Lady Maybe (4 page)

The gems of the ring caught the sunlight slicing through the window, sending shafts of colored light dancing on the ceiling.

A sign, or a temptation?

Surely a ring like this was worth a great deal. A ring Sir John, if he lived, would believe consigned to the tides, lost forever with his wife.

Dare she?

A short while later, Dr. Parrish and his wife stopped by to check on her. He cheerfully reported that the little boy who’d fallen from the tree was recovering nicely. “Little scamp dislocated his collarbone, but I’ve set it back in place. He’ll be right as a trivet in no time.”

“
If
his poor harried mamma can somehow keep him quiet in bed for a few days,” Mrs. Parrish added doubtfully.

Hannah formed a faint, dutiful smile, though her thoughts and stomach churned.

Tentatively, she began, “May I ask, Dr. Parrish. Are you . . . well acquainted with Sir John?”

He sat in the armchair nearby, clearly happy to stay and talk. His wife lingered in the doorway.

“Not at all,” Dr. Parrish said. “Only by letters. Never met the man before and I suppose I still haven’t. Not really.”

“But—” She frowned in concentration. “I thought you said your son . . . ?”

He nodded. “Edgar met him when Sir John came out to look at the place a few months ago.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Parrish added. “Dr. Parrish and I were away delivering twins at the time.”

“Sir John came alone?”

“Had a man with him, Edgar said. A man of business, I think, though I don’t exactly recall.” The doctor’s eyes sparkled. “But you were not with him, my lady. Edgar made no mention of the charming Lady Mayfield. That I would recall.”

Mrs. Parrish frowned and crossed her arms.

Hannah opened her mouth to correct him, then stopped. The fact that a lady’s companion would be sent packing once there was no lady in the house gave her pause. The valuable ring gave her pause. The very notion gave her pause. But her conscience rose up, urging her to tell the truth and find a way to redeem Danny honestly.

She asked, “Dr. Parrish, can you tell me how soon I will be well enough to travel?”

His eyes widened. “Travel? But you have only just arrived.”

“I know. But I need to return to Bath as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Parrish’s frown deepened. “Why, if I may ask? If you forgot something, perhaps we might send for it.”

Hannah shook her head. “I didn’t forget anything.” She winced at the irony of those words. “But I have left someone extremely important in Bath and I must return for him.”

They both looked at her expectantly, awaiting an explanation.

She swallowed. “My son. I am ashamed to say I forgot him for a time.”

The doctor’s eyes widened once more. “Good heavens! When I examined you, I assumed you’d miscarried the child. Though considering, well, several things, I should have known you’d already delivered. I am so sorry I blundered in saying you’d lost the child. How incompetent you must think me!”

“Not at all,” Hannah mumbled. “Remind me. How did you even know there was a child?”

“Sir John mentioned his wife was expecting in one of his letters.”

“Ah.” She lifted her chin in understanding, but inwardly her thoughts rebelled. How had she not noticed Marianna was in the family way?

“Praise God, you did
not
bring the child with you,” Dr. Parrish continued. “I shudder at the thought of a wee one in that wreck. A son, you said?”

“Yes. I . . . left him with his nurse.”

“Until you were settled and had readied the house?” Mrs. Parrish asked. “There is no proper nursery as yet. I’m surprised Sir John did not ask Edgar to have one fitted up for your arrival.”

Hannah had no idea how to answer that. She had been about to tell the truth about her child and situation, only to find the Parrishes already quite aware “Lady Mayfield” had been expecting a child, though not this soon. Now her emotions were in turmoil, and indecision plagued her. . . . If it meant being able to rescue her son, dare she allow them to continue believing she was Lady Mayfield—just for a little while? Just long enough to have her baby boy back in her arms?

She faltered. “I . . . don’t know why. All I know is that I need to return to my son.”

The doctor nodded. “And bring him here as soon as may be. Yes, what a comfort he shall be to you in these uncertain days.”

“A great comfort,” she agreed.

“As eager as you are, I must insist you wait a few more days before undertaking such a journey. Allow that head wound to heal a bit more. I’ve set your arm with splints and soaked bandages. But the starch solution requires several days to dry thoroughly enough to immobilize the bone. If you rush things, it won’t heal properly. You don’t want to risk the use of the arm.”

No, she could not afford to lose the use of her arm. How then would she be able to work to support herself and her son?

