Chapter Fifteen #2
“Is that you, Rory? Maisie’s not with me today, so you might wish to—Oh!”
The door opened to reveal his wife, and she let out a cry.
“Forgive me…” He hesitated. What the devil was he supposed to call her? He held up the basket. “Mrs. McBride set aside this for ye,” he said, his cheeks warming as if he were a nervous lad not yet out of boyhood. “A loaf of bread and some cheese.”
She wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like to bring them inside? And perhaps”—she gestured behind her—“you might wish to see what I’ve done here. With Maisie and Rory’s help.”
When he didn’t respond, her smile slipped. “Of course, there’s no obligation. I’m sure you must have many things to attend to.”
“Nothing that cannae wait, Miss…I mean, lass…” He hesitated again.
“Why don’t you call me Euphramia? Miss Lucas is overly formal.”
“Euphramia?”
“It is my name. You said it once, though, of course, at the time you hadn’t expected to speak it again.”
Fuck. Could she make him feel even guiltier?
Then she laughed, and he caught his breath at the mirth in her eyes that rendered them quite beautiful, gleaming with myriad colors in the sunlight.
Gone was the broken creature he’d rejected.
Standing at the threshold of a cottage she’d made into a home, she looked freer than he’d ever seen her.
Perhaps the prospect of dissolving their union had given her a sense of hope—enabled her to blossom and breathe.
“May I stay?” he said. “For a while, at least. I’d like to see what ye’ve made of the place.”
“A laird’s inspection?”
Ballocks, could he not say the right thing?
“No…Euphramia,” he said. “I only want to make sure that ye’re comfortable here.”
His heart warmed to see the smile on her lips.
“I’m very comfortable,” she said. “Shall I make tea? There’s a pot on the boil, so it’d be no trouble—unless you take sugar. I have none here.”
“Tea without sugar would be perfect, I thank ye.”
She ushered him inside, then led him into the parlor.
It had been transformed from the last time he saw it.
Gone was the broken chair. Instead, there were two armchairs beside the fireplace, each covered in a plaid blanket.
A table, covered in what looked like a pile of rags, was in the center of the room, with a chair at each end, and a chest of drawers had been placed in the corner.
One wall was now covered in shelves containing an array of jars and bottles.
The threadbare rug was still there, but the pattern seemed a little brighter.
And the smell of must and damp had gone.
The air was now filled with the warm scent of peat and pine, together with an exotic aroma of herbs and spices.
A fire crackled in the fireplace with an iron kettle suspended over the center.
“I recall ye saying this was where ye’d treat yer patients,” Hamish said.
“And receive guests,” she replied. “Sit, please, and I’ll make the tea.”
He placed his basket on the table, then took the chair she indicated.
Then she exited the parlor, returning shortly afterward with a tray bearing two mismatched cups and an earthenware teapot with a crack in the spout.
Using a cloth, she lifted the kettle from the fire, then poured water into the pot, giving it a stir before replacing the lid.
She began to fold the rags on the table, placing each one in the chest of drawers.
“You don’t mind if I continue with this, do you?” she said. “I’ve so much to do before your mother visits.”
“Of course not—are ye wanting help?”
“You’re my guest, Lord MacLennan.”
“Hamish, please.”
“Hamish.”
His name on her lips, though barely a whisper, sent a little thrill through his body. What might it be like to hear her crying his name while she begged him to take her?
Tempering the little pulse of lust, he crossed his legs and gestured to the furniture.
“Where did all this come from?”
“Rory, mostly,” she said. “He brought the table over, and secured the shelves.” She indicated the chairs. “Maisie gave me those, and the blankets were a gift from your mother. I’ve promised to return everything before I leave.”
“Ye should keep the blankets if Ma gave them to ye,” he said, “to remind ye of Glenblath.”
She colored and looked away.
“And,” he continued, “all this?” He motioned toward the items on the shelves.
“Bounty from your estate,” she said, winding a strip of linen around her hand before slipping it off and placing it in a drawer.
