Nana shoved another paper into Hazel’s hands, this one another nude, but rather than one sketch, there were many scattered across the paper, all at different angles, all a different pose. As Hazel turned the paper this way and that, she realized there were more on the back. Her grandmother-in-law rustled the papers. So many pages. So many. Did she plan to show Hazel all of them?
Grimacing an attempt at a smile, Hazel said, “They’re, um, lovely.”
“My Horace was an artist. I was his favorite subject. Let’s keep this between us, shall we?”
As if Hazel planned to tout the news around town that the Dowager Lady Collingwood had a propensity for posing in bare flesh and that the newly minted Mrs. Hobbs had admired the result. No, that was not a topic Hazel ever wished to share with another living soul.
“This one,” Nana said, pulling out a new sheet, “is a personal favorite.”
While smaller sketches adorned the edges, the center of the paper focused on a woman in repose at the bank of the lake, as naked as the others but less scandalous since the woman’s eyes were closed rather than staring unnervingly at the viewer with a look that shook Hazel to her heels. This sketch was bound to be a favorite. The chalk, black this time, spoke of a soul-deep admiration of artist for subject no viewer could fail to see.
For another hour complete, Hazel remained with Nana, the two poring over the drawings. By the tenth work, Hazel had grown accustomed to the sight, the shock having run its course. Seeing how proud Nana was to share them with her helped abate their scandalous nature, and truly, what was so scandalous about two people in love? What should have shocked Hazel more was the sly smiles and innuendos Nana made with each new drawing. That she said these things was shocking. That it was she saying them was more shocking. Once past this shock, as well, Hazel concluded she liked the Dowager Baroness Collingwood very much indeed.
Rather than take the path to the main house, she ventured to the lake, curious if she would recognize the sketch location.
The water was still, reflecting the grey sky above. As inviting as the bank, the promise of cold earth deterred her from sitting. Next time she would bring a blanket. Next time she could walk the perimeter.
Until her toes turned icy and her teeth chattered, she stared out to the lake, admiring the peacefulness. Twice now she had missed the opportunity for a boat ride. Something to look forward to rather than something to regret, she reminded herself. However lonely the coming weeks might be with only Lord and Lady Collingwood for company—the former ignoring her and the latter considering her a personal secretary rather than a daughter-in-law—she did not think she would be lonely. Alone, yes, but lonely, no. Now she had Nana. Should Nana be too busy for company despite her solicitation for daily visits, there was a house to make her own and staff to befriend. If all else failed, Hazel had herself for company, and no one had ever accused her of not liking her own company. Yes, it was for the best she did not go to London. She and Harold had all the time in the world to get to know one another.
When she turned towards the path to return to the house, she laughed to have spied at last the spot sketched in infamy.
The next day followed similarly. Lady Collingwood dictated to Hazel the invitations for the supper party. At noon, Nana regaled Hazel with stories, lessons, and more artwork—to Hazel’s relief the deceased baron’s sketches were not all scandalous. Two hours later, the lake reflected a leaden sky that promised bone-chilling rain, a threat Hazel ignored in her admiration of the landscape. She breathed in the wonder of this being hers.
Not all proceeded as it had the day before, for today brought an unexpected visitor.
Hazel emerged from the wilderness path and burrowed deeper into her winter cloak. Without the protection of the trees, she was at the mercy of the biting wind. Only days prior, it had been warm. Autumn played the trickster this year.
Some kilometers ahead, a figure and horse approached the stables, little more than a silhouette against the grey backdrop. Hazel squinted. A groom trotted to the figure, exchanged words, then escorted the horse to the stables, leaving the caller to head to the house. When said caller turned, he spotted Hazel and waved.
Although she could not yet make out the gentleman, her heart skipped a beat. Had Harold’s plans changed?
“Mrs. Hobbs!” called out the man as he drew closer.
Hazel quickened her pace, all aflutter with anticipation and giddiness.
