Lady Maybe (12 page)

Mrs. Turrill nodded. “My fault I’m afraid. Told her they were my favorite.” She rose. “I’ll check the rest of the house again.”

Dread seeped through Hannah’s veins. A knowing. A fear . . .

She ran back outside and through the garden, calling for Becky. Remembering the girl’s distraught face as she had last seen it, Hannah prayed,
Please, God, don’t let her do anything foolish.

Mr. Lowden followed her out of the house, looking at her in concern, brows drawn low. Only then did she realize tears ran down her cheeks.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened? Is it Sir John?”

“No. Have you seen Becky? She took Danny into the garden when you . . . while you and I spoke and now I cannot find them.”

“Have you checked inside? And the Parrishes’?”

She nodded. “The maid’s run over to the Grange, and Mrs. Turrill is searching the house again.”

The young manservant, Ben, came out of the nearby stables, leading a saddled roan. “Here’s your horse, sir. All ready for your morning ride.”

“Thank you, but Becky Brown has gone missing, her young charge with her. Have you seen them?”

“No, sir,” Ben replied, eyes round.

“Borrow a horse from the Parrishes and ride the coast road toward Countisbury,” Mr. Lowden said. “I’ll ride toward Lynton. Ask anyone you meet if they’ve seen her. Make haste.”

One glance at her teary face and the young man turned and sprinted toward the Grange. Mr. Lowden swung himself up onto his horse.

He looked down at her. “Stay here in case she returns.”

Hannah shook her head. “I can’t stay and do nothing. Mrs. Turrill is here. I’m going to search the wood.”

“I’ll ride a few miles and if I seen no sign of them, I’ll circle back and meet you there.”

She nodded and turned, jogging downhill and into the nearby wood with its carpet of bluebells.
Dear God in heaven, please let Danny be all right. Help me find them. Oh, God, please have mercy. Please.

Hannah opened her mouth to call out, then hesitated. Might the girl bolt at the sound of her name, fearing she was in trouble? Perhaps a quiet approach would be better. Continuing on, Hannah stepped on a dry branch and it snapped as loud as gun shot in the quiet wood. So much for stealth.

She called out, “Becky!”

Hannah hurried on, panic rising. What had the girl gone and done? What had
she
done by allowing Becky to leave the house with her son? If something happened to him, she would never forgive herself.

In the distance, she heard Mrs. Turrill’s voice call out, “Becky! Becky my girl!”

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. She had not been found in the house nor at the Parrishes’. Hannah trudged on, stepping over
logs and pushing away branches, looking this way and that for any sign someone had passed that way.

Listen,
a voice in her mind whispered. Then repeated once more,
Listen.

Hannah paused where she was. She closed her eyes and focused all her attention on hearing.

What was that sound? The gentle whirring of a dove? No. Of running water. She followed the sound, not sure why, but having no other idea which way to go.

The Lyn River ran nearby on its way toward Lynmouth and the Bristol Channel. Would Becky be drawn to the water? It was unlikely she could swim. Water and a baby . . . the two words struck terror in Hannah’s heart. She blinked away images of Danny floating away as Lady Mayfield had. Or simply sinking . . .

“Becky!” she called all the louder.

Hannah tripped over a bramble and went sprawling. Pain shot through her injured arm. She heard a familiar whimper and looked up from her prone position, belly on the ground. She tried to cry out, but the fall had knocked the air from her lungs and the cry lodged in her throat.

Ahead, Becky stood on the riverbank, Danny in one arm, the other outstretched for balance. She reached her slippered foot toward a rock amid the rapidly flowing river. Hannah sucked in a wheezy breath and called out, “Becky, stop! What are you doing?”

The girl turned. “Taking him somewhere safe.”

Hannah lumbered to her feet and started forward. She would never reach the girl in time. . . .

Suddenly, Mr. Lowden stepped out from behind a tree. Becky shrieked and leapt from the bank onto the rock. Hannah gasped as Danny bobbled in her grasp.

“There you are, Becky. I am glad I found you,” Mr. Lowden
said, placating palms outstretched. “I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry I was rude to you before. I hope you will forgive me.”

Becky looked from him to a rock farther out, uncertain.

Mr. Lowden calmly went on, “Master Daniel looks to have enjoyed his walk in the wood. Well done. Let us return him to Lady Mayfield.”

Becky frowned at Mr. Lowden. “Ain’t Lady Mayfield’s child.”

Panic seized Hannah. She called, “Becky, Danny is my son. You know he is! You are only upset.”

