Page 43 of Ghost of the Ton

“I’m sure she’s not,” he replied. “Weren’t ye going to send Mrs. Bron to help make it habitable?”

She let out a huff. “Ye know what I mean, son. Are ye going to disappoint me by claiming that ye dinnae? That poor lass has no friends here. Having come to Glenblath as a bride over thirty years ago, I know how that feels.”

“She’s not…”

She let out a huff, but rather than admonish him, she scraped back her chair and stood.

“Are ye not eating anything else, Ma?”

“I’m not hungry, and I should see to Iona. But I daresay yer wife’s hungry if she’s been busy all morning. Ye might want to take her a slice or two of that pie.”

“Is that what ye intend to do now, Ma? Issue me orders?”

“No, son—I’ll leave the orders to yer conscience.”

She placed her napkin on the table, then exited the dining hall. Hamish glanced at his one remaining companion. The dog opened its eyes and stared at him.

“Are ye going to judge me also, boy?” The deerhound thumped his tail on the hearthrug, and Hamish smiled. “Sometimes I think ye’re my only true friend here, Monarch.”

Which was better than having no friends at all.

He glanced at the slice of pie on his sister’s plate. Then, after wrapping it in his napkin, he exited the dining hall and made his way outside to the path that led toward the river.

*

Hamish couldn’t recall the last time he’d visited Riverview Cottage—not since the passing of old Mrs. MacLennan, when she’d been carried from the place of her passing to her final place of rest behind the chapel. Widowed and childless, she’d had few mourners save Hamish, who’d attended as laird. Few ventured near while she was alive, and even fewer since her passing, for fear that her spirit would ensnare the sinful and pull them into the river.

And there’s none more sinful than I.

He heard the river before he saw it, swollen from the recent rain, bubbling and chattering in deep, masculine notes. As he ventured along the path, the trees thinned out until he could make out flashes of light between the tree trunks as the water danced and boiled over the granite rocks.

The path descended toward the river, then turned to run parallel with the water’s edge, before it veered inward toward the forest. Hamish caught sight of a building of gray stone, set in an elevated position and facing the river. Though bathed in the light of the afternoon sun, the cottage looked forlorn, as if it still mourned the previous occupant. Even the windows stared at him like dark, baleful eyes, the doorway forming a gaping, toothless mouth. The log store beside the cottage was now empty, its wooden roof showing signs of rot. The logs had long since gone, having been scavenged over the years, but old Mrs. MacLennan had no further use for them now.

A white figure materialized in the doorway and emerged from the cottage, seeming to glide over the ground. Hamish’s stomach clenched in fear. He stepped back and a twig snapped under his feet.

“Who’s there?” a female voice called out.

Hamish cursed his foolishness. It wasn’t old Mrs. MacLennan, but a different ghost.

His wife.

He stepped forward, and the woman held up her hand to shield her eyes from the sunlight.

“Oh,” she said, her voice tightening. “Lord MacLennan. I-I wasn’t expecting you.”

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’m on your land. You’ve no need to ask.”

“I do, lass. It’s yer home—at least until…”

He trailed off, and she nodded and beckoned him inside. He crossed the threshold, entered a room, and sneezed.

“I’m afraid this room’s very dusty,” she said. “Perhaps you’d prefer to return when I’ve finished cleaning the cottage?”

“No, I’ll stay, lass.”

She nodded and led him into a chamber that overlooked the river. The room was devoid of furnishings, save a chair beside the fireplace and a threadbare rug, which, no doubt, was crawling with lice. A broom was propped up in a corner next to a wooden pail with a cloth hanging over the side. But the fireplace had been raked out and the windows, rather than covered in the grime acquired through neglect, gave a clear view of the river. A beam of sunlight stretched across the floor, casting four patches of light from the windowpanes.