What if she allowed the misapprehension to continue for just
a few more days? Then she would leave, sell the ring if she had to, collect Danny, and disappear, never to return.

Would God forgive such a deception? There was only one thing that would cause her to stoop to such a ruse—the well-being of her son. She would do anything—well, almost anything—to rescue him.

—

“Good morning, my lady,” Mrs. Turrill greeted as she carried in the breakfast tray the next day. It was her customary greeting, but the words, the title, sounded suddenly jarring in Hannah’s ears.

Today Mrs. Turrill wore a long-sleeved frock of deep plum, a ruffled neck scarf, and a long apron. She set the tray on a side table, then turned to her. “Shall we try sitting in an armchair today, my lady? If you feel up to it, that is.”

Her voice was musical, with a broad range of tones depending on her mood. Hearing it made Hannah feel homesick. For while her mother had spoken with an upper-class accent and her father had lived in Oxford in his years as tutor and curate, most of her neighbors and childhood friends sounded like Mrs. Turrill. She wondered how long the woman had lived in Bristol, why she had returned, and about the child she mentioned she’d lost. But Hannah didn’t ask. She did not want to compound her sins by forming friendships—or tempt the woman to ask personal questions in return.

So instead, Hannah managed a wan smile and said, “Yes, I think I can manage that.”

Mrs. Turrill helped her from the bed and into an armchair, and there Hannah began her breakfast, Mrs. Turrill chatting cheerfully all the while.

How Hannah wished she might feign sleep and the
insensibility that excused her falseness. But she had to prove herself recovering and well enough to travel as soon as possible.

Later that morning, Hannah was still sitting in the chair and staring out the window when Dr. Parrish stopped by her room with his medical bag.

He beamed at her. “How good to see you out of that bed.”

He examined her head wound, declared it was healing well, and decided it was time to remove the stitches. Hannah bit the inside of her cheek to keep tears at bay during the unpleasant procedure, and exhaled in relief when he’d finished.

He patted her hand. “Well done, brave lady.” He put his implements away, then asked, “Shall we try walking once more, my lady? I imagine you are anxious to see your husband again.”

Hannah’s throat tightened. “I don’t know. Do you think it would be . . . safe?”

“Safe?”

She thought quickly. “With my arm, I mean.”

“Yes, I think so. We’ll take it slow, and be careful not to jostle your arm.”

There was no graceful way to refuse to see her “husband,” so she whispered, “Very well.”

The doctor helped her rise. As usual, the room swam, and her legs felt weak and unstable.

He tightened his grip on her good arm. “Dizziness or weakness?”

She forced a smile. “A little of both.”

“Then perhaps we should wait until tomorrow,” he suggested. “Or we could use the wheeled chair again . . . ?”

She was tempted to claim fatigue and put off the visit to Sir John’s bedside altogether. But she firmed her resolve, knowing the sooner she proved herself sufficiently recovered, the sooner she could leave.

“Just give me a moment.” She inhaled deeply. “Yes, there. The dizziness is passing.”

He waited patiently, studying her face. What did he see? Was he thinking to himself that he’d imagined a “lady” to be more beautiful? More genteel? She took a deep breath, then another. “All right. I am ready.”

He cupped her elbow to support her and gently led her across the room and out into the passage. Hannah’s heart rate accelerated with each step. The nearer they drew to Sir John’s bedchamber, the more her nerves jangled. She didn’t know which she dreaded more: seeing the man broken and bruised and lying near death, or that he might regain his senses, open his eyes, and declare her a fraud.

When they reached the bedchamber door, Dr. Parrish opened it and ushered her inside.

The doctor’s sharp-featured wife sat in a chair near the foot of the bed, knitting wool and needles in her lap, keeping watch over her husband’s patient.

“Any change, Mrs. Parrish?”

“No change, Dr. Parrish.”

Knowing it was expected of her, Hannah turned toward the bed, pressing her good hand to her abdomen. How cold, she thought, to be glad the man was insensible. He lay still as before, eyes closed. The bruises on his face were beginning to change color, his cheekbone perhaps a little less swollen, his mouth still slack. No one had shaved him, and whiskers darkened the lower half of his face in colors of bronze and silver. She had always thought him young for his age, but now he looked older than his forty years. Only his hair seemed the same—thick and brown with a faint silvering at his side-whiskers.

