Lady Maybe (8 page)

“Lady Mayfield” had not. Hannah could, at least, speak with confidence about their former life in Bristol, and the area of Bath where they had resided—the fashionable Camden Place. But could she not tell them of the previous season’s famous newcomers and social events? No, she was afraid she could not.

After an hour of tedious conversation about her supposed life and Bath society, Hannah’s nerves were frayed and she felt exhausted. Perhaps realizing this, the vicar’s wife changed the subject, asking if she might meet her son. Relieved to oblige, Hannah brought Danny down from the nursery, and the ladies politely praised him. They soon after took their leave.

When they had gone, Mrs. Turrill asked her, “How did it go?”

“I failed to impress them, I’m afraid.”

“There’s no need to impress anyone here, my lady. Just be yourself.”

Ah. If only she could.

Hannah went to bed early that night, suffering from her worst headache in days.

T
he next morning, Hannah began her letter.

Dear Dr. and Mrs. Parrish, and Mrs. Turrill,

I have left Clifton and taken Danny and Becky with me. You will no doubt be surprised, but please do not be anxious. . . .

Hannah paused. Why should they not be anxious? She was certainly anxious. She still didn’t know where they were going. Where might she find work—and work that paid enough for lodgings as well as food?

Someone knocked sharply at her door. She jumped and quickly hid the letter under the blotter.

“Lady Mayfield?” Dr. Parrish’s voice. “It’s Sir John. His eyes are open again. He seems more responsive.”

Dread snaked down her spine and pooled in her stomach. Why had she not confessed to Dr. Parrish before? She stood on shaky legs and opened her door. “He’s awake?”

“Come and see.”

He gestured for her to precede him across the passage with such hope in his eyes. Every instinct told her to flee, to turn and run the other way. To gather Danny and Becky and leave Clifton that very moment before Sir John could denounce her. Instead
she numbly allowed Dr. Parrish to usher her into the sickroom. To her unveiling.

Again, the chamber nurse excused herself. Much as before, Sir John’s eyes were open and vaguely focused.

“Good. His eyes are still open,” the physician began. “I am not certain if he is fully sensible or not. He has yet to speak, but he did seem agitated when I first arrived.”

Hannah fisted her good hand, nails pricking her palm. She would have remained several feet from the bed, had Dr. Parrish not gently urged her forward.

“Here she is, Sir John. Here is your wife. You see she is well. Nothing to worry about save getting better yourself.”

Hannah’s throat tightened. Sir John’s eyes shifted to her, and her heart pounded in fear. She pressed a damp hand to her abdomen, and told herself to breathe.

She would try to explain. Not to excuse herself, but to apologize . . .

He stared at her with eyes a changeable silvery blue, like a deep, cold lake. A flicker of a frown tinged his brow, then as quickly passed. Displeasure, confusion, or both?

She held herself stiffly, every muscle tense, waiting for him to scowl and say,
“She is not my wife.”

“Come, my lady,” Dr. Parrish urged. “Come and speak to him.”

She faltered. “I . . . I don’t know what to say. Why does he not speak?”

“Perhaps he cannot. His brain is not yet fully recovered. Perhaps he is still fighting to regain his memory as you did. Encourage him. Remind him who he is. Who you are.”

What different words she would have spoken had Dr. Parrish not been standing there—confession, begging forgiveness, for secrecy until she might steal away . . .

“You are Sir John Mayfield,” she began instead. “Lately of Bath and before that Bristol. Do you remember Bath? The lovely house in Camden Place? And Bristol—the house on Great George street? That was where I first became acquainted with your . . . household.”

He only stared at her dully.

“Remind him who you are,” Dr. Parrish whispered.

She hesitated. “And of course you know me,” she uttered feebly. The words
“I am your wife.”
Or
, “I am Marianna, Lady Mayfield,”
refused to come. She felt that if she forced out those words, she would lose her breakfast in the bargain.

Dr. Parrish leaned nearer Sir John. “And of course you know this is Lady Mayfield, your wife.”

Sir John’s eyes moved slowly from her face to the doctor’s without change in expression.

The doctor turned back to her. “Tell him about Danny, how he fares, that he is here. . . .”

