CHAPTER 23 

March 1960

The birthday party at the Tennyson house overflowed from room to room on the main level. On the stone veranda, almost every face was lit by the glow of a cigarette while a string quartet performed on the grass under the eaves where butter-yellow primrose grew. Lanterns flickered with candles that had been lit just before the first guest’s arrival.

After her mum’s appointment, Hazel had spent the day helping her arrange flowers, deciding where to put the wineglasses, lighting candles. Now that the bash was in full swing, Barnaby stood at her side, winding his fingers in and out of hers as if to knit them together. If she was truthful, this was the way she’d always wanted him: attentive, absolutely hers, asking if she was okay, bringing her glasses of champagne, exclaiming how beautiful she was in her new green silk dress with the skirt that swung with her every move.

Hazel looked to Barnaby, who was at that moment looking at her, and she kissed him. “I love you,” she said. His face lit, and he kissed her in return.

“As I do you.”

Tenny appeared at their side. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked. He’d always wanted Hazel to like him more than she was willing to show. But here, now, she gave in just a bit. “I am. I am having the very best time! Happy birthday!”

“Thank you.” He grinned, a charming smile no less radiant than his father’s.

A girl, Tenny’s age of fourteen or so, sidled near to him, her red dress so short that Hazel wondered if she’d cut off inches of it. “Tenny,” she said in a flirty voice. “Happy birthday.” She leaned in to kiss him, but he artfully dodged her lips.

Hazel smiled and nodded for Barnaby to follow her. In the hallway, they heard Kelty’s voice. “Finally!” Hazel said.

Kelty spied them across the parlor and rushed to their side. Her blue embroidered dress was covered in tiny white flowers and seemed to dance around her as she hugged them. “What a glorious party.”

“It always is with Mrs. Tennyson,” Barnaby said, and gave Hazel a nudge of companionship. Fergus wound his way through the crowd and greeted Hazel and Barnaby with a strong handshake. He was a wild-looking man with blond hair that had never faded, springing in every direction. He wore a green jacket with a yellow hankie in its pocket, ever so dapper, and held a martini with two olives, both with one bite out of them.

Kelty looped her arm through Hazel’s. “Let’s go find Tenny so I can say happy birthday and get the formalities out of the way.”

“Good excuse,” Fergus said, and shook his head at Barnaby. “These two.”

Hazel led Kelty to the empty sunroom, shut the door. “Are you free for the next two days?” she asked. “I need to go to St. Ives.”

Kelty nearly bounced on her toes. “In Cornwall? I’m all yours,” Kelty said. “But before you tell me what this is about, I have to confess something.”

Hazel slipped off her high heels, which were pinching her toes to near death. “Do I need to get the rosary beads?”

“Quite possibly.” Kelty walked to the window and then turned. “I took that address from the Hogan’s receipt, and I sent a telegram.”

Hazel pressed her hand to her heart. “You can’t just run off and do that… you can’t.”

“I know. It was presumptuous and I’m sorry. I did it for love and then realized it might have been best if I’d talked to you.” She scrunched her face. “I tend to rush into things without thinking. Forgive me?”

“What did the telegram say?”

“Where did you find this story. Stop. It is life and death. Stop.”

“Oh, Kelty…”

“I gave her your address. If she ignores this, we go to America.”

Hazel went to her friend, hugged her. “I forgive you and I love you so. It’s what I should have done.”

“Now,” Kelty said. “What’s in Cornwall?”

The door to the sunroom burst open and in walked Fergus and Barnaby. “Told you they’d be sequestered away,” Fergus said with a smile.

“Plotting world domination,” Barnaby said as he came to Hazel and kissed her.

“Something like that,” Kelty said.

Hazel slipped on her shoes and the four of them walked out, the couples arm in arm. Kelty looked over her shoulder with the question—“What’s in Cornwall?”—lingering between them. She raised her eyebrows at Hazel meaningfully.

“Harry,” Hazel mouthed silently.