Lady Maybe (19 page)

H
annah spent the next several days remaining close to the nursery—close to Danny. She needed to watch over him. To assure herself he was improving. To think.

Dr. Parrish called often, and declared both patients well on their way to recovery. Concerned, Sir John asked to see the child, but the doctor hesitated, just in case the fever was catching. He didn’t want to risk it when Sir John was regaining his strength at last. Mr. Lowden, meanwhile, had ridden to the larger town of Barnstaple, to acquire a bank draft to send to Mr. Ward. The hours passed slowly in his absence. Hannah had seen him only in passing the last few days.

Now that Mr. Lowden knew and Mrs. Turrill surely suspected, Hannah knew she should stop pretending to be Lady Mayfield and leave, but still she hesitated. The reality of her situation washed over her anew. Danny’s fever had made it painfully clear. If . . . When . . . she left, how alone she would be. How vulnerable. No Sir John to house them. No Mrs. Turrill to bring them meals. No handsome solicitor to rush out for fever powder. What would she do if Danny fell ill while she was in some squalid inn or boarding house? No gentleman-physician would come calling then. And apothecaries and surgeons did not work for free. The truth was, she was frightened to leave. Especially with Danny still listless from the fever, and her arm still tender.
What if he had a relapse? Moreover, did she really want to disappear from Sir John’s life again? Or from Mr. Lowden’s, for that matter?

Mrs. Turrill came up to sit with her one evening while a storm brewed off the coast. She studied Hannah’s face, her dark eyes filled with concern. “You look so weary and ill at ease, my lady. The fever is past and all is well. I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Turrill. I am sorry to be out of sorts.”

“Not at all. It’s only natural—what a trying few days you’ve had.” Her eyes lit. “I know. A nice warm bath is what you need. I’ll have Ben and Kitty bring the tub to your room and start heating the water. You go and lie down while you wait.”

“That is not necessary, Mrs. Turrill. I don’t want to put everyone to extra work. You are already taking care of Sir John along with everything else.”

“Nonsense. It’s no trouble. Sir John had a nice long soak yesterday and it did him a world of good.”

“Did it? I confess it does sound heavenly, but I hate to ask.”

“You’re not asking. I’m telling.” Mrs. Turrill winked. “Go on with you now.”

An hour later, Hannah found herself sitting in the large tin tub, knees bent, submerged in warm, wonderful water up to her chest, her bandaged arm resting on the edge of the tub. Usually she made do with a sponge bath or a wash in the small hip bath, but she realized Mrs. Turrill had been right. She felt the tension easing from her body. She washed with lilac and lye soap, then Kitty came in and washed her hair. Scrubbing away at her scalp felt so good, and she felt her fears wash away with the rinse water. “I think I’ll soak a little longer, if you don’t mind, Kitty.”

“You go right ahead, my lady. I shall help Mrs. Turrill batten down the shutters against the storm. But I shall come back to help you soon.”

“No hurry.”

The girl left, shutting the door behind her. Outside the wind howled. But she was warm and safe indoors. And so was Danny. She leaned back and rested her head against the cloth folded over the end of the tub.
Ahhh
 . . .

The door banged open and Hannah started, sitting upright with a gasp and covering her bosom with one arm. She turned to see who had so boldly entered, but the threshold and passage beyond remained empty. The wind, she realized. Someone must have opened a window or the front door, sending her own door flying open in response. She waited a minute, assuming Kitty or Mrs. Turrill would have heard the bang, come to investigate, and close the door for her. She waited a few minutes longer, feeling self-conscious sitting there, her upper body partly exposed and quickly cooling.

No one came. With a sigh, she rose, using her good arm to help herself up. With her wrapped arm, she held the small towel she had rested against, covering her torso as best she could. The larger linen towel was out of reach on a chair several feet away.

She gingerly stepped out of the tub, placing one foot on the braided rug, then the other.

Footsteps sounded in the passageway outside. At last! She turned toward the door to hide her exposed backside.

