Lady Maybe (15 page)

Again, her heart went out to him. To suffer such a loss was hard enough. But to couple that loss with the guilt of feeling responsible for your wife’s death? It could cripple the strongest of men. She briefly wondered if his serious injuries added to the torment, but then realized they probably served as some sort of consolation. Had he escaped unscathed, his guilt would likely be tenfold.

She was tempted to ask him why he had not exposed her, why he had allowed her false identity to stand, but was afraid she would not like his answer. He looked so weary, so grief-stricken at the moment that she could not bear to press him. Nor did she want to goad him to return to his baiting callousness.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to ask. Cautiously she stepped toward the bed she had been afraid to approach a quarter hour before. She did not know what she intended to do. Not to lie in it, no. But to offer some sort of comfort.

He watched her, eyes wary.

“Water, Sir John?” she asked, nodding toward the jug and glass on the side table.

He slowly reached out his hand, elbow propped on the bed.

She poured a glass with trembling fingers and held it out to him, but he did not take it. He only looked at her, arm upraised. He moved his hand away from the glass, but left it extended toward her.

“No?” She set down the glass and nervously eyed him. She
recalled holding his glove found after the wreck, and wondering if she’d ever held his hand. Tentatively, she slid the fingers of her good hand over his and gave them a gentle squeeze. She waited anxiously, but he did not grab tight or pull her into his bed. Nor repeat his request that she join him there. For a few moments more they remained as they were, she standing, he lying, gazes touching, fingers entwined.

Then she said, “I shall sit here by the fire and keep you company until you fall asleep, shall I?”

With a slight nod of resignation, he released her hand and lowered his arm.

She sat in the cushioned chair near the fire, but angled the chair to better see Sir John. She gathered a lap rug over her legs and settled back. “You sleep now, Sir John.”

“That’s all I do is sleep . . .” he murmured, but already his eyes were drifting closed.

S
he awoke with a start many hours later, surprised to see dim dawn light seeping in through the transom and between the shutters. She looked over at the bed and found Sir John watching her, an extra pillow propped under his head.

Self-consciously, she straightened in the chair, wincing at her stiff neck and numb arm. She glanced down at herself, relieved to find her nightclothes were not askew, and still covered her modestly.

“I . . . didn’t intend to sleep here all night.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I liked having you here, though it cannot have been comfortable.”

In more ways than one
, she thought, rising gingerly.

He added, “I’ll have that water now, if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated. If he had managed to place a second pillow
under his head, he could likely slide over and help himself to a glass of water.

She walked forward slowly. She didn’t mind helping him, but she was wary of his motives. Or was he simply accustomed to being served?

She handed him the glass and this time he took it and sipped. His eyes dropped to her hands. Only then did she realize she was unconsciously rubbing one hand with the other, trying to restore feeling and dispel the prickling numbness. Her efforts were somewhat hindered by the stiff bandage.

He handed back the glass and she returned it to the side table.

“Sit,” he commanded.

“What?”

“Just sit.” He nodded toward the bed. Nervously, she obeyed, sitting gingerly on the edge, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

“Your hand.” He laid open his palm to receive it.

Thankfully, she was not wearing his wife’s ring. Even so, she hesitated. Did he simply want to hold it again, as he had the night before? It seemed childish to refuse him when she had complied once already, but somehow in the light of day, the act seemed more awkward and forward.

She swallowed and tentatively laid her numb hand in his. He raised his other hand as well and began kneading and gently massaging her palm and fingers.

Needles of pleasure and pain shot up her arm. Embarrassment followed. “Sir John, you needn’t do that. It had only fallen asleep. I—”

“Hush. It is the least I can do after all your ministrations to me.”

She wanted to pull her hand away. Knew she should. But the pleasure, the relief, were too sweet, and she failed to do so.

