“I told him ‘she must be exceptional’ and look at you.” Mrs. Marcum took a step backward, still holding Hazel’s hands, and then spread her arms, forcing Hazel’s arms up and away from her sides. “Yes, beautiful, of course, that’s what I told Mr. Marcum, didn’t I, dear?”
Once again, her husband did not attempt to answer, and she did not allow him the time to do so.
“And poised, just as a granddaughter of a viscount would be. Accomplished too, aren’t you? Duncan said you have been teaching these last years. It takes more than a pretty face to teach anything, now doesn’t it?” She was still holding Hazel’s arms out, as though the two of them were frozen in place within a dance.
Hazel’s thoughts were swirling. Accomplished? Beautiful? Who was this woman talking about? The reference to Hazel’s grandfather caught her attention most of all. The nobility contingent of her pedigree was often seen by others as a golden thread of value sewn into her human fiber. Never mind that Hazel had been treated like an embarrassment to those noble people, all except Uncle Elliott, who was, in fact, the only person of official rank.
Did Mrs. Marcum know Hazel was a cripple? Perhaps she should have limped across the floor to meet them after all. She forced her smile a little bigger and brought her arms down, gently pulling them out of Mrs. Marcum’s grip.
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Marcum,” she said as she lowered herself into her chair. She looked past the woman in front of her to the vicar who was still on his feet, watching. “And you, Mr. Marcum. To what do I owe this visit?”
Mrs. Marcum bustled to the chair between Hazel and the vicar, and her husband finally sat when she did. “Oh, we visit all the new members of the parish, especially those of rank—don’t we, Mr. Marcum?”
Rank again. Fabulous.
“We have great affection for Mr. Penhale,” the vicar said, his voice steady and resonating, a stark contrast to his wife’s twittering tones that seemed to still be bouncing around the parlor walls. “And were very glad to hear that he had married. We’re grateful you have agreed to attend our Christmas service.”
Hazel felt a tremor of discomfort shudder through her. The vicar held her eyes in such a way as to make her feel as though he could see her thoughts, a frightening prospect. She looked at his wife, suddenly the safer place to turn her attention.
Mrs. Marcum lifted her shoulders excitedly. “We do wish the ceremony could have been performed here in the church—didn’t we, Mr. Marcum?—but we understood it took place in your uncle’s parish.”
Hazel considered telling her that the best part of the day had been a discussion about woodpeckers, but she knew better than to make such a jest. Thinking back on that day also brought to mind the kiss she had shared with Duncan. Why that had popped into her mind, she could not say, but it seemed to be happening with increasing frequency.
“Yes,” she said simply, then looked at Mr. Marcum. “Have you known Dun—Mr. Penhale long?”
The vicar’s wife answered. “He attended our school for, what, eight years? Isn’t that right, Mr. Marcum? An excellent student, of course, if perhaps . . . unique.”
“It was your school he attended here in Ipswich?” Duncan had said he started school for the first time when he was six and attended until he transferred to a more advanced school in Bury St. Edmunds.
“Yes,” Mr. Marcum said, inclining his head.
“Usually we are a three-year school, aren’t we, Mr. Marcum?” Mrs. Marcum said. “But Duncan was a special consideration.” She laughed as though she’d made a joke, which caused Hazel’s chest to tighten. Was she making fun of Duncan?
Mr. Marcum cleared his throat at the same time he touched his wife’s arm. Her mouth was open to say something more, but she paused instead. A signal they had worked out ahead of time when her husband wanted her to stop talking?
“We generally do not take boys under the age of eight,” Mr. Marcum explained. “But Miss Mayfield had asked if we would give him special consideration. I recognized his keen intellect and understood that a more traditional education would likely not work for him. By the time he was twelve, he had moved past my teaching abilities and spent the next two years teaching himself until he went on to Resins in Bury St. Edmunds.”
“Teaching himself?” Hazel questioned.
Mr. Marcum smiled broadly, even proudly, Hazel thought. “There is not a personal library in the parish that Duncan has not read through, so long as the topic interested him, and likely not a professional he has not at some point asked to explain their trade. By the time he returned from Resins at age seventeen, he’d settled on accounting. He began his apprenticeship with Perkins & Cromley shortly after his return.”
“He has told me a bit about that—the visits to other working men in the city. He still visits with some of them when he can.”
“Yes, he is very engaging and rather insatiable in regard to learning and debate.”
Hazel smiled, liking how Mr. Marcum spoke of Duncan with affection and even admiration. “Yes, I have noticed that.” She paused a moment, her thoughts going to something else he’d said. “You knew Catherine too, then?”
“Yes,” Mr. Marcum said with a nod. “She was a good woman.”
Was she? Hazel wanted to ask. She hadn’t married Duncan’s father and drank more than was decent, yet the local vicar admired her enough for him to take her lover’s son on as a student? “I’m afraid I never met her, but Duncan is quite complimentary.”
“Oh, well, Duncan is complimentary about everyone, isn’t he, Mr. Marcum?” Mrs. Marcum laughed nervously. Hazel suspected she did not like talking about Catherine.
“I do not think anyone knew Catherine well, but I found her to be kind and personable on the occasions she came to the school.”
“Did she not come to church with Duncan?”
“Oh, no,” Mrs. Marcum said, shaking her head though her curls did not move.
“She was welcome, of course,” Mr. Marcum amended. “But being welcome and feeling welcome are often opposing ideas.”
“That was nothing to do with us, of course, was it, Mr. Marcum? We welcome all, saints and sinners and all between.” She laughed again.
Hazel wanted to ask more questions but sensed that Mrs. Marcum would prevent the kind of conversation Hazel might have with Mr. Marcum if they could speak without interruption.
Hazel attempted to turn the topic. “Did you ever meet my uncle, Lord Howardsford?”
“Only once, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Marcum said. “Didn’t we, Mr. Marcum? When Duncan returned from Resins. Such a gracious man. Duncan was lucky to have such a benefactor, I should say so. And for you, Mrs. Penhale”—she smiled wider, though that hardly seemed possible—“to have such a man as an uncle? What an advantage.”