Page 79 of Ghost of the Ton

“Well, I’m right glad ye’ve seen fit to dine with Master Hamish, ma’am,” Mrs. McBride said as she carried a pot of stew into the dining room. “It’s not right for a lass like yerself to be on her own so much.”

The cook leveled a stern gaze at Hamish as she placed the pot on the table.

“I don’t mind the solitude, Mrs. McBride,” Mia said. She smiled at the cook, her face glowing in the candlelight. “The stew smells delicious. You must write down the method so I can make it myself.”

“Och, I dinnae write anything down, lass,” the cook said, tapping her head. “It’s in here—passed from mother to daughter over generations. But then, perhaps I ought to write it down, seeing as I’ve not been blessed with children. Or I could pass it to young Iona here.”

Hamish’s sister—who, to his relief, had been mostly silent during the meal—smiled at the cook. “Thank ye, Mrs. McBride.”

“Och, ye’re a good lass,” the cook said, patting Iona’s shoulder, “even if ye were a terror when ye were wee. Bless me! I remember once when ye threw my roast goose out of the window to see if it could fly!”

Hamish’s heart soared as he heard Mia’s soft laugh. “And did it?” she asked.

“Of course it didnae!” Iona snapped. “Didnae ye know food cannae fly? Or are ye too fine a lady to—”

“That’s enough!” Hamish said, and Iona pulled a face.

“Ye shouldn’t say such things about Mistress Euphramia, Iona lass,” Mrs. McBride said. “Of course she knows food disnae fly—and she’s working very hard to make her cottage comfortable. I’ve seen it meself.”

“Ye’ve been there?” Iona said.

“When I had that cough. Reverend Sutherland said she’d done wonders for his cough, with that syrup of honey and… What was it, lass?”

“Thyme,” Mia said. “It grows on the mountain. My supply has almost run out. Perhaps, Iona, you could help me find more? You’ll know better than I where to look.”

“I’ve better things to do than—”

“Iona,” Hamish growled.

“It doesn’t matter,” Mia said, her tone a little less bright. “Your sister’s not obliged to do anything she has no wish to.”

Iona opened her mouth to reply, but Ma interjected.

“Ye must tell Hamish about the smallpox vaccine, Mia, lass.”

“I’ve already said we cannae afford it, Ma,” Hamish said.

“Ah, but we’ve been discussing it,” Ma said, “and the expense will not be prohibitive. All yer wife”—Iona drew in a sharp breath at Ma’s reference to Hamish’s married status—“all yer wife requires is passage for herself and one other to Glasgow and back. I’m sure ye can spare the carriage for that.”

“What about the cost of the vaccine itself?” Hamish said.

“Dr. McIver assured Mia in his letter that his colleague in Glasgow would be willing to forgo any fee,” Ma said, “and even if he isn’t, would ye want to risk the lives of those hereabouts who depend on us? I’m sure ye wouldnae want anyone here catching smallpox.” She turned to Iona. “Would ye want to catch the pox?”

Iona shook her head. “I wouldnae want to look like her.”

“Iona, I’ve warned ye—” Hamish began, but Mia interrupted.

“Your sister’s right.” She gave a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Who, of sound mind, would want to look like me? And that’s the lesser evil, given how many people die from the disease.”

“If I had to look like ye, I’d rather—” Iona began, but Hamish banged his fist on the table and his sister startled, her eyes widening.

“Better pockmarked on the outside than rotten on the inside,” he said.

Iona opened her mouth to reply, then her lip wobbled and she closed it again, her eyes glistening as she picked at her meal.

“If you let me go to Glasgow, Hamish, I promise that you’ll not have to pay toward the cost,” Euphramia said. “Dr. McIver has also written to say that he’s willing to give me a home and a position as his assistant.”

She met his gaze, determination in her eyes.