Page 124 of Ghost of the Ton

Fuck.

So Iona had told her. Or, more likely, in her cowardice she’d merely revealed her swollen belly.

“Och, Hamish!” Ma reached toward him.

He took her in his arms and pulled her close. “Dinnae distress yerself,” he said. “I’m not angry. I was at first, but I’m resigned to it now.”

“Resigned?” she cried. “How can ye be so cruel when ye’ve seen the evidence?” She shook her head. “What shall we do? We must tell Mia—she’ll know how to ensure we survive.”

“Ma, aren’t ye being a little overexcited?” he said. Then he smiled inwardly at Mia’s remonstration. “Come inside and I’ll make ye a pot of tea.”

“Tea? Is that what ye think will save us when there’s so many lives at risk?”

“What the devil are ye talking about? Iona will be well.”

“Not Iona, son—i-it’s Ailsa. She spent her Sunday afternoon off with that MacDouglas lad—ye know, young Taran, who’s undergardener at MacDouglas Castle—and she’s been taken ever so bad this morning, shaking, feverish, and the marks on her face… Och!” She covered her face with her hands. “I’ve never seen anything the like. Ye must fetch Mia, for she’ll know what to do. But son, so many souls here haven’t taken the vaccine—what are we to do?”

Vaccine?

Dear God, no…

Tears ran down her cheeks—the woman who had birthed him, survived an abusive marriage, influenza, and several harsh winters that would have seen off the hardiest of folk succumbed to despair at the notion of the suffering of the people who depended on her.

Hamish drew her into his arms and uttered a silent prayer to the Almighty that He would spare every soul whose life was at risk when faced with the inevitable.

Smallpox had come to Glenblath.

Chapter Thirty-Two

When Mia arrived at Glenblath Castle, Eilidh ushered her inside. The older woman looked as if she’d aged ten years since Mia had last seen her. Her face pale, forehead lined with distress, eyes glistening with unshed tears, she stood in the doorway, swaying from side to side as if she might faint any moment.

“Forgive me for sending for ye so late, Mia. Has my son told ye the news?”

Mia glanced at the huge Highlander who’d returned to her doorstep a broken man, not half an hour after they’d parted. Then she placed a hand on the older woman’s arm.

“You should rest, Eilidh. Take some sweet tea. I can see to the girl. It’s Ailsa, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take ye to her,” Hamish said. “She’s in the maids’ chamber on the top floor.”

He led her along the stone passageway, then up a series of winding staircases until they stood before an arched wooden door, which Hamish knocked on, then opened to reveal a chamber with three beds. The bed beside the window was occupied, and beside it sat a thin, gray-haired woman.

“Elspeth?” Mia entered the room, removing her shawl. “What’s happened here?”

“It’s young Ailsa, ma’am,” the maid said. “She wasnae feeling good last night, so I sent her to bed early.”

Mia approached the bed and suppressed a cry. The young maid’s face was flushed with fever, her forehead glistened with moisture, and her hair clung to her face in damp curls. With each inhalation, she shuddered.

There was no doubt as to her ailment. Her face and neck were dotted with angry red sores that stared mockingly at Mia to remind her of the sores she’d first seen on her father’s face, and then in the mirror—marks to herald the onset of a siege from the Grim Reaper himself.

“It’s smallpox, isn’t it?” Elspeth asked. “I can see it in yer eyes.”

Mia took Ailsa’s hand, which lay limply in hers. “I’m afraid so.”

“Devil’s ballocks!” Hamish cried, his expression filled with horror.

“You need to leave,” Mia told him.

“But the lass is my responsibility. I’m her laird and it’s my duty to take care of everyone. And ye’ll need help. I should stay for her sake.”