She blinked back tears and looked up at the ceiling for a moment to regain her composure before she looked at Hazel again. “Duncan is not a normal man. You are not a normal woman. Perhaps that makes you perfect for one another.”
Hazel opened her mouth to protest, but Sophie put up a hand to stop her. “I loved the life I had with Richard, sweaty quilts and Latin horse-talking included, and I would give anything to go back to it if I could. I can’t, and I have made peace with that, but I do not believe there is anything this school can give to you that will make up for what you will give up if you choose this life over the life you had with Duncan.”
Hazel opened her mouth again, ready to say that it wasn’t so simple as that, but Sophie continued to speak.
“It will not be perfect, people may laugh behind your back, but if the relationship makes you happy and if it challenges you to grow and become the best version of yourself, you should go back to that life. I will run your school for as long as you want to keep it and find another path if you decide not to divide your attention.”
“I don’t want to give this up,” Hazel said, stubbornly holding on to the dream of her own school. Her own. And yet . . . she’d had a different school in Ipswich. In the parlor. Teaching simple skills had lacked the challenge she enjoyed, but it had been fulfilling in a different way. She had still been giving to her students what they did not have.
“I hurt him when I left.”
“Let him forgive you for that.”
“What if he cannot? What if he cannot love me? What if his brain cannot do it?”
“What if it can? What if it simply will not look the way you expect it to look?”
Hazel closed her eyes and dropped her chin. Sophie was right; she was letting fear rule her. She was letting ideals of a marriage relationship that she had never actually seen act as the measure for the only way two people could build a life. The fear was overwhelming, but realizing she feared both choices—staying in King’s Lynn or returning to Ipswich—helped to calm her somehow. Both choices involved unknown factors she could not solve on her own.
“Sophie?”
Sophie raised her eyebrows.
“Will you pray for me? That I can know the right path?”
Sophie smiled but shook her head. “I will, however, pray with you.”
Duncan had found the days since Hazel left difficult; in fact he would say they were some of his very worst days. Even worse than the time he had spent at Resins School or had been bitten by the dog. With Hazel gone, he moved back to his rooms in the Burrow Building with his furniture, and Delores kept dinner for him every night, even on Saturday and Sunday since Duncan did not much feel like cooking the way he had before he’d married Hazel.
Elizabeth kept going back to Lavender House—Duncan suspected Cook was giving her scraps—and sometimes she did not come to his rooms at night. He worried about her. She had to be lonely out there on her own after being used to so many people around.
His rooms felt very small and crowded even though they had never felt that way before. He checked with his tenants every morning despite Hazel telling him that would annoy them, did his work, and then walked and walked and walked. He had not visited any of his associates since she’d left; the discussions did not seem exciting anymore. Nothing seemed exciting if he could not discuss it with Hazel later. His trousers were loose, his coat was too thin, and though he knew it wasn’t Hazel’s fault that everything felt so uncomfortable, he couldn’t help but think that if she were here, it would all be better.
He often dreamed of her at night. One time, she was running toward him with the paddle of a rowboat in each hand—running! In another, she was lying on the other side of the bed they had shared at Lavender House, waiting for him to wake and tickling his nose with a feather. He’d been particularly frustrated when he’d woken from that one and found himself unable to return to it no matter how long he’d squinched his eyes shut.
He’d gone to the pub one evening, hoping to find someone there willing to debate with him the latest advancement of the railroad and what it would mean for travel in their country. The man he’d been told was an academic had not known a lick about steam engines, and another man had laughed when Duncan began pacing during his attempt to teach the first man the proper history. Duncan had wanted to punch the laughing man in the nose the way he’d punched Mr. Ludwig, but he’d left instead and walked for hours.
Today, after finishing his work, though he had only worked for half a day, he walked again. Past the blacksmith shop. Past the butcher. Past Dr. Randall’s office. He stopped in front of the cobbler’s shop where Hazel’s improved boot had been made and remembered how he had put his hand on her back to help her into the carriage. The touch had been pleasurable, and he wished he could go back to that day and feel that pleasure again. His chest felt heavy, as though he could not fully fill his lungs with air. He walked some more.
The gray sky became dark, and it began to rain, but the deflated feeling in his chest continued. Though his stomach rumbled, he did not go to the pub to get his dinner. He did not want to see Delores. He did not want to suffer from the noise of the pub. He wanted to pretend that people were statues and could not talk to him. That he was the only person in the whole world.
Except he wanted Hazel to be there too. But she was in King’s Lynn, even though he had asked her to stay with him. She had not even told him goodbye, which made him feel empty and cold when he thought of it. He had come home from work, and Corinne had said Hazel had hired a carriage and left. Though she had called her Mrs. Penhale. He had liked thinking of Hazel as Mrs. Penhale. He had liked everything about her. But she had not liked him. She had not even kept her promise to stay for a whole year.
When full dark came, he began to make his way back to the Burrow Building, hoping all the walking would make it easier for him to sleep. His path took him past Lavender House on Mill Street, and he stopped out front. He thought he might find Elizabeth and bring her home. She did not like to be carried and would probably scratch him if he tried to hold her, but maybe if the scratching hurt, he would not be so aware of the pain in his chest.
He stood outside the front gate and stared at the front windows, now dark and empty. He felt like the house, an idea he had learned from Hazel was a metaphor. The drizzle of rain increased to a downpour, but he stood there for several minutes longer, not wanting to go back to his rooms. The rain dripped off the brim of his hat and the end of his nose, seeped into his coat and chilled his skin beneath. He did not want to go back to his rooms. He did not want to be alone. He did not want to do anything at all.
A barking dog spurred him to walk again. He did not want the dog to bite him.
The windows of the pub were still bright when he turned the corner onto Lower Brook Street, but he did not go inside to get his dinner. He forgot to wipe his feet on the mat placed inside the first door that led to his rooms, which meant he tracked mud up the stairs. His boots made a squishy sound with each step. Rain dripped from his coat and hat. When he reached the top landing, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys—his fingers were very cold—but when he went to put the key in the lock, he realized the door was already unlocked and standing partially open.