Mr. Lowden soothed, “Becky, look at him. No one could look at this handsome lad and not know who his mother is.”

Becky looked down at the baby.

“Let me help you,” Mr. Lowden said, reaching toward her. “That’s it, take my hand.”

With a glance toward Hannah, Becky tentatively placed her hand in Mr. Lowden’s. He held it and steadied her as she leapt back from the rock onto solid ground.

Hannah released a shaky breath.

“Shall I hold him for you?” Mr. Lowden asked. “How tired your arms must be from carrying him so far from the house.”

Becky’s face crumpled. “I never meant him no harm, honest I didn’t.”

“Of course not.” He gently took Danny from her. “I will be happy to carry him home for you. Perhaps you would like to sit atop my horse?”

“Your horse, sir? I ain’t never rode a horse in my life.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. Perhaps Lady Mayfield might prefer to hold Danny and I shall lead you by the reins? Though you must promise to hold on tight. I shouldn’t want any harm to befall you. I know Lady Mayfield depends upon you. In fact, she was just telling me after you left, how much she and Danny need you.”

“Was she?”

Hannah walked near, brushing the dirt from her hands. She met James Lowden’s gaze, saw his subtle nod.

“That’s right, Becky,” she agreed. “We need you. You gave us such a fright when you strayed so far from the house alone. Promise me you shall never do so again. If you wish to walk in the wood, I shall be happy to accompany you in future.”

“Very well, miss— Um, my lady.”

Over the girl’s head, Hannah mouthed the words “thank you,” to Mr. Lowden, feeling at the moment that she would like to throw her arms around him in gratitude. However, better sense and a throbbing arm kept her from acting on the foolish impulse. She prayed she had not broken her arm all over again.

Remembering Becky’s,
“Ain’t Lady Mayfield’s child,”
Hannah wondered if more than her arm had been damaged. Or had Mr. Lowden believed her explanation of Becky’s blunder?

When Hannah and Becky returned Danny to the nursery, Mrs. Turrill was there to meet them. She hugged Becky to herself. Then Danny in his turn.

“Sorry I’m so stupid,” Becky said, chin quivering. “I didn’t mean to scare everyone. Honest.”

Mrs. Turrill’s brow furrowed. “You’re not stupid, Becky. Whoever told you that?”

Becky shrugged. “Everybody. My mum, Mrs. Beech, and them what . . .” The girl’s words trailed away and a haunted look shadowed her face.

“Them . . . who?” Mrs. Turrill asked, expression pained, jaw tight.

Becky looked away from the housekeeper’s wide eyes. “Them men what . . .” She bit her lip. “Never mind.” She shrugged again. “I’m sure they was right.”

Mrs. Turrill shook her head, eyes glinting. “They were not
right. They were wrong. Mean-spirited and wrong. You are not stupid, Becky Brown. You are intelligent, and good, and valuable. Do you hear me?”

“Aww . . .” Becky said it as though she didn’t believe the words—as though she barely heard the words, really. Like a slinking pup who recognized an encouraging voice when it had known only undeserved blows. Becky touched a finger to the woman’s cheek and whispered, “That’s why I love ya.”

T
hat evening, Hannah and Mr. Lowden sat near the fire in the drawing room after dinner, somewhat more companionably than before their shared trauma. Mr. Lowden read a book by lamplight and Hannah sewed as best she could with one hand restricted by a sling. Earlier, when they’d returned from the river, Mr. Lowden had insisted Dr. Parrish reexamine her arm. The physician had done so, and applied new starched bandages as a precaution, although he assured her the bone was knitting nicely.

Now, Mr. Lowden apparently grew restless, for he laid the book aside and rose. He paused beside the game table with an inlaid chessboard made from squares of oak and maple. He picked up the queen, then looked from the piece to her. “I recall my father mentioning a visit you and Sir John once paid him.”

She glanced up from her needle, instantly wary. “Oh?”

“Yes, he invited you both to dinner, I believe, soon after your marriage.”

She looked at him, waiting for him to continue. Wondering what he was up to.

“I was in London at the time, at the company headquarters. But I seem to recall him telling me later that he had challenged you to a game of chess. And that you beat him quite handily. Is that true?”

She stared at him, thinking quickly. Dare she assent to remembering the occasion? James Lowden had not been there; it was only the hearsay of his deceased father. But then she thought again. She didn’t recall ever seeing Marianna play chess and she barely tolerated any card game that required more than luck. But . . . why would Mr. Lowden recount such a tale if it weren’t true? Was it a trick? And what if she agreed and he challenged her to a game?

