Page 47 of Ghost of the Ton

The woman cast her gaze over Mia’s form and Mia shifted from one foot to the other, aware of her disheveled appearance, her dull-gray gown with the stain on the skirts, and her pockmarked skin. But rather than superiority or judgment, Mia only saw casual disinterest in the woman’s gaze, as if she cared nothing for looks.

The woman reached into her basket, retrieved a posy of purple flowers, and held it out.

Mia stared at the posy, and a flicker of hurt crossed the woman’s expression.

“I take it ye’ve already heard of me,” she said.

Mia shook her head. “Are you related to my husb—to the MacLennans?”

“Dinnae let Hamish MacLennan hear that or his head will burst. I’m Maisie. Maisie MacLennan.”

“So you are related.”

“Och no, ma’am—ye’ll find most of us hereabouts take the name MacLennan whether we’re related to the family or not.”

“Forgive me if you’re come to visit, Maisie,” Mia said. “The cottage is still very dirty.”

“Of course it is, seeing as nobody’s been here since Old Ma MacLennan passed—save the odd deer or two. But that’s why I’m come. To give ye a hand if ye want it.” Maisie nodded to the posy. “And these, of course, if ye’ve got something to put them in. I heard ye’d left the castle for Riverview Cottage.”

“Were you at”—Mia paused—“the wedding?”

“The likes of me wouldnae be welcome there,” came the reply, “but Murdoch told me about ye. Well, he grumbled about ye being here, bad-tempered arse that he is. Have ye met him yet?”

“I might have,” Mia replied. “But there are plenty of people unhappy about my being here.”

Including my husband.

“Och, pay no attention to them! If they give ye trouble, just come to me and I’ll deal with them, seein’ as I warm most of their beds.”

“So you’re a…” Mia’s voice trailed away.

The woman’s laughter died. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll be going. I ought to have known that a lady from London wouldnae want to associate with the likes of—”

“Stay,” Mia said. “Please. It’s just that I…” She gestured to the woman. “I-I’ve not met a… I mean… I know there are plenty in London and elsewhere, but I’ve not met a woman who earns a living from…” Her cheeks warmed with embarrassment. “Forgive me, Maisie, I meant no offense. Please, come in—though the cottage isn’t fit for visitors.”

“Not even the local hure?”

Oh, so that’s what the word means. Whore.

Maisie frowned, and Mia cursed herself—she must have voiced that thought aloud. Then Maisie resumed her smile and gestured inside.

“Show me what I can do to help,” she said. “I’ve brought oatcakes, freshly baked this morning.” She let out a laugh. “Even hures need to know how to cook. Do ye have something to put these in?” She nodded to the posy.

“I-I think there are some jars in the kitchen,” Mia said. “Is that heather?”

“Aye, I picked it fresh. Do ye know the tradition?”

Mia shook her head.

“It’s said that if the first gift a newcomer receives is a posy of heather, then they’ll be protected from evil spirits and will live a long and happy life on MacLennan land. And, if that gift is accepted, then the giver and receiver will become lifelong friends.”

Mia couldn’t manage anything more than “oh” as she stared at the posy. How would she possibly live a long and happy life here, given that she was destined to leave?

“Forgive me, ma’am,” Maisie said. “I see I was too forward. Perhaps ye have friends already.”

“I have few friends,” Mia replied, “and they’re all in England.”

Maisie nodded. “I understand.”