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.”
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.
The shape moved closer, the masculine aroma intensifying, and Mia shrank back.
“Please…” she whispered. “No.”
“Is the lass unwilling?” the bridegroom said. “Or perhaps changed her mind now she’s to wed a Scot?”
Mia shook her head and let out a groan of pain. “I-infection,” she whispered. “I-I have no wish…”
“Devil’s ballocks!” the bridegroom muttered, stepping back.
“The risk is negligible providing you don’t touch her, Lord MacLennan,” Staines said, an edge to his voice.
“Aye, I understand that,” came the reply, and Mia’s eyes filled with tears once more at the kindness in his voice.
“Miss Lucas”—he hesitated—“or I should say ‘Euphramia,’ seeing as we’re to be wed.
I cannae thank ye enough for yer kind offer, and for yer consideration in wanting to protect me from the pox.
If ye’re still willing to wed this blundering oaf who stands before ye, then I’m willing to wed the lass whose selflessness surpasses that of any other living soul. ”
He dipped into a bow, and Mia caught a flash of two emerald eyes twinkling in the afternoon light.
“Hamish MacLennan of Glenblath, at yer service,” he said. “It would fill my heart with joy to have ye as my wife.”
“Then I suggest we proceed with all haste, so that Miss Lucas might take her rest,” Dr. McIver said. “Reverend Staines, when ye’re ready.”
The vicar cleared his throat, then the ceremony began. Mia gripped Gertie’s hand, taking comfort from the older woman’s solidity, while the world drifted in and out of focus as Lord Staines delivered the words.
“I therefore charge ye both, as ye shall stand before the Almighty on the day of judgment, that if either of ye know of any just cause why ye shall not be legally wed, then ye must declare it.”
The pause seemed to extend into forever, the silence punctuated only by the ticking of the longcase clock in the hallway outside and the steady breathing of the groom. Would he retreat at the brink?
No. He remained, steadfast, voicing his vows in that rich voice—a voice that any woman with half a soul would fall in love with. Mia herself might have fallen under its spell had she lived.
When the ceremony came to the exchanging of the rings, Mia closed her eyes and turned her head away. But a large hand took hers and, ignoring her protests, the groom slipped a cool metal band onto her third finger.
“Sir, I beg you not to—”
“Hush, lass,” he said. “What sort of a man would I be if I didnae give my bride a ring on our wedding day? I can risk a little infection to do right by ye.”
Oh, heaven! Would that he were a profligate, or some spendthrift stranger she could care nothing for! But this man—this kind, brave man—had nothing to gain from giving her a ring.
What might her life have been like had she survived? But the question was futile, for she’d only offered marriage—and he’d only accepted—on the basis that she had no chance of survival.
The ceremony concluded, Lord Staines closed his Bible with a snap.
“I now pronounce you man and wife.”
The groom leaned close and caught Mia’s veil. Then he began to lift it and she cried out.
“Can I not kiss my bride?”
Mia shook her head.
“I’m not afraid of infection, lass. Ye’re my wife, and I wish to kiss ye.”
“P-please, you cannot look at me.”
“Och, lass, do ye think I fear a few pockmarks? To me, ye’ll always be beautiful. Not for yer appearance, but for yer selfless act of kindness. Now…may I kiss ye?”
Mia’s heart ached at his gentle plea. There was nothing in the world that she wanted more than to be kissed by him.
But, fine though his words were, she was not so na?ve as to believe that he wouldn’t shrink away from her.
The sight of her pockmarked face—so hideous that Gertie refused to let Mia look at it in the mirror—would disgust him, no matter how valiantly he tried to disguise it.
Tears again stung her eyes as he lifted the bottom of her veil to his lips, then let it fall.
“Thank ye, lass,” he said. “I’ll not forget yer kindness. And I’ll ensure that yer name will live on in the hearts and souls of the people of my home.”
“Will you make me a promise?” Mia asked.
“Gladly, lass.” Her heart ached at the warmth and kindness in his voice.
“Do not mourn me…Hamish.” Her throat tightened as she uttered his name. “Be happy. Find another wife. Be happy with her.”
She heard a sharp intake of breath, then he sighed. “Aye, lass, if it be yer wish, then I will. But know this: Every soul at Glenblath will pray for ye and remember ye—Euphramia.”
“M-Mia,” she whispered, but her voice was almost inaudible and he rose from the bed. “M-my name is…” She broke off as a spasm of coughs racked her body.
Gertie took her hand. “I think Miss Lucas…I mean, Lady MacLennan needs her rest, now.”
Lady MacLennan.
A title that was, like Mia, destined to be short-lived.
The groom bowed, then he exited the chamber.
“My wife and I will pray for you, Lady MacLennan,” Lord Staines said. “When the time comes, I will of course preside over—”
He broke off, and Mia allowed herself a smile. So many grown men who considered themselves the stronger and braver sex, yet they were unable to complete a sentence that referred to her impending death and the funeral that would follow.
After he left, Gertie removed the veil and settled Mia back into a prone position in the bed.
Dr. McIver approached with the familiar phial, then he uncorked it and shook a few drops out onto a spoon before holding it to her lips. She parted them in eagerness, relishing the anticipated release from pain.
“Is there anything else you wish for?” Gertie asked.
Mia shook her head. The nurse placed another cool cloth on her forehead, then stroked her cheek.
“Sweet girl.”
Mia let Gertie’s soft voice caress her senses—the soothing words of love, hitching occasionally as the nurse caught her breath—and waited for the inevitable to claim her.