Chapter Thirty-Three
Hamish couldn’t remember a time he felt so impotent, so inconsequential, as he did during the month following Ailsa’s falling ill.
More than thirty souls were brought to Glenblath Castle with signs of infection, a steady stream arriving the first week, which trailed off as the days passed.
His wife greeted each arrival with compassion, optimism, and a determination to assuage their fears.
No wonder those doctors had praised her so much!
Hamish could only feel shame at the resentment he’d harbored at Mia having the admiration of other men.
It had been a resentment born of male pride and a sense of ownership over the woman who belonged to him in the eyes of the law and the Church.
But in the eyes of the Almighty, the higher power, she was a woman in her own right—independent and intelligent.
She ran the makeshift hospital better than any man, with the efficiency of a trained doctor and the kindness of a woman, nurturing each patient, tending to their pains, holding their hands, and soothing them to sleep at night while they coughed and groaned.
As for his sister…
Iona, despite her condition, had insisted on nursing the sick alongside Mia.
At first Hamish had assumed she’d grow weary of the drudgery of issuing medicine, wiping foreheads, bathing sores, and fetching and carrying, but she obeyed Mia’s orders with an enthusiasm and compassion that never waned, not once complaining about the aches in her back and feet—aches that were apparent when he saw her collapse into a seat at each day’s end, rubbing her back and placing a protective hand over her swollen belly.
As for the disgrace to his family—Hamish couldn’t be more proud of his sister.
She was a warrior, a future mother protecting herself and the child she carried, weathering the taunts, even those that came from the lips of those she tended to.
The worst offender was Murdoch. Even in the throes of fever he called her a hure, yet she held her tongue and cared for both him and his frail little wife.
Clearly, despite Reverend Sutherand’s preachings—which Hamish had listened to with more care now that death hung over Glenblath—some men were irredeemable.
Was Hamish also irredeemable?
He glanced at the scar on his arm where Mia had administered the vaccine to him over a fortnight ago, and to others whom she’d managed to treat before they succumbed to the smallpox.
“Are ye proud of her, son?”
Hamish turned to see his mother standing beside him, leaning over the gallery at the activity below.
“My sister?” he said. “Or my wife?”
When she did not respond, he nodded.
“I’m proud of both,” he said, watching his wife weave her way through the beds to tend to Shona.
Robbie’s wife had been one of the first to insist that Mia be banished for the marks on her face, yet Mia had cared for Shona with compassion, soothing her when she cried at night after Robbie had abandoned her at their doorstep, saying he had no wish for a pockmarked wife—then, a few days later, consoling her when the Almighty had seen fit to claim Robbie for His own.
“She’ll make a fine mother,” Ma said. “Perhaps, one day, a fine wife also.”
“I thought ye’d be angry when ye discovered Iona was with child.”
“I’d suspected it for some time. My Iona was never afraid of how she looked, never cared for modesty or propriety. Then she started covering herself with shawls as if she had something to hide. Only a numbskull would fail to see what she was hiding.”
“I thank ye for putting yer numbskull son in his place.”
She smiled. “Ye’re a man, son. Men are the last to notice what really matters.”
“Ye’re not angry with her?”
“Not as angry as ye were, from what Iona told me.” She sighed, then gestured to the activity below.
“Compared to all this, where lives are being lost, what right have I to be angry at her for bringing a life into the world? But I confess I was disappointed at first. I wanted my daughter to make a respectable match, perhaps as a laird’s wife, as befits her status.
But I shouldn’t measure her happiness by what I believed would make me happy at her age.
Iona’s my child and I love her no matter what.
Besides—as Mia told me, when a woman is with child, there’s also a man involved.
If I should direct my disappointment at anyone, it should be him, whomever he might be. ”
Hamish resumed his attention on the makeshift hospital. Mia had risen from tending to her patient and was now issuing instructions to Mrs. Bron and Maisie.
“Perhaps she’ll make a fine mother one day also,” Ma said. “She’s already a fine wife. Mrs. Bron has nothing but good to speak of her.”
“Och, Ma…”
“Dinnae ’och, Ma’ me, lad,” she said. “If ye won’t listen to me, then listen to yer heart. I’ll tell ye if no one else will. Ye love her. And, if ye think love’s not enough, ye need her.”
