Read Online Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liz Curtis Higgs
Ads: Link
being made prisoners and maltreated, there was no hope for it. Captain Drummond marched what was left of his company back to the College Yards and dismissed them.”
Marjory envisioned George Drummond—his long bob wig and short neck, his bushy eyebrows and florid cheeks—and thanked heaven she’d refused his suit. He’d made a fine mess of things this day. “So the dragoons are all that stand between us and the Highlanders?”
“Aye,” Donald sighed. “Folk say ’twill be decided on the morrow.”
Despondent, Marjory turned away from the window. If only she’d left Edinburgh with her household that morning—nae, a week ago, a month ago! Now the roads would be unsafe and every horse and carriage spoken for.
When her gaze landed on Elisabeth, quietly embroidering, a tinder-box inside Marjory ignited. “How can you ply a needle,” she demanded, “when our very lives are at stake?”
Elisabeth looked up, her hands poised over her work. “The steady rhythm calms me. Perhaps you have something I might embellish—”
“I have nothing for you,” she retorted.
“Mother,” Donald said firmly, “Elisabeth meant only to please you.”
Ashamed of her outburst, Marjory said no more. An uneasy silence fell over the room. The servants’ chatter in the kitchen, barely audible a moment ago, seemed to fill the air while the nearby clock ticked like musketry.
Marjory took a step backward, regaining her composure. “Sabbathor not, I’m of a mind to play hazard.” Gibson had whittled her a fine pair of dice, so light they danced when she rolled them. “Kindly send Andrew to my chamber.”
“My brother’s away,” Donald said, glancing at the clock. “He left for Mrs. Turnbull’s an hour ago.” The tavern across the High Street was a favorite haunt.
Exasperated, Marjory threw up her hands. “Now I must watch for Andrew?”
“The more stalwart of the Volunteers are convening there,” Donald explained. “A good number plan to offer their services to Johnnie Cope the moment he sails into port.”
“Sir John Cope,” Marjory amended. As commander of the government forces in Scotland, the gentleman was worthy of his title. “Donald, you don’t think… that is, Andrew has no intention of joining these young men?”
“I hardly think so.” He stifled a yawn. “When the town guard beats the drum at ten o’ the clock, you can be sure Andrew will appear at our door, damp with fog and reeking of smoke from Turnbull’s fire.”
Marjory took solace in his words. Donald was nothing if not trustworthy. As for his brother, Gibson would see to the lad’s needs when he returned.
Within the hour Marjory bid her family good night and repaired to her bedchamber. Peg relieved her of gown and corset, then dressed her in a fine linen nightgown trimmed with a swath of lace.
“How quiet you are this evening,” Marjory told her. The maidservant usually prattled on while she worked, sharing the latest gossip from the square. “Are you well?”
“Verra weel, mem.” But she looked down when she spoke.
Marjory didn’t press her. Who knew what concerns a servant might have? Peg quit the room a short time later, extinguishing the last candle and taking her troubles with her.
Silence weighed on Marjory like a woolen blanket as she pulled the bedsheet to her chin and stared into the darkened room. Sleep would be hard to come by, especially with her afternoon nap and all the commotion from the street assaulting her ears. Would folk never seek their beds?
Elsewhere in the house voices were muted and footsteps muffled. The faint glow from the dying coals cast an eerie orange light about the chamber, making Marjory shiver, though the night air was mild.
When she turned away from the fireplace, thinking to find a more comfortable position, her gaze landed on the empty pillow next to hers. She smoothed her hand across the linen and sighed. Had he truly been gone seven years? Despite the nightly cups of foxglove tea
Marjory envisioned George Drummond—his long bob wig and short neck, his bushy eyebrows and florid cheeks—and thanked heaven she’d refused his suit. He’d made a fine mess of things this day. “So the dragoons are all that stand between us and the Highlanders?”
“Aye,” Donald sighed. “Folk say ’twill be decided on the morrow.”
Despondent, Marjory turned away from the window. If only she’d left Edinburgh with her household that morning—nae, a week ago, a month ago! Now the roads would be unsafe and every horse and carriage spoken for.
When her gaze landed on Elisabeth, quietly embroidering, a tinder-box inside Marjory ignited. “How can you ply a needle,” she demanded, “when our very lives are at stake?”
Elisabeth looked up, her hands poised over her work. “The steady rhythm calms me. Perhaps you have something I might embellish—”
“I have nothing for you,” she retorted.
“Mother,” Donald said firmly, “Elisabeth meant only to please you.”
Ashamed of her outburst, Marjory said no more. An uneasy silence fell over the room. The servants’ chatter in the kitchen, barely audible a moment ago, seemed to fill the air while the nearby clock ticked like musketry.
Marjory took a step backward, regaining her composure. “Sabbathor not, I’m of a mind to play hazard.” Gibson had whittled her a fine pair of dice, so light they danced when she rolled them. “Kindly send Andrew to my chamber.”
“My brother’s away,” Donald said, glancing at the clock. “He left for Mrs. Turnbull’s an hour ago.” The tavern across the High Street was a favorite haunt.
Exasperated, Marjory threw up her hands. “Now I must watch for Andrew?”
“The more stalwart of the Volunteers are convening there,” Donald explained. “A good number plan to offer their services to Johnnie Cope the moment he sails into port.”
“Sir John Cope,” Marjory amended. As commander of the government forces in Scotland, the gentleman was worthy of his title. “Donald, you don’t think… that is, Andrew has no intention of joining these young men?”
“I hardly think so.” He stifled a yawn. “When the town guard beats the drum at ten o’ the clock, you can be sure Andrew will appear at our door, damp with fog and reeking of smoke from Turnbull’s fire.”
Marjory took solace in his words. Donald was nothing if not trustworthy. As for his brother, Gibson would see to the lad’s needs when he returned.
Within the hour Marjory bid her family good night and repaired to her bedchamber. Peg relieved her of gown and corset, then dressed her in a fine linen nightgown trimmed with a swath of lace.
“How quiet you are this evening,” Marjory told her. The maidservant usually prattled on while she worked, sharing the latest gossip from the square. “Are you well?”
“Verra weel, mem.” But she looked down when she spoke.
Marjory didn’t press her. Who knew what concerns a servant might have? Peg quit the room a short time later, extinguishing the last candle and taking her troubles with her.
Silence weighed on Marjory like a woolen blanket as she pulled the bedsheet to her chin and stared into the darkened room. Sleep would be hard to come by, especially with her afternoon nap and all the commotion from the street assaulting her ears. Would folk never seek their beds?
Elsewhere in the house voices were muted and footsteps muffled. The faint glow from the dying coals cast an eerie orange light about the chamber, making Marjory shiver, though the night air was mild.
When she turned away from the fireplace, thinking to find a more comfortable position, her gaze landed on the empty pillow next to hers. She smoothed her hand across the linen and sighed. Had he truly been gone seven years? Despite the nightly cups of foxglove tea
Similar Books