She said, “I’m afraid I don’t recall that, Mr. Lowden. Perhaps your father was being overly chivalrous . . . or forgetful.”

For several ticks of the long-case clock James Lowden held her gaze. Then he replaced the piece. “Actually, I am the one being forgetful. Now that I think about it, it was another client’s wife he referred to. You don’t play chess, I take it?”

“Not well, no.”

“Ah. My mistake.”

He regarded her with a strange glint in his soft green eyes, the color of pale moss. The corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing grin that seemed to say,
You have passed another test, but it shan’t be the last
. The grin emphasized the deep brackets on either side of his mouth. Not dimples, but long grooves, masculine and appealing.

Stop it, Hannah,
she reprimanded herself. She could not trust this man. Heaven help her if she began to admire him.

—

Hannah was massaging Sir John’s calf muscle with one hand as Dr. Parrish had instructed, when the physician came in to pay his daily call.

“Ah, how diligent you are, my lady. Well done. It will help him, you will see.”

She looked up to acknowledge his encouragement and froze.
Sir John’s eyes were opened. He was staring at her. And not with the vacant look they had seen before. He was looking
at her
.

“Well, well!” beamed Dr. Parrish. “Look who has returned to us at last! Thank the Lord and pass the glass! Hello, Sir John.”

The patient’s gaze slowly slid toward the physician, then returned to look at her.

She self-consciously began lowering the bedclothes over his exposed leg. “He must wonder what I am doing. How strange to wake up and find someone rubbing his leg.”

“Oh, I don’t think any man would object to that!” The good doctor winked at Sir John. “Would he, sir?”

There was no change in Sir John’s expression.

“Ah! I forget you don’t know me. You may not remember meeting me earlier, but I feel as though I’ve come to know you quite well. I am George Parrish, your physician and neighbor. My son Edgar showed you about the place when you first visited.”

The barest flicker of comprehension shone in Sir John’s eyes before returning to Hannah.

The doctor gestured toward Hannah and smiled. “And you know this lovely creature, of course.”

When his patient failed to respond with word, smile, or even nod, the doctor asked him to follow his finger, to blink one for yes and two for no, or squeeze his hand.

“Now, there’s no rush, Sir John. You speak whenever you like. No hurry. You are healing nicely and no doubt will be your old self soon.”

The doctor brightened. “I know! Perhaps you would like this dear lady to read to you. She has a fine reading voice. In fact, I heard her reading to Master Daniel only last evening.” He turned to her. “Has Sir John a favorite book?”

Hannah hesitated. “I . . . shall find something.”

“I think reading to him for an hour or so each day an excellent idea. Stimulate his brain. Help him rediscover words again, which have apparently somehow left him.”

H
annah read to Sir John that very afternoon. She’d been pleased to find the first volume of
The History of Sir Charles Grandison
among his salvaged things. Her own copy was lost forever, along with her valise.

She sat in the armchair near his bed and began reading. Sir John opened his eyes and watched her as she did so. His bruising and swelling continued to fade, and his marled brown-and-silver beard to thicken.

Half an hour or so later, Mrs. Turrill knocked and entered with a tea tray. “Shall you have your tea here with Sir John, my lady? Ah! He is awake, bless my soul, he is.”

“Sir John, have you met Mrs. Turrill, our housekeeper?”

Mrs. Turrill dipped her head and smiled. “What a happy day this is. Well, I shall leave you. Anything else you need, my lady, you just ring, all right?”

The phrase, “my lady,” which she had begun to grow accustomed to, sounded like a trumpet blast in Sir John’s presence. She winced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill.”

The housekeeper left, closing the door behind her.

For a moment, Hannah kept her gaze on the closed door, all the while feeling Sir John’s scrutiny on her profile. Slowly, resignedly, she turned. Damp hands clasped in her lap, she faced her begrudging employer, her former mistress’s husband, her first infatuation—although he’d never known it. His expression remained inscrutable.

She sighed, and quietly began, “When they found us alone
together in the carriage after the accident, they assumed I was Lady Mayfield. At first I was insensible, as you have been. And when I regained my senses and realized . . . well, I should have corrected them, but I did not. I have a child to think of. And with my arm broken, there were few or no posts I would be suited for. I felt I had no choice but to remain here. With Lady Mayfield gone, who was I to be companion to? I would have no position, no place to sleep, and no way to provide for my son or myself. So I allowed the misapprehension to continue. It was wrong of me, I know. I plan to leave as soon as my arm is sufficiently healed and I might find work somewhere. In the meantime, I hope you will forgive me.”

