Anatomy: A Love Story(31)

Hazel forced herself to smile and dutifully lifted the lilies to her nose to smell them. The women at the market lied to you, she wanted to say. They said what it took to make a sale. They saw you in your bright blue coat and knew you wouldn’t know that white lilies are funeral flowers. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “Thank you.”

Bernard’s chest puffed out even further. “So, how are you feeling? Still sick?”

“You know how my mother overreacts when it comes to Percy’s health. I had a chill for a single evening, and she had to whisk him out of the country for his well-being.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “Not about your mother. I mean that you’re feeling well.” He cleared his throat and then continued. “I came to ask if you might promenade with me today in the Princes Street Gardens.”

This time Hazel couldn’t even feign enthusiasm. She thought of the mess she’d left in her room, the shattered glass and torn pages that represented all the wasted effort of her young adulthood, and when she opened her mouth, the first thing to come out was a guttural, sarcastic laugh. “You must be joking,” she said.

Bernard looked as though she had poured a kettle of hot tea down his shirt. “I—I can’t imagine—” he sputtered.

“No. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I just meant”—my entire life has gone up in flames, all my work has been for nothing, and also I’m covered in blood—“that I still have a bit of the chill. I’m not quite well enough to … promenade.”

Bernard looked her up and down critically. “Well,” he managed, “I suppose you are wanting for a bit of color.”

A sliver of glass stabbed at Hazel’s heel from within her shoe. She bit her tongue to keep from yelping. “Well, if that’s all,” she said through gritted teeth, “I’m afraid I must cut our visit short.”

Bernard looked taken aback. “What?”

A lightning bolt of pain shot up Hazel’s calf. “My apologies, Cousin. I have to ask you to leave now.”

A shadow crossed Bernard’s face, something darker than Hazel had ever seen in his expression. Her cousin, usually jovial and good-natured, had grown up, and she hadn’t noticed. His jawline had sharpened, his brow lowered, his mouth tightened. “So,” he said, “to be clear. You’re refusing my offer of a promenade.”

“Bernard, I’m sorry, but I have more important things to worry about right now than traipsing around Princes Street Gardens, pretending to be interested in whatever you have to say.” It was far crueler than she’d meant, but the words bypassed her brain and came right out of her mouth.

Bernard looked as if he had been slapped. He stood with his mouth open like a trout for a few moments before he smacked his lips together. “I assume I’ll see you at the ball, of course?” he said finally. The Almonts’ Ball was an annual affair in Edinburgh, a chance for Lord Almont to show off his latest art acquisitions and for everyone else to show off their most expensive gowns.

“Certainly, Bernard,” Hazel said glumly.

“Well then, it appears we have nothing more to discuss. I bid you good day, then, Cousin.” He left with a flick of his blue coat and left a blinking Charles to close the door after he was gone.

“Ughh. Finally!” Hazel said, throwing the lilies onto a side table and ripping off her shoes and stockings. She massaged her massacred foot. “I’ll need a hot bath to get this glass out. I’m sorry again for the mess, I’ll tidy it as soon as I’m, well, whole again. Honestly, the nerve of him, barging in without warning, acting like I committed some sin for not wanting to promenade with him. What is a ‘promenade,’ anyway? Just walking slower than any natural human gait so you can show off a new outfit to people distracted by how badly they want to show off their new outfits. It’s a pointless exercise in self-absorption that doesn’t even work because everyone involved is too self-absorbed to provide the admiration their fellows are in such desperate need of. And as if Bernard would need to be circling around the Gardens like a show pony to get people to notice his clothes; I swear, one could see that blue jacket from Glasgow. Ooof, just got it there.” Hazel withdrew a particularly barbarous shard of glass from her foot with her fingernails. “Charles, bring me a basin, will you? I should dispose of these bits of glass before they find their way into my other foot.”

Charles, who had been dutifully standing by the door, obliged. Iona approached, chewing the cuticle of her thumb. “If I may, miss? It’s possible that you were a bit, well, harsh with him.”

Hazel wet her thumb and ran it along a red stain on her leg. It came off. Good. Just dried blood then, and just a little scratch. “Harsh? He’s a man, isn’t he? He has the entire world at his feet. I think he can handle my turning down a promenade.”

“He is your betrothed, though,” her maid said to the floor.

“Not yet. Much as my mother wishes it were the case so she could get rid of me once and for all.”

Iona swallowed and twisted a strand of hair around her finger. “Perhaps, then, you should be sweeter to him, to ensure—”

“Oh, Iona, please. I will have my entire life to be sweet to him if he wants it. Can’t I have a single afternoon of mourning my future?”