Page 58 of Ghost of the Ton

Ma shook her head. “I’ve never known her to have any. Isn’t it terribly expensive?”

“I could write and ask Dr. McIver for some,” Euphramia said.

Hamish glanced up at the shelves. “What about the laudanum?” he said.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Euphramia replied. “Your mother’s condition is chronic, and laudanum is not appropriate for long-term treatment because it gives rise to dependency.”

“But—”

“Och, let the lass do her job, will ye, Hamish?” Ma said with a huff. “Ye wouldnae interrupt Dr. Chisholm, would ye?”

“No, but—”

“No, but what?” Ma said. “Because he’s a man? Mia here has done more to ease my pain in a fortnight than Dr. Chisholm did over three years—and at no expense. Ye’re making the place look untidy, sitting there with that witless expression on yer face. Haven’t ye got wood to chop or tenants to shout at?”

Why did she have to speak to him as if he were a wayward child—and in front of Euphramia?

Hamish heard a sound that resembled a snort. He looked up to see Euphramia trying to hide a smile.

He rose and bowed. “Very well,” he said. “A man knows when he’s not wanted.”

Euphramia narrowed her eyes and looked away.

Curse it! He’d done it again.

But, as he’d watched her, happy to kneel on the floor unlike any lady he’d met, and the tender care with which she treated his mother, he’d come to realize that she was not unwanted.

“I’ll leave ye in peace,” he said. “But Ma…”

“Aye?” his mother said sharply, fixing her gaze on him.

“Would ye be so kind as to bring my wife back with ye, when ye’re finished? She’s agreed to dine with us.”

My wife…

He heard a small intake of breath and looked at Euphramia to see her staring at him, lips parted. She exchanged a glance with his mother, then rose to her feet, brushing dust off her skirts.

“I-I think perhaps it’s best if I remain here,” she said. “I still have some venison left, and it may not last another day. And Maisie said she might pay me a visit. Yes—that’s it, Maisie’s visiting. I’ve no wish to disappoint her.”

Hamish’s mother took her hand. “Are ye sure, lass?”

Euphramia glanced at Hamish, then nodded. The light in her eyes had gone.

“B-but,” she said, a tremor in her voice, “I should like to call on you tomorrow, that is, if you’re still amenable to letting me have some paper and a pen.”

“Of course, lass,” Hamish said, “but—”

“And,” she continued, fixing her gaze at Hamish’s feet, “I should like to write to Dr. McIver as soon as possible. He’s unaware that I’ll be leaving here, and I wish to continue my studies with him when I return home.”

Hamish flinched inwardly.

Home. She did not think of Glenblath as her home—not even the little cottage that she’d taken such pains to make so comfortable and welcoming.

“Surely there’s no need for—” his mother began, but Euphramia interrupted, her voice tight.

“I think there’s every need, Eilidh,” she said, her voice wavering. “I must think of my future.”

Hamish opened his mouth to protest and his mother frowned at him and shook her head. Then she patted Euphramia’s hand.