She was aware of the doctor beside her. Sensed his wife’s expectant air. Having no idea what to say, Hannah mumbled, “He looks . . . different.”

The physician nodded. “I imagine he does.”

She whispered, “What did the surgeon say?”

Dr. Parrish regretfully shook his head. “He isn’t keen on operating at present. He isn’t convinced Sir John’s brain has swelled to a dangerous degree. I am afraid he doesn’t think your husband would survive an operation, even if he thought one necessary. He is too weak.”

Sadness swept over her. “I see.”

Mrs. Parrish tipped her head to one side. “Strange that he was so severely injured, while you were not, my lady. I suspect his body cushioned yours against the first violent impact before the carriage rolled.”

Hannah recalled waking to find Sir John sprawled across her body. But if the woman’s theory was correct, she felt grateful, and a little guilty, for escaping relatively unscathed.

Mrs. Parrish added, “The vicar has been here to see him. I hope you don’t mind my asking him?”

“Of course not,” Hannah whispered.

“He prayed over you as well.”

Hannah’s head jerked up. “Did he? I don’t remember.”

“You were asleep. We didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh.” An uncomfortable feeling snaked up her spine at the thought.

Dr. Parrish said gently, “You may touch him, if you like, my lady. You shan’t hurt him.”

Hannah swallowed. She supposed a wife would want to touch her husband, smooth the hair from his brow. Squeeze his hand. Whisper in his ear that she loved him. But she was not his wife. And Hannah knew that Lady Mayfield herself would likely not do so either, had she been there. Besides, Hannah was reluctant to touch him under the watchful eyes of doctor and wife. It would be taking her “role” too far. Would they remember she had taken such a liberty after she left—after the truth was known?

As she stood there thinking, not moving, not touching, she felt Mrs. Parrish’s frowning gaze on her profile.

Hannah bit her lip, stepped forward, and reached out a tentative hand. Would they notice it trembling? She touched Sir John’s arm, lightly, afraid to wake him, before quickly stepping back.

Dr. Parrish stood beside her. “I hope and pray he will recover in time.”

“As do I,” Hannah said solemnly. And she sincerely meant it, though she planned to be well away before then.

T
he next morning, Hannah announced to Mrs. Turrill that she would like to dress for the day, rather than remain in nightdress and wrapper. The woman smiled and said she thought that an excellent notion. The dress Hannah had been wearing the day of the wreck had been torn and stained, and she didn’t see her own valise among the luggage piled in the corner. It had apparently been lost to the tide. Only her reticule on the bedside table had remained with her after the crash—its ribbons tied to her wrist. So Hannah asked the housekeeper to help her into one of Marianna’s older day dresses of loose, stretchy muslin, which could easily be slipped over her wrapped arm. She did not want to wear any of Marianna’s finer, fitted gowns, which would likely hang on her. And how presumptuous she would feel to do so.

She sat on the dressing stool while the woman helped her on with stockings. Then Mrs. Turrill picked out a pair of pointy-toe leather slippers with small heels. Hannah sucked in a breath. “Um. Perhaps my half boots instead? The ones I wore when we . . . arrived?”

The housekeeper shook her head. “Oh no. Those were all but ruined in the channel, my lady. Salt water is so hard on leather.”

She knelt before her and tried to wedge the shoe onto her foot, but it was too tight. Hannah held her breath, her heartbeat loud in her ears. Was she to be exposed already?

Mrs. Turrill bit her lip, staring down at the obstinate appendage. “Your feet are swollen, my lady. From the accident or lying abed, I’d wager. Shall I send these to the cobbler for a stretch?”

Hannah breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, please.”

In the meantime, Mrs. Turrill loosened the lacings of a pair of satin slippers and worked those onto her feet instead.

Then Hannah asked if she might go downstairs for breakfast. She was no longer an invalid, she asserted, who required a tray delivered to her bedchamber.

Mrs. Turrill said she was happy to oblige, and to see the sunny dining parlor put to use at last. She insisted, however, on taking her arm and helping her down the stairs.

A week had passed since the accident, and this was the first time Hannah had seen the ground floor of Clifton House. She admired the open, two-story staircase hall, and peeked into the green and white drawing room and mahogany-paneled morning room as they passed.

