Lady Maybe (31 page)

“Afterward we went to the inn. When we arrived, Mr. Spencer bade me come in with him, with a blunderbuss in hand, in case Mr. Fontaine raised a violent objection. We found the happy couple, there, lodging under an assumed name. The picture of connubial bliss, I might add. How Mr. Spencer shouted. Marianna shouted back, waving the marriage certificate in her father’s face. He grabbed it from her, crumpled it, and flung it out the window. But then he thought the better of it and sent me to collect it so he could dispose of it more permanent-like. I ran down and collected the crumpled thing. When I returned, Mr. Spencer told me to toss it into the fire. Then he told me to wait outside. I left, hearing his voice change from shouting to cajoling to wheedling, though I did not hear the details of what he said.”

Banks paused, looking up at the hop-strewn beams above them as he reviewed the memory in his mind. “An hour later
Marianna emerged from the inn, dressed and pale, and stepped inside the carriage with her aunt and father. Mr. Fontaine watched her leave from the inn doorway, oddly calm about the whole affair. Which made me suppose Mr. Spencer had promised him a great deal of money to forget the thing had ever happened. Later I heard that he’d paid his aunt a handsome sum to begin spreading the tale that she had escorted Marianna on some sightseeing trip, to cover for her absence.”

The coachman cringed. “He gave Joe and me money, too. Bonuses for the long trip and for our discretion in keeping to ourselves the ‘unfortunate events’ of the previous few days ’til the grave. Joe, I know, has done so. For he has a wife and five children to support and couldn’t afford to lose his place.”

“And you?”

“I’m ashamed to say I’ve kept quiet, too. Had I known Mr. Spencer still planned to marry her off to Sir John, and so quickly, I might have gone to him and told him what I knew. But I only learned of the wedding after the fact, by special license, I understand. And then I figured, well, Sir John won’t welcome such news now. Not when he’s gone and married her. It would ruin his reputation as well as hers. But I should have. Now that Mr. Spencer has passed on, I don’t feel the need to keep quiet anymore. Not if I can help Sir John.”

“Can you give me the name and direction of this Scottish ‘parson’?”

The coachman looked at him and shook his head. “I can do you one better. I can give you the marriage certificate.” The coachman pulled a folded paper from his pocket, slight wrinkles remaining from its long-ago crumpling, but otherwise intact.

“I’ve kept it all these years. I only pretended to toss it on the fire, but pocketed it instead. I don’t know why. I had no specific
plan, it just seemed a clever thing to do at the time.” He shrugged. “Talking to you now. Maybe it was.”

James could not believe his good fortune. Yet he felt no sense of victory. Only regret and distaste. He nearly wished he had never gone to the old Spencer house.

He roused himself from his misery and reached into his pocket. “Allow me to give you something for your help. . . .”

The coachman raised a hand, palm forward. “No, thank you, sir. I never felt right about accepting Mr. Spencer’s money to keep quiet. So I won’t take a farthing this time.”

Afterward, James had gone in search of Anthony Fontaine to confirm the story. Then he called at Sir John’s Bristol house. The butler had met him with a frown and the news that Sir John had left in haste for Devonshire. He’d handed him a letter, unsealed and clearly read by the old, trusted retainer. Sir John’s hasty scrawl explained the urgency.

Special messenger arrived from Dr. Parrish. Miss R. in dire trouble. Accused of fraud by M.S.M. Called before Shirwell, J.P. Hearing on the twelfth. Come as soon as possible. She will need a good lawyer. And our prayers
.

James had left Bristol without delay. But feared it might already be too late. For him.

S
tanding in the Clifton drawing room now, James saw no victory on Sir John’s face, either. He wondered what his client would ask him to do next and hoped it did not involve bigamy charges. Whatever the case, James was ready to shake the Devonshire dust from his boots forever. If only Hannah would be willing to leave it all behind as well.

—

The night of the hearing, after Danny and Becky were asleep, and Martha had excused herself to prepare for bed, Hannah and Mrs. Turrill sat up late talking.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Turrill, but I can’t stay here for long. Not when everyone here knows what I’ve done and suspects me guilty of even more, at least where Sir John and Mr. Lowden are concerned. For myself I wouldn’t care so much, but I don’t want Danny growing up under a cloud of scandal. I need to go somewhere new and start fresh.”