“Mrs. Hobbs, what a delight to spy you here, for you are the very person I’ve come to see.” Dressed for riding, Lord Kissinger jogged the short stretch between them.
Disheartened that the viscount—cutting a fine figure in his buckskins and caped greatcoat—had not been Harold, but not disappointed by the caller’s identity, Hazel smiled in greeting.
“Good afternoon, Lord Kissinger. You’re in time for tea.” She nodded towards the house.
“I had planned to invite you for a turn about the garden since time is not on my side today, but given the bluster of the weather, I’ll accept.” He fell in step with her. “Would a cup of chocolate be out of the question?”
“A request I can oblige with relish. To be honest, I’ve had enough tea today to last a week. Oh, and biscuits, as well. If I see another elderberry biscuit before this week ends, I may faint.”
Lord Kissinger laughed. “It is a memorable day when you’re forced to partake of endless tea and elderberry biscuits. In the event I find myself parched and near starvation, desperate for the sustenance which only tea and elderberry biscuits can provide, where should I look?”
“No further than the dower house, my lord.”
“Ah, yes, Nana. It’s been more than three years since I’ve had the pleasure of her company.”
They entered by way of the terrace door, the most direct route to the drawing room. In short order, Hazel summoned for two cups of chocolate and saw to the seated comfort of her guest. Her first guest!
“The last time we spoke,” she said, “I had only days prior traded my family name for Harold’s. Do you find me much changed after a week of marriage?” She pulled back her shoulders and struck a pose.
Lord Kissinger assessed her in a dramatized perusal. “Indeed, you are much altered. From supper guest to hostess, confident and content. You are content, are you not?”
She hoped her composure did not slip or betray her hesitation. Content was an apt word, she supposed, although not a sentiment she would have immediately attributed to her feelings. Each day brought a new surprise. Each day she made herself a little more at home. Content might be an accurate assessment of her state of being, as would titillated, anxious, excited, or any other word that expressed conflicting emotions of anticipation. Would she be more or less content with Harold home? Both. Was it possible to be both more and less content simultaneously?
Her answer was less involved. “Yes, I’m content.”
The drawing room door opened, then, to admit Mr. Quainoo with the tray.
Once the butler retreated and the door closed, Kissinger said, “Daunting is your task, Mrs. Hobbs, to make a home amongst strangers. I commend you the ease with which you’ve accepted the role of hostess, wife, and daughter. My friend is a lucky man to have a wife such as yourself.”
Although he did not know anything about her outside of the scandal, Hazel nevertheless blushed and believed him earnest. He sounded earnest.
He added, “Trust me when I say he knows how lucky he is.”
Tilting her head slightly, she quizzed him with raised eyebrows.
The viscount mirrored her expression. “You wouldn’t have me gossip about my own friend, would you?” When she did not reply, he said with a conspiratorial smile that implied he had intended to do just that from the start, “He was taken with you at first sight.”
Hazel gasped. “Poppycock!”
“‘Tis true.”
She hid her
grin behind her cup of chocolate, hoping her trembling fingers did not give away how eager she was to hear more.
“He could speak of little else, I assure you. Intended to pay you court once he ascertained if his attentions would be welcomed. You’ve made him the happiest of men, Mrs. Hobbs.”
Could it all be true? Had he intended to court her? Goodness. She was as flustered now as she had been when she hoped the caller was Harold.
Kissinger had more to say. “You’ll find him to be the very best of men. All he needs is a nod of encouragement, and he will be the most devoted husband.”
The viscount did not stay above half an hour. Before leaving, he invited her to call on his family and implored her to consider him her friend. Should she need ought, send word.
Her new friend may have absented the room, but his words had not. Hazel reflected on those words for some time, each passing second curving her lips into a broader smile. Harold had been taken with her at first sight!
“No, not at all scandalous. Liberating!” said the Dowager Lady Collingwood. “You’re tempted. I can see it in your expression. How is it you’ve never tried it before?”
