Harry’s course had set her own. And although his letter demonstrated that he had suffered for his choices, it seemed likely to Hazel that someone had—once again—come along to help him out of the mess he’d made, thus instigating this apology. The same way school administrators had given him “one more chance” a dozen times. The way Mother had coddled him. The way Uncle Elliott had paid off his debts. Yet, even with all those benefits, Harry had still wasted the profits from Falconridge and years of his life and, far as Hazel knew, had never cared for anyone but himself.
It seemed Harry had landed on his perfectly formed feet the way he always had, and though she accepted his apology and was touched by his expressed admiration of her accomplishments, nothing in their shared history gave her reason to believe he would actually become the person his letter said he wanted to become. She would not lose sleep worrying about his ability to achieve his proposed restoration.
The sound of classroom doors clicking shut in the hallway brought her mind back to the present. Sophie would have finished teaching her class ten minutes ago. Hazel used the desk to push herself to standing, wincing slightly as she adjusted her foot within the heavy boot that had been specially made to accommodate the misshapen appendage. She needed to hurry so Sophie would not think Hazel had ignored their standing appointment.
Hazel hadn’t had Sophie as a teacher while studying at St. Mary’s, but they’d become friends after Hazel joined the faculty. That friendship had helped make a strange transition less awkward for Hazel and had become even stronger when they’d both found positions at Cordon. Not having to come to a new school alone was the closest thing to a miracle Hazel would ever acknowledge taking place in her life.
Every step out of the classroom and down the hall sent a shooting pain up her leg and into her hip. The foot itself felt as though she were walking on broken glass. This particular boot was more than three years old now and so worn on the inner sole that even the slightest shift in her weight caused different parts of her foot and ankle to ache. Because no one else was in the halls, she let her body lurch and swing so she could use the momentum to help propel her forward. When she was around people, she forced a straighter posture that looked less awkward but doubled her discomfort.
The specialty cobbler she’d used over the years was in Northampton—near St. Mary’s—and too far away for Hazel to use again. The prospect of finding a new cobbler here in King’s Lynn made her stomach hurt from anxiety. It was such an embarrassment to explain her need, let alone show anyone her twisted foot. She’d looked at it every day of her life and found it repulsive; the toes curled under, and the ankle twisted backward, which required her to walk on the outside of her foot rather than the sole. She could only imagine the horror people felt when they looked at it for the first time.
Unexpectedly, she remembered something Duncan had said during their first meeting that day at Howard House. He’d called her “well-featured,” which she took to mean “pretty.” It was the only compliment she’d ever been paid by a man regarding her looks. That he’d said it so directly made it worth that much more.
“There you are.”
Hazel startled and looked through the doorway of the teacher’s parlor to where Sophie stood with her hands on her ample hips, eyes narrowed playfully.
Hazel, hoping Sophie hadn’t seen her lurching, adopted her “company walk” and smiled at her friend as she limped the rest of the way into the room. “I suppose I am late. Please make my apologies to Her Highness.”
Sophie snorted and made a show of checking the time on the watch pinned to the bodice of her rose-colored dress. “Two minutes late, to be exact.”
“My most abject apologies,” Hazel said, pressing her free hand to her chest and bowing in apology. She moved to a chair across the low table from Sophie and set her cane aside before grasping both arms of the chair and lowering herself into the seat as gracefully as possible without putting weight on her foot. “I shall pour to make up for my delay.”
Sophie huffed a breath, remaining in character as she spread her skirts and regally lowered herself into her own chair with enviable ease.
Hazel leaned forward to pour the tea, grateful that Sophie didn’t try to take over the task. It had always been important for Hazel to do everything she could do.
“Have you heard?” Sophie asked as Hazel handed her a cup, only half full because Sophie would add sugar and milk to the brim.
“What news?”
“Mrs. Cordon is selling the school.”
Startled, Hazel sloshed tea onto the saucer of her own cup. She put down the kettle, an instant hollow forming in her stomach.
“You are joking,” Hazel said as she sat back in her chair.
Sophie pursed her thin lips together as she shook her head and poured milk into her cup. “Mrs. Phillips told me just this morning. It seems that Mrs. Cordon’s brother has convinced her to sell the school and use the profits toward the water projects he’s been working on in the north. Apparently he’s had a difficult time raising the necessary funds.”
The hollow in Hazel’s stomach widened. “Mrs. Cordon would be a fool to squander her investments on that man’s latest hobbyhorse.”
“I agree, but it sounds as though she’s going to do it all the same.” Sophie continued to share the gossip she’d learned from the school’s head cook. Hazel struggled to focus on the details.
When Hazel had left for school at the tender age of six, she had not understood that school would become her residence and Falconridge would merely be a place she visited. By the time she’d become a teacher at St. Mary’s, the school had felt like home mostly because she hadn’t had a real home for such a long time that she didn’t have anything to compare it with.
She’d felt the sharp sense of displacement when she’d come to Cordon, but Sophie had been with her, and Hazel believed that in time she would feel as comfortable here as she had at St. Mary’s.
The new owner might share Mrs. Cordon’s philosophy for educating girls at a higher level, but there was an equal chance, or better chance, really, that they wouldn’t. What if Hazel were asked to reduce her maths courses to counting money and adding household accounts? What if they expected her to teach introductory embroidery or piano to justify her staying on with a reduced maths schedule? What if they didn’t keep her at all?
“Are you alright, Hazel?”
Hazel looked up from where she had been staring into her teacup. “Certainly, just . . . surprised.”
Sophie gave her a sympathetic smile. “And terrified, if you feel anything like I do. If the new owner does not keep the advanced programs . . .” Her words trailed off to silence.
Sophie was fifteen years older than Hazel and had buried her husband and child before starting a new life as a teacher. While basic mathematics was considered essential for a girl’s education, there was little justification for a wife and mother to know any bit of Latin. Hazel was not the only person who faced trials and worried over an uncertain future.