“Oh.” She swallowed. Must she? Sir John didn’t even know of the child. “Yes. You see, I have returned to Bath and collected little Daniel and his nurse. I was so relieved to find him.”

She felt Dr. Parrish’s stunned gaze on her profile, and hastened to add, “In good health. To find him in good health and faring well. I am so thankful he is here with me, with us, once again. Mrs. Turrill has taken quite a liking to him, but then, you are not yet acquainted with our housekeeper, so I will say no more of her for now.”

How inane she was! Her mind felt as unfocused as Sir John’s glassy stare.

“Perhaps we should bring in wee Danny to see his father?”

She hesitated once more. “Um . . . he is napping at present. Perhaps another time.”

“Ah, yes. I’m afraid we have tired Sir John as it is.” He patted
the man’s arm. “You rest now, sir. And don’t worry. The human brain is a marvelous thing and you will no doubt be right as a trivet in no time. And when you are, your wife and son will be here to welcome you back.”

Dr. Parrish smiled up at her and Hannah forced a half smile in return. But she was quite certain neither wife nor child would be there if and when Sir John returned to himself.

She thanked Dr. Parrish and returned to her room, trembling all over. She had escaped the noose for now. A scapegrace, by every measure.
Oh, God. Will you ever forgive me?
she asked silently.
What shall I do?
For she knew very well she wouldn’t avoid discovery much longer. Every hour she stayed, she compounded her crime and worsened the fate that awaited her.

H
annah went upstairs to the nursery to talk to Becky. To begin easing the way toward their inevitable departure. But when she entered, she found Mrs. Turrill in the room as well, Danny in her arms, bouncing him gently and smiling into his face.

Becky turned as she entered. “Hello, Miss Hannah.”

Hannah froze. She locked stunned gazes with Becky, and the girl’s face paled.

Mrs. Turrill turned to frown at the young nurse. Whatever she saw on Becky’s face made her frown deepen. “Why do you call Lady Mayfield ‘Miss Hannah’?”

Becky stood there blinking, mouth ajar.

“We don’t call our betters by their Christian names, unless we’ve been invited to do so. Besides, I believe Lady Mayfield’s given name is Marianna.”

Becky faltered, “I . . . I forgot.”

Hannah’s mind rushed to formulate a plausible explanation. “Did she say Hannah?” she asked lightly. “I thought she said, ‘Anna.’ Short for Marianna, perhaps, or . . . was Anna the name of your little girl, Becky? Is that it? Were you thinking of her and said her name by mistake?”

Now Mrs. Turrill’s perplexed frown shifted to Hannah.

Hannah’s pulse pounded. What a muddle.

“Anna?” Becky murmured, as if trying the name on her tongue and seeing how it tasted. “Anna is a pretty name and would ’ave suited her. Never saw a more beautiful creature than my wee girl.”

“And you will see her again, Becky. In heaven.” Hannah soothed. “She’s in God’s care now, healthy and happy.”

“How can she be happy? Without me?” Becky’s chin quivered.

Oh, dear. She had said the wrong thing. Hannah added quickly, “Because she knows she will see you again someday. How she must look forward to it.”

“Then perhaps I should join her soon,” the girl said. “Perhaps I—”

“No, Becky. Never say so. We need you
here
, Danny and I.”

“And I,” Mrs. Turrill added earnestly. “Like my own daughter you are.”

Becky turned to the woman, wide-eyed. “Really? How kind you are, Mrs. Turrill. Never was my own mum half so kind as you are. Though I oughtn’t to speak ill of the dead, I know.”

“Come now, Becky dear. Let us speak of only happy things for the rest of the day, shall we?” Mrs. Turrill squeezed her arm. “And you may be the first to taste my fresh batch of toffee.”

“May I? Oh, thank you.”

Hannah released a ragged breath. The second noose dodged in as many days. Though the speculative look in Mrs. Turrill’s eyes had unsettled Hannah. She wasn’t sure the housekeeper had been fooled.

Stepping from the room, Hannah nearly ran into Mrs. Parrish in the passage.
Oh no.
Her heart sank. How long had the woman been standing there?

“Just letting you know I’m heading into town, if you need anything.” She glanced through the door at Becky and then back again.

Hannah forced a smile. “No, we have all we need, thank you.”