His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, but whether his expression spoke of anger, or confusion, or deep thought, she was not certain. Did he even remember her?

Good heavens. She realized she had said, “with Lady Mayfield gone.” Was this the first he was hearing of his wife’s fate? This was not the way to break the news, bound up in her own confession. But it was too late now. And who else besides her would tell him his wife was dead?

“Yes. I am sorry to have to tell you. Lady Mayfield perished in the accident. Dr. Parrish doesn’t think she suffered.” Lacking the courage to meet his gaze, she closed the book and arose. “Well. Again, I am sorry. Sorry for your loss. For everything.”

She turned and quit the room, knowing it was only a matter of time until he regained the power of speech and ordered her to leave. Or worse.

Mr. Lowden would surely return to Bristol soon. He couldn’t abandon his practice for long. As soon as he did, she would depart as well. If she left now, the solicitor might suspect what she had done and send someone after her. She thought again of
the two women they had seen in the village stocks and shivered, knowing she would pay a high price for her deceit.

—

The next day, James Lowden entered Sir John Mayfield’s bedchamber, closing the door behind him. He stepped toward his employer’s bed, not feeling as charitable toward the man as he should.

Sir John watched him approach, recognition flickering in his eyes. Apparently he was more sensible than during James’s earlier visits to his bedside.

“Hello, Sir John. How are you feeling today?”

The man lifted a limp hand in a weak, so-so gesture.

James said, “As you are not yet able to discuss your wishes regarding your will, I think I ought to return to Bristol for a few days and take care of things there. But if you wish me to remain, I shall.”

Again the man lifted his hand, this time in an apparent wave of dismissal.

“You are . . . comfortable . . . being alone here—well, not alone exactly, but without me to watch out for you and your affairs?”

Sir John nodded.

“Of course, Dr. Parrish is here daily as is Mrs. Turrill. An excellent woman,” James said. “I have asked the good doctor to send word as soon as you regain your ability to speak or write your wishes. I will return by week’s end either way.”

Again, the slight nod.

James gave a cursory bow and turned to go. Hand on the door latch, he looked back over his shoulder. “I wish you a speedy recovery.”

It wasn’t completely true.

James had nothing against his employer, but a part of him wanted a little more time alone with Lady Mayfield. He had enjoyed their conversations in relative privacy, which would evaporate if and when her husband regained his mobility. The woman intrigued him, though she was clearly hiding something. And he wanted to figure her out, like a complicated legal case. Like a mystery.

James Lowden had never felt this way about a married woman before and didn’t like himself very much because of it. He was attracted to Lady Mayfield, even as he reminded himself again and again that she was another man’s wife—though not a faithful one. He wasn’t even sure what drew him. He had met women more beautiful, more skilled in flirtation, more tempting. Was it the challenge she represented? Did he not want to be the one man she did
not
flirt with? He hoped he was not so shallow.

Did he see mutual attraction mirrored in her blue-green eyes, or did he fool himself? She probably had this effect on most men, Anthony Fontaine most of all. Probably engendered such feelings to suit her ends. But she didn’t seem like that sort of woman, for all he’d heard about her.

Yes, he had some business to attend to in Bristol. But he also knew he ought to remove himself from Lady Mayfield’s presence before he said or did something stupid—something they might both regret. He also wished to find the family of the lady’s companion, Hannah Rogers. There were several nagging questions and loose ends he wished to lay to rest with her. While he was there, he might also inquire into the whereabouts of Anthony Fontaine.

James packed his things and carried his valise down to the dining parlor where Lady Mayfield sat near the window
finishing her breakfast. Sunlight shone on her, bringing out the red highlights in her wavy russet hair.

She looked up when he approached. “Good morning, Mr. Lowden.” Her gaze fell to his valise and her eyes widened. “You are leaving us?”

“For a week or so. I am leaving my horse and traveling by stage. I have asked Dr. Parrish to send word if Sir John speaks and asks for me sooner.”

“I see. Apparently you don’t trust me to do so.”

He hesitated. “Not completely, no. Even so, I regret my rudeness to you and I apologize.”

She rose and stepped around the table. “I understand, Mr. Lowden. No hard feelings. And thank you again for your help in finding Danny and Becky that day.”

“I was happy to be of service.” Still he hesitated, turning his hat brim in his hands.

Abruptly, she held out her hand to him. One of his hands immediately abandoned his hat to capture the delicate fingers in his.

“Farewell, Mr. Lowden, and safe journey,” she said. “I hope your practice thrives and many new clients realize your competence and skill despite your youth. I wish you a long and happy life.”