see him as weel.”
”I am indeed,” Elisabeth had confessed. Very keen.
Not much longer now.
Lady Marjory and Janet had dressed for royalty, wearing feathery plumes, rich brocades, and damask slippers. Elisabeth had dressed for Donald. The couple had not seen each other in a fortnight, the longest they'd ever been apart. She missed his company, his literate discourse, his clever smile. Aye, and his touch.
Her husband's letters had been rather short and not as descriptive as she'd hoped, but at least he wrote to her. Janet had received only one letter from Andrew, and that a list of forgotten items to be sent to him at the Duddingston camp. Donald's comments were a bit guarded, as if he feared his letters might be intercepted. King George's spies lurked everywhere, but there were Jacobite informants too.
All of Edinburgh followed the prince's daily rounds with rapt attention. After meeting with his morning council, he enjoyed a midday meal with his princ.i.p.al officers in a public place where any citizen might stand about and admire him. Then he rode out to review his army, attended by his Life Guards and a host of elegant spectators in coaches and on horseback. The most fas.h.i.+onable ladies of the town were waiting to be received in his drawing room when the prince returned. A public supper followed, often with music and, as on this night, a ball.
Elisabeth's sedan chair bounced to an abrupt stop. ”Here ye be, milady,” the chairman announced as he opened the narrow door. She placed her feet carefully on the muddy ground, glad for her pattens. The moment she deposited a sixpence in his open palm, he and his stout-armed partner went on their way, hailed by a gentleman wearing a p.r.o.nounced scowl beneath his full-bottomed wig.
Elisabeth looked over the milling crowd adorned in brightly colored silks and satins, their breaths forming small clouds as they called out to one another. Gaiety and conviviality were the order of the evening. Torches blazed across the grounds, casting bright pools of light, illuminating some faces and shadowing others. However would she find Donald at the appointed hour?
”Leddy Kerr?”
Not Donald's voice, yet one she'd been waiting to hear.
She whirled round to find Rob MacPherson standing behind her, his broad frame encased in blue wool and a length of tartan fastened over one shoulder with a round silver brooch. ”You're home,” she breathed.
”Aye, milady.” He stepped closer. ”Only just now.”
Rob's soft voice belied the size of him. Everything about him was st.u.r.dy and thick: head, neck, arms, chest. If not for his foot, Rob MacPherson would be a man to be reckoned with in the pitch of battle.
”Tell me about Castleton,” she urged him. ”How fares my mother?”
His dark eyes spoke before his words. ”She took the news verra hard.”
Elisabeth looked away, awash with guilt. Her poor mother, learning of Simon's death from a friend rather than from her own daughter. ”I should have made the journey myself, Mr. MacPherson, rather than burden you.”
”Nae,” he quickly a.s.sured her, ”for 'twas nae burden.” Unlike some men who looked round when they spoke, Rob kept his gaze fixed on her. ”Yer mither was pleased to have the prince's letter. 'Twas a meikle comfort to her.”
”What of my letter?” she gently pressed.
Rob s.h.i.+fted his stance. ”She read it.”
Even in the torchlight Elisabeth could see his cheeks turning ruddy.
”Ye'll not be pleased to hear it, Bess. Yer mither tore yer letter in two. Tossed it in the fire. Said 'twas too late.”
”Oh.” Her face warmed as well. ”I didn't realize you arrived after Michaelmas-”
”Nae, milady,” Rob hastened to say. ”'Twas Sat.u.r.day morn whan I reached Castleton, the day afore the wedding.”
Elisabeth stared at him, hoping she'd misunderstood. ”Even after she read my letter she married Ben Cromar?”
”Aye, she did, by the banks o' the River Dee. Not monie folk came. 'Twas a rainy afternoon and the Sabbath besides.”
Elisabeth stared at the ground, her emotions reeling. She was hurt, aye, but she was angry too. Did a daughter's opinion count for so little? Was Simon's ugly scar of no consequence? She twisted the silken strings of her reticule, waiting for the threat of tears to subside.
”Ye're not happy with her choice.”
”Nae, I am not.” At least she'd kept her voice even.
After a moment Rob said gently, ”Whatsomever ye think o' Mr. Cromar, the man's not afraid o' hard work. Her cottage is in guid repair. And yer mither seemed blithe to take him as her husband.”
Elisabeth swallowed her pride. ”'Tis done, then.”
He nodded but said nothing more.
In the silence she found the strength to apologize. ”Please forgive me for entangling you in family matters.”
He lifted her chin, his ungloved hand surprisingly warm in the cool night air. ”I've kenned ye a' my life, Bess. And yer family.” He withdrew his touch but not his steady gaze. ”If ye'll not mind me asking, why have ye not visited yer mither a' these years? Will yer husband not let ye leave his side?” Before she could answer, he added, ”Not that I blame his lords.h.i.+p. I'd feel the verra same, were ye mine.”
Elisabeth looked away, embarra.s.sed by a question that had no proper answer. ”Lord Kerr is a busy man-”
”Aye, sae I've heard.” He glanced down at the roll of papers she kept turning round in her hands. ”What have ye there?”
”A gift of poetry for His Royal Highness.” She held up the offering tied with a royal blue ribbon. ”Written by Mrs. Sinclair's young ladies. Perhaps there is someone I might trust to present them to the prince?”
”Ye might trust me,” he chided her. ”But the prince will gladly take them from the hand of a loosome leddy like yerself.” Rob leaned forward, his breath on her cheek. ”'Twill be an honor to introduce ye to him, Bess.”
She eased back, suddenly aware of the solid warmth of his body and the undeniable heat of his gaze. ”I am...ever in your debt, Mr. MacPherson.”
”Och, la.s.s.” His voice was low, his tone persuasive. ”Can ye not call me Rob as ye once did?”
”Nae, I cannot.” Elisabeth sank into a low curtsy, bringing their conversation to a swift and necessary end. ”Thank you for your service to my family.” She waited, head down, until he responded with a curt bow.