it. All through his youth he’d recited the failings of the foreign Hanoverians and sung the praises of the royal Stuarts—sentiments learned at their father’s table. When James Ferguson died, his son’s zeal only grew stronger.
Elisabeth knew this day would come, when Simon would fight for the Stuarts. She was proud of him, aye. But she was frightened for him as well.
Rob had also whispered, “Come to the shop afore daybreak, and dinna tell a soul.”
She glanced at the inky windows facing the High Street. Did the MacPhersons know her brother’s whereabouts? Was that why they’d summoned her to their shop? If so, she might be reunited with Simon that very hour, before the sun gilded the rooftops.
Hurry, lass!
Elisabeth found her way across the darkened bedchamber all the while listening for Donald’s steady breathing. Guilt tightened her stomach. But had she told him of her errand, her husband might have forbidden her to go and that would never do.
Still, if the town guards stopped her en route, if they thrust out their long wooden poles and snapped the metal hasp round her neck…
Nae . Elisabeth yanked hard on her stays, refusing to consider such a dire turn of events. She would come and go with the utmost haste, speak to no one except the MacPhersons, and return home before the household lifted their sleepy heads.
A simple costume was in order. She donned a plain drugget gown, the sort a servant might wear, without hoops or excessive petticoats to encumber her. Her low-heeled shoes were leather, not brocade, and a hooded cape in heathery gray wool concealed her unbound hair and much of her face.
Having properly disguised herself, she faced another challenge: walking through a slumbering household undetected. Janet and Andrew’s bedchamber came first. Elisabeth tiptoed past the sleeping couple, averting her gaze, grateful for the thick carpet.
In the kitchen the lingering aroma of lamb stew hung in the air. Mrs. Edgar did not stir when Elisabeth passed by the housekeeper’s makeshift bed beneath the wooden dresser nor when she took a lighted candle from the mantel over the hearth.
Nor did she wake Gibson, snoring in his folding bed in the gloomy entrance hall. Elisabeth waited until he drew a loud, rumbling breath before she moved the heavy bolt. When he snored again, she pulled open the door and slipped out, then started down the stair, feeling rather than seeing each step.
The morning damp crept through the folds of her wool cape. She shivered, though not from the cold. Every noise round her was magnified. When a door creaked somewhere below, she nearly lost her footing, so loudly did the hinges complain. A dog barking in the distance sounded near enough to bite her ankles. When at last she reached the deserted square, she cupped the flickering candle with her hand and hastened across the plainstanes.
Daybreak would not be long in coming. Already the rectangle of sky above her was changing from deepest blue to dark, smoky gray. Gulls sailed over the sleeping town, their cries muted by the moist air. Few folk were abroad at that early hour, and none met her gaze. Such solitude would not last. In another hour merchants would throw open their shutters, taverns would welcome their first patrons, and Edinburgh would greet the day with fear and trembling.
But not yet.
Just beyond the Tron Kirk stood the town guardhouse, a low, shabby building erected in the middle of the High Street. The “black hole,” some called it, a disreputable place for all its civic importance. Elisabeth always gave it a wide berth. Several decaying guards usually hung round the door in threadbare uniforms and rumpled tricorne hats, sharing a pint of ale.
But not this morning.
Elisabeth’s steps slowed, and her eyes widened. ’ Tis not possible .
A company of soldiers surrounded the guardhouse: armed, silent, and alert. Even in the murky light, she recognized their belted plaids and short coats, their broadswords and
Elisabeth knew this day would come, when Simon would fight for the Stuarts. She was proud of him, aye. But she was frightened for him as well.
Rob had also whispered, “Come to the shop afore daybreak, and dinna tell a soul.”
She glanced at the inky windows facing the High Street. Did the MacPhersons know her brother’s whereabouts? Was that why they’d summoned her to their shop? If so, she might be reunited with Simon that very hour, before the sun gilded the rooftops.
Hurry, lass!
Elisabeth found her way across the darkened bedchamber all the while listening for Donald’s steady breathing. Guilt tightened her stomach. But had she told him of her errand, her husband might have forbidden her to go and that would never do.
Still, if the town guards stopped her en route, if they thrust out their long wooden poles and snapped the metal hasp round her neck…
Nae . Elisabeth yanked hard on her stays, refusing to consider such a dire turn of events. She would come and go with the utmost haste, speak to no one except the MacPhersons, and return home before the household lifted their sleepy heads.
A simple costume was in order. She donned a plain drugget gown, the sort a servant might wear, without hoops or excessive petticoats to encumber her. Her low-heeled shoes were leather, not brocade, and a hooded cape in heathery gray wool concealed her unbound hair and much of her face.
Having properly disguised herself, she faced another challenge: walking through a slumbering household undetected. Janet and Andrew’s bedchamber came first. Elisabeth tiptoed past the sleeping couple, averting her gaze, grateful for the thick carpet.
In the kitchen the lingering aroma of lamb stew hung in the air. Mrs. Edgar did not stir when Elisabeth passed by the housekeeper’s makeshift bed beneath the wooden dresser nor when she took a lighted candle from the mantel over the hearth.
Nor did she wake Gibson, snoring in his folding bed in the gloomy entrance hall. Elisabeth waited until he drew a loud, rumbling breath before she moved the heavy bolt. When he snored again, she pulled open the door and slipped out, then started down the stair, feeling rather than seeing each step.
The morning damp crept through the folds of her wool cape. She shivered, though not from the cold. Every noise round her was magnified. When a door creaked somewhere below, she nearly lost her footing, so loudly did the hinges complain. A dog barking in the distance sounded near enough to bite her ankles. When at last she reached the deserted square, she cupped the flickering candle with her hand and hastened across the plainstanes.
Daybreak would not be long in coming. Already the rectangle of sky above her was changing from deepest blue to dark, smoky gray. Gulls sailed over the sleeping town, their cries muted by the moist air. Few folk were abroad at that early hour, and none met her gaze. Such solitude would not last. In another hour merchants would throw open their shutters, taverns would welcome their first patrons, and Edinburgh would greet the day with fear and trembling.
But not yet.
Just beyond the Tron Kirk stood the town guardhouse, a low, shabby building erected in the middle of the High Street. The “black hole,” some called it, a disreputable place for all its civic importance. Elisabeth always gave it a wide berth. Several decaying guards usually hung round the door in threadbare uniforms and rumpled tricorne hats, sharing a pint of ale.
But not this morning.
Elisabeth’s steps slowed, and her eyes widened. ’ Tis not possible .
A company of soldiers surrounded the guardhouse: armed, silent, and alert. Even in the murky light, she recognized their belted plaids and short coats, their broadswords and
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