Edinburgh April 1825
Edinburgh April 1825“Your name, sir?” Mrs MacHardy frowned at me from outside the closed door of the house. A big, busty woman, she stood with her arms akimbo, as if daring me to give a name that was not my own.
“Martin Elliot,” I said.
“Are you Irish?” Mrs MacHardy was immediately suspicious. “I want none of your wild Irish ways here, bringing pigs into houses and drinking all night long.”
For some reason, Mrs MacHardy’s words set the gathered crowd screeching with laughter.
“I am as Scottish as you are,” I said, lifting my chin. “From Roxburghshire.”
Mrs MacHardy grunted, do doubt wondering where Roxburghshire might be.
“Elliot, you say.”
“Martin Elliot,” I repeated, adding, “Doctor Martin Elliot,” in the hope of gaining the woman’s respect.
‘Doctor?” The wo