“Aye,” he said, sighing. “But she disnae need me.”
The dog at his feet let out a whine, and Ma took Hamish’s hand, curling her thin fingers around his.
“Ye’re talking nonsense, lad,” she said. “Even Monarch knows it, dinnae ye, boy?”
The dog—treacherous beastie—thumped his tail on the floor, then let out another whine.
“Do ye wish to go for a walk, boy?” Hamish said.
The tail thumped again, this time with more enthusiasm.
“Should ye be going outside?” Ma said.
“Mia said that once I was recovered from the effects of the vaccine, it was safe for me to wander about—and the fresh air would do me good.”
“Perhaps she might join ye.”
“Dinnae disturb her, Ma.”
“Then ye should consult with yer conscience, son, seeing as he’ll be yer only companion, save Monarch.”
Hamish bowed. Leaving her standing at the balustrade, he made his way outside, Monarch trotting at his heels.
Night had long since fallen. The moon cast a soft blue glow on the horizon, illuminating the snow-capped peak of Beinn Blath. But even the mountain seemed to frown at him, the rock formations near the summit reminding him of an angry pagan god demanding that he listen to his conscience.
But Hamish had no need to hear his conscience. He already knew that he’d wronged her. Mia—the woman he’d fallen in love with. Not even a walk on the mountain slopes would clear away the doubts in his mind that had long since been shattered.
He loved her. He had always loved her, even though he’d fought against it and broken her heart while doing so.
But she neither loved nor needed him. It was his mother, or Iona, or Maisie that she turned to, rather than him.
By fulfilling his wish of keeping her, he would stifle her soul.
The greatest act he could commit to prove his love would be to let her go.
By the time he returned, the activity in the great hall had abated.
The candles extinguished, the only light was the glow from the fireplace, which Brodie had taken upon himself to feed faithfully in between running errands for Mia and following Iona about with his tongue hanging out like a lovesick puppy.
A steady hush had descended over the castle, punctuated by the clicking of Monarch’s claws against the stone floor, the crackling of the fire, and the occasional cough from the hall.
Hamish entered, moving along the lines of makeshift beds, exchanging a word or two with the patients.
Then his gut twisted with horror as he came to Murdoch’s bed.
It was empty.
Then he heard the distant sound of a woman crying—quiet, brokenhearted sobs.
His heart tightened, tugging at his soul, as if an invisible thread linked him to the owner of the voice.
It was Mia.
Where was she?
He followed the passageway, passing Freydis carrying a bundle of bedsheets. The young maid bobbed a curtsy, her face streaked with tears.
“What’s the matter?” Hamish said. Freydis merely burst into tears and scuttled off.
His stomach churning with unease, Hamish followed the sound until he came to a thick oak door.
He knocked and the sobbing stopped. When he opened it, he saw Mia rising from a chair next to an unlit fireplace.
Her companion rose also, his back to Hamish.
Then he turned and Hamish exhaled in a sigh of relief.
“Murdoch,” he said. “When I saw yer empty bed, I feared the worst. But ye’re recovered, thank the Almighty!”
Murdoch shook his head. His dominant stance—the arrogance that shimmered about his bulky frame—was absent. Then he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“I cannae thank the Almighty,” he said. “Not when He’s forsaken me as punishment for my sins. I—”
He broke off, coughing, and covered his mouth with his hands.
“M-Murdoch, you should get some rest,” Mia said, her voice hoarse and strained. “Why don’t—”
“I deserve no rest,” Murdoch said quietly.
“What the devil’s happened?” Hamish said.
Murdoch shook his head, and Monarch let out a whine and approached the burly Highlander, leaning against his leg. Murdoch, who rarely showed affection for any living soul, lowered his hand and caressed the dog’s head.
“Mia?” Hamish said, stepping toward her.
“I-it’s Evie,” she said, her eyes glistening.
“Sh-she…” She glanced at Murdoch, who cringed, his shoulders hunching, as if burdened by a great weight.
