Page 102 of Ghost of the Ton

“Get in and close the door,” Hamish said. “Ye’re letting the heat out.”

Iona scowled, then Mia rose and offered her hand.

“Why don’t you sit next to me?” she said. “I’ve brought some ginger for your mother to take in her tea. Will you try some?”

Hamish braced himself for an insult, but his sister closed the door and took the seat next to Mia.

“Ginger?” Hamish said. “I thought ye used it for rubbing on…” His cheeks warmed at the memory of smoothing the salve over Mia’s body, the soft skin of her breasts with the precious little pearls in the center, the delicately curved stomach, and those welcoming curls hiding the promise of pleasure…

“Ye dinnae look well, brother,” Iona sneered. “Is it because ye’re taking tea in the same chamber as yer mother, yer sister, yer wife, and yer hure?”

Maisie drew in a sharp breath.

Hamish leaped to his feet, hands fisted, and Iona shrank back, the defiance in her eyes diminishing.

“I thought I’d raised ye to be better than that, child,” their mother said quietly. “Ye must always be welcoming to guests.”

“What if the guest has no right to be here?” Iona said. “Or if the guest is unkind, or uncivil?”

“It matters not,” Mia replied. “If a guest is kind enough to favor us with their company then it’s our duty to make them feel welcome—is that not right, Iona?”

Hamish’s sister turned to Mia, and the two women stared at each other, as if sharing a silent communication. Then Iona looked away.

“F-forgive me, Maisie,” she stammered.

Maisie grinned. “I cannae take offense, Miss Iona. I’ve heard every insult known to man—and woman. I’m immune to them, as I’ll soon be immune to smallpox.”

“Ye have my thanks, lass, on behalf of all of us at Glenblath,” Ma said, “even if others are incapable of thanking ye properly for taking the first cut.”

There that phrase was again. “What are ye talking of—the first cut?” Hamish said.

Ma raised her eyebrows at Mia. “Tell him about the vaccine, lass.”

“The vaccine’s administered into the blood,” Mia said. “A cut is made, usually in the patient’s arm. Then a small amount of…fluid is dabbed into the cut.”

“Fluid?” Hamish swallowed the ripple of nausea in his throat.

“Aye,” Maisie said, her eyes gleaming. “Pus gathered from sores.”

Devil’s ballocks! Hamish gripped the back of a chair. He heard a low cry and glanced up to see Iona placing her hand over her mouth. His sister rose and sprinted outside.

“Miss Iona?” a voice said from the passageway. “Are ye well?”

“Devil take ye, Brodie!” Iona cried, then her footsteps faded into the distance.

“Do ye want some air also, Hamish?” Ma said. “Ye’re looking a little green.”

“Aye,” Maisie added, “as green as the mold on Rory’s old cheese.”

“Is it safe, what ye plan to do, Mia?” Hamish asked.

His wife nodded. “Quite safe, I assure you. Maisie will feel unwell for a day or so—no more than eight and forty hours. Then I can pass the vaccine around.”

“How?”

“By taking the fluid from the sores that arise on Maisie’s skin and administering it to the next patient, then the next, and so forth, until it’s been passed to everyone. It’s like a chain. As soon as the fluid forms, it can be passed to the next patient, but once it clears up, the chain is broken, so I must act quickly. If I can administer the fluid from Maisie’s arm to five souls, then each of those five to another five, and so forth, we could have the whole estate protected from smallpox within a fortnight.”

Hamish shook his head. “I doubt folk will be willing to be cut.”