Mrs. Parrish nodded and turned toward the stairs, leaving Hannah to wonder how much the doctor’s wife had overheard.

Either way, Hannah knew it was time to plan their escape, arm healed or not.

Part of Hannah dreaded the prospect of setting off for an unknown future. Another part of her was as anxious to leave as a goose with its neck stretched on the chopping block.

—

Over the next two days, Hannah took in the waist of one of Marianna’s spencer jackets to fit her, and discreetly began to gather the things she would take with them when they left. Only necessities and as few of Marianna’s belongings as possible. If her own things had not been lost, she would take nothing for herself that had not belonged to her. But she could not leave without proper clothing. Besides, Marianna no longer had need of them.

The next afternoon, Mrs. Turrill knocked and announced through the closed door, “There’s a man to see Sir John, my lady.”

Hannah’s nerves jangled in alarm—had Mr. Fontaine returned? With her shoe, Hannah nudged the partially filled valise under the bed and went to open the door. She gestured Mrs. Turrill inside and closed the door behind her.

“The same man as before?” she asked.

“No. A Mr. James Lowden.”

Lowden? The name rang a distant bell in Hannah’s memory, but she could not place it. Surely it wasn’t anyone of their acquaintance. Had not Sir John kept their destination a secret? Of course, Mr. Fontaine had managed to find them, and fairly quickly.

“Did you tell him why Sir John is unable to receive him?”

“No, my lady. I thought it best coming from you.”

She wondered if this Mr. Lowden was acquainted with Lady Mayfield.

“Please tell Mr. Lowden Sir John is unable to receive him at present and ask his business, if you please.”

Mrs. Turrill hesitated, a slight frown creasing her brow, likely wondering why her mistress didn’t ask him herself, but too polite to ask. “Very well, my lady.”

While the housekeeper was gone, Hannah paced. Now what? Why hadn’t she left earlier as she knew she should have?

Mrs. Turrill returned a few minutes later and handed her a calling card. “Says he’s Sir John’s solicitor. From Bristol.”

Hannah’s thoughts whirled. Had Sir John informed his solicitor of their whereabouts? Or had the accident been reported in the newspaper and the man had come on his own initiative? She asked, “How did he hear of the accident?”

“I don’t think he has. Says he’s come on some matters of business. He seemed perplexed when I told him Sir John was unable to receive him, and asked to see you instead. By the way, he rode his own horse, so Ben’s tending to it in the stable. Heaven knows if there’s even any feed in there. We shall have to borrow some from the Parrishes. . . .”

But Hannah wasn’t really listening. Instead, she stared down at the card, heart thumping hard.

J
AMES
L
OWDEN

MESSRS. LOWDEN & LOWDEN,
ATTORNEYS AND SOLICITORS

7 QUEEN’S PARADE, BRISTOL

She squinted at the print, as though to conjure the man’s face on the card. Had she met Sir John’s solicitor? Again the distant
ring of the memory bell. She believed she had glimpsed the solicitor back in the Mayfields’ Bristol house, but only the vaguest recollection remained. An older gentleman, well-dressed. Had he seen
her
? Not likely. Would he have met Lady Mayfield? Very likely.

Now what?

There was no way she could gather Danny and Becky and their things from the nursery and sneak off now, not with Mrs. Turrill standing there regarding her anxiously, and Mr. Lowden waiting downstairs.

There was nothing for it. “Very well, Mrs. Turrill. I will see him.” She cloaked her fear and said as casually as she could, “I hope he will not regret coming all this way in vain.”

Mrs. Turrill nodded and opened the door for her.

Hannah slowly descended the stairs, pulse pounding double time. As she entered the drawing room, she pressed a hand to her chest and took a shaky breath.

The man who rose when she entered was nothing as she’d expected. He was neither old nor silver-haired nor vaguely familiar. She was quite certain she had never laid eyes on him before in her life. He was a handsome man in his early to mid-thirties with golden brown hair, darker side-whiskers, and striking green eyes. He wore riding boots, dark coat . . . and a frown.

For a moment he simply stared at her, hard. Did he know she was not Marianna Mayfield?

Her throat dry, she said, “Mr. Lowden. How do you do?”

