Here Burns My Candle by Liz Curtis Higgs Page B

disruptions when the bells of Saint Giles began to ring. And those of the Tron Kirk. And the parish kirk in the Canongate to the east. Elisabeth and the others were on their feet at once, headed for the dowager’s chamber and her windows facing the High Street.
    Andrew lifted one sash, then another. “Listen!” Not only bells resounded through the wynds and closes , the winding streets and narrow passageways that branched off the main thoroughfare. Now they also heard the distinctive staccato of drums. “Dragoons!” Andrew breathed, not bothering to hide his excitement.
    Elisabeth leaned out as far as she dared, tightly gripping the windowsill. The other Kerrs joined her as all along the street sashes flew upand startled faces appeared. Though she couldn’t see them, Elisabeth heard the clatter of hoofs on the paving stones and the sound of raucous cheers. “Huzzah! Huzzah!” She peered down the High Street, lined twenty deep with citizens. The staccato drums grew louder, the military rhythm more marked. At long last she caught a glimpse of red, a flash of white.
    “Aren’t they splendid in their uniforms?” Janet clutched the generous cuffs of Andrew’s coat as she hung out farther still.
    “Have a care,” Marjory cautioned, withdrawing into the safer confines of her bedchamber. “They’ll march below our windows shortly.”
    Elisabeth lowered her heels and eased her shoulders inside. Without Donald to anchor her, it was perilous to lean out so far. She dropped to her knees, propped her elbows on the low sill, and settled her chin in her hands. Even from a distance she could see the soldiers’ bright red coats, brass buttons parading down the front. Close-fitting white breeches were tucked into polished black boots, cuffed at the knee. And on their heads sat black military hats, proudly cocked, the wavy edges trimmed in gold.
    In years past she’d mended her share of officers’ uniforms at Angus’s shop, replacing lost buttons or repairing torn seams. “Just as weel their coats are red,” Angus had observed dryly. “The bluid from a Highlander’s dirk willna show.”
    A friend of her late father’s and a fierce Jacobite, Angus MacPherson had guarded her welfare from the first hour Elisabeth had arrived in the capital. The tailor was no doubt roaming the town that afternoon, shadowed by his taciturn son of eight-and-twenty. She still remembered the way dark and brooding Rob MacPherson had watched her whenever she visited his father’s shop, the young man’s eyes like bits of coal, black and hard. Born with a club foot, Rob still had a marked limp, though he managed it well. The lads of Castleton had teased him unmercifully. Perhaps if they saw Rob now, with his broad shoulders and thick arms, they might not be so quick to taunt him.
    “Look at that, will you!” Andrew cried, exultant.
    Elisabeth looked down in time to see the mounted dragoons clash their swords as if engaged in battle. Each mock skirmish was met with roars of approval from the throng. Louder than the drums or swords werethe voices of women, old and young, gentle and common, calling out from their window perches—some with buoyant good wishes, others with unbridled scorn. “Ye’re nae match for the Hielanders!” shouted one.
    Picturing a broadsword in the hands of a rugged clansman, Elisabeth feared their sharp-tongued neighbor might be right. When the dragoons passed by, her consternation grew. They, too, were young, and their mounts seemed skittish and unaccustomed to crowds. However fine the soldiers’ uniforms, their beardless faces and slender limbs told a truer tale.
    “Mr. Kerr, where are they headed?” she asked.
    “Corstorphine,” Andrew told her, “to join Gardiner’s regiment. All told, less than six hundred men.”
    So few . Elisabeth gazed toward the Lawnmarket. “Will the Gentlemen Volunteers march out with them?”
    He paused before answering. “Aye.”
    Elisabeth frowned. Surely Donald would not join