Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
The following afternoon, Hazel carried the small stack of books against her chest as she made her way down the familiar corridor toward the Dowager Duchess’ sitting room.
She paused at the door, steadied her breath, and knocked lightly. A maid opened the door and stepped aside, giving Hazel a grateful nod before leaving the two of them alone.
The Dowager was sitting in her usual chair by the window, with a shawl tucked neatly around her narrow shoulders. As usual, her gaze drifted along the gardens outside. Hazel expected the familiar distant fog in her eyes, but as soon as she stepped into the room, something changed.
The Dowager’s gaze shifted to her. And then, a smile bloomed across her frail features. It was small, almost as if the woman had forgotten how to do it, but it was unmistakably real.
Hazel returned the smile. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
The Dowager made no sound, but her fingers lifted ever so slightly from her lap, as though beckoning Hazel closer.
Hazel hurried to her side. “I’ve brought you something.”
She lifted the top book and placed it gently into the Dowager’s hands. The older woman’s thin, trembling fingers closed around it with surprising care. Her thumb brushed the embossed title, lingering there as if reacquainting herself with an old friend.
Hazel’s breath caught. She knelt a little to meet the Dowager’s eyes. “You remember this one as well, don’t you?”
The Dowager didn’t nod, but she didn’t need to. Her soft sigh, the way her lips curved, the slow blink of recognition… Hazel read every emotion as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud.
Hazel set the remaining books on the small table beside her. “We brought several for you. You may choose whichever you like.”
At the word we, the Dowager’s gaze flickered.
Hazel gave a small nod. “Greyson helped select them.”
The Dowager reached out, her frail hand trembling as it hovered uncertainly in the air. Hazel immediately offered her own, and the Dowager took it.
Hazel swallowed hard, touched beyond words. “Would you like me to read to you?”
The Dowager moved and lifted one trembling hand. She pointed first at the book, then at herself. Her lips parted.
A soft, breathy whisper escaped. “May I…?”
Hazel’s breath halted so abruptly she felt it catch in her chest. The Dowager had spoken.
“Oh,” Hazel gasped, fumbling over her own words. “Of… of course! Please, yes, please. I will listen this time.”
Her fingers trembled as she helped the Dowager steady the book. She glanced instinctively toward the door, wanting Mrs. Atherton, or anyone for that matter, to witness this miracle. But this moment was too delicate, too sacred and too easily broken. So, Hazel stayed where she was.
She pulled an armchair close enough that their shoulders nearly touched and sat beside the Dowager. She folded her hands tightly in her lap as if keeping still would somehow protect the fragile magic unfolding before her.
The Dowager opened the first page. The paper rustled under her shaky touch. Hazel held her breath. The Dowager’s lips moved, slowly and carefully, as though coaxing sound from a place long sealed. Her voice came out thin, a whisper scraped raw by years of silence.
“The… gard–”
She paused, as her eyes narrowed with concentration.
Hazel leaned forward slightly, but not too much, so as not to overwhelm her. “You are doing beautifully,” she whispered.
The Dowager took a small breath.
“The garden… was… quiet.”
She paused again, breathing through the effort.
Hazel felt tears prick her eyes. She wanted to clap her hands in joy. She wanted to race to Greyson. She wanted the entire household to gather and witness, but she dared not move. She dared not even breathe too loudly.
The dowager found the next line. Her finger traced it slowly.
“A… single… rose… bloomed…”
Another pause. Longer this time.
Her throat worked as she swallowed.
Hazel placed a gentle hand over the Dowager’s. “We can stop anytime,” she murmured. “Only as much as you wish.”
But the older woman shook her head. She turned her eyes back to the page with trembling determination. Hazel felt her heart swell so full it almost hurt.
The Dowager continued reading, halting often, in a tone that was whisper-soft. Her every word was both a battle and a triumph all at once. Hazel listened with reverent silence, hardly daring to blink.
This was more than speech. It was a reclamation of strength, of self, of something that grief had stolen a long time ago.
When the Dowager paused again, her gaze drifted to Hazel’s, as if seeking approval.
Hazel’s voice broke on a whisper. “It is perfect. You are perfect.”
The Dowager’s eyes glistened.
Hazel sat there, listening to the slow, whispered reading, feeling her heart fill with awe, gratitude, and love for this fragile, brave woman who had chosen, for the first time in so long, to step out of silence.
And as she listened, Hazel thought: Greyson must know. But not yet. Not now. This moment belongs to her.