Mrs. Turrill said gently, “But think what running from the truth has wrought, my girl. How guilty you’ve felt. Why not stay and face your past. Shine the light of truth on all them dark days?”

Hannah expelled a weary sigh. “How far back in the past would I have to go? Back to my father—tell him I’m alive, that I’ve had a child, and by whom?”

“Oh, my dear.” Mrs. Turrill said, dark eyes wide and sad. “Wouldn’t he want to know?”

“It would break his heart.”

“More than thinking you dead and lost to him forever?”

Hannah nodded bleakly.

“Are you certain? Remember, ‘whoever conceals their sins shall not prosper,’” she paraphrased the Proverb, “‘but whoever confesses and forsakes them finds mercy.’”

Mercy . . .
Oh, how Hannah longed for it—from God and her father. “I’m afraid to face him,” she said. “I don’t know how merciful he’ll be. And I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have.”

Mrs. Turrill squeezed her hand. “Think of how you feel about Danny. Imagine him grown. Would you love him any less if he made some big mistake? Would you wish him dead? Or, even if you were hurt and disappointed by his wrongdoing, wouldn’t
you want to know he was all right? That he had made his way back to the straight path? That he still loved you?”

Hannah nodded again, tears filling her eyes. “Yes.” Her throat tightened. “But my father is a clergyman.”

Mrs. Turrill brought her face near, and looked solemnly into her eyes. “Yes,” she agreed. “But the clergyman is also a father.”

H
annah left Devonshire without speaking to James Lowden or seeing Sir John again. She decided Mrs. Turrill was right. It was time to go home and make peace with the past—and with her father. To confess all, and hope for mercy.

Hannah traveled with Becky and Danny by stagecoach to Bristol. A city she’d once doubted she would ever return to. Mrs. Turrill had insisted Hannah not travel alone. But she promised Becky she could return to her and her sister’s house whenever she wished, and had even pressed coach fare into the girl’s palm to seal the promise.

Upon arrival in Bristol, Hannah first secured a room in a respectable lodging house and, there, left their luggage. After changing and feeding Danny, they walked to the carter’s stall where Fred Bonner worked with his father. Hannah carried Danny while Becky trailed behind, gaping and craning her neck to take in the tall buildings of the unfamiliar city.

“Hannah!” Fred called when he saw her. He jumped down from his cart, reins and horses forgotten and bounded over to her like the overgrown boy he was. She was relieved to find him there on her first attempt, and not en route to Bath.

He beamed at her. “How good to see you again.”

“You, too, Freddie.” Fred seemed to have forgotten that they’d
parted on bad terms when he came to Clifton. He always had been a forgiving sort.

He stooped down, hands on knees, to regard the child in her arms. “Is this little Daniel? My goodness, he’s grown.”

Hannah turned and gestured. “And this is Becky Brown, his nurse. And . . . my friend. Becky, this is my dear old friend, Fred Bonner.”

Fred tipped his cap. “Hello, miss.”

Becky bobbed a shy curtsy. “Sir.”

He found a chair for Becky and Danny several feet away and then returned to Hannah’s side, dark eyes penetrating deep. “How are you, Han—? It is Hannah now, I hope?”

“Yes.” She hesitated.
How was she?
It was a complicated question, considering Marianna was back in Sir John’s life, while Mr. Lowden was apparently out of hers. But the lengthy truth could wait for another day.

Instead she smiled and said, “I am . . . well. And how are you? Your cart looks dashing. New paint?” She walked over to it, away from his too direct gaze.

He gathered the reins and set the hand brake. “It is, yes.”

“And how goes your route? Business good?”

“Very well. Or, well enough. Han—”

“Oh. I wasn’t hinting or anything like that,” Hannah hurried to say. “Truly. I just wondered . . . hoped it was going well for you.”

His hound-dog eyes turned downward. “Hannah. I know better than to hope. Though the offer still stands. So tell me, what it is you want? Why did you come to see me?”

“Dear Freddie.” She swallowed. “I wanted to let you know I was back. And to ask about my father. How he fares . . . ?” To herself she added,
What he knows
.