She looked up, a self-conscious grin on her face ready to explain to Kitty what had happened. Instead, she sucked in a breath and gaped at James Lowden.

He drew up in surprise and froze where he was, hat in hand, greatcoat hanging open, hair windblown. His mouth parted but he did not redden, or turn, or smile. His gaze began on her face and slowly moved down her neck, her shoulders and unbound hair, past the too small towel, to her long legs. . . .

Hannah found herself unable to move, barely able to breathe. She felt a blush burn down her entire body.

He stepped across the threshold, and her heart thumped hard. What would he do? For a moment he stood there, staring at her. His expression almost . . . disapproving—jaw clenched, lips tight. If he found her comely at all, he certainly did not show it.

“Be careful, my lady,” he warned, voice low and dangerous.

“The wind blew it open,” she defended.

His eyes glinted. “It’s an ill wind that blows no one good.”

He reached out his hand, and she gasped. But he only snagged the latch and retreated from the room, slowly pulling the door toward himself. He stood there in the threshold, eyes burning into hers, until the door snapped shut.

—

The next morning, Hannah rose languidly. She had slept deeply the night before—thanks to the relaxing bath, no doubt—despite that strange and embarrassing encounter with Mr. Lowden. Since he had come to their rescue during the fever, her heart had warmed to him. Meanwhile he flashed warm then cold in unpredictable turns. Did he wrestle with his feelings as she did? She was probably flattering herself. Perhaps the man had no feelings. For her, at any rate. Which was probably for the best, considering she was still posing as Sir John’s wife.

Kitty helped her into the pale rose-pink day dress, and then Hannah sat at the dressing table to brush her hair. Her freshly washed hair felt soft and thick and clean, and in the sunlit mirror, red highlights shone more brightly than usual.

After a solitary breakfast she went up to the nursery and cuddled Danny. Becky declared she felt quite her old self and was ready for another reading lesson. Hannah agreed and, laying Danny in his cradle, sat beside the girl on the made bed. Becky opened
A Little Pretty Pocket-Book
and began reading the simple rhymes for each letter of the alphabet.

“My lady?” Becky asked sometime later. She tugged on Hannah’s arm and repeated more loudly, “My lady?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.”

“What is it? You seem . . . different. Is it that Mr. Lowden? Or are you taking sick? Is everything all right?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, Becky. But thank you for asking.”

A short while later, Hannah left Danny napping peacefully and Becky reading. She glanced through the open door of Sir John’s bedchamber and saw him in the wheeled invalid chair, positioned near the window with a book. Mrs. Turrill was likely busy in the kitchen, and she believed Mr. Lowden was out riding. With everyone seemingly content for the moment, she decided she could take a little time for herself.

She strolled outside and into the garden, drawing in the warm fragrant air. Many decisions spun through her mind, but for a few moments she didn’t want to think or worry or plan. She only wanted to be, and to breathe.

Mr. Lowden came striding over from the stable. Seeing him, Hannah felt embarrassment nip at her. What sort of reception could she expect from him after last night? Even so, she could not help but admire his confident bearing, the gleam of his riding boots, the formfitting cut of his coat, and the beaver hat that shadowed his face. He looked up as if sensing her appraisal and lifted a hand in greeting. She liked his face, the deep vertical grooves along either side of his mouth, the straight nose, the full lower lip.

“Hello,
my
lady.”

Her eyes flashed to his. The sound of his voice, the emphasis on the word “my” caused her heart to thrum. She had thought he might begin calling her Hannah or Miss Rogers now that he knew the truth. A part of her was relieved he had not. Another part longed to hear him speak her real name.

“Mr. Lowden.” She dipped her head.

He lowered his voice. “I am sorry about last night.”

“It was not your fault.”

“No, but I might have handled it in a more gentlemanlike manner.” He cocked his head to one side and gave her a lopsided grin. “Or less of one.”

Embarrassment nipped again. And perhaps an ounce of pleasure.

