The pulls situated in each room were quite a fascinating system. One Duncan had not encountered before moving into Lavender House, though he knew of their existence, of course. The pulls were connected to a series of wires loosely run through the walls and into the servants’ quarters where they were attached to a bell, below which was a label that indicated which room the pull that rung the bell had originated from. When the bell rang, Corinne could look to see which bell was reverberating and know in which room she was needed. Such a simple yet ingenious invention.
Hazel turned to Duncan, drawing his attention away from the bellpull. “I do not want Harry to know we sleep in separate bedrooms.”
Duncan inferred he was being given permission to talk again, even though she had not expressed the idea in a way that would more naturally invite a response. He took a risk by following his assumption. “But we do sleep in separate bedrooms.”
“Yes, I know, because this is not a real marriage, but I do not want Harry to know that it is not real.”
“But it is real. We are married, and it is not uncommon for husbands and wives to have separate bedchambers.”
Hazel closed her eyes, and her mouth tightened a moment before she opened her eyes again. “For the first time in a very long time, I am . . . even with my brother, or at least it appears that I am. Can you understand that?”
Duncan had to think about what she’d said very closely—how was she defining “even”? Why was being “even” with Cousin Harry important enough for her to want to pretend they shared a bedchamber? It was a complex puzzle.
She interrupted his thoughts before he’d reached a conclusion, her voice filled with anxiety. “Harry and I are both married now, and I am no longer his responsibility because I am financially independent of his care, such as it was,” Hazel explained, her face softening, which helped Duncan relax. “Uncle Elliott made us promise not to reveal our arrangement to anyone, and if Harry knows we sleep in separate rooms on separate floors, he will suspect something. Frankly, I will be surprised if he doesn’t already suspect something.” She took a breath before asking, “Do you understand why we must pretend we are like any other married couple while Harry is here?”
Duncan felt his muscles tighten. “I am not very good at pretending.”
“I know,” she said with a sigh, then looked at the door as Corinne came in. Hazel straightened and lifted her chin. He’d noticed she usually did so when addressing one of the servants. He believed it made her feel more authoritative, even though Corinne was now also her student and he believed they were also friends.
“Ma’am?” Corinne asked.
“My brother shall be staying the night with us. In Duncan’s room.” She limped toward the servant while explaining that she wanted Duncan’s room cleared of his personal belongings and the bed set with fresh linens.
Hearing her explain the instructions that would interfere with his room made him anxious. He did not like people to touch his things, and suddenly he did not like the idea of another man sleeping in his bed, even on fresh sheets.
He wondered if perhaps it would be better for Hazel to sleep in his room; he could help her up the stairs and she could sleep in the bed while he slept on Elizabeth’s couch. Her room would then be the one disturbed by her brother, which seemed fairer anyway. Hazel was not nearly as particular about her things as he was with his; at least, she had never expressed feeling so particular.
He was about to suggest his alternative plan when she said, “Duncan shall sleep with me.”
Corinne’s cheeks turned pink—apparently she did not like pretending either.
Duncan had already opened his mouth to speak when he realized something he had missed in his initial assessment. According to this arrangement, he would be sharing Hazel’s bedchamber tonight, and there was no sofa in that room, which meant he would be sharing Hazel’s bed. A thrill of anticipation shot through him as though he’d just stepped into a hot bath.
Sharing Hazel’s bed would be an excellent opportunity to experiment upon his hypothesis that sharing touch and close physical proximity with Hazel was not uncomfortable for him.
“I shall help clear the articles of my possession from my bedchamber,” Duncan said as he began taking long strides toward the door. “I shall have Elizabeth locked in the kitchen for the night, she will understand the reasons, and I will move the clothing I need for tomorrow into Hazel’s bedchamber as well.”
He hurried from the room before either women stopped him, then paused at the bottom of the stairs, worried Hazel would have also realized what she’d proposed. Aside from the murmuring of the women’s voices, however, there was no indication he was being called back with an alternate plan.
He took the stairs two at a time to the top floor while calling for Elizabeth, who, contrary to his pronouncement of her understanding, would not take kindly to this at all.
Hazel muttered to herself throughout her bedtime routine while Duncan waited in the parlor, likely pacing back and forth. His eagerness made her uncomfortable.
Harry had returned from the stable only minutes after Corinne had pronounced the room ready for him, dripping from the rain that would have made his ride to the inn miserable. The three of them had visited in the parlor until Hazel ran out of patience with Duncan’s inability to stop talking about the Picts and suggested they all turn in for the night. After Harry had gone upstairs, she told Duncan to wait in the parlor while she got ready for bed.
Sharing a bed was one thing, sharing her bedtime routine was quite another.
The last thing Hazel did each night before bed was minister to her poor foot, and though she wanted very much to skip the task tonight, she did not. She sat on the edge of the mattress and removed the ties of her boot, one tie on the top like any shoe, but with additional ties on either side that allowed her to adjust the fit. None of her other boots had included that sort of specification, and this new design kept the leather from rubbing against different parts of her foot.
She eased off the boot, grimacing at the resulting ache in her foot. From the drawer of the small stand beside her bed, she removed the bottle of olive oil, with a little lavender oil mixed in, and poured a generous amount into her cupped palm before rubbing her hands together to distribute it evenly.
Once her hands were properly oiled, she began the kneading process on the twisted appendage. Despite her nightly attention, her foot was always dry, and sometimes it developed extreme cracks that were the very devil to heal.
When she had been fourteen, she’d developed an infection in her foot that had required the school to call a physician. She had never seen a doctor for her foot before, only the school cook who doled out an array of salves and advice such as garlic compresses and chewing more slowly at mealtimes.
Hazel had been embarrassed to show her foot to the physician, but he had said the twisting of her bones and ligaments contributed to poor circulation that kept bad blood trapped in her foot. He’d bled the foot just above the ankle, which she was not sure had helped, but then he’d showed her how to improve circulation using the oil-and-massage technique. She’d performed the routine every night since and never developed another infection, though there were still blisters to address from time to time and cracks, especially in the winter.