She looked around the sunny room, seeking something to ground the conversation, to find a thread that might matter. Her gaze landed on the bookshelf. This was not a grand library like the one in Callbury House. This was a single shelf, modest, well-kept, filled with leather-bound volumes arranged meticulously.
Hazel felt her breath catch. The spines were worn from handling. Some had bookmarks resting halfway. Two had folded corners where someone had forgotten to smooth them.
Hazel turned back to the Dowager Duchess. The woman’s eyes, though still faraway, rested longingly on that shelf. Understanding bloomed in Hazel’s chest. She stepped closer to the older woman, lowering her voice to something earnest and real.
“You like stories,” Hazel said gently. “Don’t you?”
This time, the Dowager Duchess blinked, and for a fleeting instant, Hazel thought she saw something warming in those pale silver eyes. Recognition? Memory? Gratitude? Hazel didn’t know.
But it was something important.
Chapter Fifteen
Hazel stood before the bookshelf for a long moment, letting her fingertips drift across the worn spines. Some titles were practical, such as histories, essays and journals, but one volume stood out at once. It boasted deep blue leather and a faded illustration of a ship embossed on the front.
The Mariner of Moonlit Haven: A Romantic Sea Adventure.
Hazel’s lips curved.
“Oh… I think I know what you might enjoy,” she murmured.
She retrieved the book carefully and almost reverently, then carried it to the chair beside the Dowager Duchess. The older woman watched her with a faint, curious tilt of her head. Her expression was still distant, but it was no longer clouded with such heavy sorrow.
Hazel settled into the chair and opened the first page. The typeface was charmingly old-fashioned, the kind that begged to be read aloud. So, she began.
Her voice was soft at first. It was hesitant and uncertain if she had any right to take up the space, but the words flowed beautifully. It was the story of a daring young captain, a perilous storm at sea, and a mysterious island hidden by fog. It was a tale meant for escapism, meant to lift one away from worry. She hoped that it might lift the Dowager just a little.
A few minutes passed before Hazel sensed movement in the doorway. She looked up just in time to see Mrs. Atherton arriving with a tray laden with tea, scones, and a small pot of jam. Mrs. Atherton paused, beaming as she took in the scene: Hazel reading and the Dowager Duchess listening with softened eyes.
Hazel gave her a small, welcoming smile. Mrs. Atherton returned it tenfold, in an expression bright enough to warm the entire house, before she silently set the tray on a nearby table. She did not interrupt. She did not speak. She simply nodded at Hazel with a look of heartfelt gratitude and slipped back out of the room.
Hazel’s chest tightened at the gesture. She continued reading. The Dowager Duchess’ gaze, once unfocused and distant, grew attentive. Her breathing steadied. The wrinkles between her brows eased. Even her posture seemed to shift, settling into the chair rather than leaning away from the world.
Hazel read on, allowing the rhythm of the sea and the promise of adventure to fill the space between them. She stole a glance at the older woman now and then. Each time, she found the sorrow lighter. It was not gone, but it was gentler now. And with every scene she spoke aloud, Hazel felt her own heart warm with purpose, with a quiet connection she did not need to understand to value.
Hazel had just begun the chapter where the hero was dangling from the mast in a gale, shouting poetic declarations into the storm, when suddenly, she heard movement. She glanced up for just a moment, only to see that the Dowager Duchess was standing.
Hazel’s breath caught in her throat. She instantly set the book aside, half-rising from her chair in alarm. “Oh, Your Grace, please… do you need?—?”
But the older woman did not answer. She merely remained very still, her gaze drifting toward the tea tray as though contemplating an action she had not taken in a very long time.
Hazel froze. Mrs. Atherton had said she had good days. Perhaps this was one. Perhaps Hazel had unintentionally disrupted something fragile. The Dowager took one slow, deliberate step.
Hazel’s hands fluttered uncertainly above her lap. “Would you like me to?—?”
The Dowager paused, not because she was unwell, but because Hazel had stopped reading.
“Oh,” Hazel whispered. “You want me to continue.”
The Dowager did not nod, nor speak, nor fully turn. But there was a stillness in her posture that Hazel recognized instantly. It was akin to a wordless request.
“All right,” she murmured, sinking carefully back into her seat. She lifted the book again. “Where was I… yes. The captain found his footing again, though the waves roared like living beasts…”
She read on. And slowly, with extraordinary effort and clear determination, the Dowager Duchess resumed her quiet journey across the room.
She took a step, then paused. Another step, and another pause.
All the while, Hazel continued reading.