Hazel could not imagine how her expression revealed temptation when she more likely resembled a startled hare. “It’s never crossed my mind. Not once.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Nana leaned forward. “You can tell me.”
“Honestly! Never.” Angling closer to Nana, she swept the room with a quick glance. Not that anyone had entered since bringing the tea tray, but she dared not take the chance of a rogue parlor maid lingering in a corner. In a whisper, she asked, “What does it feel like?”
Nana’s eyes glinted with mischief; the same mischief Hazel swore she had seen in Harold’s eyes on more than one occasion.
“It tickles in all the right places, if you catch my meaning.”
Hazel gasped. “Nana!”
“You asked, child.” She leaned back against the chair and laughed. “Pray, more tea and, I think, one more biscuit.”
The dutiful pupil, Hazel tipped the pot to refill and added three biscuits to Nana’s saucer, winking as she passed the cup.
“There is nothing more freeing than that first dive into the lake,” Nana said before taste testing the tea then waving for more sugar. “The water glides over bare skin like sauce over goose. A little nude bathing does the spirit good. I challenge you to try it. Although you should wait until the weather is warmer. Would catch your death this time of year.”
There was no denying it, Hazel thought during her walk home after the third day of visiting the dower house. Nana was improving. Every minute, every hour, and every day Hazel spent with her, the baroness was more lucid, less likely to confuse Hazel for Helena, less prone to drifting in and out of memory. Oh, she shared memories aplenty, but she always knew she was sharing a story of the past to someone in the present rather than reliving a lost moment. Given how well the baroness was doing, Hazel wondered if her lapses were due to loneliness rather than any grave malady. The poor dear must be dreadfully alone in the dower house with only the frowny-faced faradilly of a companion to keep her company.
It was with this promising realization that Hazel returned to the dower house on the fourth day.
The sky rumbled with ominous, charcoal clouds. No nude bathing today, she thought with a quiet laugh. A knock to the front door brought the butler who guided her to the parlor she now knew so well. Rather than find Nana waiting for her with the usual biscuit-laden tray, Hazel found Miss Pine embroidering by the hearth, back stiff and movements halting.
“Good afternoon, Miss Pine,” Hazel said, glancing around the room for clues to Nana’s whereabouts. Granted, it had only been a few days, but not once had the baroness missed their standing appointment. “Is Lady Collingwood not expecting me?”
The companion gave a sniff and shrug then turned back to her embroidery hoop.
Unsure if she should interrogate the girl, find the butler, leave, or wait, she chose the path of least resistance. Perching on the edge of her usual chair, she waited. And waited. And waited. So quiet was the room, she could hear the tug of Miss Pine’s thread through the fabric.
Either fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds later—she could not be certain which—she turned sideways in her chair to eye Miss Pine. “Is Lady Collingwood joining us soon?” Hazel used the word us loosely since the baroness would boot out the companion the second she arrived.
Miss Pine shrugged again. Only after a lengthy pause and when Hazel suspected she would say no more, did the girl volunteer, “I spose so. She’s out for her daily constitutional.”
Thunder vibrated the windows. Dead leaves rustled by on a gust of wind.
“She’s outside? For a walk? For how long has she been on this walk?” Not that Hazel was privy to Nana’s daily schedule, but a walk prior to tea had never been mentioned.
She racked her memory for some hint that perhaps Nana was to meet her at the main house today. There had been idle talk of spending time at the main house so Nana could show her a few things, features of the old house she found remarkable, tips on handling entertainments such as where guests should sit so as not to view the servant entrances, and so forth, but Hazel could not recall any mention of that happening today.
Miss Pine did not bother to look up from her frame when she said, “I’m not ‘er keeper. She’s a grown woman, ain’t she? Gone walking is all.”
Fidgeting, eyeing the windows as the sky darkened and the wind swayed tree branches, waiting, waiting, waiting, and finally heaving a harrumph, Hazel took her leave of Miss Pine to find the butler. The gentle soul that was Mr. Somners had the thoughtfulness to be easily found in the entrance hall, sharing a word with the footman who oft brought their tray.