In the dining parlor, Mrs. Turrill pulled back a chair for her and introduced her to Ben Jones, a young manservant of perhaps seventeen, who opened the shutters and laid a fire in the hearth to dispel the lingering chill.

After the meal, Hannah thanked Mrs. Turrill and Ben. Then she went out into the hall and sat in an armchair to await Dr. Parrish—ready to state her case.

When the physician entered through the side door sometime later, he drew up short, rearing his head back. “Good morning, my lady. What a surprise to see you downstairs. You are looking well, I must say.”

“Thank you. I am feeling perfectly well.”

“And now that you have seen more of your new home, I hope it meets with your approval?”

“Yes, it’s lovely, but I am anxious to return to Bath for my son.
You can imagine how I miss him. If someone might drive me to the nearest coaching inn, I shall travel by stage from there.”

“Of course you are eager to collect your little boy. I don’t blame you. But I cannot allow you to travel alone. A lady like you . . . why, it simply isn’t done.”

“I appreciate your concern, Dr. Parrish, but I shall be fine. I have done the like before.”

His brows rose high. “Have you indeed? I am surprised—surprised Sir John would allow it.”

“It was . . . before I knew him.”

“Ah. Yes. But you are Lady Mayfield now and I cannot in good conscience allow you to venture forth alone, especially after your concussion, not to mention a broken arm. I cannot go myself, for Mr. Higgerson is on his deathbed, poor fellow. But we’ll hire a chaise from the inn and Edgar will accompany you. He has some medical knowledge, should you suffer a setback or any problems arise.”

“Dr. Parrish, you are most kind. But I couldn’t—”

“It’s all right. The missus and I have been discussing the matter ever since we learned of the little boy. She thought you might not be comfortable traveling alone with a young man you barely know, so I’ve asked Edgar’s intended to go along with you. Nancy is a sweet girl, you’ll see.”

“Really, it is not necessary.”

He looked at her, clearly bewildered and hurt that she should protest so vehemently. “It is no bother. We insist upon it.”

She felt trapped by kindness and good manners. By his expectation of how Lady Mayfield would graciously behave. If only they had known her!

“Then, I thank you, Dr. Parrish, though I am terribly sorry to put you all to so much trouble.”

“Never mind that, my lady. That’s what neighbors are for. Besides, I believe Nancy will greatly enjoy the excursion.”

Hannah forced a smile. Now what was she to do? How was she to evade Edgar and Nancy once they arrived in Bath? For she could not take them with her into foul Trim Street. Her falsehood would be revealed instantly.

“May I also suggest, my lady,” Dr. Parrish added, “that you might wish to contact Sir John’s solicitor or man of business while you are in Bath? Or at least write to him and apprise him of the situation here?”

“Ah,” she murmured noncommittally, lifting her chin to acknowledge the suggestions, though having no intention of doing either.

—

The trip was arranged for the following day. The journey there and back would be a lengthy one, so they planned to spend one night in an inn before returning. Mrs. Turrill prepared a hamper of food and gathered extra blankets, though the weather was mild. Hannah retrieved her own reticule and packed one small valise, ostensibly to see her through a night in an inn as well as a few things for the baby. In actuality, she took only the essentials for life on her own: a spare shift and gown, bonnet, toothpowder and brush, and the pair of stretched slippers. She wore her own half boots, stained and stiff as they were. And the ring beneath her gloves.

Early in the morning, the hired chaise and four, with a postilion mounted on the lead horse, clattered up the drive and halted in front of the house. From inside the chaise, Edgar pushed open the door and alighted, then turned to hand down a pleasant-looking young woman in plain, but neat traveling clothes.

Stepping outside to greet them, Hannah realized it was her first time out of doors at Clifton. She paused to survey the
turreted stone house set amid blooming whitebeam trees and privet hedges. To feel the springtime sun on her skin and breathe in the sweet smell of hyacinth and bluebells.

Mr. and Mrs. Parrish walked over from their house next door—the Grange—to bid them all safe journey.

Dr. Parrish drew her aside and asked quietly, “My lady. Have you sufficient funds for the journey?”

She hesitated, glancing at the ring bulging beneath her glove, and then made a show of perusing her reticule. She surveyed the few coins there, left over from those given her by the begrudging Mr. Ward. She had paid Mrs. Beech a portion of what she owed before leaving Bath with the Mayfields, and now only a small sum remained.

She murmured, “How much do you think I shall need?”

