Anatomy: A Love Story(16)

The streets were indeed changed. It was even darker now, with strangers leering from windows and doorways. Hazel gathered her skirts around her and walked quickly back to the main street, where at least the last glimmer of sunlight was still reflecting on the cobblestones.

By the time Hazel made it back to Hawthornden, the only fires still burning were in the kitchen. Hazel took a candle to slip up to her bedroom without anyone noticing her. Cook was playing cards with the scullery maid; Hazel could see their shadows stretched along the galley wall and hear Cook’s booming laughter. She made it up the staircase and saw that the door to Lady Sinnett’s bedroom was closed. Hazel’s maid, Iona, was dozing in the chair by the low smoldering embers. She roused herself to unlace Hazel’s gown and help her to bed. “Were you—?” she began. Hazel shook her head. She was suddenly so exhausted she could barely speak. The entire weight of the day seemed to hit her at once, leaving her limbs heavy, as if her blood were molten lead.

As Hazel lay flat and deadened on her mattress, she replayed the demonstration over and over, trying to capture every detail in her memory, carving it like a lithograph in her brain. It wasn’t until she was a moment from sleep, and the tiniest thread tethered her to consciousness, that she realized with a jolt what the third smell in that violet bottle of ethereum was. It was a memory locked deep inside her mind, through its curving hallways and maze of rooms, from when Hazel was lying in the very same bed, dizzy with nausea and dehydration. She had been certain the sickness was going to take her. Dr. Beecham’s magical bottle had smelled like wildflowers, and mold, and death.





8




HAZEL HAD EXPECTED A STERN LECTURE AT least, a birch switch across the knuckles or a fiery “just wait until we tell your father about this won’t he be furious.” It was true, when Hazel’s mother wasn’t trapped in mourning for George, she was so obsessive in her doting over Percy she could barely see beyond her own crinoline, but still—surely some consequence would come for what she had done.

But, no. When Hazel awoke late the next morning, with the sun coming thick and yellow through her curtains, she found that her mother hadn’t even left her rooms yet. Iona told her that Lady Sinnett hadn’t come out for dinner the night before.

Her mother hadn’t been like that before George died. When George was still around—when George and Hazel’s father was still around, come to think of it—they had been, well, a normal family. Teatime in the library. Readings around the fire. Christmases at Almont House. Hidden afternoons when Hazel’s father would walk her to the tiny spring beyond the woods at Hawthornden and point out the types of grouse that waddled through the branches around them. But then came her father’s posting—a very prestigious posting, Lady Sinnett was quick to remind them all—and the fever that took George. And now it was just the three of them at home: Hazel, her mother, and Percy. Percy, the little princeling spoiled rotten, her mother’s pride and joy, kept safe and hidden away like a pearl in an oyster so he would never get sick—like George. Lady Sinnett devoted all her time and attention to Percy now, his schooling, his clothing, the very air he breathed, and when she spoke to Hazel, it was more often than not just to ask if she had seen Percy anywhere.

Hazel wouldn’t see her mother until a few days later, when she was fussing over Percy’s bacon at breakfast. Hazel slipped into her seat unnoticed while Lady Sinnett dabbed at the grease on Percy’s cheeks with a handkerchief.

But then to Hazel’s astonishment, her mother turned to her. “Bacon, dear?” Lady Sinnett said, extending a plate in her black-gloved hand. It had been more than a year since George’s death, but her mother still wore a costume of full mourning. Her dress was black taffeta, and she wore the brooch with George’s hair in it at the middle of her chest.

Hazel accepted cautiously. It seemed like a trick. If it was, the noose would be tightening soon. Perhaps her mother had noticed that she was gone, and her seeming indifference had just been a con, to lull Hazel into a false sense of security.

“Percy, darling, why don’t you run along and tell Master Poglia to start your lesson?” Lady Sinnett said, smiling.

Percy eyed his sister suspiciously, but then obeyed his mother and pranced happily enough from the dining room.

Lady Sinnett took a studiously casual sip of tea. “So, Hazel. The theater—Le Grand Leon, of course—has a premiere tonight. Some charming dance piece, I imagine. I thought you and I should attend.”

Hazel nearly choked on a piece of toast. “You and I? Together?”

“Of course,” Lady Sinnett said. “Shouldn’t a mother make a social engagement with her daughter?”

“I suppose she could. What will Percy do?”

“Percy’s too young for the theater, darling. Besides, who knows what he could come down with at a theater. He’ll be fine with Mrs. Herberts. How silly of you to ask.” Lady Sinnett waited for Hazel to say something else. When she didn’t, Lady Sinnett carried on. “Well, wonderful. I’ll tell Iona to put you in that new silk. The arsenic green. It makes your eyes look, well, not quite so brown.”

So Hazel wasn’t in trouble after all. She was so relieved she just nodded.

Lady Sinnett took her agreement and smiled back at her, pleased. “I know I’m still in mourning, but I suppose I can wear the pearls that my mother gave me, and the emerald ring from your father. Bought it when we were engaged, don’t know how he ever afforded it, he was just a lieutenant at the time. And there I was, daughter of a viscount, and so easily captured by thoughts of romance and”—she gave a short, rueful laugh—“love. You know, I grew up at Almont House with a summer cottage in Devon and an apartment in London for the Season.” She noticed the strange look on Hazel’s face. “Why are you staring at me like that, like you’re a cat caught on a ledge? It does nothing for the wrinkle on your forehead.”