Here Burns My Candle Read Online Free PDF

the fortunate one to call him her own?
    The couple began the steep descent down the enclosed turnpike stair, following Helen Edgar, a widow of forty-odd years and housekeeper to the Kerrs since their arrival in Edinburgh. Peg led the way, dutifully sweeping aside the worst of the debris, including a litter of mice. “Aff with ye!” the maidservant scolded, shaking her straw broom before tucking it out of sight, lest she be caught laboring on the Sabbath. The Kerrs were not always diligent about honoring the Lord’s Day behind closed doors, but in public the dowager insisted on pious behavior. “No work or recreation, only prayer and meditation,” Donald often grumbled.
    Moments later the Kerr party emerged into Milne Square, where the air was fresher but no warmer. Tall lodging houses, or lands , rose on three sides—Allan’s Land, Baillie’s Land, Oliphant’s Land—topped with a milky blue rectangle of sky, smudged with soot. Men stood about the square, heatedly discussing the approaching Jacobite rebels, while children skipped across the flat paving stones, and women waved dainty handkerchiefs like flags, calling out greetings.
    As Donald stepped aside to speak with a gentleman acquaintance, Lady Woodhall, a venerable member of Edinburgh society, descended a nearby forestair . Her silver hair was fashionably curled and powdered, and her silken plaid matched her russet gown. When the Kerr womenturned as one, Lady Woodhall pinned them in place with her small, sharp eyes. “Good morning, Lady Kerr,” she said, her voice strong despite her advanced years.
    Elisabeth curtsied at once. “And a fine Sabbath to you, madam.” When no response came, she realized Lady Woodhall had addressed the dowager, not her. Before Elisabeth could make amends, both women strolled off with Janet sandwiched between them and Andrew on their heels, abandoning Elisabeth in their wake.
    Dismayed, she stared at their departing backs, hoping none in the square had taken notice. Would society—nae, her own family—never draw her into their circle?
    At once Donald appeared by her side. “Now then, Lady Kerr. Allow me to escort you to kirk.” He offered his arm, his eyes filled with compassion. “Unless you prefer commiserating with Lady Woodhall over lowborn rebels and the high cost of tea.”
    “I do not,” Elisabeth said firmly, curling her hand round the crook of his elbow. The scent of his wig powder tickled her nose. Mixed with finely ground starch, orrisroot was redolent of warm meadows and dark woods. And Donald.
    She drank in the heady fragrance as they crossed the square, listening to the clamorous bell of the Tron Kirk toll the half hour. “Tell me, Lord Kerr, do you suppose Mr. Hogg will expound this morning on the folly of supporting the Highland rebels?”
    “Aye, though some will resist his lecturing, I daresay.” Donald leaned closer to wink at her. “The ladies of Edinburgh seem rather taken with bonny Prince Charlie.”
    Elisabeth pretended to look shocked. “Surely not, milord!” She knew Donald had little interest in politics and even less in the divine right of kings. Her support of the Jacobite cause did not concern him in the least.
    The square was especially crowded that morning. Countesses and dancing masters, advocates and wigmakers, judges and cobblers all shared the same buildings and, hence, the same stairs, spilling out onto the plainstanes of Edinburgh like buttons from a sewing box—carved horn, enameled brass, ornate silver, and unadorned wood, all jumbled together.
    Out of the corner of her eye, Elisabeth watched a young woman approach them. Miss Hart was a silk merchant’s daughter, though Elisabeth could not recall her Christian name. Emma, was it? Nae, Anna. The diminutive lass wore her flaxen hair gathered into a becoming knot. Her jade green gown, a perfect match for her eyes, swayed rather provocatively for a Sabbath morning.
    Miss Hart slowed as she drew near. Propriety would not allow her