There was no malice in her voice, but her admiration hit Hazel wrong. Even though Uncle Elliott was all the things a nobleman ought to be—intelligent, generous, gracious, and kind—Mrs. Marcum did not know him enough to know these things about his character. For her, his title seemed enough reason to admire him, which was both shallow and unwise as there were a great many men of noble birth without any of the traits that made Uncle Elliott worthy of admiration.
“Lord Howardsford has been a great advantage for me, to be sure,” Hazel said. “He paid for my schooling as well, which allowed me to pursue my teaching career.”
“Yes,” Mr. Marcum said, his voice showing curiosity. “I had heard you were a teacher. Arithmetic?”
“Mathematics,” Hazel clarified. “Mathematics involves theory and formula-based equations, whereas arithmetic is primarily the study of numbers.”
Mrs. Marcum blinked, but Mr. Marcum nodded. “That is an unusual emphasis for a female teacher, if you do not mind my saying so.”
“I do not mind your saying so, and I quite agree.” Hazel smiled more honestly now. “I feel a great deal of pride regarding my education. A fair amount of it was left upon my shoulders when I outmeasured my own teachers. I have been teaching advanced maths for nearly a decade and will be opening my own school for the advanced education of young women in a year . . . or so.” She realized too late that she’d said too much.
“Open an advanced school for girls?” Mrs. Marcum repeated. Before she could ask the looming question “why?” Mr. Marcum spoke instead.
“That is remarkable, Mrs. Penhale. Here in Ipswich?”
Did she dare lie to a vicar? Having no use for religion did not mean she did not respect his place. “A bit north,” she said, which was still a lie but more comfortable for the context of the conversation.
“I cannot see the need for an advanced school for girls here in Ipswich, or even in the whole of Suffolk really, can you, Mr. Marcum? There are a handful of girl’s schools, of course, but an advanced school? Why I cannot see how that would—”
“Well, we have taken enough of your time this morning, Mrs. Penhale,” Mr. Marcum said, coming to his feet. “It was delightful to meet you. Duncan is well-respected, and we are very glad of his marriage. I hope you will enjoy Christmas services. I think you will find this community interested in knowing you better, and I know that God would like the same opportunity.”
“God can only know me if I attend services?” she asked without filtering it for something more appropriate and respectful.
Mrs. Marcum tittered.
Instead of taking offense, the vicar smiled deeper. “He knows all of His children, of course, but He does not force Himself upon them. A willing heart is what makes room for Him to dwell, and a life lived with His influence is a more peaceful one than that lived without.”
Hazel held his eyes, looking for the judgment there but not finding it—much to her disappointment. She wanted to dislike this man; it would be one more reason to strengthen her pedestal of agnosticism.
Mrs. Marcum spoke as she rose to her feet. “It will be such a boon to our congregation to have such a fine lady in our midst.”
Hazel almost laughed at the silly comment from the silly woman, but Mrs. Marcum was as sincere as her husband, which made it difficult to mock her. She truly found Hazel’s genteel connections as something worthy of reverent celebration. It was all ridiculous, of course, and yet, as Hazel looked between them, she wondered when she had last felt so genuinely . . . wanted. Even if it was for her soul and her rank.
“I shall look forward to the Christmas service,” she said, careful not to make any additional commitments.
“You will love it!” Mrs. Marcum said, bringing her hands together. “Won’t she love the service, Mr. Marcum? Duncan has always sat in the back pews,” Mrs. Marcum added, leaning in slightly as though there was some risk of being overheard. “But as a married man, and with your family associations, you are entitled to accommodations closer to the pulpit, of course. I shall watch for you myself and introduce you to the other women of influence in the congregation. They will be excited to meet you.”
“Well, thank you,” Hazel said, her smile getting tighter on her face. She stood and walked toward the entryway, not bothering to hide her limp.
Mrs. Marcum’s smile fell as Hazel limped past her, going around the back of the chairs so as to take the lead position and forcing them to follow. If Mrs. Marcum was determined to know Hazel only by what she saw on the surface, she might as well see everything.
Duncan would sit for a few moments, eat a sweet from the tray, then jump to his feet and begin pacing again. Hazel watched him—up and down, back and forth, up and down—while she sipped her tea and tried not to absorb his anxiety.
“She’s late,” he said at five minutes past the hour. He sat back down, knees parallel while bouncing his feet. “Ten o’clock sharp, she said. It is excessively rude to waste other people’s time.”
“Delores has never been to this house, Duncan, and it’s a fair distance from the pub, so we mustn’t hold her tardiness against her.”
Duncan had talked to Delores, and she had agreed to come to tea today. She needed to come early because she was expected at the pub by eleven o’clock. Hazel wondered if Duncan recognized that he was nervous about the two women in his life meeting for the first time or if he thought he was upset solely due to Delores’s late arrival.
“Excessively rude,” he said again, then jumped to his feet and began pacing again.
He was still pacing when there was a knock at the door, and though they had already arranged for Corinne to show their guest to the parlor, Duncan shot out of the room to answer the door himself.
“You are late, Delores.” Hazel heard him speak from the entryway. She sighed and shook her head, putting her cup of tea on the table beside her chair. As she pushed herself to her feet in anticipation of greeting their guest, she heard Duncan say, “Excessively rude. Corinne, take her coat and hat and give this fish to Elizabeth. Delores, follow me.” Thank goodness Delores was well-versed in Duncan.
Hazel was standing and smiling when Duncan marched back into the room. He crossed to her, then turned so he was standing beside her like a military man in a portrait. Hazel widened her smile and kept it in place as the weathered woman crossed to her.
Delores was in her fifties at least, with as much gray as walnut-brown in her slightly frizzed hair that she had pinned up in a falling chignon. Her dress was the color of faded coffee and fit tight across her ample bosom, the skirt ending a good six inches higher than Hazel wore her skirts. Her everyday lace-up boots were scuffed and worn. The closer she got to Hazel, the stronger the smell grew of pipe smoke, fried fish, and cheap floral perfume, likely meant to cover the odor of smoke and fried fish.