“Hazel?”
Hazel opened her eyes and looked across the table at Sophie who appeared genuinely concerned. “What is it? Is there something you haven’t told me that I need to know to make sense of this?”
Hazel remembered one of the Latin phrases Sophie had taught her over the years: Audentes fortuna juvat—fortune favors the bold. Hazel pulled together whatever boldness she possessed. “Well,” she said, focusing on her friend and trying to be the person Sophie believed her to be. “My uncle had given both of us a . . . proposition.”
The doorknob to the teacher’s parlor turned, and Hazel swallowed. She spread the skirts of her purple-striped dress one more time, double-checking that her hideous boot was covered.
Last night, her right knee had given out on her as she’d readied herself for bed. She had been moving too fast because it was cold in her room and she was eager to get into bed. She’d fallen hard against the bedrail before crumpling to the floor. It had taken her almost an hour to get up, and then she’d slept poorly. That morning, she could hardly walk. Gretchen and Sophie had helped her down the stairs, and Cook had wrapped her knee enough for her to walk with her cane. At least she hadn’t bruised her face in the fall.
As the door opened, she smiled and reminded herself that Duncan had once said she was well-featured. That long-ago compliment gave her some confidence now, and she desperately needed any confidence she could muster.
Gretchen entered first, curiosity prominent on her features. It was not often a teacher requested a private meeting with a male visitor.
“Mr. Duncan Penhale to see you, Miss Stillman.”
“Thank you, Gretchen.” Hazel gave the girl a small smile before turning her attention to the man following her into the room.
Duncan looked awkward and out of place in the faculty parlor. He did not look at her as he entered the room, gazing instead at the rose-colored curtains and the pieces of furniture as if they held particular interest for him, which she did not think they did. The furnishings were good quality, but worn and old-fashioned. Rather like herself, she thought.
Gretchen stepped aside so Duncan could come further into the room. He took two steps then stopped. Gretchen left the room, the door clicking softly behind her.
Social protocol would have Hazel ask after his journey and discuss the weather, but Duncan was not the type of man to expect, or perhaps even want, such rote behavior.
“You may sit across from me, Duncan,” she said. “Do you still prefer one sugar and no milk in your tea?”
Duncan sat in the chair she’d indicated on the opposite side of the tea table between them. The school cook prepared a limited selection of sweet and savory items for teatimes, so Sophie had visited the corner bakery that morning to round out the selection with some macarons, marzipan, and sweet breads. Sophie had also changed out the usual four-inch plates used for teatime with a standard dinner plate.
Her effort was validated by the way Duncan’s face lit up. He thanked her and put three of each item on his plate before picking up the bright-pink macaron located in the twelve o’clock position and lifting it almost reverently to his mouth.
“This looks delicious, Cousin Hazel. Thank you.”
“You are welcome, Duncan,” she said, pouring the tea.
She expected him to comment on her dropping of the “cousin” in her address, but the food seemed to have distracted him. He ate so intently she wondered if he’d forgotten she was there or why he’d come all this way.
When he’d tried one of everything, he put the plate on the table, took a sip of tea, and returned it to the saucer; only then did he lift his head enough that she knew she had his attention, even though he did not look her in the eye.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he said, leaning forward to move his cup and saucer to sit directly next to the dinner plate. “My reason for coming is of great importance.”
“So your letter stated,” Hazel said, layering her hands in her lap. Sophie had done Hazel’s hair in a softer style despite Hazel insisting that Duncan would not notice. “I have been anxiously awaiting this meeting.”
He cocked his head slightly. “Anxiously awaiting or eagerly awaiting? ‘Anxious’ means that you are nervous, whereas ‘eager’ denotes excited anticipation.”
“Well, then, I suppose eagerly anxious anticipation would be the best description.”
He did not smile. “You said eager first, which implies that you are more excitedly anticipatory than you are nervous. Is that correct?”
It was tempting to tease him with wordplay, but she did not. “Yes, Duncan. That is correct.”
“Why do you feel excited?”
“Why don’t I answer that after you tell me why you came all this way for this meeting?”
“Oh, yes, that is a fair request,” he said, straightening in his chair rather formally. He met her eye and smiled, but both gestures were stiff. After two seconds—he might very well have counted them out they were timed so exactly—his eyes shifted to the table between them, and his smile relaxed into one that looked more natural on his face.
He had a nice jawline, defined and cleanly shaven, though she could see the dark shadow of what would be a beard if he were less attentive. His hair was combed back with pomade, as it had been the last time she’d seen him, and there were flecks of silver in his sideburns that she had not noticed before.
“I think that you and I should marry one another and claim our inheritances from Uncle Elliott in order to secure our futures.”
Hazel had expected the marriage proposal—it was what she and Sophie had concluded would be the only reason big enough to warrant his journey all the way to Lynn—and yet a shivery feeling ran through her chest and belly at the words. She took a breath to help the sensation pass, then focused on his precise words.
“What do you mean by ‘secure our futures’?”
“I am unhappy with my employment situation, and in your last letter to me, you said your school is to be sold, which makes your future insecure. If we marry, I will become owner of the Burrow Building and you will receive fifty thousand pounds.”
“You would receive fifty thousand pounds,” she corrected.
“Within the legal precept, yes, your dowry will become mine, but it shall be at your disposal as I will have no need of it. You could build your life independently, as you wish. It is the perfect solution to both of our problems and gives us both what we do not have—security.”
The defensiveness shifted, and she ignored the disappointment as she released the romantic fantasies—and romantic fears—she had allowed to grow the last two weeks since having received his letter. Focus was essential, and she would not allow herself to be distracted.