Page 8 of Ghost of the Ton

Mia shook her head as a shiver rippled over her skin. “It’s cold…so cold.”

Gentle hands pushed her forward, then a shawl was wrapped around her shoulders and she was pushed back onto the pillows.

“There!” Gertie said. “You look like a proper bride. Beautiful.”

Mia’s eyes stung with tears as she recalled the image of the sores on her arms and how the doctor had refused to hand her a mirror so that she might see those on her face—sores that burned and itched despite the lotions Gertie applied.

“Have ye given her anything, Gertie?”

“No, Dr. McIver, sir. I-I thought it best to leave the laudanum until after the ceremony, in case she—”

“Just so,” the doctor interrupted.

In case she does not wake.

“Forgive me,” Gertie said. Then she leaned close and whispered in Mia’s ear. “Your bridegroom’s here. He’s as fine a young man as I ever saw.”

Dr. McIver stepped aside and Mia saw two blurred shapes in the doorway.

“Reverend Staines, we should proceed,” the doctor said. “Miss Lucas is very weak and I have no wish to overtax her.”

Reverend Staines?

“No…”

Mia turned her face aside with shame. Not one week earlier she had accompanied Reverend Staines—or rather, Lord Staines—to Olivia Whitcombe’s wedding, thereby placing the entire congregation at risk of infection. How he must hate her!

She let out a whimper. “Forgive me, Lord Staines, I-I…”

A warm hand took hers. “There’s naught to forgive, Miss Lucas.”

“B-but you could be infected. I-I…” She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm.

“Be assured, sweet girl, that I and my family are well. We were fortunate enough to have taken the vaccine. None of the wedding guests have fallen ill. You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for.”

“Why are you…” She trailed off as her throat tightened in pain.

He patted her hand. “I went to school with the archbishop’s eldest son, which enabled the expedition of the license. And I cannot have you married by a stranger when you’ve friends in London. My Juliette would have attended had she not been in the country. She’ll be most sorry that she was unable to arrive in time…”

“In time to see me still alive?”

“Perhaps the Almighty will be merciful and spare you.”

“Lord Staines,” Dr. McIver warned, “ye mustn’t give her false hope.”

“Your profession is based on evidence and facts, doctor,” Staines said. “Mine is built upon the foundation of faith. The worst sin we can commit is to destroy someone’s faith.” He turned toward the huge, blurred figure waiting in the doorway. “Lord MacLennan, if you wish to proceed, the time is now.”

“H-he’s a lord?” Mia whispered.

The figure moved and Mia caught the faint scent of wood, earth, and smoke—so unlike the sickly sweet scents that had thickened the atmosphere of the sickroom. Then he spoke.

“Does the lass not know the name of the man she’s to wed?”

His voice seemed to resonate through her bones. Rich and warm, it carried a Scottish brogue that gave him a musical air. It was a voice that brought forth a vivid image of a deep river bubbling and dancing over the granite rocks of the Highlands—a land that she would never live to see.

Her soul cried out as his voice filled her mind. Steeped in promise and honor, it was the voice of a good man, an honorable man.

Exactly the sort of man who could have made her happy, and yet also exactly the sort of man who would never have looked twice at her.