“Pardon my intrusion,” Hazel said when they halted conversation at the sight of her, “but I was wondering if you knew the whereabouts of Lady Collingwood. Was she not expecting me today?”
Mr. Somners’s forehead wrinkled in surprise. “She’s not with Miss Pine? She should have joined you by now. I had assumed her to be with her lady’s maid—she prefers looking her best when you call—delayed only briefly.”
The butler fidgeted with his waistcoat, as discomposed as Hazel felt.
The footman looked from Mr. Somners to Hazel and back again, his features pinched. “There’s her morning walk. Did anyone see her return?”
Tension choked the air. Had it been anyone other than Nana. Had she not had prior lapses.
The hair on the back of Hazel’s neck stood on end as thunder shuddered the front door and another gust whistled around the corners of the small manor. In short order, the butler dispatched two footmen to explore outside and one to check the main house, as well as one to inquire after the lady’s maid. Hazel, torn between staying and searching, at last donned her cloak to brave the outdoors, against the butler’s advice. Her destination the lake.
She could have sent a footman to the lake, but nothing nor no one would convince her to wait in the parlor with Miss Pine, not while distraught. Had it been anyone but Nana, the whole of the household would have assumed her enjoying a respite or taking advantage of solitude in another room. But it was not someone else. It was Nana.
And it was about to chuck down rain.
The wind tore through Hazel’s cloak and dress, raising goose flesh on her arms and shivering her limbs. The weather had no right to turn this cold so fast. She crossed her arms over her chest to hold in warmth as she headed for the wilderness path.
As soon as the trees welcomed her into their fold, a chilling darkness descended. Bare branches waved; trunks creaked; the leaf-covered forest floor crackled in muffled protest. In the distance, a footman called Lady Collingwood’s name, still in search for the baroness, his voice a mere whisper as the copse suppressed the sound. Veering at the fork in the path, Hazel quickened her pace to the lake.
; Ahead, the still water peeked through the part in the trees.
A sound stopped her in her tracks.
A pitapat, like fairy feet running through the underbrush. A tink, like the clang of hammer against anvil. A potsun-potsun, like a spoonful of sugar into tea.
The forest gave nothing away, but the lake ahead muttered the sounds of rain, rain against dead leaves, rain against the boathouse, rain against the lake water. Hazel hoisted her petticoat and sprinted. Fat raindrops splayed her curls across her forehead when she reached the edge of the path. Wiping a hand across her eyes, she surveyed the bank and surrounding clearing.
Her heart pounded in competition with the rain. What if Nana had slipped? What if she had fallen? What if…
There. At the site sketched in infamy. The Dowager Lady Collingwood stood, bare fleshed, staring absently at the lake. Careful not to slip on grass moistening to mud, Hazel scrambled for her grandmother-in-law.
She wrenched off her cloak. “Nana!”
The baroness jerked at the sound, turning to face Hazel. Her brows knit in confusion as she took in her surroundings.
“Where’s Horace?” she asked.
Hazel wrapped the cloak around Nana’s trembling body, the woman’s skin icy and pale.
“Where’s Horace?” she repeated.
Nowhere could Hazel spy the baroness’s clothes. The cloak would have to do. Rain pelted her cheeks and blinded her between rapid blinks. She guided Nana back to the path, the woman’s shoulders rounding in compliance. The one happy thought Hazel had—the silver-lining in the chalk-grey clouds—as she wrapped an arm around Nana’s waist to hold her steady was that at least her grandmother-in-law had not put up a fight to return to the house, for that was a moment’s concern when the baroness’s body tensed as Hazel tightened the cloak about her.
The baroness stumbled a time or two, her bare feet pink and muddy, but she held her own until one of the footmen caught up with them at the fork in the path. With a muttered apology and a hasty entreaty, he hooked a hold behind Nana’s legs and shoulders and hoisted her into his arms as though she weighed no more than a babe.
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