Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Hazel had not meant to wander far.
She had meant only to find a particular footman to inquire about the rosewood polish that one of the maids swore was the finest in England. But one corridor led to another, and soon Hazel found herself in a part of Callbury House she had never visited before.
The west wing.
She paused at its threshold. The light shifted here. Dust motes drifted lazily through the slanted afternoon sun. The air felt still and heavy, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
Hazel frowned. She had never seen the maids move through this wing. Curiosity tugged at Hazel, as gentle as a guiding hand. She stepped inside.
Her slippers made no sound against the long, faded runner. Empty portrait frames hung on the walls, their outlines ghostly against the wallpaper. Several doors stood ajar, revealing rooms covered in dust sheets, with furniture long untouched.
A shiver ran through her. Why was this part of the house abandoned?
She reached the end of the corridor, where one door stood partially open, slightly crooked on its hinges. Hazel hesitated only a heartbeat before nudging it gently.
The room beyond was small. The air felt thicker here, not stale but suspended, as though memories clung to every inch. Trunks lined the walls. They were large, old, carefully constructed things, with their brass fittings tarnished and their lids closed to a hush.
Hazel approached the nearest one. It was not locked. She lifted the lid.
Inside lay carefully wrapped objects, bundles of linen shielding fragile things from time. Hazel reached for the nearest one, unfolding the cloth with delicate hands.
Her heart stilled when she unearthed a painting. Two boys stood side by side in a sunlit meadow, identical but for the faint difference in their expressions. One was slightly taller, and one was grinning a little wider. Between them sat a large dog, with its tail mid-wag.
She recognized the taller boy at once. Greyson was much younger there, smiling and bright-eyed, utterly unlike the man she had first met. This Greyson radiated warmth, mischief and joy.
And the other…
The resemblance was undeniable. Their shoulders brushed in the portrait, and their arms were loosely slung around one another, as though neither could imagine a world where they were not side by side.
She traced the edge of the canvas with trembling fingers. “Oh, Greyson…” she whispered.
Hazel lifted the painting fully from the trunk, resting it gently against her skirt. The boys’ smiles seemed to fill the room, reaching across the years, bright and full of a future that had been stolen far too soon.
She wiped a thumb across the corner of the painting, brushing away a thin line of dust. Her heart ached for both of those boys. She folded the linen back carefully, wrapping the painting with reverence.
Hazel’s knees ached slightly against the floor, but she hardly noticed. Hazel exhaled slowly, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. Something urged her to keep looking, not out of nosiness, but out of a strange, tender instinct she did not recognize yet.
She reached for the next trunk. Its latch was stiff, and she had to tug it twice before it yielded with a soft metallic sigh. Inside lay stacks of cloth-covered bundles, lighter than the ones before. Hazel lifted one carefully, unwrapping it layer by layer.
Books.
They were not grand tomes or leather-bound volumes like those in Greyson’s library. These were much simpler and worn. The word beloved came to Hazel’s mind. Her finger brushed the first cover.
“The Corsair’s Enchanted Compass,” she read aloud. “The Captain’s Tempest Bride.” A small, startled laugh escaped her. “Oh.”
These were sea adventures, romantic escapades, whimsical tales of daring sailors, enchanted islands, secret maps and improbable rescues.
The same kinds of books she had seen in Greyson’s mother’s morning room.
They were of the same kind, sitting on that little shelf, worn by years of someone’s hands turning their pages again and again.
Hazel lifted one closer, pressing her fingertip to the faded lettering. These must have been hers, packed away when the west wing was abandoned, and moved out of sight when pain had made those memories too sharp to bear.
Hazel swallowed around the sudden tightness in her throat. How many afternoons had the Dowager Duchess sat with these very books, reading them aloud to her sons? How many times had two bright-eyed boys begged for just one more chapter?
Hazel could almost see it: the candlelight, the soft laughter, the dog curled by their feet. She brushed her thumb gently along the cracked spine of A Voyage of the Silver Tides, a volume the dowager might have once adored.
A thought came to her. Could she bring these? Would the Dowager remember them? Would they bring comfort? Would she find joy in hearing familiar stories once more?
Hazel lifted the book into her lap, cradling it with absurd tenderness.
“I wonder,” she whispered to the empty room, “if she would like these again.”
Perhaps these stories, once loved, could coax more light into her days.
The thought filled Hazel’s chest with a quiet certainty.
She wanted to help. She wanted to bring warmth back into a place that had known too much sorrow.
Not out of any sense of duty, but because she cared, far more deeply than she ought to have.
She lifted the book once more, hugging it lightly against her chest, and stood. Yes. She would bring these to the Dowager. And she would read them to her, in hopes that it might bring a little more light into that quiet room.