She reached out and gently held the Dowager’s free hand. And the Dowager kept reading… word by word, breath by precious breath.
Greyson stared down at the papers spread across his desk. He had just dipped his pen again when his study door burst open, and Hazel stumbled inside as though she had been sprinting through the corridors.
Greyson shot to his feet.
“Hazel?” His voice sharpened with concern. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She stopped halfway to his desk, looked at him, then at the still-open door, and blurted. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t knock.” She flapped one hand at the door helplessly. “I should have knocked. I did not. But this cannot wait.”
His stomach tightened. He moved around the writing table at once. “Has something happened?”
“No. Yes! I mean, nothing awful, quite the opposite!” Hazel rushed to him, her movements so full of energy she nearly tripped over her own skirts. She grabbed his hand and tugged.
Greyson froze. Her hand was warm, firm and urgent around his. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, Your Grace, come quickly,” she said breathlessly. “It’s… it’s a miracle. You must see for yourself.”
Greyson’s heart thudded once, painfully hard.
“A miracle?” he repeated. “Hazel, slow down. What has happened?”
She shook her head rapidly, curls bouncing. “I cannot explain it properly even if I tried. I thought I could, but I cannot, I truly cannot, there aren’t words. Please, just come.”
She tugged again, more insistently, with excitement bright enough to illuminate the entire room.
Greyson allowed her to pull him forward, though confusion and worry warred beneath his ribs. “Hazel… Hazel, breathe. Tell me what this is about.”
“It’s wonderful,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “You won’t believe it until you see it with your own eyes.”
Greyson’s pulse stumbled. Because Hazel was smiling with such overwhelming joy that he did not know whether to be terrified or grateful just to witness it.
“Hurry,” she urged, already pulling him toward the door, mindless of decorum, propriety, or the fact that she still held his hand as though she had every right to it.
Greyson let himself be led through the study and down the hall.
Hazel didn’t look back. She didn’t need to.
Her joy pulled him like gravity. She did not slow even once as she hurried him down the corridor and toward the front of the house, still holding his hand like a woman possessed by joy itself.
Greyson struggled to keep pace.
“Hazel,” he tried again, in a breath that was short from both surprise and the speed at which she moved, “where on earth are we going?”
“To the carriage,” she answered breathlessly, yanking him down the steps with absolutely no regard for dignity, his or hers.
“The carriage?” Greyson was stupefied. “Why the carriage? Hazel, what in Heaven’s name—”
“You’ll see,” she said, beaming at him over her shoulder.
Her smile was so bright it stole whatever argument he had been reaching for.
A footman gawked openly as Hazel pulled the Duke of Callbury out of his own front doors like an errant child, but Hazel didn’t spare the man a glance.
She rushed straight to the waiting carriage, tugging Greyson along until he had no choice but to follow or dig his heels into the gravel like a stubborn mule.
And Greyson Thornhill did not dig in his heels when his wife looked at him like that.
“Hazel,” he said again, trying for calm authority and achieving only baffled breathlessness, “we are not dressed for going anywhere.”
Hazel turned to him with a smile. “Where we’re going, no one cares what you’re wearing.”
Greyson blinked. “That… is not remotely helpful.”
Hazel laughed, and Greyson felt it land somewhere deep inside him, warm and disarming.
He raised an eyebrow, the only defense he had left. “Am I to assume you are deliberately keeping me in the dark?”
“Yes,” she said at once, nodding vigorously, tugging him the final step toward the carriage. “Absolutely. Entirely. On purpose.”
Greyson stared at her. “Why?”
“Because it will be a thousand times better for you to see it with your own eyes.”
He thought about his response for a moment. “Hazel… this level of enthusiasm could be either very promising or very alarming.”
“It’s promising,” she assured him, practically glowing. “Oh, Greyson, please… just trust me.”
He looked at the color in her cheeks, at the joy in her expression, at the urgency in her voice that was too big to be contained. Finally, he looked down at the hand still wrapped around his, tender and loving, and entirely oblivious to propriety.
And he yielded, just as he had always seemed to do with her. So, he exhaled, resigning himself to whatever madness she was dragging him toward.
“Very well,” he murmured. “I trust you.”
Hazel grinned and tugged him into the carriage as though she had been waiting her whole life to hear him say those words. He stepped in after her, knowing that whatever awaited him, he knew that he would follow her into the very depths of Hell, if need be.