“Well,” Iona said slowly, “perhaps you could take only one book with you to read at the gardens. After all, you’ll only be there for the afternoon.”
Hazel choked on her tea. “One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.”
“Two books then, miss.”
Hazel sighed but eventually agreed, and she headed off for the city with three books in the carriage, fully aware that Charles and Iona were probably grateful to have the castle more or less to themselves for a few hours.
* * *
EVEN WITH THE SPECTER OF THE Roman fever hanging over Edinburgh, Princes Street Gardens was still bustling with picnickers and strollers, women walking briskly in pairs, carrying parasols—all people celebrating what almost certainly would be the last day before spring that the sun would shine, however faintly, from behind the clouds and the smoky haze. How were they all so content? How did the rich so easily dismiss the chaos and terror within their city?
And yet, Hazel thought, here she was herself, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather, trying to study. Pass the examination, and then worry about the rest, she told herself. Just pass the examination.
Hazel found an isolated spot on the grass beneath a large leafy elm tree and spread her books out in front of her: Dr. Beecham’s Treatise, a second anatomy textbook, and a novel called Sense and Sensibility, published anonymously and credited only to “A Lady.” Hazel liked the author, whoever she was, and had brought the novel along as a reward, should she succeed in completing her review of the pulmonary system.
Hazel settled onto the grass and pulled out Dr. Beecham’s Treatise to refresh her memory regarding the arteries of the lungs, but before she could even flip to the relevant pages, a shadow came over the book, and Hazel looked up to see Hyacinth Caldwater standing over her and cradling a newly enormous pregnant belly.
Hazel swallowed the lump of bile that made itself known in her throat.
“Oh, Hazel, darling!” cooed Mrs. Caldwater. “The social scene has been positively abuzz since your engagement! You left before the dancing! Are you quite well? And more important: Have you set a date? Because I simply must clear my social calendar, I simply must. There’s no doubt your wedding will be the event of the season. I imagine the London set will be coming up for it?”
Hazel sighed and folded her book closed. “Mrs. Caldwater. Lovely as always to see you.”
“Now, you simply must tell me what was going through your mind when Bernard proposed. I confess, we had thought it would be another few seasons before he asked; the two of you are still young. You’ve been so absent this season.” Mrs. Caldwater raised one eyebrow conspiratorially and leaned in as if she were sharing a secret with Hazel, but her voice still rang out, shrill as a brass bell. “Half of Charlotte Square is convinced that you’ve managed to seduce a Polish count, and that Bernard knew he had to strike while he still had a chance. I heard several whispers that your mother was fed up with Bernard’s hesitating, and she went down to London to secure you a match with an Englishman and make Bernard jealous! Why else go down so early? Surely she’s pleased that the match with Bernard Almont is all squared away now. Is she coming home, now that you’re betrothed?”
“My mother is in Bath, with Percy. On holiday. For his delicate constitution. To avoid the fever.”
Mrs. Caldwater’s heavily rouged face became a mask of sympathy. “Oh yes, of course. Oh, my poor dear. Your poor mother and all she’s gone through. Losing her eldest, and your father gone most of the year. Is it hard on her, would you say?”
“Yes,” Hazel said, enjoying the conversation less with every passing second. “I imagine it is.”
With a herculean obliviousness to Hazel’s polite attempts to lower her attention back to her book, Hyacinth Caldwater turned to show off her growing profile, scooping one hand beneath her pregnant belly. Mrs. Caldwater had to be at least forty years old. From the delicate wrinkles lacing their way beyond the outer corners of her eyes, at least fifty, Hazel guessed. And yet it was undeniable: the woman was with child.
Catching Hazel staring, Mrs. Caldwater beamed. “Can you believe it? A miraculous thing. My husband, the colonel, and I have been trying for a child since our wedding, a century ago—ha ha ha—and now finally: poof!”