Greyson was crossing the main hall when he heard something he had not heard in years.
A sound in the west wing.
He froze. No one went into the west wing; not the staff, not guests, and not even he.
He walked toward the corridor, following the light that spilled from one of the abandoned rooms. His heart lurched.
He reached the doorway and stopped, for he saw Hazel, kneeling on the floor beside a half-opened trunk.
She clutched a book to her chest. His mother’s book.
It was one of the very ones he and his brother had begged for night after night, until laughter and puppy paws filled the chamber.
Hazel looked up, and Greyson felt the ground tilt beneath him.
“Oh… Greyson.” She rose quickly, almost guiltily, smoothing her skirts. “I… didn’t mean to intrude. I only—”
“What are you doing here?”
His voice was sharper than he intended, cutting across her explanation.
Hazel flinched ever so slightly. A pang shot through him. He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but he couldn’t help it.
She lowered the book. “I… I was exploring. I didn’t realize anyone ever came here. The room wasn’t locked.”
Greyson stepped fully inside, fighting the swirl of emotion rising beneath his ribs. The painting leaned against the trunk. Their books lay exposed. Memories he had spent years burying now breathed in the open air. Hazel stood in the middle of it, looking small, apologetic and uncertain.
He forced himself to speak. “This is your home. I do not mean to suggest otherwise.” He paused, and her shoulder relaxed a little. “But,”
he added, his voice roughened again, utterly without his control, “Some places are… not meant to be disturbed. If a room is closed, Hazel, then it is closed for a reason.”
She went still. Her hands tightened around the book’s spine. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. I would never have touched anything if I had understood.”
He swallowed hard. Because her apology was genuine, and it disarmed him completely.
He should have reassured her. He should have stepped back, rebuilt the distance he had allowed to crumble between them.
Instead, he saw her standing amidst the remnants of his childhood, watching him with sorrow in her eyes, and he felt exposed, as though she could see straight through him, all the way to the boy he once was, the boy who laughed, clung to stories and slept beside his brother with a book beneath his pillow.
He tore his gaze away, running a hand over his jaw.
“Your mother likes these stories,” she whispered.
He gritted his teeth. “I know.”
Hazel stepped closer, not enough to touch him, but enough that he felt her presence, warm and steady as a hand against his back.
“Would it be all right,” she asked carefully, “if I brought these books to her next time I visit?”
He flinched. It was slight, but he was certain that Hazel caught it. He could see her eyes widen with concern.
His own voice, when it emerged, felt rougher than the stone walls around them. “I put them away for a reason.”
Hazel held the book more loosely now, as though afraid her grip might hurt him. “What reason?”
Greyson’s breath stilled in his chest. He stared at the closed trunks, at the memories hiding in the shadows, the same memories he had locked away so tightly he feared they would break him if he opened them even an inch.
“The stories,” he said quietly, “remind her of what happened, of what she lost. I do not want to add to her misery.”
Hazel’s brows lifted, revealing aching compassion that cut through him more sharply than accusation ever could.
“Greyson,” she said softly, “your mother is still here. She is still alive. She deserves her stories, her memories, her life, even if parts of it hurt.”
He closed his eyes briefly, battling the tightening in his throat.
“She lives in the past,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “It is all she has now. There is no present for her, not with me, not with anyone.”
That truth, so ugly and aching, hung between them like a weight.
Hazel didn’t recoil. She didn’t argue. She didn’t pity him. Instead, she stepped close enough that he could feel her breath stir the air between them.
“But you,” she said gently, “have a present.”
He went utterly still. The words struck him. Though the words themselves sounded cruel, her voice was soft with compassion.He felt as though she reached straight into his chest and pressed a palm against the place he most carefully guarded.
“You have a present,” she repeated softly. “And you shouldn’t bury it with the past.”
Greyson drew in a slow, unsteady breath. Hazel stood so close he could feel the warmth radiating from her. She was close enough that if he turned even slightly, he could touch her, gather her into his arms, let her take the weight from him.
And that was precisely why he could not stay another moment.
“No,” he said, the word sharp enough to cleave the space between them.
Greyson tore his gaze from her, fixing it instead on the nearest trunk, the one holding the remnants of a childhood he no longer allowed himself to claim.
“The past should be left in the past,” he said, a monologue he had recited over and over through the years. “Some things are meant to remain buried.”
Hazel’s lips parted, as though she wished to speak, to comfort him, persuade him or try and reach him, but he could not bear to hear whatever kindness she might offer. He turned away before the heat in his chest could reach his eyes. He walked away, refusing to look back.
If he did, he wasn’t certain he would be able to walk out at all.