“Go alone?” Duncan said as though he had not eaten alone at the pub for years.
“Or perhaps Delores would like to join us for our Christmas brunch.”
“She is always at the pub on Christmas. She makes a roast goose.”
They continued discussing until they had sorted the details—church, brunch, Luke, and then Duncan would go to Christmas dinner at the pub alone.
“I would still like to meet Delores, however. Perhaps we could invite her to tea.”
“I do not think Delores has the same respect for teatime as you do.”
“Well, maybe she will like teatime here at Lavender House. Cook can make some biscuits and scones, and then Delores and I can get to know one another. I would offer to go to the pub, but it is a fair distance for me to walk and perhaps she would like to see the cottage too. It is customary to invite one’s friends over to visit after one moves into a new house.”
Duncan kept watching his feet as he paced. Hazel was curious about this woman who seemed to have taken over as Duncan’s mother figure after Catherine’s death yet had not called on Hazel during this month of marriage. Some women from the neighborhood had stopped in for short visits, and the conversations were not as awkward as Hazel had feared they would be.
“Issue her an invitation,” Hazel told Duncan. “Let her choose the day and the time, and I shall make sure to have a fine tea available for all of us to share.”
Duncan paced two more lengths of the room before he seemed to have sorted through Hazel’s suggestion. “All right, I will invite Delores to tea and inform the vicar that we are to attend Christmas services. I need to go check on Elizabeth.”
Hazel looked after her odd husband and returned to her letter, relieved to have found an alternative to Christmas at Howard House and grateful to see how well she and Duncan were managing to communicate.
Against all odds, this marriage was working. Imagine that.
Duncan helped Hazel create her own set of ledgers, a business one that tracked her expenses and interest from the inheritance, now managed at Gurney’s Bank in Norwich, and a personal ledger where she accounted for everything she spent aside from that of the school. He had taught her how to use the different columns and how to properly separate expenses, which she reviewed and updated every morning. It was a heady experience to see the numbers on the page that reflected her personal wealth.
Wealth.
Hazel Stillman . . . Penhale, had lived a life that had been paid for and managed by other people, namely Uncle Elliott, until she reached the age where she could care for herself. She’d never had more than sixty pounds at one time in all the years she’d taught, and she had grit her teeth when she had to buy a new dress or stockings. Having so much money at her disposal now should give her a sense of freedom and extravagance; perhaps she should buy a collection of hats and parasols and face creams from France guaranteed to give her a glowing complexion.
The idea of spending the money, however, made her heart rate speed up and her palms sweat. Face creams from France seemed as frivolous now as they had when she could not afford them. Having the means to buy an entire collection of hats invited a fear that she would buy all the hats and never be satisfied. What if one day she turned from admiring her extensive hat collection to find that she had no money left? What if it all became a case of easy come, easy go?
All she’d had to do was speak a few vows in a church to earn the money in the first place. Could a few misspoken sentences make it disappear again?
What if she were more like Harry than she thought and she became reckless and hedonistic?
She could not imagine herself in what she suspected the London gaming hells to be—dark, smoky rooms filled with leering men, grasping at her purse—but she had not been able to imagine herself as the mistress of a house a few months ago. She was still unable to imagine herself in the scene of her mother giving instructions to the housekeeper. Yet she had met with the cook just that morning, following the pattern of the meeting she’d learned from Amelia. The weekly meetings still felt awkward, as if she were grasping at a place above what she deserved. She didn’t imagine it had felt like that for her mother.
Perhaps because her mother had always expected one day to fill that place and Hazel never had. That she was filling that position now still felt false because there were only forty-seven weeks left in the one-year arrangement in which she was the kind of woman who gave instructions to housekeepers. Then she would instead be a headmistress who instructed staff, teachers, and students. The thought pushed her back in her chair, and she found herself as unable to picture herself as Mrs. Cordon any more than she could picture herself as her mother.
A knock on the parlor door startled Hazel. She closed the ledger on the writing desk and looked up as Corinne, the housekeeper and maid, entered the room wearing a charcoal-colored dress and a crisp white apron.
“Mr. and Mrs. Marcum to see you, ma’am.”
Hazel searched her memory for recognition of the names but recalled nothing. “Who are Mr. and Mrs. Marcum?” she asked.
Corinne lowered her voice. “The parish vicar and his wife, ma’am.”
Hazel stood from the writing desk and surveyed the grouping of chairs near the fireplace that was the best spot for visiting. Her bad foot tingled as it often did when she’d been sitting for a long time, and she shook it out as best she could as she moved toward the chair furthest to the right of the fireplace. Between the new dresses and better boot, she felt like a new woman. Unfortunately, that new woman had to entertain uninvited visitors and pretend to be happy about the interruption.
“Please show them in. And will you make up a tea tray?”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
Hazel reached the chair just as an elderly couple entered the room.
Mrs. Marcum was apple-cheeked and bright-eyed, the lace of her mobcap framing the smooth gray curls surrounding her face. Mr. Marcum was a few inches taller than his wife, a bit more narrow, and not as easy to read, though Hazel sensed he was reading her without any trouble. She could not cross to them without drawing attention to her limp, so she stayed where she was, hands clasped in front of her and a polite smile tacked to her face as they crossed to her instead.
Mrs. Marcum reached her first and took both of Hazel’s hands in hers. The smile on her face did not seem the least bit forced, but morning visits were likely something this woman did every day amid the parish.
“Oh, it is so wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Penhale,” Mrs. Marcum said, not releasing Hazel’s hands. “I have been simply athirst for the chance to meet you, haven’t I, Mr. Marcum?”
Athirst?
Mrs. Marcum did not look at her husband when she addressed him, nor did Mr. Marcum attempt a response from where he stood in front of one of the chairs.