“You should carry enough for the inns, tolls, horses, and postilions, but not so much to invite trouble.”

“I had not thought of all that.” Hannah frowned. “I am afraid I haven’t enough to cover those expenses.”

The lines of his face deepened in concern. He said kindly, “With your permission, I shall retrieve ten pounds or so from your husband’s purse, assuming he has that much ready cash.”

She swallowed. It was a great deal of money. Travel by chaise must be expensive indeed. “If you think that would be . . . suitable.”

“Ample sufficient, I am sure.”

“Then, yes. Please do. Thank you, doctor.” She ignored the twinge of guilt and the thought of how Dr. Parrish would react when he someday learned he had given so much money to a mere companion.

A few minutes later, money collected and good-byes said, Dr. Parrish gave Hannah a hand up, and she settled herself inside the carriage. Nancy sat beside her on the single, front-facing
bench, Edgar on her other side. And Ben, their young manservant, sat on the rear, outside seat.

Hannah was not looking forward to sharing the cramped space with two people she barely knew and who knew her as someone she was not. She dreaded making small talk and increasing her chances of giving herself away. But it would be rude to remain silent for hours on end.

She asked Nancy about her family, and Edgar about the other properties he managed for absentee landlords—the Devonshire coast being a popular second-home site for artists and the upper class. In turn, she answered their questions about Bath and its attractions, but replied in vague terms to more personal queries.

Eventually, they stopped at a coaching inn to hire fresh horses. Hannah was glad for the respite—her wrapped arm throbbed from all the jostling it had suffered.

Edgar suggested they step inside for refreshment, and all agreed. As they sat in the parlor and sipped tea, he again politely attempted to engage her in conversation. But noticing her distracted reserve, he soon turned his attention to sweet, shy Nancy instead, who was thrilled to be venturing into neighboring Somerset for the first time in her life.

Later, back in the rocking chaise, Hannah spent the hours cradling her aching arm, feigning sleep to avoid further conversation, and trying to plan what she would do when they arrived in Bath. She certainly didn’t want them to see what sort of establishment and in what neighborhood she had left her child. But how might she dissuade them from escorting her all the way to Mrs. Beech’s door? Or how would she evade them if they did?

She decided to thank them for bringing her to Bath and then insist on retrieving Danny on her own. She would then pay a messenger to deliver a note to them in her stead, saying
something unforeseen had arisen and one of her own family would escort her back to Clifton in a few days.

If Sir John had died, “Lady Mayfield” would be under no moral compulsion to return to that house in Devonshire, a place she had not even seen before the accident. She could say she was returning to her former home, to the succor of friends and family. But what sort of a wife would leave a husband alone near death? She shuddered to contemplate what they would think of her.

She hated all these lies. What if she were to confess to Edgar and Nancy that she was not who they believed her to be? But then . . . would she not be guilty of stealing from Sir John’s purse, and possibly arrested for fraud or who knew what other fatal charges? And then what would become of Danny?

All Hannah wanted was to redeem her son from Mrs. Beech, and disappear. Leave Mrs. Beech, Sir John, and even kind Dr. Parrish and his family far behind. Though how she would support herself and Danny she did not know. Especially with her arm bound in splints. But she wouldn’t think about that at present. She had enough money to get Danny back and that was all that mattered—for now.

Hannah prayed again that Becky would keep Danny safe until she got there. She knew the girl took a special interest in him. That thought reminded her of the day less than a fortnight ago when Becky had appeared at the home of Hannah’s new employer. How drastically her life had changed since then. . . .

W
hen Danny was about a month old, Hannah had taken a position as companion to a sour, elderly dowager. The widow lived near enough to Mrs. Beech’s that Hannah could
easily slip away to see him and nurse him from time to time. She’d hated to leave him, but felt she had no other choice.

One day, she had been halfheartedly perusing books in the dower house library, selecting several to read aloud to the farsighted widow, when the prim housekeeper came to find her.

“There is a girl to see you at the servants’ entrance, Miss Rogers. A Becky Brown.”

Hannah’s heart thumped in alarm. “Becky?”
Oh, God in heaven, please let nothing have happened to Danny
.

Murmuring thanks to the housekeeper, Hannah hurried belowstairs to the servants’ entrance. There, Becky stood huddled by the door, shrinking under the speculative gazes of cook and kitchen maid.