“Save a few things I brought with me.” She plucked a jar from the lower shelf and held it up.
“This is heather liniment,” she said. “It’s what I’ve been using to treat your mother’s condition. ”
“Her…condition?” he said. “She’s merely old, is she not?
Dr. Chisholm said that she was suffering from…
what did he say? Ah yes, a rapid onset of decrepitude, giving rise to sensations of acute discomfort in the upper appendages.
” She snorted, and Hamish tempered his annoyance.
“Do ye take offense at the diagnosis of a renowned doctor from Edinburgh?”
“I do when he talks nonsense,” she replied. “What you said isn’t a diagnosis, but a description of the symptoms, using an unintelligible language, no doubt to secure a higher fee.”
“And ye know this because…?”
“Because,” she said quietly, “and may the Almighty forgive me for speaking out of turn…because it’s what my father used to do—and many like him.
They gave unintelligible names to descriptions of symptoms, then prescribed a generic cure, usually a leech applied to the affected part of the body.
Your Dr. Chisholm’s diagnosis is something any fool could make, given that, in essence, all he’s saying is that your mother is ageing and experiencing pain in her hands. ”
“So, what is my mother suffering from if it’s not merely her age?”
“It’s a swelling of the joints,” she said. “I cannot recall the precise name for it—but Dr. McIver taught me a little about it, which he learned when he studied in France for a while, at the Salpêtrière Hospital.”
She raised her eyebrows expectantly, then let out a sigh as he shook his head.
“She’s also experiencing the effects of a lack of sunlight,” she said. “I understand your Dr. Chisholm advised her not to take milk in her tea and avoid cheese, when, in fact, an absence of each will exacerbate the symptoms.”
He stared at her. Was she a clever charlatan, trying to fill his mind with nonsense, or, as her confident manner suggested, did she actually have some understanding of medicine?
“Don’t you believe me, Lord MacLennan?” she said, her voice hardening.
So much for Hamish.
She let out a sigh and replaced the jar on the shelf. “A woman always has less credibility in the eyes of the world when her opinion contradicts that of a man.”
“So ye assume Dr. Chisholm is a man, not a woman?” Hamish teased, then he regretted his words as the determination in her expression faded, as if she surrendered the debate, knowing that her opponent did not deserve to hear her arguments.
“There are few women doctors,” she said, “and, even if Edinburgh were awash with them, you would never employ one.”
“Why not?”
She rolled her eyes. “In the short time since I arrived here, Lord MacLennan, I’ve learned enough about you to know that you’d never listen to anything a woman said, let alone employ one as a doctor.
In your eyes, my sex is fit to fulfill only three functions—providing a man with a dowry, bearing him sons, and pouring the tea.
Of course, in my case, I’m only good for one. ”
She picked up the teapot and poured a measure into each cup.
“I trust I’ve dispatched my one viable function to your satisfaction, sir.”
Fuck.
Why did he always have to make such an arse of himself?
“I’m sorry…Euphramia,” he said. “If ye’re helping ease Ma’s pain, then I ought to be thanking ye, not teasing ye. Tell me more about what ye have here.” He gestured to a large iron pot at the end of the lower shelf. “What’s that?”
“Calendula salve,” she said. “Or, at least, it will be when it cools. It’s for preventing putrefaction of wounds.”
“Do ye have a salve for preventing a man from making an arse of himself?” he said. “Better still, a potion to make a woman forget a man’s foolish words that he did not mean?”
She met his gaze and the corner of her mouth lifted. Then she reached for a small glass bottle on the top shelf with a yellowing label.
“Laudanum,” she said. “Enough of this will render a man unconscious, so at least I’m not required to listen to his foolish words for an hour or so.”
“And ye found that here?”
“I brought this with me. There’s only a little left, but Dr. McIver told me I could always write and ask him to send me anything I needed.”
“Dr. McIver—that’s the man ye studied with?”
She nodded.
“Will ye write to him?”
“That depends on your generosity. I’ve no paper to write on, and no money for postage.”
“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.