Page 57 of Ghost of the Ton

“I’ll bring some next time I visit,” he said, “or…” He paused at an uncomfortable sense of shyness.

“Or?” she said, returning the bottle to the shelf and picking up the milk jug. She raised her eyebrows, and when he nodded, she poured a splash into each teacup.

“Ye could take dinner at the castle with us tonight and I can give ye some paper then.”

She paused and parted her lips.

To delay her refusal, he added, “And a pen, and some ink.”

Then she smiled and a flicker of pleasure illuminated her eyes, like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud.

“Well, if you’re offering a pen and ink as well, how can I refuse?”

She passed a teacup to him and her eyes widened as his fingers brushed against hers. Then she picked up the remaining cup and approached the other chair beside the fire.

He sipped his tea and watched her as she settled into her seat. Her body relaxed, and she closed her eyes, her nostrils flaring slightly as she inhaled. Then she opened her eyes again and regarded him.

Silence fell, save for the crackling of the fire. Perhaps he should fill the void with a remark on the weather, or how pretty her gown was—ladies were supposed to enjoy such conversations. But the woman sitting opposite, her face glowing in the firelight, had no need for such inanities. She was no ordinary Society lady. She was intelligent and independent, and not afraid to speak her mind on a subject about which she was passionate. Yet she was also comfortable in the silence, not feeling the need to fill it with meaningless remarks.

Then he smiled to himself. How many times had he dreamed of this moment—of the simple pleasure of spending an afternoon beside the fireplace, in silence, with his wife?

And here he was—spending an afternoon beside a fireplace. In silence.

With his wife.

He met her gaze and lifted her teacup to her lips, and he caught a shy smile. When he mirrored the gesture, lifting his own cup, he realized that the tea had grown cold.

He set his cup aside and leaned forward, and a flare of hope flickered in her eyes. But before he could speak, the door was knocked upon and she startled, her cup rattling on its saucer. She rose and smoothed down the front of her gown.

“That will be Lady MacLennan.”

She exited the parlor and returned with his mother.

“Would you like some tea”—Euphramia glanced at Hamish—“Your Ladyship?”

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony before my boy,” Ma said. “I’ve told ye to call me Eilidh, lass, and I insist on ye complying. And yes, I would like some tea, but perhaps later?”

“Of course, Eilidh,” Euphramia said. “How are your hands today?”

“My right hand is less swollen, I believe, but the left was giving me some pain last night.”

“Let me see.”

Euphramia gestured to the seat she’d vacated and Hamish’s mother took it. Then she kneeled beside Ma, took both her hands in hers, and inspected them.

“Yes, the joints on the left hand look redder than they did on your last visit. Have you been doing anything unusual?”

Ma shook her head. “Only a little knitting. I confess I spent a little more time at it than I’d anticipated, but it’s the first time I’ve been able to knit without pain.”

Euphramia nodded. “I see. Do you still have enough of the heather liniment?”

Ma nodded.

“Good, well, keep applying that.” Euphramia turned her hazel eyes to Hamish. “Will you make sure your mother applies it three times a day?”

“I can apply it myself, lass,” Ma said, smiling.

Euphramia continued to inspect Ma’s hands, running her fingertips along the joints. “I have some willow bark for the pain,” she said, “if Mrs. McBride can make a tea with it. But I’d like to get hold of some ginger root. Its warming properties are excellent for easing joint pain, if you don’t mind your hands smelling of ginger. Does Mrs. McBride have any?”