Page 7 of Ghost of the Ton

Hamish paused, then nodded. “What do ye know of her?”

“Her name is Euphramia Mary Lucas.”

Euphramia…

Hamish played with the name in his mind, imagining how it might sound on his lips.

“She’s the only daughter of Dr. Lucas,” the solicitor continued. “An intelligent young woman with ambitions herself to become a doctor that were thwarted not only because of her sex but because of her father’s insistence that she restrict herself to the pursuits of a woman.”

“Yet she is near death?”

“Not even doctors are protected from the onset of disease, Lord MacLennan, particularly when they refuse to administer modern treatment.” The lawyer’s tone hardened. “The poor girl tried to persuade her father to agree to them both taking this new smallpox vaccine. But Dr. Lucas refused. That refusal cost him his life, and will soon cost that of his daughter.”

Poor lass, to have her life curtailed by the man who believed he owned her! But it was a fate that many women shared. Hamish had seen the toll on his ma, whom his da had considered to be his rightful property—his to own, to sap her strength and spirit.

Perhaps, if Hamish agreed to marry Miss Lucas, he could take comfort in thwarting the ambitions of a man who believed he owned her. He would give her his name, then honor hers by praying for her each day so that her spirit might survive, even if her body did not.

“Very well, Mr. Stockton,” he said, at length. “I agree. Tell Miss Lucas that I offer my hand willingly and gratefully. I’ll present myself as soon as required—today, if necessary.”

The solicitor nodded his approval, then stood and extended his hand. Hamish took it and the older man held his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. Then he summoned a clerk to usher Hamish out of the building with a promise that he’d send a message to take him to his bride forthwith.

Not the most conventional of courtships, but Hamish had never wished to fritter away his soul and funds trotting about London wooing a brittle, haughty debutante.

And, by the time he returned to Glenblath, he’d be solvent—or at least, a little more solvent—and widowed, neither of which he’d expected when entered London.

But then, the winds of Fate never blew as a man expected.

Chapter Three

The cloak of oblivion seemed to hover merely inches above Mia’s body, waiting to descend and claim her at last. But she held it at bay, willing Death to be patient.

Only a few hours more, then you can take me.

A slow, steady drumbeat echoed in her mind—as if to herald her departure. At first it was thick and low, in unison with her heartbeat, vibrating through her bones. Then she heard footsteps.

Perhaps it was an angel, or a demon, come to ascertain whether her soul was virtuous enough to ascend into heaven?

But she was not virtuous. She had sinned. In the eyes of the Almighty she’d displayed filial disobedience and defiance rather than the meekness expected of a dutiful daughter. And her strength was fading—she could feel it draining from her mind and body.

A hand touched her shoulder.

“N-not yet,” she croaked. “I’m not ready.”

She creaked her eyes open and groaned at the intensity of the light. Then a veil was placed over her face and gentle hands took her by the arms and pulled her upright.

“It’s time, miss,” a voice whispered.

“Time for my death, Gertie?” Mia whispered. “Do you place the shroud over me in preparation?”

“No, sweet girl,” Gertie said, her voice filled with the rich warmth of a kind soul dedicated to the service of others. “It’s time for your wedding. This is your bridal veil.”

“M-my…?”

Then Mia recalled the previous day, when Mr. Stockton had presented her with the details of a young man in need of funds. A good, whole-hearted man dedicated to improving the lot of others. Not a Society gentleman who’d fritter away her fortune at the gaming tables, but a Highlander, raised in the mountains, among fresh air and clear skies. A man who worked the land. A little roughened around the edges, the lawyer had said. But beauty and gentility rarely went hand in hand with true goodness.

There was a knock on the door, and three figures entered. Mia could discern the familiar shape of Dr. McIver, who approached the bed, his frame obscuring the others. He placed his hand on her arm.

“Ye’re burning up, lass.”