So that was how Mrs. Turrill found them when she came in with the breakfast tray. Hannah sitting on the bed, her hand in Sir John’s. She felt embarrassed at being caught so close to him, and tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

Mrs. Turrill smiled a closed-mouth smile, dimples in her cheeks. For a second, Hannah saw the scene as though through the housekeeper’s eyes. What a sweet domestic picture they must make. Husband and wife, hand in hand. If only she knew the truth of it. How her smiles would fade then.

H
annah returned to Sir John’s bedchamber the next evening. Not to sleep in his bed, nor in the uncomfortable chair again, but to talk with him for a time before bidding him good night.

She was surprised to find him propped up with pillows—a portable writing desk in his lap, and quill in hand.

“Good evening, Miss . . . my lady. What a pleasant surprise.”

She ducked her head, embarrassed to hear him call her by the title. “If you are busy, I shall leave you.”

“Not at all. Come and talk to me. What a pleasure that will be.” His warm tone seemed sincere. Was he?

She walked closer. “May I ask what you are writing?”

“A letter to Mr. Lowden.”

“Ah.” Hannah felt an odd twinge at the sound of his name.

Sir John set aside his writing things and patted the edge of the bed. “Please. Come and sit by me. I promise to behave myself.” The words rumbled low in his chest. She had almost forgotten what a rich, baritone voice he had.

Tentatively, Hannah sat on the edge of the bed. He took her free hand in his, interlacing their fingers. Had she not once longed for such a gesture?

“How is Danny?” he asked.

“He is well, thank you.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated, then said gently, “How surprising to find you’d become a mother. We had no idea.”

She avoided his gaze. “I know.”

“I . . . don’t suppose it would be polite to ask about . . . the child’s father?”

Hannah felt her cheeks heat. Instead of replying, she asked the question that had been on her mind for some time.

“Pardon me for raising a sad topic, Sir John. But I was surprised to hear from Dr. Parrish that Lady Mayfield had been with child.”

He flinched. “Yes, a physician in Bath confirmed it.”

“A double loss for you then.”

Sighing, he said, “Of course I am sorry for any loss of life, especially of one so young and innocent. But when I think it was in my power to prevent it . . .”

“Sir John, you don’t know that.”

“But the child Marianna carried was not mine,” he went on evenly. “Couldn’t be. But as she and I would have been married at the time of its birth—the child, if a son, would have legally been heir to my entailed property. And, if Marianna had but asked me, I would have forgiven her and loved that child as if he or she were my own flesh and blood.”

A wistful ache ran through her at the words. “What did Marianna say, when the doctor confirmed the news? She must have feared you might realize the child was not yours.”

“She was not repentant, if that is what you think. She said, ‘What did you expect?’”

Hannah shook her head. “But still you hoped to keep her from Mr. Fontaine? Hoped coming here would bring her back to you?” She heard the incredulity in her voice but felt powerless to curb it.

“She was my wife. And I her husband. Before God. For better
or for worse. Though I never imagined how much worse—how that vow would test me like no words I had spoken in my life.”

Sir John pulled a face and continued. “What did I do to make Marianna so despise me, did she ever tell you?”

Hannah hesitated. “I don’t know that it was anything you did, Sir John. I think she already had strong feelings for Mr. Fontaine when you met her.”

“Then why did she marry me?”

Hannah had wondered that herself, and had pieced together at least a partial answer from things Marianna had confided. “You know her father wielded a great deal of influence over her while he lived,” she gently began. “And you are a man of far more consequence than Mr. Fontaine—wealth, property, title. It’s little wonder Mr. Spencer was so strongly in favor of the match.”

Sir John nodded thoughtfully. “And Marianna agreed, believing there would be no hindrance to continuing her affair with Fontaine on the side.”

Hannah shrugged. “I don’t know if she intended to continue seeing him from the beginning, or not.”

“In either case,” Sir John said, “I am quite certain she didn’t foresee the lengths I would go to prevent that happening.” He rubbed his free hand over his eyes. “I thought if I could just get her away from him, away from his influence, she might give me, give us, a chance. But she never did.”

He looked down at their entwined fingers, then sent her a sidelong glance. “How hypocritical you must think me now.”