“She succumbed an hour ago. I-I thought she was getting better—she took a little of Mrs. McBride’s broth and said she was looking forward to seeing Billy again. Then she…”
She shook her head. “The next time I saw her, she’d gone. I wasn’t even there—she had nobody with her when she—” She broke off, her chest rising and falling. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “So, so sorry.”
Hamish extended his hand toward her. She stared at it, trembling with the effort to keep the tears at bay.
Then she took his hand and met his gaze. He didn’t know what was more heartbreaking—the glimmer of despair deep in her eyes, or the stoicism with which she tried so valiantly to conquer her despair to give comfort to Murdoch, a man who had never deserved such a sweet wife.
“Hush, my love,” he whispered, drawing her close. “Ye’ve nothing to be sorry for. Ye were a good friend to Evie, and she knew it. She’s at peace now, with the angels, and feels no more pain.”
He placed a kiss on her head and she softened in his arms, as if he’d unlocked her sorrow. Clinging to him, she parted her lips and sobbed, her tears soaking into his shirt.
She began to shiver. How long had she been sitting in this freezing chamber? Hamish moved to summon someone to light the fire, but his wife only tightened her grip.
“Hamish, please…”
She closed her eyes and buried her head in his chest.
Perhaps he ought to have been glad that, at that moment, she needed him. But to see her despair was more than he could bear. And to acknowledge that he’d willingly throw himself into the pits of hell to ease her pain was to understand that he loved her—more than life itself.
“Please don’t go,” she whispered. “Hold me for a while longer.”
“But…”
“Do as she says, Hamish,” Murdoch said, his voice a low growl.
“Ye should give that woman of yers everything and anything she wants. Had I listened to her, my bairns might not be marked with the pox—and my Evie…” He curled his hands into fists.
“My sweet wee woman might still be here with me—to tend to my bairns, to warm my bed, and to fill my heart. I—”
He broke off, shaking, and Hamish’s heart ached to see the strongest, most brutish of men broken by sorrow.
“I know ye didnae think I loved that woman,” Murdoch said.
“I see the judgment in yer eyes. But Evie was my heart. I wanted to be strong for her—rule my family with a firm hand to protect them from what I believed had been brought among us to bring them harm, for my Billy to grow up to be a strong lad, and my Ailsa to be an honest young lass. Isn’t that what every husband and father wants? Isn’t that what it means to be a man?”
He gestured to Mia, his eyes darkening with rage. Hamish held her closer as if to protect her.
“Murdoch, I ken ye’re angry, but—”
“Och, Hamish, do ye think my anger is at her?” Murdoch shook his head.
“I’m angry at myself—and every man who seeks to judge an outsider, who’s incapable of looking beyond his doubts and fears to see her goodness.
I hated yer wife for being a Sassenach, and marked by the pox.
I called her hure and encouraged others to do so, and ye did naught to stop me. ”
In his arms, Mia stiffened, and Hamish caressed her hair, as if soothing a frightened filly, until she grew still once more.
“I’ve been repaid for my folly,” Murdoch said, his voice hoarse. “Dinnae make the same mistake I did.”
“Ye cannae blame yerself.”
“But I do,” Murdoch said. “I must face my bairns and tell them that their ma is no more. That will be my true punishment—to look into their eyes and know that I’m the cause of their grief.”
“Just as I will have to look into the eyes of every soul at Glenblath and know that I’m to blame for the loss of the lives of so many good people,” Hamish said.
And for breaking the heart of the woman I love.
Mia leaned against him, slipping. He caught her and lifted her into his arms.
“Yer wife’s exhausted,” Murdoch said. “I dinnae think she’s slept more than a few minutes while caring for us. Perhaps it’s time someone cared for her.”
“But I dinnae deserve her.”
“Aye, ye do,” Murdoch said, his voice quiet.
“Or at least, unlike me, ye still have the chance to prove that ye do.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, then straightened his stance.
“And now, I must try to do right by Ailsa and Billy,” he said.
“I wouldnae have them hear from anyone other than me that their ma’s with the angels. ”
He wiped his eyes, then exited the chamber, leaving Hamish alone with his wife.
But Mia had succumbed to exhaustion. His conscience berating him for relishing the feel of her in his arms—and the knowledge that, in that moment, she needed him, if only for a little while—he carried his unconscious wife to her chamber.