Chapter 11
Hazel’s wrist healed in six weeks.
I knew because she stopped favoring it while carrying trays.
I also noticed she no longer lowered her eyes when I entered a room.
Good.
One afternoon she brought coffee into my study.
Then stopped.
“Can I say something?”
“Please.”
Still cautious.
“Mrs. Blackwood is angry with the new seating plan.”
I stared.
“Why are you telling me?”
Hazel almost smiled.
“She told me to.”
Of course.
Mother appeared behind her.
“I hate it.”
I laughed.
The new dinner arrangement no longer placed Mother automatically beside me.
Seats rotated according to guests.
Apparently revolution had limits.
“You wanted less responsibility.”
“Not invisibility.”
Fair.
We adjusted.
No throne.
No fixed hierarchy.
But Mother still deserved dignity.
There is a difference between dismantling informal power and humiliating the person who once carried it.
I had nearly overcorrected.
Again.
Hazel watched us argue.
Then said:
“You’re both impossible.”
Silence.
She froze.
Mother started laughing first.
I followed.
Hazel turned red.
Good.
Maybe this house was changing.
Later Mother said:
“You like her.”
I looked at her.
“She’s competent.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
I ignored it.
My engagement had ended three months ago.
Hazel worked in my home.
Power mattered.
Any feeling there required caution greater than attraction.
Mother noticed my silence.
Surprisingly, she nodded.
Good.
No matchmaking.
No pressure.
That was growth for her too.
I respected Hazel.
That was enough.
For now.
And perhaps forever.
May you like
Not every woman who becomes important to a man needs to become romance.
Families like mine had already assigned too many roles to people before asking what they wanted.