“I’m sorry, Sir John.”

“How can you be sorry? After everything I’ve done? It is I who should be begging your forgiveness.”

How self-conscious Hannah felt, sitting there, her small hand in his large one. Yet she could not deny the sensation a pleasant one. They sat that way, silent for several minutes.

Then Hannah took a deep breath, dreading his reaction to what she was about to say. “By the way,” she began. “While you were still insensible, Mr. Fontaine came here, demanding to see Marianna.”

His brows lowered ominously. “The devil he did.”

“Yes. About a week and a half after the accident. He demanded to see Marianna, but of course I told him that was not possible. And why.”

“What did he say?”

“He was shocked of course. And . . . clearly devastated.”

He took this in, thoughtfully chewing his lip.

“Of course he recognized me,” Hannah added. “But he only stayed for a short time, and no one referred to me as Lady Mayfield while he was here.”

He nodded his understanding.

“But if he should return . . .” Hannah let her timid words trail away.

“Why would he? Now that she is gone?”

“I hope you are right,” Hannah said. For she hated to think what Fontaine would do when he learned she’d been impersonating his dear departed lover. But for now, she pushed that thought away.

Sir John ran a thumb over her knuckles. “You know, I’m surprised some handsome suitor like Fontaine hasn’t claimed
your
affections by now. I would say I was sorry to learn you had not married after you left us, but that would be a lie.”

“Perhaps I should have. For Daniel’s sake.” Again she wondered whom Sir John had meant when he said, “that is not who I see” when he looked at Danny. He had never met Fred Bonner, she didn’t think. Had he noticed the way his secretary, Mr. Ward, had looked at her, and suspected him? She hoped not.

Sir John released her hand and traced a finger around the delicate skin of her inner wrist, sending a feathery tingle up her arm. “A place without freckles,” he observed.

He ran his hand up her arm, bare to the puffed sleeve high on her shoulder, then back down again. “You are a beautiful woman, Hannah. I hope you know that.”

She managed a little shrug. She thought herself rather plain, but Fred had often told her how pretty she was. He’d admired her, even asked her to marry him. At the moment she was glad she declined.

She said, “Nothing to Marianna, I know.”

“She was a rare beauty, it is true,” he allowed. “In face and figure.”

Hannah felt his gaze linger on her neckline and felt self-conscious and insecure. Marianna had been endowed with a generous bosom. A generous . . . everything.

Suddenly she sucked in a breath. For his palm pressed lightly to her bodice. His gaze however, remained on her face. “You are beautiful, Hannah. Just as you are. Never doubt it. Slender and feminine and graceful.”

Heart thumping, Hannah sat there stiffly on the edge of his bed. Torn between fleeing, and leaning closer.

He removed his hand, and she released the shaky breath she’d been holding. Awkwardly, she rose. “Well. Good night, Sir John.”

“Leaving?”

“Yes. I think it’s best, don’t you?”

He slowly shook his head, eyes glinting. “I don’t think you want to hear my answer to that.”

—

Hannah found herself singing to Danny the next morning, feeling the closest thing to happiness she had felt in a long while. As she looked into her son’s precious face, irrational hope rose in her heart, and she found herself entertaining an unrealistic dream.

Later, she left Danny in Becky’s care and went downstairs to find a children’s book to read to him, and a simple book for Becky, who had confided that she didn’t know how to read. Hannah would have liked to go outside as well and pick some flowers to brighten the nursery and Sir John’s room, but at the moment rain fell steadily outside.

She was passing the vestibule when someone knocked at the front entrance, so she answered it herself. She opened the door and stared, for a moment her vision and mind not connecting. She’d forgotten how tall he was. How strange, how surreal to see him here, out of his usual element. He was from her past life—how had he managed to step onto the stage of her present one?

“Hannah,” Fred breathed, eyes wide. “I knew it. I knew you could not be dead.”

“Shh. Freddie. Not here. Let’s go out into the garden.”

