Page 2 of Healing Hazel

“His sitting room is terribly small, isn’t it?” Sophie said gently, setting her hand over Hazel’s. “And he invited far too many people for a comfortable gathering.”

“Once we reach France, Father made certain Miss Westbrook and I will travel in a private train carriage for the entire journey,” Hazel said, “so I don’t need to worry about crowds or feeling trapped.” It was extremely freeing to be able to discuss her condition so openly. Most people acted as if the panic episodes were something to be ashamed of. They certainly never asked how she was feeling or learned how the spells could be managed.

Jameson brought a bottle of wine and poured for the women.

Elizabeth raised her glass high. “Here’s to Hazel and the exotic adventure awaiting her in the Canary Islands.”

The others raised their glasses as well.

“And please say you have packed at least one set of trousers,” Elizabeth continued, winking as Dahlia gasped. “You will find they are so much more practical when it comes to riding a bicycle or, I imagine, exploring a beach.”

“I have not,” Hazel admitted, thinking her father would likely suffer an apoplexy should he see his daughter wearing trousers.

“Pity,” Elizabeth muttered.

The ladies continued talking well into the night. And when the hour came to bid farewell, Sophie, Elizabeth, Vivian, and Dahlia had each presented Hazel with a wrapped gift and strict orders not to open them until she was happily celebrating Christmas with her father in the officers’ private villa in the Canary Islands.

When she returned home to her uncle’s house, Hazel packed the parcels carefully into her trunk. After spending the evening with the Blue Orchid Society, her worries about the journey were nearly nonexistent, and a feeling of excitement had taken their place. She had her father’s company and a holiday at the seaside to look forward to, and with her friends’ encouragement, she felt as if she could do anything.

Chapter 1

Hazel watched through the windowas the train wove through the Spanish countryside. They should have arrived at Cádiz hours ago, but she had learned that timetables were only approximations in this part of the world. There were always unexpected delays or repairs to contend with. What should have been a six-day journey had taken eight.

Across from her, Miss Westbrook—or Nella, as she insisted upon being called now that they were traveling companions and not student and teacher—let out a snore and shifted in her sleep. The knitting slipped from her lap, sending the ball of yarn rolling. Hazel stopped it with her foot and leaned forward to set it on the seat. A partly knitted stocking hung from the needles in the woman’s hands. Nella was a middle-aged spinster with round cheeks and a puff of hair that was neither blonde nor brown but a dull in-between color that sparkled with hints of silver in the sunlight. She seemed, by all accounts, to be a respectable matron, but underneath her proper exterior, she possessed a jolly sense of humor with just a hint of irreverence. The older woman had made the long journey anything but dull. She was witty and good-humored, and Hazel had already decided that when they returned, she would introduce Nella to the Blue Orchid Society. They would love her.

Hazel touched the blue-orchid brooch at her neck, feeling its familiar filigree edges. She missed her friends. Though it had been only ten days since Dahlia’s Christmas party, it seemed so much longer. Hazel sighed. So far, the trip was not the adventure she’d hoped for. The train journey through France had been fraught with delays and stopovers in nearly every little town between Paris and Bayonne. When they’d reached the Spanish border, she and Nella had retrieved their trunks and travel bags and engaged a carriage to take them to San Sebastián. The ride through the rock-covered mountains had taken an entire day, but it was necessary since the Spanish, always wary of a French invasion, used a different track gauge for their trains than did the rest of Europe.

The train slowed, brakes screeching. Nella jerked awake and groaned. “Oh my. Are we still on this train?”

“Not for much longer,” Hazel said, pointing through the window. Ahead was a walled city surrounded on three sides by water. “That must be Cádiz.”

“Thank goodness,” Nella said. “I fear my bottom might be permanently fused to this seat.”

Hazel smiled to hide her shock at Nella’s indiscretion. But, if she were to be honest, her own bottom was suffering the effects of sitting for so long as well. She would be glad to get off the train and onto the steamship. At least then she could walk around and enjoy the fresh air and the view of the ocean. She looked forward to the sea voyage almost as much as she did the destination itself.

The train came to a stop, and the conductor opened their compartment door. “Cádiz, senoritas.”

“Gracias,” Hazel said, using one of the few Spanish words she had learned before the trip.

The women gathered their things, put on their gloves, straightened their hats, and left the compartment. The moment they stepped out of the train’s shade, Hazel squinted in the bright sun. She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, loving the feel of the heat on her face. She raised and lowered her shoulders, wanting to stretch her back, but her corset made it next to impossible.

Nella dug through her bag, pulled out a fan, and wafted it in front of her face. “My goodness, it’s warm.”

Hazel agreed. It was warm but nowhere near as hot as an Indian summer. And with the sea breeze, it felt very comfortable. She had hardly ever been warm in England. The weather was always so damp and muggy, and one could go weeks without seeing the sun. But the Canary Islands would be warm and bright. She could hardly wait to walk along the beach or eat tropical fruit beneath an umbrella on a veranda overlooking the sea. The weeks at the villa would well make up for the uncomfortable travel.

They walked along the platform to the station, and Hazel’s heart picked up, beating happily. She hadn’t seen her father for almost five years. Not since she had turned sixteen and the major general had decided that a young lady needed to be among Society.

“Miss Thornton?” A man wearing the red coat of an English officer stepped into Hazel’s path. She estimated his age to be near to thirty. His face was tanned and weathered, his back straight.

Her gaze moved to the epaulet at his shoulder. “Yes, Captain... ?” She glanced behind him. He must have accompanied her father to Cádiz.

“Bryant.” He gave a sharp bow. “Captain Edgar Bryant.”

“How do you do? And this is my companion, Miss Westbrook.” Hazel glanced behind the captain again.

“A pleasure.” Captain Bryant spoke in the efficient clipped tones Hazel associated with military men.

“You have come with my father?” she asked, feeling impatient. Why were they standing here on the train platform?

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