“He seems all right. Sad of course, but he’s in good health, if
that’s what you mean. He told me Mayfield’s solicitor came to see him as he did me.”

“May I ask what you told my father?”

Fred shrugged. “I’ve told him nothing since I saw you in Devon. You asked me to let it lie.”

“I know I did. Though now I think it’s time I faced the truth. Confessed everything. But I’m scared, Freddie.”

“As well you should be.”

“Freddie!”

“I’m sorry, Han. But it’s true. It’s a deep pit you’ve dug for yourself.”

She bit her lip and asked tentatively, “I don’t suppose you’d help me out of it?”

“You don’t want my help.”

“I just meant, ease the way for me. Let him know that the newspaper had it wrong, and I’m still alive. And . . . have a child. And I am here in Bristol if he wants to see me. I’m staying in Mrs. Hurst’s lodging house, in Little King Street.”

“I don’t know, Han.”

She recalled Mrs. Turrill’s words, “But nothing is too big for God. No pit we dig for ourselves too deep. He is already reachin’ a hand down to you, ready to pull you up. . . .”

Silently, Hannah prayed,
God, will you help me?

She looked at Fred and suddenly straightened with resolve. “You know what—you’re right. I will go and see him myself.”

His brows rose. “Now?”

Fear flooded Hannah at the thought. “Oh. Um. Not this moment, but very soon.”
After I find the courage
, she thought. If only she had thought to pack some.

Hannah pressed her friend’s arm. “Thank you, Freddie.”

“I did nothing.”

“That’s not true. You gave me just what I needed.”

—

On Sunday, Hannah stood outside the Bristol church where her father served as underpaid curate. He had not the connections to bring him a good living as rector or vicar. The humble life suited him, he had always insisted. Though it had meant his sons had to be sent to sea quite young, and his daughter had needed to seek a paid position to support herself.

From outside the ancient grey stone building, she heard the low drone of her father’s voice, delivering his sermon. Followed by the reedy voices of the elderly congregation, singing a solemn hymn.

She did not intend to enter. Nor interrupt. She would wait until she could greet him alone, in private. But knowing he was occupied inside, Hannah felt at her ease to meander through the churchyard and gain her bearings. Oh, the hours she’d spent there as a girl.

Seeing the gnarled yew tree in the corner, Hannah walked toward it to visit her mother’s grave. As she neared, she suddenly stopped and stared, craning her head forward even as her feet felt rooted to the mossy ground. There was a new grave beside her mother’s. And the name on the headstone . . .

It was her name.

She stepped forward and melted to her knees before the modest headstone.

IN MEMORY

H
ANNAH
R
OGERS

BELOVED DAUGHTER

1796–1819

Tears flooded her eyes. Had he really? Had her father, with his threadbare stockings, worn-out shoes, and watered-down soups,
actually spent such a sum? To memorialize her life and death, when there had not even been a body to bury? She would never have thought it. Not in a hundred years. The man would burn only a single tallow candle to read by or compose his sermons by, only when the window stubbornly refused to provide sufficient light for his ever-weakening eyes. He had spent such a sum on her?

Seeing the headstone made her sick with regret. She felt she would lose her meager breakfast then and there. It stole her courage, even as “beloved daughter” ought to have bolstered it. How doubly sorry he would be to have spent his modest savings on such a stone, when she had been alive all along. Alive and living a lie in the bargain. How sorry he would be to have memorialized her as beloved daughter, once he had learned of her many sins.

She ran gloved fingers over the carved letters of her name.

That
Hannah Rogers—cherished, blameless daughter—had died. Had died more than a year before. And there would be no resurrecting her now.

—

Hannah returned to the lodging house without seeing her father. She could not face him after that. She would write a letter and invite him to call on her if he wished.

Thoughts of a letter reminded her of Sir John’s admonition to keep Mr. Lowden apprised of her whereabouts. So, Hannah sent a note to his offices with the direction of the lodging house.

Then, she waited. Several days came and went. And with each passing hour her nerves and fears escalated. She had written to him and told him they had been apart too long. She wanted to see him again and proposed a meeting. But did he want to see her, after the way she had left him? She didn’t know.