She changed the subject, “Good ride?”

“Excellent, thank you.” His moss-green gaze slowly traced her face. “You’re looking lovely, if you don’t mind my saying.”

“So are you,” she replied before she could think the better of it, and felt her cheeks heat.

“Thank you. I think.” He grinned and the brackets in his cheeks deepened.

Then he squinted off into the distance and said, “Riding—motion—helps me think.”

She nodded. “Walking does the same for me.”

His eyes glinted. “Would you like to know what I was thinking about?”

The look he gave her unsettled her. “No. I don’t believe I would.”

Around them the wind picked up, scattering dandelion seeds and swaying the heavy hydrangea blooms on their stalks. He removed one of his gloves, reached out and captured a tendril of her hair floating on the breeze.

For a moment he looked at it. “All the colors of autumn,” he murmured, grinning again. He hooked the strand behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

He was close. So close. His gaze caressed her face, sinking into her eyes, then lowering to her mouth. She held her breath. Was he going to kiss her? Right then and there, in full view of
their nosy neighbor Mrs. Parrish or anyone who might be looking from the windows? A part of her wished he would. Longed to lean near, to press her lips to his. Then, with a little stab of guilt, she remembered Sir John.

As though guessing her thoughts, Mr. Lowden glanced over her shoulder up at the second level of windows. His grin faded. “We appear to have an audience. So I shall bow and politely bid you good day.”

“Sir John?” she asked.

He nodded, bowed, and left her standing there alone.

—

Standing in Sir John’s doorway later that day, Hannah looked on as Dr. Parrish addressed his patient, still seated in the wheeled chair.

In his hands, Dr. Parrish held a carved, wooden cane. He said, “I’ve taken the liberty of bringing this for you. One of my favorite patients carves them in his spare time. Paid his medical bill with two of these fine specimens. And it would be my privilege to give one to you.”

He angled the handle nearer Sir John. “See the intricate carving?”

“I see an invalid’s cane,” Sir John snapped. “What an old man I shall look.”

“Oh now. Just imagine it is one of those fine walking sticks sported by London gentlemen.”

“Then I shall be a dandy.”

“Better a dandy than an old man.”

Sir John grimaced. “Touché.”

Personally, Hannah thought Sir John was looking younger and more fit each day, except, that is, when he scowled, as he was at the moment.

Dr. Parrish noticed her in the doorway. “Ah. My lady. Just in time. You stand there and Sir John shall endeavor to walk to you.”

Sir John’s mouth twisted bitterly. “I am not an infant, man, toddling to his mother.”

“Of course not, Sir John. But what better incentive than your dear wife’s arms to urge you onward.”

Hannah felt her cheeks heat.

Sir John looked up at her, eyes twinkling. “Do you hear that, my lady? You are to hold out your arms to me as incentive.”

His teasing was playful, Hannah realized with relief—and not taunting as before.

He said to the physician, “I am more likely to bowl her over than sweep her off her feet.”

“Just do your best, Sir John,” Dr. Parrish said. “Even one step will be a victory.”

Face furrowed in concentration or pain or both, Sir John took step by laborious step across the room. One hand white-knuckled the cane, the other supported by Dr. Parrish.

Hannah was tempted to take a step or two forward, to shorten the gap.

As if guessing her intention, Sir John stopped her with a determined lift of his chin. “Stay where you are.”

Brow sweating, he pulled his hand from Dr. Parrish’s grip. “I’ll manage these last few steps on my own.”

“But I want to be near at hand, should—”

“If I fall, I fall.”

One foot slid forward—weight transferred, balance regained, cane thumped. Then the next foot, each step arduous and small. Hannah feared he would collapse before he made it. Sweat glistened at his neck now.

“Just one more,” she said. “That’s it. You’ve almost made it!”

Impulsively, Hannah extended her arms, thinking she might help support him, though doubting she would be able to catch him should he fall. He had lost a stone or more since the accident, but he was still a large man.