He winced in apparent disbelief. “Lady . . . Mayfield?”

She cradled her wrapped arm with her free hand. “I’m afraid you have come to us at an unfortunate time.”

“Your housekeeper mentioned Sir John was indisposed. Ill, I take it? Nothing serious I hope.”

“Unfortunately I must disappoint you. We were in a carriage
accident on the journey here. Sir John has suffered terrible injuries. He only opened his eyes a few days ago. And has yet to speak.”

The man looked thunderstruck. “Good heavens. Why did no one tell me? Will he recover? Has a physician been called?”

His questions tumbled out one after another and Hannah answered them quietly and carefully.

At last Mr. Lowden exhaled a long breath. “Thank God no one was killed.”

Hannah hesitated. “Actually . . . the driver was killed. And—”

“Is that how you injured your arm?”

She looked down at her ungainly limb. “Yes. I was left with a broken arm and a head wound, which has all but healed.” She self-consciously touched her temple. The gash had faded to a jagged red line, but would definitely leave a scar. “Nothing to Sir John’s injuries.”

His mouth hardened into a grim line. “Yes. Sir John is always the one left hurt, isn’t he?”

She stared at him, uncertain of his meaning. Then she asked, “Have we met before, Mr. Lowden?”

“No.”

“I did not think so.”

He explained, “My father was Sir John’s solicitor for years, but he passed on two months ago.”

“Ah, I thought I recalled Sir John’s solicitor being an older man.”

His green eyes glinted. “And I recall my father describing you, Lady Mayfield.” The solicitor’s tone was not complimentary.

“Oh?”

“You are not at all as I expected.”

“I am sorry.”

One fair brow rose. “Are you—why?”

She amended quickly, “Sorry for your loss.”

He nodded slightly, studying her with disconcerting directness and, if she was not mistaken, disapproval.

She asked, “How did you find us?”

He shrugged easily. “Sir John informed me he was coming here to Lynton and asked me to call at my earliest convenience.”

“Did he?” Should she admit she—or at least Marianna—had thought it all a big secret?

“That surprises you?” he asked.

“Well, yes.”

He watched her closely. “He confided in me about this move and the reasons behind it.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling as guilty as if she really were the unfaithful Marianna, though her guilt stemmed from another source. “I see.”

She redirected the conversation. “Did Sir John know about your father’s passing?”

“Yes, I informed him, and he wrote back to ask that I continue to look after his interests in my father’s stead.”

“Did he?”
How unfortunate,
Hannah thought.

His frown deepened. “If you don’t believe me, I can show you his letter.”

“Why should I not believe you?”

“You may not wish to, once you hear what he asked me to do in that letter.”

“Oh?”

“But never mind. We need not speak of that now. May I see him?”

She quickly considered his request. “I see no reason why not. But would you mind waiting a few minutes? His doctor, our neighbor, usually comes to check on him about now and I would like to ask his opinion first.”

“Very well.”

She settled herself in a chair and he reclaimed the sofa. For a few moments they sat in awkward silence, Hannah self-consciously entwining her fingers and smoothing her skirt. Finally, she could stand it no longer and rose. “I shall call for some refreshment. You must be tired and thirsty after your journey.”

“I would not decline a cup of tea. Thank you.”

She nodded and went to the door, wishing she had thought to offer refreshment earlier. She might have simply pulled the bell cord beside the fireplace, but at the moment, she wanted nothing more than to escape the piercing, measuring gaze of Sir John’s solicitor.

A
quarter of an hour later, tea poured and nervously sipped, Hannah was relieved to hear Dr. Parrish arrive at last. Apparently an ailing yeoman farmer had required more of his time and care than he’d anticipated.

Hannah introduced the newcomer. “Dr. Parrish, this is Mr. Lowden. Sir John’s solicitor from Bristol.”

“Ah, so you did contact him as I suggested. Good.”

She formed an unconvincing smile, ignored Mr. Lowden’s lowered brow, and continued, “Dr. Parrish and his wife are our neighbors and have been kindness itself to us since we arrived. Dr. Parrish and his son are the ones who found us after the accident. They rescued us, carried us here to the house, and have taken care of us ever since.”

“That was good of you, sir,” Mr. Lowden said. “Very noble.”