Mrs. Turrill had advised her to meet him on neutral ground. Away from his usual territory. So, she waited in the lodging house’s
private sitting room, which she had let for an extra half-crown for the occasion. The proposed meeting time came and went. Tea waited and grew strong then cold. Cool cucumber sandwiches wilted and Hannah began to lose heart. And courage.

She paced the room again, wringing her hands. Practicing what she would say. Becky and Danny napped in their room above. Hannah wanted to see him alone first—wanted their reunion to be a private one. But would he even come?

Another half an hour passed. Tears threatened and she blinked them back, refusing to give in to them. She and Danny were managing on their own. She reminded herself that they had each other. They had friends in Mrs. Turrill, Becky, and Fred. They didn’t need—

A knock sounded and Hannah froze. Her heartbeat seemed louder than the distant knock. Footsteps followed—thump, thump, thump. The owner of the lodging house going to the front door in her heavy-heeled shoes. Muffled voices and then two pairs of shoes crossing the entry hall. Hannah’s pulse accelerated with each approaching step. A single knock on the sitting room door, the hinge creaking open, footsteps entering. Hannah took a deep breath, wiped her damp palms on her handkerchief, and turned.

There he was.

Mrs. Hurst nodded solemnly and shut the door behind her visitor. Hannah’s heart squeezed to see him again. He stood stiffly, wearing neither coat nor hat. Mrs. Hurst must have polished her manners and taken them. Could she not have taken his grim expression as well?

She reminded herself to breathe. To hold herself erect. To pray . . .

“Hello. Thank you for coming. Please, won’t you be seated?”

Her father stared at her a moment, but remained where he was.

Nerves quaking, she gestured toward the tray. “Tea?”

He shook his head. “No, thank you.”

Her father’s voice. Ah, what memories it evoked. He looked older, even thinner than she recalled.

She was strangely relieved to allow the tea she had paid for to go to waste. She was sure her hands would tremble if she tried to pour.

She decided she would not presume to call him “Papa” as she used to do. She cleared her throat and began. “Father, I have asked you here to seek your advice.”

“Oh?” Wary reserve steeled his expression. “You did not see fit to seek it before.”

“No, I did not. That was just one of my many mistakes. But I am asking now.”

He crossed his arms over his thin chest. “I am listening.”

“I have many decisions before me. Decisions that affect my future and that of my son. Yes, I have a son now.”

He nodded. “Fred told me a few days ago—even before I received your letter. He came to let me know you were alive. Why did you not tell me yourself?”

So dear Fred had broken the news after all. She said, “Because I knew my fall from grace would cast a shadow on your reputation, perhaps even cost you the curacy. Don’t worry. I have not come to ask for money or help. Only for advice and . . . perhaps, forgiveness. I have no wish to be a financial burden, nor a burden of any kind. But I do long for your forgiveness.”

He had been staring down at his hands during this, her practiced speech, but now he looked up at her. “You assume I care more for my reputation than my daughter’s well-being?”

“Well, you cannot help but be concerned about it, and I don’t blame you.”

“You thought I wouldn’t forgive you?”

“Will you? I am so sorry, Papa. For everything.” There. It slipped out.

He looked down at his hands once more. “Do you know how I worried? How devastated I was when I heard that you had died? I would have given up a hundred curacies to have you back.”

Hannah’s chest ached. Tears filled her eyes. “And when you learned I was alive?”

“I was relieved, and yet angry. Why did you not come to me yourself? Tell me what was going on? I might have helped you.”

“Forgive me, Papa, but I know you well. You would not have easily forgiven my being with child, nor bringing shame upon you. In all honesty, I thought it would be better for you if I had died.”

He gaped at her. “Are you so new at being a parent? Yes, you’re right—I would have been greatly disappointed, shocked, embarrassed, everything. I might have even asked you to go away somewhere and have the child in secret. But I would never, ever, wish you dead.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he said, voice low and gravelly. The voice she had often heard when he prayed over a dying child or a favorite old parishioner. He stepped closer, and she noticed tears in his eyes, too. “And, yes, I forgive you.”

He reached out and took her hand, and she squeezed his in reply. For a moment they stood that way, in thick silence, eyes damp.

Then he tucked his chin and looked up at her. “Now. Do I get to meet this grandchild of mine or not?”