He hesitated, mouth parted. “It’s raining.”

“I know, but . . . We used to like the rain, remember?”

“We were children then, Han.”

She grabbed an oil-coat from a peg near the door and swung it around her shoulders. Rangy, dark-haired Fred turned up his collar, replaced his hat, and followed her back outside.

She led the way along the stone path, stopping beneath the arched, vine-covered trellis—a doorway of sorts between Clifton and the garden, with a path to the Grange beyond. The thick, interwoven vines and leaves protected them from the worst of the rain.

“What happened, Han,” he asked. “Why are you here? You do know they put it about that you had died. It was in the newspaper.”

“I know. I received your letter.”

“
You
received the letter? But I wrote to Sir John. . . .”

She explained about the crash, the drowning, Sir John’s injuries and her own, and the doctor’s assumption that she was Lady Mayfield.

He stared at her in disbelief, dark eyes pained. “And you let them go on believing it? And let me go on believing you were dead? I told your father you died! How could you do that, Han?”

“I needed a way to get Danny back. I could think of nothing else to do.”

“Nothing?” His eyes flashed. “Nothing but lying and pretending to be dead? Deceiving people into believing you are another woman—another man’s wife?” Incredulity warred with the anger in his voice.

“What should I have done, Freddie?” Her voice rose. “You could not help me. I would never have been able to earn enough on my own and especially not while my arm was broken.”

“What about your father?” he challenged. “He would have helped you.”

“Would he? Even if he had the money, would he really . . . when he knew everything?”

Fred considered, then his gaze skittered away. “He might.”

For a moment they stood there in uncomfortable silence, the rain pattering against the glossy leaves of the trellis.

Finally Fred asked, “Is Danny all right? I didn’t know if you’d taken him with you or not. I was so worried when I went to that house in Trim Street, but found no children there.”

“Yes, he is with me and well, thank God.”

“What will you do when Sir John wakes and realizes what you’ve done?”

“He has regained his senses. And he has not exposed me.”

“What? Why on earth not?” Suddenly Fred’s mouth tightened, and his eyes dulled. “I don’t think I want to know.”

“It’s not like that,” she said, hoping it was true. Sir John’s acceptance of her charade felt almost . . . protective. Might it mean more? She gripped her old friend’s arm. “Look. I am sorry, Freddie. For all of it. But it has gone too far. I know I cannot
pretend to be Marianna for much longer, but I can’t just walk away. Not yet. Not until I figure out Sir John’s intentions, and how to provide for Danny.”

His gaze lifted to the grand house beyond. “Seems like you’ve figured that out well enough.”

She winced. “Please, let it lie for now, Fred. I will tell my father in my own time. Though really, might it not be easier for him to go on thinking I’m dead? Might that not be easier to bear than the truth of all I’ve done?”

He ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know.” For a moment he stared blindly across the dripping, green garden. Then he said, “By the way, a man came around, asking questions about Hannah Rogers, and why she had left the Mayfields’ employ. I don’t remember his name. A solicitor, I think he said.”

Her heart thudded. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“Good.” From the other side of the trellis, movement caught Hannah’s eye. A flash of green cloak and black umbrella. A sharp-featured face.
Oh no.
Mrs. Parrish. Had she seen her there, speaking to a strange man in private? No doubt she would think the worst and waste no time in spreading it about the county.

She turned back to Fred. “I would invite you in for a meal after your journey, but I hate to ask you to pretend you are only a friend passing by.”

“Whose friend?” he asked, lip curled. “Me, Lady Mayfield’s friend? That’s a laugh.”

“Well at least come to the kitchen door and I’ll wrap up something for the journey home.”

“The kitchen door like a beggar? No, thank you, Hannah. Or should I say, my lady.”

His sarcasm cut her. “Fred, please . . .”

Suddenly he gripped her arms, big brown eyes pleading.
“This is insane, Hannah. Come away with me. Right now. Go collect Danny and I’ll take you home. We’ll marry. My father will help us and so will yours, perhaps.”