Page 115 of Ghost of the Ton

“Aye, and Iona. Mia insisted yer sister be one of the first.”

“And Iona agreed? I thought she disliked Mia.”

Ma’s lips curved into a smile. “Iona’s been assisting her. She’s been every day at Riverview Cottage—save yesterday, when she was unwell. It was Iona who persuaded the household to take the vaccine. They’ve all taken it, except young Ailsa.”

“Ailsa?”

“Murdoch’s lass.” Ma flicked her gaze to Hamish. “I saw him shortly before Mia left for Glasgow,” she said. “He was having words with Ailsa in the garden as she was fetching water.”

“Were ye spying?”

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink.

Ha! Not so perfect, are ye, Ma?

She shot him a look that silenced the little voice of triumph in his head.

“Can I not take a walk in my own gardens?” She drove the needle into her work with a little more force, each motion sending a prick of apprehension through Hamish, as if she were imagining driving the needle into his flesh. “His face was black and blue,” she continued. “He said he’d been sparring with Robbie.”

“Well, there ye have it.”

“Only Robbie’s not much of a fighter. Murdoch’s been our Games champion for the past four years, and ye cannae forget how he wrestled the MacDouglases’ eldest to the ground at their Games. There’s not a man alive who can best him…”

She paused, and he was assaulted by the full force of her gaze.

“…save one.”

Devil’s ballocks, did all mothers possess the ability to read their son’s minds? Or just his mother?

“Och, son, ye may think me a fool, but I’m not blind. I know ye care for her. Even if ye cannae admit it to yer ma, ye should admit it yerself.”

Oh, fuck it—there was little point in trying to deceive her.

“I cannae intrude on her again,” he said. “She hates me—she almost said as much.”

Rather than show distress, his mother smiled again.

“Then there’s hope for ye yet.”

“Hope!” he scoffed, then resumed reading his ledgers, though he was unable to focus on the words.

“If a man, or woman, harbors hatred,” she said, “it means that their heart is alive—with passion, fury, and life. Do ye believe that hate is the opposite of love?”

“Isn’t it?” Hamish said. “I always thought—” He broke off, unable to disguise the hoarseness in his throat.

She leaned forward and placed her hand over his. He glanced at it, taking in the smooth skin and the knuckles, which, though still swollen, no longer bore the raw redness of pain. A faint aroma reached his nostrils—the salve that Mia used to treat his mother’s hands.

“The opposite of hate is not love, Hamish,” she said softly. “It’s indifference. And Mia could never be indifferent to ye. She was asking, only yesterday, whether ye’d be taking the vaccine.”

Hope flared in his soul.

“She’s been trying to teach Iona to administer it,” his mother said, “but yer sister’s too afraid to cut ye.”

“Oh.”

“Can ye not go to her, lad?”

“But she said—”